The Dark Mark (The Girl Who Lived part II)

Return to Hogwarts

I sat uncomfortably in the luggage cart that the twins had placed me in. They'd left me here for whatever reason. If it was as simple as hoisting myself out of the cart, then I would've done it already. But, it wasn't. You see, I was stuck. Terribly stuck. The more I moved, the more stuck I became. So, I waited there in the cart located near the pillar that led to platform 9 3/4. When the twins returned, I was going to hurt them. It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. I was drawing attention. It's not everyday that you see a teenage girl shoved in a baggage cart. Soon, the Weasley's returned. "Fred! George! So help me, when I get out of this cart..." I threatened. "We were wondering where our dear Scarlet went. I guess that answers our question". Said the twins. "As much as I'd love to see what you're going to do with the twins, although they deserve it, we should really get aboard the train before all the seats are taken". Ginny said, taking control of the cart I was in, and then running into the pillar. I don't think that I'd ever get used to this.

We shuffled aboard the train. Ron and Hermoine being prefects, had to sit in a separate carriage. Due to my not being a prefect, I shared a compartment with Harry, Neville, Ginny, and a peculiar Ravenclaw named Luna Lovegood. "I wonder what's in store for us this year". Neville said. It's not like all of the other years at Hogwarts have exactly run smoothly. First year, there was Quirrel. Second year, the Basilisk and the encounter with Tom Riddle. In third year, the return of Sirus Black and the dementors. And finally, fourth year, when Voldemort returned.

At the Start-of-Term Feast, I sat with the usual people. An older woman was standing in front of us, giving us a speech. She seemed to drain her audience of all the excitement that we initially had for beginning another year of Hogwarts. "What's she talking about? She keeps mentioning the Ministry". I asked Hermoine, who was probably the only one listening intently. "I'll tell you what it means. The ministry is planning to interfere with Hogwarts". There was a commotion around the table. Everyone but the twins reacted. The twins still couldn't get past her outfit. She wore nothing but the color pink. "What is she wearing?" Fred asked to no one in particular, as he was so focused on the fuzziness of her pink outfit. "That's not the question at hand here. The question is, how many pink Flamingos did she have to kill?". Whispered George.

That evening in the common room, I sat with Neville near the fireplace. We watched as the fire danced its graceful dance within the hearth. "So, how do you like Umbridge?" I asked him. "She's okay..." He trailed off. "You don't like her, do you?" He was silent. I knew what that meant. Even Neville, who was possibly the nicest person that you could meet, didn't like Umbridge. He'd never admit it, but it was obvious from the look on his face. Harry entered the common room. I was about to approach him, but someone else beat me to it. Seamus Finnigan. Several words were exchanged between them about the whereabouts of Voldemort. Whether he had actually returned or not. Through this argument, several insults were thrown in. One specifically about Seamus' mother. 

 Neville and I exchanged glances as this comment was said. "I'll get Harry and you get Seamus". I said. We nodded in agreement. You can never insult one's mother and not expect a fist fight to insue. Neville hugged Seamus from behind while I yanked back Harry's arm. Seamus thrashed in Neville's arms. "Let me go. Someone who tells lies like that ought to be beaten". He said. When all was calm again and Seamus headed upstairs to bed, for he had wasted all his energy fighting against Neville, the three of us sat around the fire. I leaned my head on Harry's shoulder. "How many times will it take for me to argue with people that Voldemort's back to convince them?" He asked. A rhetorical question. Harry looked down at me. The golden color of the fire reflected off his face. "You believe me, right? That Voldemort's back? Because all I need, is for you to believe me". I met his bright green eyes. "I do". I answered. I didn't need to believe him. For, I had witnessed first hand, the return of Voldemort.  

When the next few days rolled around, I had already found that she was further up on my hate list than Voldemort. She now occupied the number one spot. Voldemort murdered my mother, yet I didn't hate him as much as Dolores Umbridge. She did not teach us spells to defend ourselves, but instead, taught us Ministry-approved theory. She stressed to us how important it was that we learn this, but everyone knew that all it was, was busywork. She, along with many other students, didn't believe in Voldemort's return. "Who would want to harm children?" She would often say to justify the change in the teaching methods in that fake sweet tone of hers. 

When Harry would bring up the topic of Voldemort as an argument, she would simply give him a detention slip. Due to the detention, Harry would miss Quidditch tryouts. It was one of the few things he enjoyed, and I didn't want him to miss out on it. So, I brewed a polyjuice potion. A potion that I was too familiar with. I told Neville of my plan and posted him outside to ensure that the real Harry wouldn't attend detention. 

The room was pink, much like her outfit. Perhaps too much pink. I was beginning to hate that color. Plates with kittens on them were hung on the wall. They meowed. Despite how cheery the room looked, I didn't like the atmosphere. It didn't feel right. I stood in the doorway, knocking on the opened door to get her attention. She glanced up at me as she sipped on her coffee or tea. "Come in Mr. Potter". She gestured for me to take a seat. She smiled. But I felt as though there was something devious lying underneath. 

I took a seat at the wooden desk located in the center of the room. I pulled a quill out of Harry's bag that I had taken momentarily. "Oh, you won't be using your quill. You'll be using a special one". She handed me a quill that was placed in a cup on her desk. "You will write, "I must not tell lies"". She instructed. As I began writing on the paper provided, with the quill, I felt those very words being carved into my hand. Sure enough, they were. My skin crawled as I watched the words appear on my skin as I finished the sentence. "How many times?" I asked her. "As many times as it takes to get the message across". She answered, smiling that devious smile of hers.