Chapter Text
His hand throbbed in tune with his furious heartbeat. Umbridge’s detentions had succeeded in both tearing apart the delicate skin on the back of Harry’s left hand, and in enlightening him on the intricacies of forcing oneself to shove down mounting anger; a feat he was quite surprised he’d actually managed given his track record.
As much as he hated the woman and wanted to snap at her at every given opportunity, he had promised Ron and Hermione that he would at least try to avoid earning himself more detentions this month. He was always more sullen and snappish when he had to deal with the punishments anyway, and Harry had begun to guiltily pick up on how his best mates were walking on eggshells around him.
So, when the old toad had simpered and insulted him in her stupid, girlish voice, he had gripped the quill tighter and ignored her. Keeping his cool had become increasingly difficult, especially as she spoke aloud while grading. She had been insulting the intelligence of the very peers Harry was actively teaching through the D.A. all evening, and it had taken a considerable amount of willpower for him not to rise to the obvious bait.
“Simply dreadful.” She clucked, her own quill scratching unpleasantly as she ran it through another student’s work. “And they call her the brightest witch of her age,” The toad croons sadly, sucking her teeth. She shakes her head, making her stupid short curls bounce, and the pink bow atop her head flap obnoxiously.
His quill creaks as he begins another line, pressing far too hard for comfort. Harry had seen Hermione writing that essay. Had witnessed firsthand how upset she had been by the assignment. The memory comes as a welcome distraction as the phantom quill digs into the raw flesh of his left hand.
“She wants us to read up on Doulhaus’ theory of spell regulation! Doulhaus!” Hermione had exclaimed, startling both Harry and Ron as they dutifully ignored the very assignment she was working on, instead halfway through a chess tournament on the rug of the Gryffindor common room. As always, Harry had been losing quite dreadfully.
“Doulhaus’ theory has been cut to pieces by just about every single scholar that picked up a quill after him! This is utterly ridiculous!” The essay had put her in a right foul mood, and once she had finished, she was still all waspish and touchy, snapping at him and Ron about ignoring their studies. It had been just another drop in the pail of reasons Harry wished ill will on Umbridge.
As the devilish woman tutted and marked up the essay Hermione had written, which was a scroll and half over the assigned length— to account for the extensive counter-argument she had included which directed attention to other, more practical and well-rounded theorists— it was all Harry could do to keep his head down and his lips pressed firmly together.
His heart had begun to race then, his body and mind warring with one another, his temper flaring and demanding he shout in Umbridge’s face in defense of his friend.
He knew, however, that it wouldn’t do a lick of good. Hermione would still get poor marks, maybe made worse by Harry’s mouthing off, and at the end of the day, it would only earn him more time stuck with the old hag.
So, he continued to silently carve into his own hand. His jaw remained clenched, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line as he worked. His leg began to bounce, his body restless in the face of preparing for a fight he stubbornly refused to pick. His heart did the same, and he hadn’t grown any less agitated by the time Umbridge had peered over at his lines and deemed his punishment over for the night.
Which was why, he thinks, he reacted so violently when Professor Mcgonagall had called his name in the quiet of the castle as he passed by her office on his way back to the common room.
“Good heavens- Lower your wand, Mister Potter!”
She was standing in the doorway to her office, backlit by the crackling fire in her floo and dressed in a comfortable night-robe.
“Sorry- sorry, Professor.” Harry fumbled to return his wand to his pocket, embarrassed and high strung. He had been so focused on the idea of putting as much distance between the hag’s office and himself, that he had barely registered his Head of House until she had spoken, giving him, and her, a proper fright. As he pocketed his wand, he tugged down his leftmost sleeve, remaining unflinching even as the fabric brushed the raw, bleeding cuts. It would do no good to have McGonagall see such things, she would surely overreact.
Harry had told Hermione this time and time again, on account of how often the girl threatened to tell McGonagall herself.
“Erm… I’m not sneaking around.” He says lamely, realizing that it was certainly past curfew and his head of house had most likely been about to chastise him.
“Never mind that.” She replies, to Harry’s bewilderment. “Come inside. I’d like a word with you, Mister Potter.”
