Unbearable Umbridge by Swamygliders

In the autumn of Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the golden leaves were falling like heavy, heartbroken tears from the ancient trees surrounding the castle. The air was crisp, carrying the intoxicating aroma of damp earth and the subtle sweetness of pumpkin pasties from the bustling Hogwarts kitchen.

However, amid the familiar comfort of returning to Hogwarts, a sinister change had permeated the school's walls. The Ministry of Magic, keen on controlling the narrative of Lord Voldemort's return, had sent one of its own to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dolores Umbridge, with her saccharine smile and penchant for pink, appeared as a cartoonish figure; but beneath the surface lay a venomous viper, ready to strike at anyone who dared challenge her narrative.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was her prime target. He was a thorn in the Ministry's side, and therefore, a thorn in hers. Determined to quell his insistence on Voldemort's return, Umbridge used a unique, torturous form of punishment: a blood quill. Harry's nights were spent in her pastel-hued office, etching words of submission into his own hand. But Harry was resilient, his spirit unyielding despite the physical torment.

One evening, in early October, as the sunset painted the castle in hues of red and gold, Umbridge's patience finally snapped. The blood quill, she decided, was not enough. After dismissing her ever-circling cat plates, she turned to Harry with a sickeningly sweet smile. "It appears, Mr. Potter," she cooed, "that we need to... escalate your punishment."

Before Harry could react, Umbridge pointed her wand at him, her mirthful eyes now filled with a cruel gleam. "Crucio!" she uttered. An unimaginable pain tore through Harry, like a thousand white-hot knives stabbing him all at once. His body writhed on the cold, tiled floor, but his gritted teeth held back any sound of surrender.

Umbridge, her face alight with a perverse sense of satisfaction, let the curse hold for what felt like an eternity before finally lifting it. Harry collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath as the white-hot pain receded into a dull, throbbing ache. But Umbridge wasn't done. She cast the curse twice more, each time holding it until beads of sweat formed on her brow and her breathing became ragged from the exertion.

"Enough," she finally panted, lowering her wand. She wiped her brow with a delicate lace handkerchief, her smug smile returning. "I trust this has been an... enlightening lesson, Mr. Potter."

Harry, his body wracked with residual pain, pulled himself up to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and he had to brace himself against Umbridge's cluttered desk to keep from falling. He was unable to respond, his voice a mere croak, but his eyes remained determined, refusing to show the torment he'd endured.

"Off you go," Umbridge dismissed him, a wave of her hand gesturing towards the door. "I trust you'll find your way back to your dormitory and don't discuss your detention with anyone."

The journey back to Gryffindor Tower was slow, every step an agonizing ordeal for Harry. The castle that had always been a sanctuary, brimming with magic and whimsical wonder, now resonated with a heavy silence that pressed on him like a tangible weight. The warm glow from the enchanted ceiling seemed distant, the stars just pinpricks of cold light that offered no comfort.

His mind, usually captivated by the grandeur of the tapestries, the vibrant chronicles of the wizarding world woven with golden threads into the castle's very fabric, was preoccupied. His attention was drawn inward, focusing on the pain that radiated from every inch of his body. His limbs felt leaden, his bones ached as though they'd been shattered and hastily mended, and his nerves sparked with the phantom echoes of the Unforgivable Curse.

The portraits that once provoked his curiosity and offered companionship were merely smears of color in his peripheral vision. Their inhabitants, usually eager to offer conversation or advice, now stared silently from their frames, their painted eyes following Harry's laborious progress down the corridors.

Harry clung to the wall as if it were his only lifeline. His knuckles were white against the cold stone, the rough texture biting into his skin. The corridor stretched out in front of him, an unending path that seemed to mock his struggle. His body was screaming for rest, every muscle protesting the cruel torment they'd endured. He felt as if he were wading through a deep, viscous pool, each step demanding an insurmountable effort.

At long last, Harry reached the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, the Fat Lady's portrait adorning the stone wall. The Fat Lady, a fixture of his daily life at Hogwarts, wore an expression of concern and shock as she surveyed his haggard appearance.

"My dear boy," she tutted, her painted eyes wide in the flickering torchlight. "You look positively dreadful! You should go straight to Professor McGonagall."

