Book: Courage
Chapter 64
Word Count: 4734
The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy as the previous one. Hagrid was still absent from the staff table at breakfast. But at least they didn't have Snape.
Double Charms was succeeded by double Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall both spent the first fifteen minutes of their lessons lecturing the class on the importance of OWLs.
"What you must remember," said little Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books so that he could see over the top of his desk, "is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come! If you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I'm afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!"
They then spent over an hour revising Summoning Charms, which according to Professor Flitwick were bound to come up in their OWL, and he rounded off the lesson by setting them their largest ever amount of Charms homework.
It was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.
"You cannot pass an OWL," said Professor McGonagall grimly, "without serious application, practice and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve an OWL in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work."
Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise.
"Yes, you too, Longbottom," said Professor McGonagall. "There's nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So... today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which you would not usually attempt until NEWT level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your OWL."
She was quite right; Layla found the Vanishing Spells horribly difficult. However, by the end of a double period, she had managed to succeed in vanishing the snails on which they were practising, much to her surprise. She could barely turn a porcupine into a pincushion, yet she was able to cast even more difficult spells.
It made no sense.
By the time Layla and her class reached Care of Magical Creatures in the afternoon, Layla's head was aching with a painful headache from the amount of homework that they had already been set. She had to skip lunch to start on her potions homework, though she wasn't complaining. It wasn't like she was going to eat something anyway. She would just grab a small cupcake at dinner.
The day had become cool and breezy, and as the class walked down the sloping lawn towards Hagrid's cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they felt the occasional drop of rain on their faces. Professor Grubbly-Plank stood waiting for the class some ten yards from Hagrid's front door, a long trestle table in front of her laden with twigs.
"Everyone here?" barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors had arrived. "Let's crack on then. Who can tell me what these things are called?"
She indicated the heap of twigs in front of her. Hermione's hand shot into the air. Behind her back, Malfoy did a buck-toothed imitation of her jumping up and down in eagerness to answer a question. Pansy Parkinson gave a shriek of laughter that turned almost at once into a scream, as the twigs on the table leapt into the air and revealed themselves to be what looked like tiny pixie-ish creatures made of wood, each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike fingers at the end of each hand and a funny flat, bark-like face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes glittered.
"Oooooh!" said Parvati and Lavender.
"Kindly keep your voices down, girls!" said Professor Grubbly-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what looked like brown rice among the stick-creatures, who immediately fell upon the food. "So — anyone know the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?"
"Bowtruckles," said Hermione. "They're tree-guardians, usually live in wand-trees."
"Five points for Gryffindor," said Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Yes, these are Bowtruckles, and as Miss Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what they eat?"
"Woodlice," said Hermione promptly, which explained why the 'grains of brown rice' were moving. "But fairy eggs if they can get them."
"Good girl, take another five points. So, whenever you need leaves or wood from a tree in which a Bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of woodlice ready to distract or placate it. They may not look dangerous, but if angered they will try to gouge at human eyes with their fingers, which, as you can see, are very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs. So if you'd like to gather closer, take a few woodlice and a Bowtruckle — I have enough here for one between three — you can study them more closely. I want a sketch from each of you with all body-parts labelled by the end of the lesson."
The class surged forwards around the trestle table.
Layla was stuck in a group of three with Lavender and Parvati. They all squatted on the grass and attempted to persuade a Bowtruckle to remain still long enough for them to draw it.
By the time she had finished her drawing, Layla was pleased with the turn out. Lavender glanced at Layla's drawing, then at her own, and back at Layla's, before letting out a jealous humph.
When the bell echoed distantly over the grounds, Layla rolled up her Bowtruckle picture and marched off to Herbology.
The class traipsed across the vegetable patch. The sky still appeared unable to make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or not.
The door of the nearest greenhouse opened and some fourth-years spilled out of it, including Ginny.
