Chapter Text
Dazai felt like walking out the door and jumping out of the highest window he could find.
The previous year had ended approximately how you would expect it to - the much too energy-consuming hunt for the basilisk coming to a close with a single touch and the public humiliation of one Gilderoy Lockhart.
Unfortunately for him, that meant another teacher was to be appointed. Although they had been supposedly fortunate in the past with a blundering fool drunk on the fruit of his success and the host of a dark wizard who at least wasn’t a half-bad professor, this year they weren’t so lucky. Forced through the increasing pressure from the magical community and the Department of Education, a new defense against the dark arts teacher was hired directly from the ministry itself.
All this considering, Professor Umbridge had it out for Dazai from the first day.
“Again. I’m not falling for any silly ideas such as a high magical sensitivity. You will be undertaking the same course as all your fellow students. Your previous Professors may have fallen for your demonic manipulations but I will not.”
He shared a glance with Blaise, exasperation evident on his face, before promptly casting the spell for what felt like the 400th time - his head throbbing and stomach churning. That was it, if she asked him to cast it one more time-
“Again.”
Dazai stared, a threat lingering in his gaze. “No.”
Dolores Umbridge was in short a self-important cow, how she found herself in such a high position was beyond even Dazai's extensive understanding. If it were the Port Mafia, her unsavory attitude and niche little quirks (he reminded himself of the way she cleared her throat in an attempt to harness their attention) would have been beaten out of her in the first week.
A stormy expression crossed her face as her eyes widened in rage. Any other student would have been terrified but to Dazai, it was the equivalent of a toddler's tantrum. “Detention. 6 pm. Now perform the spell.”
He rolled his eyes, detentions from various classes already took up half his time - it seemed Defence Against the Dark Arts would be no different, ministry appointment or not. “No.”
Dazai could envision steam pouring out from her ears.
“Make that detention for the next two weeks. A fortunate opportunity for me to assess how deep this...demonic rebelliousness goes.”
He groaned in frustration, a slight twinge of regret felt in his chest which was not helped by the disappointed look Blaise was giving him. While detentions were never going to teach him the lesson he was supposed to be learning, it was an inconvenient waste of time.
“I look forward to it.”
It wasn’t too long until it was ten to six and Dazai found himself walking to the only place in Hogwarts he knew how to get to. Not bothering to knock, he stepped inside and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. The amount of pink in the room was an assault on his remaining eye and the smell of perfume was nauseating. Dazai carefully studied the mounted cat plates on the wall, feeling the slight buzz that indicated that they were charmed and quickly determined that they were not a threat although they should have still been considered criminal.
“I expect you to knock in the future. Sit.” She gestured to the remaining chair in the room which sat at a separate desk.
Dazai felt a sense of unease. Ordinarily, he would have no problem dealing with her but as long as they were at Hogwarts, their roles were reversed and she was the one with the power. “You’ll be writing lines for me today.”
As he went to grab his quill Umbridge quickly cleared her throat and shook her head. “Using my quill. It does not require the use of ink.”
She placed down a black quill in front of her, it buzzed with magic which Dazai assumed to be the source of its self-sufficiency. “I want you to write ‘I must submit to authority’.”
He scratched at the parchment with the quill, already bored of the task, before feeling a slight stinging sensation across the top of his right hand. Dazai wrote out the phrase once more, the sensation once again returning.
Removing the glove on his right hand, he stared at the rapidly healing marks which spelled out ‘I must submit to authority’ in neat red lines. Dazai looked up to see Umbridge smiling at him, poison in her eyes. The ink was his blood.
His mind immediately shot to the carvings on his thighs containing large white letters making up ‘Mori’ and later ‘Demon’, to the days in his room sat on the floor with a rusted blade and bloodied bandages. At the same time, he realised once again that while in his usual circumstances he would have been able to take care of Umbridge easily - Except these were not the ordinary circumstances and therefore he was restrained to his role of a student as she was to hers to Professor.
Dazai continued writing on the parchment as the pain in his hand grew, drops of blood running down the side of his ungloved hand. The usual one hour detention turned into four and despite the continuous throbbing of his hand which was failing to heal as rapidly as it had before, Dazai kept his expression blank which seemed to frustrate the woman further.
She checked a large grandfather clock next to the door and sighed heavily. “I suppose that’ll do. Same time tomorrow, we need to let the message sink in after all.”
He needed no prompting as he wiped his hand on his coat, slipped his hand back into his glove, and left. His arms itched for relief as Dazai became all too aware of his skin, enclosed over the fat and muscle beneath. This was not ideal - he couldn’t afford to sink back into one of his ‘episodes’ as Mori liked to call them but his blood screamed for release past the pathetic drops of temptation released during detention.
Just once. He told himself - hanging onto the idea that if he could just see what lay underneath his outward appearance and saw the blackened parts of himself that no one but his father and Mori knew about he would be satisfied and would be able to set his mind back on the mission.
Dazai quickly ducked into a lonesome bathroom, taking out the knife in his pocket which seemed to shiver in anticipation. He unwound his bandages and dug . Over and over again until he could finally see past his deceptive skin, see that he was human standing in the middle of a small puddle of his blood.
He was in control. Not Mori. Not Umbridge. Not Father. He was as he stared at the darkened rivers of blood running down his arms.
The second he started he knew it wouldn’t just be the once, what was worse was that he couldn’t find it in himself to care amongst the thrill of his own euphoria and adrenaline.