Harry managed a feeble shake of his head, a silent refusal that the Fat Lady seemed to understand. For once, she did not ask for the password, and with a sigh that echoed in the stone alcove, the entrance to Gryffindor Tower swung open.

He entered into the familiar circular room. It was late, the common room bathed in the warm glow of the dying fire. The scarlet and gold decor, usually so comforting and vibrant, seemed faded under his weary gaze. The room was deserted, the hustle and bustle of his housemates long gone, their laughter and chatter replaced by the whispering crackle of the fireplace.

Dragging himself up the winding staircase, Harry felt every creak of the old wood under his weight. The usually brief journey to his dormitory seemed to stretch out, mirroring his unending night. But the idea of collapsing onto his four-poster bed gave him the energy to trudge onwards.

Finally, he pushed open the door to his dormitory. The room was bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight filtering through the mullioned windows. The heavy velvet curtains of his dorm mates' beds were drawn shut, their occupants lost in peaceful slumber, oblivious to the ordeal he had just survived. His own bed looked impossibly inviting, the emerald green covers thrown back in the haste of morning.

With the last ounce of his strength, Harry managed to undress and climb into his bed. The cool sheets felt soothing against his skin, the familiar scent of his pillow a small comfort in his world of pain. As he let his head fall onto the soft pillow, the weight of the night's events pressed heavily on him, pulling him down into the depths of exhaustion. As sleep began to claim him, the throbbing pain gradually faded into the back of his consciousness, replaced by the comforting darkness of oblivion.

Harry awoke to a gentle shaking. His eyes fluttered open to find Ron's worried face peering down at him from the side of his bed. Ron's freckled face was paler than usual in the early morning light, his usual jovial expression replaced by deep concern.

"Harry, mate," Ron murmured, his eyes darting over Harry's pale and shaken figure. "You were twitching in your sleep. You alright?"

A surge of pain shot through Harry, making his body flinch involuntarily. His hands, clenched tightly into fists, were trembling, the residual effects of the Cruciatus Curse making themselves known.

"I'm...fine, Ron," Harry managed, his voice coming out as a shaky breath. He could see the doubt in Ron's eyes but forced a small smile onto his face. He had survived worse. He would survive this too.

With an effort that made his muscles protest, Harry pushed himself up and shuffled towards the bathroom. The cold tiles against his bare feet seemed to bring him back to reality. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes haunted and his face gaunt. But he was still Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

Showering was an ordeal. His body was sore, aching in places he didn't even know could ache. But the hot water was soothing, washing away the remnants of the previous night's horror. He dressed slowly, every button a challenge, every move a test of his endurance. But he made it through, pulling on his uniform and running a hand through his perpetually untidy hair.

As Harry made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast, his steps faltering and slow, he felt a comforting arm wrap around his shoulders. Hermione was by his side, her brow furrowed with worry. The sight of his two best friends, their worry so palpable, made something in Harry's chest tighten.

In the Great Hall, the students were buzzing with the usual morning chatter, but to Harry, it felt like an entirely different world. He moved as if in a dream, the noise of his fellow students a distant murmur. Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances as they sat down beside him, but Harry merely shrugged.

"It's nothing," he said, forcing himself to reach for a slice of toast, his hand still trembling slightly. "I'm fine."

Their worried gazes lingered, but they seemed to accept his answer for the moment. Harry took a bite of his toast, the normally delicious taste dull and uninteresting. But he chewed and swallowed, the simple act of eating an assertion of his determination.

He was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, and he would not let Dolores Umbridge take that away from him.

As breakfast drew to a close, the first bell of the day echoed through the cavernous Great Hall, calling the students to their morning classes. Harry pushed his half-eaten plate of toast away, feeling the dread curling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of a full day of lessons ahead. His body still hummed with the residual pain from the Cruciatus Curse, and his mind swirled with anxiety about what the future held.

Ron and Hermione, sensing his discomfort, stood up with him, sandwiching him in between them. Harry couldn’t help but feel grateful for their unspoken support. His body may be betraying him, but his friends were his unwavering pillar of strength.

The trio began their trek through the winding corridors, towards their first class of the day—Transfiguration. They were silent, the heavy atmosphere not lending itself to their usual banter.