"Hi, Lay," she said brightly as she passed. A few seconds later, Luna Lovegood emerged, trailing behind the rest of the class, a smudge of earth on her nose, and her hair tied in a knot on the top of her head. Luna was wearing what looked like a pair of orange radishes for earrings, a fact that Parvati and Lavender seemed to have noticed, as they were both giggling and pointing at her earlobes.
Luna gave them a withering look. Layla sighed and walked up to her.
"Ignore them. They are just jealous that they could never pull this look off."
"Thank you, Layla," said Luna, a bright smile appearing across her face. "You are very kind."
"I am when I want to be," said Layla with a shrug and a small smile. "Only to people who deserve it."
Luna smiled one last time before she flounced away, radishes swinging madly.
To nobody's surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of OWLs. Harry wished all the teachers would stop doing this; he was starting to get an anxious, twisted feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how much homework he had to do, a feeling that worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave them yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprouts preferred type of fertiliser, the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle an hour and a half later, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day.
As Layla had his first detention with Umbridge at six o'clock, he headed straight for the Great Hall without dropping off her bag in Gryffindor Tower. She simply grabbed a cupcake and left less than a minute after arriving, passing a confused Ginny, who was entering the Great Hall as Layla was leaving, and told her that she had detention with Umbridge.
But Layla had barely walked out of the Great Hall when a loud and angry voice yelled, "Layla!"
"What now?" Layla muttered wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper.
"I'll tell you what now," she said, marching straight up to Layla. "How come you've landed yourself in detention for six o'clock on Friday?"
"What?" said Layla. "Why... oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!"
"Now she remembers!" snarled Angelina. "Didn't I tell you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn't I tell you I'd booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And now you've decided you're not going to be there!"
"I didn't decide not to be there!" said Layla. 'I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I mouthed off to her and then walked out of her class. I had every right to with how that lesson was going!"
"Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off on Friday," said Angelina fiercely, "and I don't care how you do it. Just make sure you're there!"
She turned on her heel and stormed away.
Layla spent the next hour and a half in the library, trying to catch up on all of the homework she'd been set. She had to do three essays, finish the Bowtruckle drawing and start a dream diary for Trelawney.
At five to six, Layla set off for Umbridge's office on the third floor. She was about to knock on the door, when suddenly, it opened, revealing Harry. Layla had forgotten that he had a detention right before hers.
Harry didn't look awkward or guilty when he looked at Layla like had done over the last few months. Instead, he looked panicked and worried.
"Layla," he muttered. "Don't go in there."
"I have detention," Layla reminded him with a roll of her eyes.
"You can't go in there," Harry said more firmly. "That woman is mad! I swear, there's something wrong with her."
That caught Layla's attention. Not the words since he could've been exaggerating, but the way Harry said them. Layla always knew when he was lying or being dramatic.
"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.
"She'll have you writing lines with this weird quill, and when you use it, the words will carve into your skin. Look," Harry thrust out his hand, revealing cuts across the back of it that spelled out 'I must not tell lies'.
"Oh my god!" without realizing it, Layla had reached forward and seized Harry's hand, running her fingers softly over the cuts. "What the bloody hell?"
"Just..." Harry sighed. "Be careful. Please."
"Relax, Harry. I know how to take care of myself," said Layla, back to normal as she dropped Harry's hand. Harry sighed and shot her one last look before leaving, while Layla turned to the door and knocked.
"Come in," came a sugary voice. Layla entered cautiously, looking around.
She had known this office under three of its previous occupants.
In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had lived here, it had been plastered in beaming portraits of himself. When her dad had occupied it, it was likely you would meet some fascinating Dark creature in a cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor Moody's days, it had been packed with various instruments and artefacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment.
Now, however, it looked totally unrecognisable. The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, each one residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolour kitten, wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Layla stared at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke again.
"Good evening, Miss Lupin."
Layla started and looked around. She had not noticed the professor at first because she was wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blended only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.
Layla simply stared back at Professor Umbridge with a small glare of defiance, not responding.
