Harry sighed tiredly; absently rubbing the back of his right hand beneath the desk with his left as Delores Umbridge’s simpering voice delegated homework from the front of the classroom. I must not tell lies. His fingertips skimmed the slightly raised, opalescent lines spider-webbing his hand. This was the first DADA lesson in which Harry had managed to keep his mouth shut and ignore all provocation, focusing entirely on the useless information they were being force-fed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling so tired so early into the school term.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t told Ron or Hermione yet about what detentions with the pink, frilly toad currently standing before him actually entailed. But then, if he was honest with himself, it was probably the same reason he hadn’t told them the details of life with the Dursley’s either. He just. . . couldn’t.

It doesn’t matter anyway, he reasoned. He certainly had no intention of earning any more detentions with her. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to scars, he considered ruefully. The class was so close to being over. He remembered when Remus had been teaching them and how much he had enjoyed this class. It made him shudder to think of the year just gone and reflect that even a Death Eater taught DADA better than Umbridge. Not that anyone could ever tell her that, she didn’t believe in them.

Harry was watching and listening carefully through a veil of polite nonchalance. Almost over. Nearly there. He didn’t know why he was so anxious or why those detentions had shaken him as much as they had. He felt rather ridiculous really, just last year he had faced Voldemort and witnessed his rebirth – the event he relived in his worst nightmares almost nightly – and yet a few scratches on the back of his hand had him edgy enough to want to scarper as soon as he could. Hell, the events of last year had left him with a huge gash up his arm and he was unnerved by some tiny slices on his hand.

But thinking about her demeanour as she hungrily watched him cut into his own hand over and over and over for hours at a time, every night of the week. . . well, at least he knew why Voldemort did what he did.

He understood on some level Voldemort’s hunger for power which had torn him apart and become the all-consuming evil he was known for; he could accept the reality of it – it made sense whether he agreed with it or not, and considering it had torn his life apart he knew instinctively that he didn’t, it was something he had to search his soul over.

Perhaps he’d simply grown used to the idea of it over the years. Umbridge on the other hand completely unnerved him. The way she held so much power over his whole life without physically being dangerous but purely because she was in a position of authority and felt no qualms in using that. Much like Uncle Vernon he pondered dismally. Ever was there someone in charge of him who enjoyed the power. But then, his uncle had been physically dangerous. Feeling the bumps on the back of his hand he had to rethink Umbridge as well. Maybe, he wondered glumly, I’m just a lousy judge of character all round.

Harry forcefully pushed the thoughts of his uncle away as he brought himself back to the present in time to hear Umbridge excuse the class. At last.

He was so focused on gathering his belongings as quickly as humanly possible that he didn’t realise for a long moment that Umbridge was standing directly before his desk. Constant vigilance. . . evidently not. Not until far too much pink had overwhelmed his vision did he raise his head.

“Mr Potter,” her quiet voice - oddly meant only for him for once - reminded Harry of a disgustingly sweet medicine he had been given by a school nurse once when he was young. It had made him gag, much like he was struggling not to now. “If you would remain for a moment?"

He dearly wished he could simply say ‘no thanks’ but he knew her question was anything but, so he remained still and tried not to look like a trapped animal freezing automatically into fight or flight mode as Ron and Hermione moved past him, shooting worried and somewhat pitying looks over their shoulders. Ah, that was why he didn’t tell them.

It occurred to Harry that it was unusual for the woman to want to punish and/or humiliate him without an audience. Surely this couldn’t prove any points she felt needed proving? He swallowed in trepidation and hated himself for it. What was his problem? Some saviour of the wizarding world he was.

“Mr Potter,” she cooed and he hid his glare behind indifference, certain he’d never heard any part of his name sound so disgusting, “I was quite pleased with your efforts in detention last week."

Trying not to look too shocked Harry raised an eyebrow but kept quiet. No need to dig himself into trouble. Especially when he was talking to a woman who liked to bait him more than Snape and Malfoy combined. His mind quietly raced, trying to make sense of what she’d said. How can someone do a good job of lines written in their own blood? And detention was a punishment; he hadn’t thought he’d be tested on his efficiency at it.  But then, he’d been wrong before. She smiled. It looked revolting. And more than a little worrying.

“It started me thinking,” She continued, tapping one pudgy finger against her lips in a mockery of thought and despite the situation he couldn’t help thinking of Fred and George and the sheer amount of trouble they could have gotten themselves into from that one opening, “I believe you made a fair amount of progress in changing your views of reality – readjusting them. Given that progress I think it would be worth exploring just how much you can be. . . rehabilitated."

He stared at her for a long moment, his stomach-turning revulsion warring with a combined sense of utter confusion and abject, curious kind of horror. It was the part of him that had thrown up the walls of denial – refusing to understand for all he was worth – that was confused and it was that part that forced him to ask in a somewhat choked voice, “Rehabilitated?"