As they made their way through the castle, Harry’s steps faltered. He felt as though his body was moving through water, every movement sluggish and heavy. Hermione, quick to notice the change in his stride, grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Harry,” Hermione started, her voice a hushed whisper, “maybe you should go to the hospital wing.”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. He had no intention of letting Umbridge see him weakened. “I’m okay, Hermione. Really.”

Both Ron and Hermione looked skeptical, but neither of them pushed the matter further. Instead, they helped him along, taking slow, careful steps to match Harry’s pace.

When they finally reached the Transfiguration classroom, Professor McGonagall was waiting for them. Her sharp eyes immediately found Harry, a flicker of concern passing through them before her usual stern mask fell back into place.

The class passed uneventfully, the students quietly focused on their work, perhaps sensing the tension radiating from their usually vibrant teacher. Throughout the class, Harry caught Professor McGonagall stealing worried glances in his direction. Her gaze was searching, her normally composed expression betraying her concern.

When the bell rang signaling the end of the class, Harry was relieved. He longed to retreat to the solitude of his dormitory, where he could lick his wounds in private. However, as the rest of the students started to pack their belongings, Professor McGonagall asked Harry to stay behind.

Ron and Hermione paused, their worry clearly etched on their faces. Harry just gave them a reassuring nod, silently urging them to leave him. With hesitant looks, they finally exited the room, leaving Harry alone with Professor McGonagall.

The room seemed larger and colder with the absence of the other students. Professor McGonagall stood behind her desk, her face etched with deep lines of concern. "Mr. Potter," she began, her voice soft yet authoritative. "Please come into my office, and have a seat."

Summoning his strength, Harry rose, a wave of dizziness momentarily threatening to topple him. He locked his knees to steady himself, and then began to walk towards the office. Every step was an effort, the aftermath of the curse lingering in his nerves like an echo of pain. The normally bustling classroom appeared blurry and distorted, the stark black and white contrast of the castle's stone architecture seemingly grey and drab.

His eyes drifted to Minerva, who had turned to lead him towards her office, her usual sharpness softened by a maternal concern that was surprisingly comforting. The flickering light from the torches danced across her stern features, casting shadows that hinted at an inner turmoil matching his own.

As if propelled by a force beyond his control, his feet seemed to move of their own accord, mechanically covering the distance from the desk to the office door. The room's cold flagstones felt icy beneath his shoes, as though sucking away the scant warmth left in him. He was aware of the eyes on his back, the murmurs and whispers echoing around him, but they seemed to fade away into the background as he focused on the task at hand: to keep moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Slumping with relief, Harry's legs carried him to the chair across the professor's desk. As he sank into the seat, he did his best to maintain his composure, to not let the weariness and pain seeping through his every pore show on his face.

Professor McGonagall moved around the desk, pulling up a chair across from him. She wanted to meet him at eye level, to not tower over him in this moment of vulnerability. Her robes rustled against the stone floor, the sound unusually loud in the quiet classroom.

"Harry," she started, her voice barely more than a whisper, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Harry replied, although his pale face and shaking hands belied his words.

Minerva wasn't just a seasoned professor; she had been through wars and had seen countless students walk the halls of Hogwarts. She had seen fear, pain, joy, and hope in those young eyes, and right now, she saw a boy trying to be brave.

"Harry," she said gently, reaching across the desk to take one of his trembling hands. It felt cold to her touch, a stark contrast to the warmth of life that usually radiated from him.

She held his hand, her thumb gently rubbing the back of his palm in an attempt to soothe him. This boy, the Boy Who Lived, who had been through so much at such a young age, was once again facing challenges that no one his age should face. But she knew him, knew his resilience and his courage. And she knew that he would get through this, as he always had.

"Harry," she repeated, locking her eyes with his. "It's okay to not be fine. It's okay to ask for help. And at this moment it's obvious you need some. Now please tell me what happened."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. As he opened them again, his emerald green gaze met Minerva's stern yet understanding eyes. He tried to summon the energy to form the lie he had rehearsed, to deny that anything was wrong again.

He knew that if he told her what Umbridge had done she would become mad, and he knew Umbridge could cause her trouble too. Umbridge was the Ministry's hand within Hogwarts, her authority as absolute as it was terrifying. Harry didn't want to get Minerva in trouble over him. He wasn't worth it.