"Well, sit down," the professor said, pointing towards a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for Layla.
"That can wait," said Layla, and even she couldn't believe that she had the nerve to say that to her teacher. "I have a favor to ask you."
Professor Umbridge's bulging eyes narrowed.
"Oh, yes?"
"I'm in the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o'clock on Friday. I was wondering whether I could skip detention that night."
"Oh, no," said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. "Oh, no, no, no. This is your punishment for the blatant disrespect you showed towards your professor, Miss Lupin, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one's convenience. No, you will come here at six o'clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you."
With a massive effort, Layla stopped herself from hexing Professor Umbridge and dropped her schoolbag beside the straight-backed chair and sat down.
"There," said Umbridge sweetly, "we're getting better at controlling our temper already, aren't we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Miss Lupin. No, not with your quill," she added, as Layla bent down to open her bag. "You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are."
She handed him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point. Layla drew in a breath. It was the quill Harry must have mentioned.
"I want you to write, I must always show respect," Professor Umbridge told Layla softly.
"No," said Layla, catching Umbridge by surprise.
"No?"
"I know what you are trying to do," snapped Layla. "I'm not naive. This should be illegal."
"Miss Lupin," said Umbridge with barely contained anger, "if you do not write these lines, I will be deducting one hundred points off of Gryffindor and reporting this straight to Dumbledore. Your refusal to follow orders by a professor might even result in a suspension."
"If you report me to Dumbledore, I will be sure to mention this quill to him," challenged Layla. Umbridge's nostrils flared.
"I have no idea what you are talking about, but I am your professor which means that I have the power to remove points from your house, give out more detentions, and even go as far as conversing with your head of house about getting you removed from your precious Quidditch team."
Layla bit her tongue. A part of her wanted to challenge the professor with the threat of mentioning the quill again, but the other part of her knew that if she did, Umbridge would only make her year a living hell in as many ways possible.
"Fine. How many lines am I writing, professor?" Layla asked, gritting her teeth angrily.
"Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in," said Umbridge sweetly.
"So, you knew exactly what I was talking about when I mentioned the quill, you—"
"No more talking," Umbridge interrupted sharply. "Off you go."
She moved over to her desk, sat down and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking. Layla raised the sharp black quill and placed the point of the quill on the paper, awaiting the pain in her hand that Harry had warned her about as she wrote: I must always show respect.
She let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Layla's right hand, cut into her skin as though traced there by a scalpel. Harry had been right.
Layla placed the quill on the parchment once more, wrote I must always show respect, and felt the searing pain on the back of her hand for a second time; once again, the same words in the same place had been cut into her skin, right over the first words, only deepening the cuts.
And on it went. Again and again, Layla wrote the words on the parchment in what she soon came to realise was not ink, but her own blood. And, again and again, the words were cut into the back of her hand, deepening with each line until she was sure that the words would scar.
Darkness fell outside Umbridge's window.
"When can I stop?" Layla asked angrily. "I've learnt my lesson, okay? Can I go now?"
"Come here," Umbridge said, ignoring Layla's question.
Layla stood up. Her hand was stinging painfully.
"Hand," Umbridge said.
Layla extended it. Umbridge took it in her own, causing Layla to repress a shudder of disgust as the professor touched her with her thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of ugly old rings.
"Tut, tut, I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet," she said, smiling. "Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? You may go."
"Not made a bloody impression?" Layla gasped angrily in disbelief, gesturing to the deep cuts in her hand. "You've scarred my hand, you—"
"If you keep it up, Miss Lupin, tomorrow's lines will be, I will not call people names, and you will write twice as many lines," Umbridge threatened. "As I said, you may go."
Layla left the office without another word, seething. The school was quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. She walked slowly up the corridor and up to the Gryffindor tower.
She had not had time to write a single dream in her dream diary and had not finished the drawing of the Bowtruckle, nor had she written her essays. He skipped breakfast the next morning (there was nothing new there) to scribble down a couple of made-up dreams for Divination, her first lesson, before hurrying off to North Tower.
