Purple Rain.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

At five o'clock on Friday evening, Harry had knocked on Professor Umbridge's door and he and (Y/n) entered for the last time that week— (Y/n) would still have another week but Harry hoped that, after that, there would be no other need to enter Umbridge's office. Blank parchment lay ready for the pair on the lace-covered table, the pointed black quills beside them.

"You know what to do, Mr. Potter and Miss (Y/l/n)," said Umbridge, smiling sweetly over at them.

As Harry picked up his quill, he glanced at the window, growing aware that shifting his chair an inch or so to the right would give him a clearer view of the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. He had taken the chance and managed it, now having a distant view of the Gryffindor Quidditch team soaring up and down the pitch with half a dozen black figures at the foot of the three high goalposts, waiting for their turn to Keep. Harry was unable to tell which was Ron.

I must not tell lies. The cut dug deeper, stinging and smarting.
I must not tell lies. Blood trickled down his wrist.

Harry chanced another glance out of the window. Whoever was defending the goalposts now was doing a very poor job indeed. Katie Bell scored twice in the few seconds Harry dared watch. Hoping very much that the Keeper wasn't Ron, he dropped his eyes back to the parchment dotted with blood.

I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.

Harry looked up whenever he thought he could risk it, when he could hear the scratching of Umbridge's quill or the opening of a desk drawer. The third person to try out was pretty good, the fourth was terrible, the fifth dodged a Bludger exceptionally well but then fumbled an easy save. The sky was darkening so that Harry doubted he would be able to watch the sixth and seven people at all.

I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.

The parchment was now shining with drops of blood from the back of his hand, which was searing with pain. When he next looked up, night had fallen and the Quidditch pitch was no longer visible.

"Let's see if you two have gotten the message yet, shall we?" said Umbridge's soft voice half an hour later. She moved over to them, stretching out her short be-ringed fingers for Harry's arm. And then, as she took hold of him to examine the words now cut into his skin, pain seared, not across the back of his hand, but across the scar on his forehead. At the same time, he had a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his midriff.
Harry wrenched his arm out of Umbridge's grip and leapt to his feet, staring at her. (Y/n) looked at Harry with concern, wondering what caused his reaction. Umbridge looked at him, a smile stretching her wide, slack mouth.
"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said softly, snatching (Y/n)'s hand up to examine it.
Harry did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard and fast. Was she talking about his hand or did she know what he had just felt in his forehead? Regardless, he wanted to get (Y/n) and himself out of there fast.
"Well, I think I've made my point, Miss (Y/l/n) and Mr. Potter. You may go."

Harry caught up his schoolbag and grabbed (Y/n)'s wrist, leaving the room as quickly as he could.

"Harry, what happened?" (Y/n) asked as she gently took Harry's hand to stop the bleeding with a rag she had.

"I want to tell Ron and Hermione too," Harry said. "C'mon." Not giving (Y/n) the chance to clean either of their cuts, he once again took her hand and lead her to the Gryffindor common room, sprinting the whole way there whilst trying to keep a calm head.
"Mimbulus mimbletonia!" Harry gasped at the Fat Lady, who swung forward once more.

A roar of sound greeted them. (Y/n) flinched backwards, stumbling out of Harry's grip. Ron came running toward Harry, beaming all over his face and slopping butterbeer down his front from the goblet he was clutching.