"I..." Harry started, his voice hoarse, "I'm just tired, Professor. Nothing else."

The silence that followed was heavy. Minerva's eyes were unwavering, holding his gaze. There was something in her eyes that Harry couldn’t put into words. It wasn't pity, for he knew Minerva never pitied him. It was empathy, perhaps. A sense of understanding that transcended the teacher-student bond they shared.

He lowered his gaze, suddenly feeling like a small child under the scrutiny of her gaze. His fingers twitched, a phantom pain from the Cruciatus curse shooting up his arm. He withdrew his hand from Minerva's grasp, clenching it into a tight fist on his lap.

"Harry," Minerva's voice was gentle, a stark contrast to her usual stern tone. "You can't lie to me. Not when it's this important."

He felt a lump forming in his throat. The words stuck there, too heavy to voice out. He felt vulnerable, exposed. A sense of defeat washed over him. He was too tired to maintain the façade, too worn out to keep lying.

“Professor…” Harry started, his voice barely audible. “I can handle this.”

“I know you can, Mr. Potter.” Minerva replied, a soft smile gracing her features. “But you don’t have to. Please tell me what's wrong.”

A quick glance at his hand made the decision for him. The neat, precise lines of ‘I must not tell lies’ were etched deeply into his flesh, a chilling reminder of his punishment at the hands of Umbridge. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d endured, he knew that, but it was still something. Something that he could share, without putting Minerva in direct conflict with Umbridge.

With a resigned sigh, Harry uncurled his fist, extending his hand towards Minerva. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the raw, inflamed skin, the cruel inscription carved so deeply into his flesh.

“Umbridge,” he murmured, the word bitter on his tongue. “Her detentions.”

Minerva's hand shot out, gently taking hold of Harry’s. Her touch was soft, her fingers tracing the edges of the scarring. She was silent for a long moment, her gaze hardening.

“This is unacceptable,” she whispered, her tone icy. She looked up to meet Harry’s gaze, her eyes filled with a potent mixture of anger and determination. “This is abuse, Harry. I will not let it stand.”

She closed her eyes for a moment to reign in her anger and then looked gently at Harry. She knew there was something else Harry was not telling her. "Harry," she said, her voice soft but firm. "What else is wrong?"

Harry's breath hitched and he looked away, but Minerva reached out and placed a hand gently on Harry's cheek making it so that Harry couldn't look away from her. "Please Harry, let me help you."

Tears formed in Harry's eyes and he closed them, unable to keep looking into the professor's eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, as if it was echoing the agony that was threatening to break loose from the depths of his soul.

Finally, he pulled his face away from Minerva's gentle touch and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He drew in a shaky breath, the air filling his lungs like icy fire.

"I..." Harry hesitated, then very quietly told her, "Umbridge cast the Cruciatus Curse on me."

Minerva's eyes widened. For a moment, she was speechless, her mind struggling to process the horrific admission. But she quickly composed herself, her expression hardening into one of pure determination.

"That vile woman," she muttered under her breath, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. She knew she had to remain calm, for Harry's sake. The last thing he needed was to see his professor lose control.

"Harry," she said after a moment, her voice firm yet gentle. "You have been incredibly brave. You've endured something that no one, especially not a child, should ever have to. I promise you, Umbridge will pay for what she's done."

Seeing the fear flicker in Harry's eyes at her declaration, Minerva quickly added, "And I assure you, she won't be able to harm you or anyone else at this school. We won't let her."

Harry merely nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. His gaze dropped to his scarred hand, the words 'I must not tell lies' a cruel reminder of Umbridge's torment.

Minerva squeezed Harry's shoulder reassuringly, getting up from her seat. Her eyes were full of resolve as she strode to the corner of her office, her destination the large fireplace there. "Stay where you are, Harry," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The fireplace flared to life as she approached, emerald flames licking at the dark wood within. She reached for the Floo powder kept on the mantle, scooping a small handful into her palm. "Severus Snape," she stated clearly, throwing the powder into the flames. They flickered, turning from emerald to a bright, searing green as the face of Severus appeared within.

"Minerva?" Severus questioned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I'm in the middle of trying to knock some sense into dunderheads. Can it wait?"

The stern look in Minerva's eyes caused him to reconsider his position. "Where is Potter?" Severus inquired, his tone heavy with irritation. "He didn't show up for Potions."