It was another bad day for Layla; the only lesson she seemed alright in was Transfiguration. She was doing much, much better than all of her previous years in the class.
She had to give up her lunch hour, not that she minded, to complete the picture of the Bowtruckle and, meanwhile, Professors McGonagall, Grubbly-Plank and Sinistra gave them yet more homework, which she had no prospect of finishing that evening because of her second detention with Umbridge. To cap it all, Angelina Johnson tracked her down at dinner again and, on learning that she would not be able to attend Friday's Keeper tryouts, told Layla that she was not at all impressed by her attitude and that she expected players who wished to remain on the team to put training before their other commitments.
"I'm in detention!" Layla yelled after her as Angelina stalked away. "D'you think I'd rather be stuck in a room with that old toad or playing Quidditch?"
"At least it's only lines," said Ginny consolingly.
Layla opened her mouth, closed it again and nodded. The only person who knew about the lines etched into her skin were Harry, who had confronted her that morning and asked what had happened in her detention. Layla had managed to hide the lines with concealer and a small concealment charm so that no one else would notice them.
She was not really sure why she was not telling Ginny, her best friend, exactly what was happening in Umbridge's room: she only knew that he did not want to see Ginny's look of horror. Layla just didn't want to be dealing with that.
The second detention was just as bad as the previous one. The skin on the back of Layla's hand became irritated more quickly now and was soon red and inflamed, the cuts becoming so deep that the line had started to etch into her skin above the first line to create new, fresh cuts.
She let no gasp of pain escape her, and from the moment of entering the room to the moment of his dismissal, again past midnight, she defiantly did not say a single word to Umbridge.
Her homework situation, however, was now desperate, and when she returned to the Gryffindor common room, she did not, though exhausted, go to bed, but opened her books and began Snape's moonstone essay. It was half past two by the time she had finished it. At least she knew that she did a good job on it. She then dashed off answers to the questions Professor McGonagall had set them, cobbled together something on the proper handling of Bowtruckles for Professor Grubbly-Plank, and staggered up to bed, where she quickly changed and climbed into bed, pulling her hangings around her bed and falling asleep.
Thursday passed in a haze of tiredness. Layla's third detention passed in the same way as the previous two. She had been set new words to write, I must not attempt to hex professors, after Layla had whipped out her wand at Umbridge at the start of the Thursday detention, getting tired and angry at the pain in her hand. But this new line instead was not just etched into the back of her hand, but instead, it engraved itself right over her knuckles, making it the most painful line she had written yet. The pause in the pointed quill's scratching made Professor Umbridge look up.
"Ah," she said softly, moving around her desk to examine the cuts along her knuckles. "Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn't it? You may leave for tonight."
So, Layla stormed out without a single word spoken. She had never before considered the possibility that there might be another teacher in the world she hated more than Snape, but Umbridge was Layla's new greatest enemy. She's evil, Layla thought, as she climbed a staircase to the seventh floor, she's an evil, twisted, mad old cow.
As soon as Layla entered the common room to see that it was almost empty, she was surprised to see that the only person in there was Hermione.
"'Mione? What are you still doing awake?"
"Oh! Hey, Lay," Hermione looked over from the couch by the fireplace. "Just finishing up on the last bits of homework. Did you have another detention tonight?"
"Yep."
"Oh, sorry about that — Lay, what's that on the back of your hand?"
Layla looked down at her hand to see that the concealment charm must have faded as the lines in her skin had started to show.
"It's just a cut. It's nothing."
But it was more than just a cut. She knew that. It was three deep lines. Two etched across the back of her hand, and one carved into her knuckles.
Hermione stood up from the couch and marched over to Layla, grabbing her forearm and pulling the back of Layla's hand up level with her eyes. There was a pause, during which Hermione stared at the words carved into the skin, then she released Layla.