The utter confusion that crossed his face must have been plain to see, because Mcgonagall sighs and steps back wordlessly, holding open her cozily lit office and simply waiting for Harry to enter.
He does. The fire is still crackling merrily in the grate, and Harry spies a small pile of ungraded assignments on the far corner of her desk. More notably, a letter, facedown and freshly unsealed, and a cup of tea rest on the central bit of wood, lying beside what looks like failed attempts at a response.
Her office’s chairs are rigid and straight-backed, the upholstery thin and decorative rather than comfortable. It reminds him of the stool up in Umbridge’s office, and his poor back grumbles about the similarly uncomfortable seating choice.
He watches, with no small amount of trepidation, as Mcgonagall settles herself behind her desk, her slender hands steepled before her as she fixes him with an intense gaze.
“Mister Potter-“ She begins, right as Harry decides to open his mouth and blurt out a harried, “I haven’t done anything wrong-“
With raised brows that creep up to her wispy hairline, Mcgonagall’s lips tighten as he apologizes, worrying the inside of his cheek as she pointedly begins again.
“Mister Potter. It has come to my attention that you’ve been earning yourself quite a few detentions with Professor Umbridge.” Her lips twitch at the academic title, as if she does not wish to use such generous language when referring to the Ministry appointed professor.
Despite the little solace he gains from the insinuation, Harry’s heart sinks at the chastisement, and the slightly dusty carpet beneath her desk becomes wildly fascinating.
Mcgonagall knows exactly the kind of woman Umbridge is; how unreasonable and quick to punish. Harry’s been trying. He really has, even moreso after Professor Mcgonagall’s first warning earlier this term.
“I’m gonna do better.” He says, hoping she’ll let him go if he remains agreeable. Hermione might still have some of that murtlap essence lying about, and his hand is really starting to sting something awful.
“Mister Potter.” He looks up from his scuffed trainers, bracing for a lecture.
“What is it, exactly, that she is having you do?”
Her voice has softened, and he stiffens as she appears to be looking him over. He shifts in his seat, sitting on his injured hand. Sandwiching the cuts between the seat of the chair and his leg, he bristles under her gaze. His sleeve is still tugged over the actual bleeding, and he can feel its fibers clashing with the ragged flesh. He’ll surely have to pick lint out of his hand later.
“Lines. Same as before.” He says sullenly, wondering why Mcgonagall was asking a question she already knew the answer to.
A beat of silence passes before she sighs, resting her hands atop the letter and clasping them.
“Is there anything you would like to talk to me about, Mister Potter? Concerning your detentions?”
There’s an air of professionalism to her voice, as if she was carefully choosing how to say what she wanted to without being clear or upfront.
“…No?” He replies, feeling very much like she knew something he didn’t.
The thought crosses his mind then, to be honest. To tell McGonagall about the freakish blood-writing quill. To go force the problem into someone else’s hands.
But that would only make things worse. Sure, it would be nice for his head of house to know, and he firmly believed that McGonagall would be appalled on his behalf— but Umbridge had too much power within the castle.
McGonagall couldn’t do anything about the hag’s punishment choices, and if she confronted the Ministry about their wayward, torturous professor, they would surely take Umbridge’s side over McGonagall’s. They might even find a way to sack the woman for sticking her nose where Umbridge surely didn’t think it belonged.
Plus, if he gave into the childish urge to simply hand the problem off like that, Umbridge would know he had gone and told. He couldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she had gotten to him. He could handle it. He was handling it just fine.
McGonagall is looking at him like she doesn’t believe him, and he prepares for her to double down, but instead, she says in a soft voice, “Mister Potter, you know you may always feel free to speak with me. About anything.”
It’s all a little too serious for Harry’s poor, tired brain. His hand is throbbing beneath him, and the adrenaline from wanting very badly to fight with Umbridge had long since left him exhausted.
“I know.” He replies, his tone just short of curt. He could handle himself. In fact, he’s good at it. McGonagall choosing now of all times, at nearly half past eleven, to offer her support was both heartwarming and terribly annoying.
“Erm. Can I go then?” He chances, trying to look especially tired in the hopes she would simply drop the subject and let him leave.
With a sigh and yet another assurance that she would listen if he ever came to her to speak about things, Harry was finally dismissed.