Severus paused, his annoyance clear. "It's not enough that he disturbs the class with his persistent disregard for instructions, but now he skips my class entirely? I swear, that boy..."

"Severus, put a student in charge and step through," Minerva instructed, ignoring his irritation. "Bring an anti-cruciatus potion, a pain potion and a healing balm. It's urgent."

Her abrupt request caused Severus to raise an eyebrow. "Those are not the normal potions for a headache, Minerva," he said, his tone measured but the concern unmistakable.

"Is something amiss?" he asked, his dark eyes probing the firelit space behind her. "Are you alright?"

For a moment, Minerva's stern face softened. She hesitated, then said, "Just step through with the potions, Severus. I'll explain when you're here."

With a curt nod, Severus disappeared from the flames. The fire reverted back to its ordinary warm glow. Minerva turned back to face Harry, her expression unreadable.

"Just a few more minutes, Harry," she said, offering a reassuring smile. "Professor Snape is coming with some potions that will help you."

Harry, still in a state of shock, simply nodded. He watched as Minerva paced the room, her wand twirling between her fingers. She moved with a purpose, as though preparing for battle, her expression hardening with each passing second.

There was a whoosh of flames, and Severus stepped out of the fireplace, his robes billowing around him. In one hand, he held a small case of potions, their different colors shimmering through the glass bottles.

"Minerva," Severus began, taking in the sight of Harry sitting in her office, his face pale and drawn, "what happened?"

Minerva gave him a brief, hard look before motioning him towards Harry. "Just see to Harry first, Severus. We can talk after that."

His dark eyes flickered with concern as he looked at Harry, who was still sitting in the chair, his green eyes glassy and distant. His gaze was drawn to Harry's hand where the scarring was visible, a glint of understanding flashing in his eyes before he schooled his features into the usual impassive mask.

Severus moved briskly to Harry's side, his gaze appraising. He reached out, checking his pulse. It was quick, much too quick. He rested a hand on Harry's forehead, feeling the heat radiating off him. "Fever," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Pulling the anti-cruciatus and pain potions from his case, Severus uncorked them. He held the vials up to Harry, saying softly, "Drink these. They will help with the pain."

Harry looked at the potions for a moment before taking them and downing them in two quick gulps. Severus watched him carefully, ready to intervene if Harry reacted badly to the potions.

Next, he transfigured the chair into a couch with a flick of his wand. He gently eased Harry down onto it, before turning his attention to the raw, inflamed skin on Harry's hand.

Severus inspected the wound carefully, a frown marring his features. "This is infected," he said tersely, his eyes flashing with barely concealed anger.

As he started to apply the healing balm to Harry's hand, Minerva began to relay what had transpired. She told him about Umbridge's detentions and the cruel punishment she had inflicted on Harry. She told him about the Cruciatus Curse.

Severus's expression remained impassive throughout her account, but his eyes hardened at the mention of the Unforgivable Curse. Once Minerva finished, he was silent for a moment before he finally spoke. "This woman will not get away with this," he said, his voice cold and deadly.

As he finished tending to Harry's hand, Severus looked at Minerva, a rare note of uncertainty in his voice. "What are we going to do, Minerva?"

With a determined glint in her eyes, Minerva replied, "We fight, Severus. We protect our students and we make sure this never happens again."

She held Severus's gaze for a long moment, her resolution steeling itself in the face of the daunting task ahead. "We will take her down."

Harry had been watching the exchange between his two professors, his eyes glazed and half-closed, struggling to stay alert despite the fatigue weighing him down. He felt a sudden surge of panic at Minerva's words, and found the strength to push himself off the couch slightly.

"But... she told me... not to tell..." His voice was weak and raspy, but his fear cut through it, reaching the two adults clearly.

"Umbridge said you'd get into trouble with the Ministry... she'd fire you..." The panic was evident in Harry's voice, his words tumbling out in a rush.

He just pushed him gently but firmly back down onto the couch, Severus's dark eyes glinting with a rare flash of reassurance. "You've done your part, Potter," he said quietly, his voice softer than Harry had ever heard it. "Now it's our turn."

He quickly uncorked another vial, a potion to reduce the fever. "Drink this," he instructed Harry, "and try to rest. Let the adults handle this."

