𝟎𝟐𝟐 | A Different Light

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            IT WAS UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, THE stupid, completely useless sentence Professor Umbridge was making Ophelia write.

It didn't even make any sense. As if Professor Umbridge could ever make her stop wearing her favorite color. 

Yet she kept on writing, knowing that if she wouldn't, Professor Umbridge would no doubt have some worse punishment for her. 

There was no way out of this. Not for now, at least.


She cut through her skin with the quill, silent tears pouring down her cheeks at the unbearable pain, and she stifled a cry of pain, trying to bear it.

It hurt. 

It hurt so much.

She had only written eight lines, and the pain was unbearable.


Next to her, Harry was writing continuously, and Ophelia noticed that his cut, was far more deeper than her own. How did he do it? His face was impassive, his expression determined, as he repeatedly wrote his lines.

His parchment was almost full, and his hand was bleeding.


Ophelia could see faint words forming over her skin, the more she wrote, and she knew that if she continued, she would have a permanent scar in her pristine, perfectly unblemished skin.

She wrote one more line, her hand shaking.

I will never wear pink.


This time, she couldn't hide the sob that left her lips.

With every tear that dripped down her cheek, Professor Umbridge's smile widened, and Ophelia felt the sudden need to throw up, the more she stared at her own blood through her watering eyes.

This— this was practically self-harm.


"Is there something wrong, Miss Malfoy?" Umbridge asked sweetly, sipping on her tea. 

Ophelia looked up, blinking through her tears, her grey eyes glazed as she shook her head, bending her head down, and continuing to write.

You are a Gryffindor.

Be brave.


She thought of Shakespeare's words, slowly writing through her tears, her sight blurred, thinking of all the words that comforted her.

Be brave as a lion, afraid of nothing.

There is no better sign of a brave mind, than a hard hand.

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