Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.”

Harry started and looked around. He had not noticed her 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.

“I, uh, good evening, Professor Umbridge,” Harry said stiffly.

“Well, sit down,” she said with her habitual fake smile, pointing toward 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 him.

“Er,” said Harry, without moving. “Professor Umbridge? Er … before we start, I…I wanted to ask you a … a favor.”

“Oh, what?” Her bulging eyes narrowed.

“Well I’m on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o’clock on Friday and I was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it another night instead;” Harry blurted out, looking at Umbridge’s expression, and added nervously, “Or maybe I can do one more detention…”

His voice was getting lower and lower, because Umbridge’s appearance told him long before he reached the end of his sentence that it was no good.

“Oh, no, Mr. Potter, this is not a negotiation or a deal,” 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 spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after, 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 and make you aware of your misdoings.”

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a thumping noise in his ears. So according to her, he was being here in detention because he’d told evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories?

But what he’d said was the truth. He had told the truth!

Umbridge was watching him with her head slightly to one side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether he would start shouting again.

That look seemed to be a silent provocation, as though to say “Will you ever dare do it again?”

Harry really wanted to shout or even pounce, there were only the two of them here…

With a massive effort, he looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag beside the straight-backed chair, and sat down.

“There, Mr. Potter! It looks like detention has an effect, and we’re getting better at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr. Potter. No, not with your quill,” said Umbridge sweetly, as Harry bent down to open his bag; and she quickly added, “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 that was on the table.

“Well, I want you to write ‘I must not tell lies’,” she told him softly, with a smile.

“How many times?” Harry asked, with a creditable imitation of politeness.

“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in,” said Umbridge sweetly. “Off you go.”

She moved over to her desk, sat down, and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking.

Harry raised the sharp black quill, and then realized what was missing.

“You haven’t given me any ink,” he said.

“Oh, you won’t need ink,” said Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: I must not tell lies.

The next second, he 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 Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel. Yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly.

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill upon it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; once again the words had been cut into his skin, once again they healed over seconds later.

And on it went. Again and again Harry wrote the words on the parchment in what he soon came to realize was not ink, but his own blood.

And again and again the words were cut into the back of his hand, healed, and then reappeared the next time he set quill to parchment.

Time passed minute by minute, maybe half an hour; but it felt like centuries to Harry.

He gritted his teeth and remained silent, not wanting to show the slightest sign of weakness, not even if he had to sit here all night, cutting open his own hand with this quill.

Knock, knock, knock, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Umbridge sweetly, and Harry stopped to look at the door.

Suddenly, his eyes widened in disbelief as he saw Evan enter the room.

“Good evening, Professor Umbridge!” Evan also froze for a moment!

He gasped nervously as the decor of the room sent shivers down his spine; it was too terrifying, reminding him of a combination of Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and the Dursleys’ living room, filled with vivid red everywhere.

Even Umbridge’s fiery red flowered set of robes seemed to blend in with the surroundings.

Then, he saw Harry sitting at the table, staring at him, completely out of place with everything else in the room.

“Evan, what are you doing here?” Harry asked instinctively.

“I invited Mr. Mason over for tea. I want to have a chat with the school’s new Head Boy,” said Umbridge with a smile. “Please continue, Mr. Potter, don’t mind the two of us.”

Although she said so, Harry still focused his attention, wanting to know what they were going to talk about.

He had no idea how Evan ended up here, and now he was going to have tea with Umbridge? Had Evan gone crazy?!

Or had they reached some kind of compromise?

Umbridge walked to the round tea table by the fireplace, which was already set with tea and cookies.

“Come over, Mr. Mason, don’t stand there,” she said warmly, her wide mouth forming a smile, gesturing for Evan to sit across from her, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.”

“Well, can’t we ask Harry to join?” Evan asked, eyeing the quill in Harry’s hand.

Following Evan’s gaze, Umbridge noticed that Harry had been looking at them, and shook her head.

“No, that won’t do. Mr. Potter is currently serving his punishment in detention, and he must be diligent in his copying.” She took out her wand and waved it with a jerk, casting a charm to prevent eavesdropping, enveloping the tea table. Harry couldn’t hear anything anymore.

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