"But you don't understand," Harry protested weakly. "Anything you do... it'll just make things worse. I can take it."

Severus looked at him, a rare, soft expression crossing his normally stern face. "You shouldn't have to, Potter," he said quietly. "No child should."

Minerva nodded, a look of profound sadness in her eyes. "Severus is right, Harry," she added, her voice barely more than a whisper. "This is our fight now."

"But--" Harry tried to protest again, but Severus cut him off.

"No buts, Potter," he said, a hint of his usual sternness returning to his voice. "You need to focus on healing. We'll handle Umbridge."

Even as Severus's firm words hung in the air, Harry tried to voice another weak protest, but it was cut off by a deep yawn. His green eyes were struggling to stay open, his body's need for rest becoming evident.

Severus, once more ignoring Harry's weak protest, reached into his potion kit. His fingers closed around a small, squat bottle filled with a shimmering, blueish potion. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he uncorked it and brought it to Harry.

"Here," Severus instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This is a Dreamless Sleep. It will help you rest."

Harry eyed the potion warily, looking from Severus to Minerva and back again. It was clear he didn't want to sleep, didn't want to surrender his awareness when so much seemed to be at stake. But he also understood that he was fighting a losing battle against his body's exhaustion. With a sigh, he reached out for the potion and drank it. His eyelids drooped almost instantly, his breaths evening out as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Severus watched him for a moment longer, before turning his attention back to Harry's injured hand. The skin was red and inflamed around the still visible words, a grim reminder of the pain Umbridge had inflicted. He applied another thick layer of healing balm to the hand, his expression grim.

The balm would alleviate some of the pain and help the skin heal, but Severus knew it wouldn't be enough. The nature of the curse Umbridge had used left a deeper, more sinister kind of injury. Harry would need a curse removal specialist to fully heal the hand.

"He'll need to see a curse healer," Severus said quietly, looking up at Minerva.

Minerva nodded solemnly, her eyes still on the unconscious boy. "I understand," she said quietly. "And in the meantime, we need to keep him safe."

Severus sighed, steepling his fingers together. "We can't keep him in the hospital wing, that would be the first place Umbridge would look," he said. "And his dorm room would be no better. With her power, she could easily get past the Gryffindor tower's protections."

"The same would go for my quarters," Minerva conceded, her brow furrowed in thought. She was quiet for a moment before she suggested, "Your quarters, perhaps?"

Severus looked taken aback. "My quarters? With the Potter brat?" he asked, a hint of distaste in his voice. However, the concern in his eyes betrayed his apparent nonchalance.

"It's the least likely place Umbridge would look," Minerva insisted. "And you're the best person to take care of him in his current state."

Again, Severus protested. "Minerva, I must protest--" he began, his usual sneer more pronounced. "You know very well that my quarters are not a haven for stray Potters. He will ruin the decor with his constant brooding."

Resolute, Minerva cut him off with a stern look. "Harry needs us now, Severus. Your personal feelings toward him must be set aside for the moment."

After a moment, Severus sighed again, a long suffering groan that echoed in the silence of the room. "This is not about personal feelings," he grumbled, his hands clasping together tightly. "This is about my peace, my quiet, being infringed upon by the Potter boy and his incessant trouble magnetism."

Breaking the tension, Minerva merely raised an eyebrow at his protest. She knew he was only putting on a show to keep his reputation now. It was obvious the way he cared for Harry that he was just as upset as she was that Umbridge had hurt Harry, had hurt any student.

"Alright, alright," Severus grumbled, looking as if he had swallowed something particularly unpleasant. "Potter can stay in my quarters. Temporarily. And only because you asked."

Minerva's stern expression softened into a small, grateful smile. "Just until we can make sure he is safe, Severus," she said, her voice gentle. "Thank you."

"But Minerva," Severus said, turning to look at the woman, his face a picture of deep-set annoyance. "I swear if Potter touches any of my belongings, breaks anything, or so much as looks at my potion ingredients the wrong way, I will hex him into the next week."

"I'm sure you will, Severus," Minerva replied, a knowing glint in her eyes. She glanced back at the sleeping boy, her heart heavy with worry. But with Severus grudgingly agreeing to house Harry for now, it was one less worry to carry.