He thanked her and bade her goodnight, slipping into the chilly corridor and pocketing the note she had provided him, should Filch pester him about being out of bed. He made his way through the castle, bleary eyed and wishing all the while for a bowl of that stinking murtlap essence and his four-poster.
Back in the doorway of her office, Minerva Mcgonagall watched the boy go, unease curling in her gut. Something was going on, if Miss Granger’s harried note had any merit. Potter had certainly been cagey, but he hadn’t revealed anything to her that would warrant the kind of action Miss Granger was demanding.
She had stood to see him out, and now, as she turned back to her desk to finish writing a cordial reply to the girl, the askew nature of Potter’s chair caught her eye.
The boy, as many visitors to her office tended to do, had left the chair in such a hurry that it was no longer neatly facing the desk as she preferred.
Lightly exasperated, she crosses the little room to fix it, brushing her hand over the upholstery as she spies a spot of something; a crumb or other small litter, that dots the surface.
But the spot remains, and the flickering of the firelight isn’t very helpful in her identifying the mark. A muttered, “Lumos,” fixes that problem, and enlightens her next.
It was blood smudged on her upholstery. Admittedly, a small amount of blood. A little, easy-to-miss thing that could have very well come from a paper-cut or a worried hangnail, but it was blood nonetheless.
And it was Potter who had left it. She knew, intimately, the lengths that foolish boy would go to in refusing help. So naturally, the little spot on the chair, coupled with the note from Miss Granger and the uneasy feeling in her very own chest, had her swiftly grabbing her night-cloak and stalking into the corridor, Potter’s name on her lips.
Her low shout echoes back to her without response, which spurs her to lock her office with a wave of her wand and set course for the Gryffindor Common Room. If the boy is already asleep, she’ll be sure to speak to him first thing in the morning. If he isn’t— she isn’t sure the nasty, apprehensive feeling in her gut will let her leave that common room without a straight answer.
Her slippers scarcely make noise in the darkened castle, a dull thwump-ing and dragging. It’s a severe contrast to the heeled boots she wears during the day. The ones that click loudly against the stone and make her feel powerful and in control. The ones that warn students of her presence and draw her to a fuller height. She is professional, they remind others. She is a force to be reckoned with and a steadfast authority figure.
Now, in the scarcely moonlit corridors, her slippers and night-dress make her feel even less prepared to deal with the complications that no doubt await her in her house’s common room.
Miss Granger’s letter had pleaded that she report Umbridge for abuse of power. But the girl knew, even mentioned, that there was no proof of such a serious accusation unless Potter spoke up. Her letter had been a request for the Head of House to try and get Potter to admit to the abuse, or at the very least for her to be on the lookout for evidence of such.
Professor McGonagall had been surprised at the accusations the girl was making, truth be told. Claiming Umbridge was causing direct and serious harm to Potter was alarming, and the letter lacked the evidence to truly do anything about it, should it be true.
The letter had come as a sobering confirmation of McGonagall's own fears. Potter had indeed been earning quite a few disciplinary repercussions from the Ministry-mandated professor, and even without Miss Granger’s letter, McGongall’s own concern was growing, even if it had only been directed towards his behavior.
The blood on that chair coupled with the letter had been the final straw, it seemed. One that escalated her fears to those of mistreatment rather than a wayward, rule-bending fifth-year.
***
Harry trudged to the common room, thoughts of Murtlap essence and McGonagall fighting for the forefront of his thoughts.
She had acted odd, getting all serious like that, almost as if the detentions were more than just punishments. But there was no way could have known, she hadn’t even seen his hand! And he’d told Ron and Hermione that he was handling it—
“Fuddletop.” He says grouchily, waking the Fat Lady up from her dozing.
Ignoring her chastisement and harumphing, Harry crouches through the portrait hole and straightens up in the cozy, dimly lit common room.
It’s empty now, except for a rather anxious looking Hermione, and a mop of red hair peeking out from behind the squashy armchairs.
“Harry! She kept you so late this time—“
The girl was already on her feet, Crookshanks mewling grumpily as he was abruptly evicted from her lap. Ron too was getting to his feet, having been playing chess against himself on the ground.