“Yes Mr Potter. You have a much skewed sense of reality, and of yourself. I had hoped to merely to shield the other children from the misconceptions you believe so as to avoid the inevitable widespread confusion and needless panic you insisted on spreading,” Harry could feel his blood pulsing loudly in his ears and wasn’t sure what to react to first, knowing the minute he did he would turn this conversation from civil to vicious, knowing he would come out the worse for it because she would make him pay and thankful when she distracted him by continuing, “but now, I would like to help you as well Harry."

He had to swallow heavily so as not to vomit, his first name sounded so much worse than his last had when coming off her tongue and he wondered if he could somehow get the sound out of his head later before it gave him nightmares.

“I think a week of nightly sessions should do the trick, although I am of course open to the idea of more if you need it to help your. . . correction. I am here to help you after all." He eyes had softened as she spoke and somehow this managed to strike a sense of terror in him he hadn’t felt since the end of the last school term. After all, everything changed when your adversary was insane.

“I. . . I’m not sure I know what you mean. Professor." He added the last at her lengthy pause and kept his face still through great force of will as that soft look returned to her face. And he had truly believed insanity had reached its limits in Voldemort.

“No, I don’t expect you do. But that’s alright; I’ll fill you in on the details once we begin." Harry kept himself emotionless in the face of this disconcerting new Umbridge. He couldn’t escape the obvious knowledge that she said what she said to reassure him. It was in the way she smiled again and if he hadn’t known her the way he did and he had no aversion to pink or large people with superiority complexes he might have thought her kind. Maybe. This disturbed him more than anything else. What on earth was she up to now? Her complete lack of predictability unnerved him no end.

Her expression changed slightly as she saw his blankness and mistook it for confusion, changing to a look of maternal indulgence that made him shiver, “Enjoy your weekend dear-" dear?! “We’ll start next week, perhaps at nine pm?" He could have laughed; she was looking at him as though she really was giving him a choice.

He almost said something stupid - almost asked if he had to - before his survival instinct kicked in. If she was willing to play pleasant, no matter how chillingly foreboding that may be, he wasn’t about to push it. Like this she was almost tolerable. He nodded haltingly. He could think about the ramifications later. Whatever it was she was suggesting he had no choice and he didn’t want it to turn ugly. The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like red-headed twins as it whispered snidely, too late. Besides, the sooner he agreed and faced the inevitable the sooner he could get away.

“Yes Professor."

Her smile widened and the toadlike look was back full-force. “Good. Run along now,” she turned to regard the clock on the wall and somehow managed to see past the many kittens falling over each other in the frame to see the time, “Hmm, you’re already going to be late for your next class but I’m sure Professor Snape will understand."

Harry couldn’t hold in his groan though luckily she had turned away and appeared not to hear him. His day just kept getting better and better.

Harry ran through the halls as fast as he could, his feet slapping on the unforgiving stone as he sped around corners and down stairs. He shivered as the air grew abruptly chillier with every step below the Great Hall he took. His book bag banged against his back as though in an attempt to keep him moving as he stopped outside the door to the Potions classroom and caught his breath, only to jump violently as the heavy wood was thrown open and an echoing boom split the air upon its impact with the wall.

Beyond the imposing figure of his Potions Professor Harry could hear the sniggers of Slytherins and a sigh or two from Gryffindors who didn’t need an O in Divinations to know that mass point loss was in their future.

“So kind of you to join us Mr Potter." Harry was surprised with himself. The familiarity of the sneer in Snape’s voice was the most comforting thing he thought he’d heard in quite a while after being left so nonplussed by Umbridge. He straightened from his slightly bent position, disregarding his own fast breathing as he faced Snape and replaced the blank look on his face. If he’d faced Umbridge he could definitely face Snape.  

He waited silently as Snape’s scrutinising eyes raked over him, his sneer never faltering as he took his time assessing his least favourite student, probably relishing the opportunity to punish him. Harry’s traitorous mind supplied, wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a girlfriend. . . The deep voice was dangerously soft and maliciously delighted when it came.

“Nothing to say? No excuses?" If he’d thought they would make a difference he might make some. As it was. . . “Dear dear Potter, and here I thought fame was good for excusing a lack of punctuality, you use it so often." Harry continued to stare blankly back at his teacher while idly wondering if Snape would ever get tired of espousing the unfounded benefits of his fame. Snape’s smirk deepened, more than willing to read his silence as defiance. “Too good to speak now?" He took a step out of the classroom and closer to Harry. “I’m more than happy to break you of that illusion."

Harry shuddered slightly, someone else breaking him of habits and illusions. . . rehabilitating him. . . he wrenched himself back to the present. Pondering his earlier ‘deal’ – as if he’d had a choice in it – was something best done away from the teacher – other teacher – who hated him most. Evidently his shudder was taken as victory so Snape continued, “Let’s say a week of detentions?" Brilliant. “I will see you at eight tonight. Do not be late again; you will not like the outcome I assure you. In."  

Harry kept his head down as he passed Snape into the classroom, making his way to a desk and sitting beside Neville, ignoring the jeers and sympathetic looks alike. Later, later, later, he chanted in his head. He pushed it all back because if he examined it now he wouldn’t be able to concentrate – wouldn’t be able to cope – and he was in Potions, he needed all of his concentration. Later, he promised himself, bowing his head over his textbook.