They spent a moment longer looking at Harry's slumbering figure, the weight of the situation pressing heavily upon them. Their students were their responsibility, their charge, and the severity of what had happened to Harry under the watch of one of their own was a stark reminder of the stakes at hand.

As if reading her thoughts, Severus let out a soft sigh. "Very well, then. Let's get this over with."

Without any further ado, he scooped Harry up into his arms, the young wizard barely stirring in his sleep. The sight was so unusual - Severus Snape, the strict, often unkind potions master, cradling the school's hero in his arms - that Minerva could not help but blink in surprise.

Severus's eyes met hers, and he arched a single eyebrow, a silent challenge. "Are you going to assist me, or merely gawk?"

A faint smile tugged at Minerva's lips. She nodded and drew her wand, casting a quick charm to lighten Harry's weight. "After you, Severus."

He moved swiftly and efficiently, his steps echoing in the stillness as he made his way to the fireplace. With a brisk movement, he threw in a handful of Floo powder. Green flames sprang up, illuminating the room with their ghostly light.

"Hogwarts' dungeons - Snape's quarters," he announced clearly. The green flames leapt higher, enveloping Severus and the sleeping boy. With a swirl of emerald fire, they disappeared.

Back in her office, Minerva sighed, a strange mix of worry and determination welling up within her. She glanced once more at the spot where Harry had been laying just moments ago. "Be safe, Harry," she murmured, before turning back to her desk. She had letters to write, plans to make.

Severus, on the other hand, emerged in the dark, stone-walled interior of his quarters. The green flames died down, leaving only the soft, ambient light of his quarters. With careful movements, he carried Harry over to his couch, setting him down with surprising gentleness.

He then quickly cast a monitoring charm on Harry. The charm would alert him if Harry's condition worsened or if he woke up. He quickly made sure that everything was in order before swiftly exiting his quarters.

As he made his way back to his classroom, he could not help but mutter under his breath. "Damn kids... I swear if Potter touches anything..."

Back in his classroom, he hoped for the best but prepared for the worst. As expected, the class was in complete disarray. Severus sighed, drawing himself up to his full height. The class fell silent at his entrance.

"Back to work," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "And for Merlin's sake, don't blow up the classroom."

Severus, the irritable potions master, was back in his element. But in the back of his mind, a thought lingered.

A thought about Umbridge, about what she had done to Harry and possibly to other students. And most unsettling of all, the realization that perhaps his treatment of the students might not be so different to some eyes. Harsh, certainly, but never abusive. Yet, the line seemed blurrier than ever before.

He snapped at a Gryffindor who had been adding powdered bicorn horn instead of crushed. He was short with a Hufflepuff who seemed more interested in his classmates' potion than his own. Every minute mistake was met with biting remarks that left no room for further argument.

While he berated and glared, his sharp gaze also observed. He was watching for signs, any sign of fear or pain that might be similar to what Harry had experienced. Any sign that Umbridge had abused her power with other students. The thought of it tightened something in his chest, making it harder to breathe. It was unfathomable, unthinkable, and yet he knew it to be possible.

"Five points from Slytherin for nearly setting your partner on fire, Nott!" he snapped, moving quickly to prevent a disaster. As he corrected the error and ensured the safety of his students, he found himself, ironically, grateful for the normalcy of these missteps, grateful for the typical teenage lackadaisical approach to potions rather than something more sinister.

The class dragged on, an hour that felt like several. And as it finally ended, as the students rushed to leave, to escape his snappish temperament and steely gaze, Severus found himself exhausted. But there was no time to rest, no time to dwell on the exhausting thoughts that plagued him.

He tidied up the room, setting it in order for the next class before his eyes drifted back to the clock. He had to check on Potter. He sighed. A part of him was hesitant, fearing the intrusion on his personal space, but another, larger part of him, recognized the necessity. He couldn't let his personal feelings for the boy hinder him from doing what was right.

Swiftly, he made his way back to his quarters, the silent corridors a sharp contrast to the bustling classroom he'd just left. His mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. What was the best course of action to protect the students? To fight Umbridge and the Ministry?

As he reached his quarters and saw Potter still asleep on his couch, he couldn't help but feel a pang of... something. It was not pity, he assured himself, but a simple recognition of injustice. This was a war not of Harry's choosing, yet one he was in the center of.