"I thought she was just giving you lines? That's what Harry said."
Layla hesitated, but eventually, she told Hermione the truth about the hours she had been spending in Umbridge's office.
"The old hag! Harry never mentioned this," Hermione said in a revolted whisper. "You and Harry need to go to McGonagall, say something!"
"No," said Layla at once. 'I'm not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she's got to me. Besides, karma will find her. And if it doesn't, I will. I've had enough of her twisted games. She can rot in hell."
Hermione pestered Layla about her hand for another ten minutes before Layla had found an easy enough excuse to slip away and go to bed.
Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Layla had never had a worse first week of term at Hogwarts.
At six o'clock that evening, she knocked on Professor Umbridge's office door and was told to enter. The blank parchment lay ready for her on the lace-covered table, the pointed black quill beside it.
"You know what to do, Miss Lupin," said Umbridge, smiling sweetly at the girl.
"Rot in hell," Layla spat, picking up the quill.
"Tut, tut. For that, please write, I must not cuss out my superiors," said Umbridge calmly.
"You are not my superior," snapped Layla. "You are—"
"Write your lines and stay quiet, Miss Lupin, or I will keep you here all night."
I must not cuss out my superiors, Layla wrote. The cut in the back of her left hand opened and began to bleed afresh. I must not cuss out my superiors. The cut dug deeper, stinging and smarting. I must not cuss out my superiors. Blood trickled down her wrist. I must not cuss out my superiors. I must not cuss out my superiors. The sky was darkening. I must not cuss out my superiors. I must not cuss out my superiors.
The parchment was now dotted with drops of blood from the back of Layla's hand, which was searing with pain. When she looked up, night had fallen.
"Lets see if you've got the message yet, shall we?' said Umbridge's soft voice half an hour later.
She moved towards Layla, stretching out her short ringed fingers for Layla's arm. She took hold of the to examine the words now cut into her skin.
Layla wrenched her arm out of Umbridge's grip and leapt to her feet, glaring at the professor with more fury than she had ever conjured up before. Umbridge seemed slightly taken aback at first, before a smile stretching her wide, slack mouth.
"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said softly.
Layla did not answer.
"Well, I think I've made my point, Miss Lupin. You may go."
So, Layla stormed out of the office.
Stay calm, she told herself, don't go back and hex the living daylights out of that toad, it will only make matters worse.
"Mimbulus mimbletonia," she muttered angrily at the Fat Lady, who swung forwards once more.
A roar of sound greeted her. Ron came running towards her, beaming all over his face and slopping Butterbeer down his front from the goblet he was clutching.
"Layla, guess what? I tried out for Keeper and I'm in! You, me, and Harry are on the Quidditch team together!"
"What? Oh — congrats, Ron!" said Layla, trying to smile naturally, while her blood still boiled at the thought of Umbridge and her hand throbbed and bled.
"Have a Butterbeer," Ron handed Layla a bottle. "I can't believe it — where's Harry and Hermione gone?"
"Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver's old robes fit you," called Katie Bell, "we can take off his name and put yours on instead..."
As Ron moved away, Angelina came striding up to Layla.
"Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Layla," she said abruptly. "It's stressful this managing lark, you know, I'm starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood sometimes." She was watching Ron over the rim of her goblet with a slight frown on her face. "Look, I know he's your mate, but he's not fabulous," she said bluntly. "I think with a bit of training he'll be all right, though. He comes from a family of good Quidditch players. I'm banking on him turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper's a real whiner, he's always moaning about something or other, and Vicky's involved in all sorts of societies. She admitted herself that if training clashed with her Charms Club she'd put Charms first. Anyway, we're having a practice session at two o'clock tomorrow, so just make sure you're there this time,"
Angelina then strolled over to Katie Bell and Ron.
Layla traipsed off to the girls' stairs to get some sleep, trying to keep her mind off of the pain in her hand and her desire to seriously hurt Umbridge.