Vellum Voices •Harry Potter X Blaise Zabini•

Chapter two

"Could you tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Potter?"

It's an Auror from the Ministry, scowling at him suspiciously, because of course he would. None of the Aurors who are part of the Order of the Phoenix are here, and Harry doesn't dare hope one might show up.

He touches his throat and looks up at the Auror questioningly. The man, who has slicked-back blond hair that reminds Harry a little of Malfoy, sneers and starts to say something that's probably disparaging, but his less slick partner leans in and murmurs something. The Auror gives both of them a sour look.

"Yes, yes, we've been told about the curse that compels you to speak Parseltongue, Mr. Potter. We simply want to know as much as you can—write down."

Harry nods and reaches for the parchment, ink, and quill that Madam Pomfrey left beside his bed. That brings his heavily bandaged hand into view, and the other Auror, the one with brown hair and brown skin and a kind smile, mutters, "Fuck."

"Not in front of children, Brandon!" his partner says back.

Brandon pays no attention, reaching out and gently turning Harry's arm towards him. "What happened with that?" he asks in a low voice.

Harry tugs on his hand until it's free, then braces the parchment against his knee and writes down, A quill that made me write lines in my own blood.

Both Aurors recoil, even the slick-haired one apparently revolted. Harry watches them under his fringe, and ignores the pounding in his hand and the back of his head. Madam Pomfrey did her best, but she couldn't heal all the damage from his self-inflicted concussion right away.

"That's sick," Brandon manages to say. "Do you think she—"

"Why were you writing lines in your own blood?" the slick-haired Auror interrupts.

It was detention. From Professor Umbridge. That was what she wanted me to do.

The Aurors exchange glances again. Then Brandon clears his throat and asks softly, "So you were in detention with her when the—accident happened?"

Harry wants to laugh aloud. Yes, it was an accident that Umbridge ended up dead with an enormous fleshy purple flower growing out of her back.

But that's exactly the lie he was going for when he damaged his hand and flung himself down on the floor, so Harry nods and writes carefully, in sentences as short as he can make them, because his hand does hurt. She made me really angry. I thought she was going to cast the Cruciatus on me. She already did it one time before. I just—got really angry. He carefully underlines the word "really," and is reminded of how Zabini wrote to him. I remember yelling at her, and then things kind of seemed to snap and pop around me. I think I fainted then? I woke up in the hospital wing.

"That's all you can remember?" The slick-haired Auror is turning bright red.

"She cast the Cruciatus on you?" That's Brandon, horrified.

Harry nods in response to both of them, and writes, I think—was it accidental magic? I blew up my Muggle aunt once when she made me really angry. Before my third year of school.

"I did read about that," the slick-haired Auror says slowly. "The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad had to go out there." He squints at Harry. "But aren't you a little old for accidental magic?"

"When she tortured him?" Brandon is on his side now, Harry knows. It feels oddly wonderful, to know that he can manipulate an experienced Auror to consider that, although not as wonderful as knowing that Umbridge is dead. "You think he should have held back and been more restrained when she tortured him?"