Ruthless

FIVE

Now the push from the Dark Lord was greater than that from Dumbledore. Harry realized that the Headmaster had been going easy on him, preferring subtle manipulations to brute force.

He was glad for the warm-up.

Every night the red-eyed monster came to him in dreams, knocking on his door, threatening to enter in. Every night Harry heard the whisper of a mother's scream, and the glimmer of sick green light.

But the monster could not enter his mind, the wolf could not blow his house down, and Harry prepared for his fifth year of Hogwarts with a deep frustrated rage in his heart.

-O-O-

But it seemed that a third entity had decided to put its hand out upon his neck, and in a more direct method than either wizard had yet chosen.

The Ministry was tired of the embarrassment Hogwarts had given it the last few years; first the loss of the Stone, then the petrification of students, then the death of a wizard at the hands of a werewolf professor.

And the crowning glory, the straw that broke the camels back; international scandal as the Triwizard Tournament itself was used in an act of brutal terror.

Officially, the Ministry denied the Dark Lord had returned. They ignored the proclamation carved into Diggory's body, branding it a terrorist act, an attempt to resurrect the memory of a dead foe to intimidate the populace.

Harry was not sure what they sought to gain from infiltrating Hogwarts; but he felt their representative's eyes upon him, saw her smile too often and too wide.

He did not like those smiles, for they were as cruel as they were manipulative.

The Ministry had made a bad choice in Umbridge. Harry contemplated showing them how bad it was.

-O-O-

His Head of House approached him at the end of the first month of term.

He asked if Harry had been having odd dreams. He asked if Harry had been feeling unwell. He asked in such an insulting way that Harry could see he was being manipulated away from wondering just why the man cared at all.

But he did wonder.

And when the man pushed at him, a blade more subtle than even Dumbledores, Harry pushed back.

He got the pleasure of seeing startlement pass over the wizards features.

Then the black haired man nodded, once, and walked away without a word.

-O-O-

If she had attacked Harry directly, he might have spared her. He found himself lately more lenient at affronts against his own person. He knew himself to be strong; knew the weak often pecked at their betters to test their power. The weak needed to be reminded of where they stood, for it was their only comfort. He could ignore such testing behaviors, could stare down any scorn, could turn his back on jeers and pranks.

But the blood quill was another matter, and the skin it had carved was his shadows, his Hermione's.

I will not tell lies.

"She's a beast! A horrid, despicable beast! She said... she said it was because I insisted that the Ministry was covering up what happened at the Tournament. She took twenty points!"

Harry saw the tears in Hermione's eyes, wondered how many had fallen onto the parchment she had written on with her own blood.

He put his hand over her palm, his wand on the red cuts. His healing spell did not take away the scars left by such a tool.