Padfoot and his Pup

11. | Scars- Part One

Harry knocked on the pink door twice and waited. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't lose his temper. Not again. Detention in the first week itself was bad enough. He didn't want to make this a regular thing. His godfather would be less than pleased. Besides, it wasn't even his fault! All he'd done was tell her the truth about Voldemort being back.

But the new Defence Professor had called him a liar and assigned detention. He hated Dolores Umbridge. She was the liar here, not him.

"Come in." There was that sickly sweet voice again. He wasn't sure if he had ever hated any one as much as he hated the bloody toad on the other side of the door. He schooled his features and opened the door.

Her office was so... pink! There were shades of pink everywhere. Baby pink wallpaper, a pink carpet with paisley patterns, even most of the furniture was pink! Almost every section of the walls were filled with pictures of different breeds of cats. Her office felt repulsive and Harry swallowed the urge to gag.

He felt like he'd just entered a Barbie dollhouse. Except, in this version, Barbie wasn't a pretty blonde with blue eyes and an abnormally long neck. In this 'dollhouse', 'Barbie' was a middle aged, stout, toad-like creature dressed in a shapeless pink dress and a pink cardigan. Umbridge' beady black eyes zeroed in on him.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. Come, sit." She smiled at him but it was all teeth and no warmth. There was a cold, almost savage gleam in her eyes and it was unsettling.

Harry sat down on one of the pink stuffed chairs and waited. "Would you like some tea?" He shook his head. Her smile faltered slightly when he refused. "Very well then."

"Tell me, Potter, why are you here today?"

"Because I spoke the truth." Harry wasn't feeling particularly obedient right now. Umbridge merely took another sip of her tea and looked at him as though he were nothing more than a bothersome fly.

"Incorrect. You are here because of your lack of respect towards the ministry and the lies that you have been telling. You need to be corrected."

Harry stayed silent, eyes fixated on the carpet.

"You see Mr. Potter, certain children, orphans especially, tend to stray off the right path due to lack of a guiding hand. Such individuals need to learn. I'm here for that exact reason."

Throughout her little explanation, Harry had balled his fists until he felt his fingernails digging into his palm almost painfully. The urge to lash out at her was overwhelming. He wasn't an orphan! At least not anymore. He'd been adopted by his brilliant godfather shortly after his third year. It was the first thing Sirius had done after he'd been proven innocent.

"What do I have to do?"

Umbridge smiled at him—that annoying, sickly, fake smile— and opened one of the drawers in her desk. She pulled out a roll of parchment and a quill and placed it in front of him. "You will be doing lines, Mr. Potter. For the duration of your detention."

Two hours of writing lines? That didn't sound too bad. "What do you want me to write?" He could do this.

"I must not tell lies." And just like that, his anger returned. He grit his teeth, reached into his bag and pulled out his ink bottle.

"Oh don't bother. This quill doesn't require any ink. It's one of a kind."

He stared at the parchment for a minute before writing. He'd barely written that vile sentence once when an intense pain flared up in his left hand. He bit his lip to prevent himself from crying out. He glanced down at the injured hand and nearly gasped.