“I was at McGonagall’s.” Harry cuts her off, voice terse. His suspicions confirmed and his scowl deepening as Hermione holds up the bowl of Murtlap Essence. Her fingers are blotched with ink.
“Working on an essay, are you?” He says coldly, letting his bag drop where he stands as he takes the bowl from her with enough force to cause some of the thick liquid to splash over the side.
“What?” She’s taken aback by his temper, and he feels the tiniest flaring of guilt at the hurt expression that crosses her features. Ron too is surprised by the icy response.
“Oi, I know you hate the old hag but ‘Mione didn’t do anything to you—“
“Oh? Didn’t do anything? Did you? Didn’t go crying to a teacher about something I told you not to?”
Ron is beginning to look angry now, his face scrunching up as he abandons his game. Dawning horror settles itself plainly on Hermione’s, and it’s all the confirmation Harry needs.
“I told you I was handling it! I am handling it!” He spits, collapsing into one of the armchairs and cursing loudly when the stinking Murtlap sloshes onto his front. If the stupid stuff wasn’t so addictively soothing to the hot stinging of his hand, he would have gladly smashed the whole thing to pieces.
“Oh, Harry I- I wasn’t going to, honest- but-“ Hermione does look apologetic, her voice quivering in the tense silence of the common room, but Harry is tired. He’s tired, and he trusted her, and she went and did it anyway.
She casts a cleansing spell on his front, wandless and wordless, and the bowl nearly does go flying.
“But what?! Thought I couldn’t fucking handle myself? Decided to sic McGonagall on me and pat yourself on the back?! It’s FINE!”
“Stop shouting at her!” Ron roars, towering over Harry, his face rapidly beginning to match his hair. “We both wrote her! Alright? You’re being a right git— don’t you want it to stop?”
“I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she got under my skin.” Harry says coldly, glaring right up at Ron and ignoring the tremble in Hermione’s voice as she pipes up.
“But she is, Harry, don’t you see?”
“She is not!”
“Yes, she is! You’re- you're horrible to be around after!” He sits up, glaring at Hermione, denial on his lips, but Ron beats him to it.
“She’s right and you know it.”
Scowling at the pair of them, Harry swings his legs over the side of the armchair, getting to his feet without spilling the foul-smelling stuff.
“Oh yeah? I didn’t ask you to stick around, so who’s fault is that, then?”
He’d just started for his bag when something soft and lumpy comes hurtling through the air, catching him right on the head.
The bowl smashes to pieces at his feet, and he whirls around, furious. Ron’s mouth is agape, so his gaze flicks to Hermione, chest heaving. She’s reaching over the couch for more ammunition, tears streaking down her face.
“Did you seriously just throw a pillow at-“
Another one would have nailed him in the stomach, but he bats it away in time, anger warring with confusion and absurdity as Ron joins in.
“We care about you, can’t you see?” Hermione cries, sending a little round one flying past his head.
“Stop throwing pillows at me!” He says, incredulous as he dodges another, more precise throw by Ron.
“Stop being a prat and apologize! And get over yourself!” the redhead snaps, lobbing another that Harry catches and hurls right back.
It would have nailed Ron in the face quite nicely, but it doesn’t. Instead it stops, mid-air, and for a blissful moment Harry thinks Hermione has just done another wordless spell— but a sharp voice that is distinctly not Hermione’s cuts through the air instead.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Professor McGonagall, wand raised and still dressed for bed, looks a hilarious mix of harried and furious as she stands in front of the portrait hole.
The trio stand in various stages of disbelief and shock; Ron, who had been bracing for the soft projectile, straightens up and awkwardly plucks it from the air, hiding it behind his back as if their head of house hadn’t literally walked in on them throwing the upholstery around. Harry, finally snapped out of his fury from the fight and McGonagall’s appearance, deflates slightly. His chest is still heaving with furious breaths, but he makes no attempt to continue the fight; verbally or physically. He does, however, glower appropriately at both Ron and Hermione, barely stopping himself from doing the same to McGonagall.
Hermione, of course, is the first to recover her voice. “Professor! We were- it was just— Oh, Harry, just show her your hand!”
“Hermione!”