Vengeance| Harry Potter

eighteen. the winner

-CHAPTER EIGHTEEN-
~the winner~

TRUTH IS AN ODD THING. It was often said that it set you free, but Viola was well aware by now that it wasn't always the case. Belief was what set you free, she thought. For what use was there in the truth if there was no one to believe it?

When Viola was a child, she would tattle about monsters under the bed. To her young mind, she was certain they were real— the shadow from a dying candle surely couldn't look like that, there was no way. But after telling her parents, the response was always the same: "Do not feed into lies, Viola."

If the truth set her free, if it was the wings that gave her an opportunity to soar, then the ineptitude of belief was a hand on her foot, dragging her back into the depths of doubt. What use was there in the truth if you didn't believe it?

Viola thought that the truth was still the truth, even without belief, but the two of them acted as a remedy. The truth was a poison and belief the antidote. One without the other was deadly or pointless. Only a truce, an understanding, could be achieved with both.

The amount of willpower it took to trudge to Umbridge's office for detention was astronomical. With each step, Viola felt as though she was marching towards her own doom. And maybe she was. With Umbridge, it was never an impossibility.

All of this, just because Umbridge was blind to the truth. Because she was looking through the wrong side of a two-way mirror, convinced there could be nothing beyond. Resistant to belief. The poison was seeping and she refused to brew the cure.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," said Viola, "but I think I'd rather be going to have a chat with Rita Skeeter right now."

"Well you can always just threaten to step on her now we know that she's a beetle," said Harry, sounding just as miserable as she felt. "I don't think the threat would have the same effect on Umbridge."

"We could say we'll get Hagrid to step on her?"

"She'd just sack him."

She sighed and looked down at her hand. Viola was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. There was no doubt that Umbridge was going to force them to write with a Blood Quill, just as she had made Harry do months go.

And she was nervous. Viola had dealt with pain before, sure, but who ever wanted to subject themselves to torture? Having to walk to it felt like a cruel kind of vengeance.

When Viola and Harry arrived at the door, they stood there for a moment. Viola did not want to knock, didn't want the wood to swing open and reveal Umbridge with that stupid smirk. It was delaying the inevitable, Viola knew, but that didn't make it much easier.