He sighed again, this time a little softer, a little quieter, the sound almost lost amidst the crackling fire in the hearth. Stepping closer, he draped a blanket over Harry, a faint wrinkle appearing between his brows as he muttered, "I'll have to wash that... Potter all over it..."

A vague annoyance prickled at him, but Severus knew it to be superficial, a poor mask for the concern he felt but refused to fully acknowledge. He watched Potter for a moment longer, seeing not the arrogant brat he often pretended the boy to be, but the child thrust into an adult's war. He saw a mirror of his own past, his own lost innocence. It was a disturbing thought, one that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Grimacing, he turned and left his quarters, once again heading towards his classroom. The worry for his students, the Potter boy included, gnawed at him, making his normally brisk pace slightly more hurried. The dark corridors of Hogwarts, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed to whisper threats in his ear, each shadow a potential danger.

Reaching his classroom, Severus took a moment to steady himself before entering, sweeping into the room with his usual air of stern authority. His third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs awaited him, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation clear on their faces. He wondered briefly if they were always this nervous, or if his recent mood had heightened their apprehension.

The class began, the usual lectures and demonstrations taking on a more serious undertone as Severus watched them, his gaze sharp and assessing. Each hesitant movement, each fumbled ingredient was scrutinized, his mind trying to discern any signs of trauma, any hint that Umbridge had turned her cruel hand on them.

But amidst the worry, the paranoia, the confusion, there was also anger. Anger at Umbridge for what she had done, anger at the Ministry for allowing it, and perhaps most surprisingly, anger at himself for not seeing it sooner. This anger simmered beneath the surface, flaring occasionally when a potion was mishandled or instructions were not followed.

The culmination of it all was when a Ravenclaw boy, visibly nervous under Severus's relentless scrutiny, added an erroneous ingredient, causing his cauldron to explode. Severus was quick to prevent any injuries, his wand cutting through the smoke to halt the spreading damage, but the damage to his temper was irrevocable.

He rounded on the boy, his voice a harsh whip. "What did I tell you about double-checking your ingredients? This is not some leisurely activity, this is Potions, a subject that demands concentration and precision!"

The class was silent, each student frozen as they watched Severus berate their classmate. When he was finished, he turned to the rest of them, his eyes hard. "Class dismissed," he said tersely, "And I expect all of you to review your notes for next time."

As they filed out, some casting sympathetic glances at the Ravenclaw boy, Severus couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret. It wasn't the boy's fault. It wasn't any of their faults. They were just children, children caught in a storm of power and politics they couldn't fully understand. And as much as he wished he could protect them, Severus was painfully aware of his own limitations.

After the last student had left, Severus sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. His gaze landed on the ruined cauldron, a stark reminder of the tumultuous day.

In the end, he found himself not in the comforting solitude of his classroom, but in the troubling silence that echoed with the weight of his responsibilities. He had a brief respite before the next class filtered in. Barely enough time to compose himself, to collect his fraying patience and anger. He would do well not to let his temper flare too easily; it wouldn't do any good, not for the students, and certainly not for him.

In what felt like no time at all, the doors of the classroom opened again, allowing in a small flood of fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. They took their seats quietly, casting wary glances his way, no doubt having heard about the earlier incident. Good, Severus thought, it meant they would be more attentive, more careful. Or so he hoped.

He started the class as usual, his gaze sharp and assessing as he gave instructions. His attention, however, was particularly focused on one student. A Gryffindor boy who seemed to favor his left hand, attempting to do most of his work with his left. His brows furrowed, worry and anger simmering beneath his stern expression. Not another one...

Severus managed to keep his anger in check throughout the class, his voice steady, though colder than usual. The students worked quietly, with an intensity and concentration he hadn't seen before. There were no accidents this time, no mishaps that required his intervention. For that, he was grateful.

Once he had dismissed the class, he gestured for the boy to stay behind. "You," he said, his voice ringing in the now empty classroom, "Stay."

The Gryffindor boy, a round-faced child named Fincher if he wasn't mistaken, turned around, his face pale under the weight of Severus's gaze. Severus waited for the rest of the students to leave, his mind trying to come up with the right words. It wasn't an easy task, being gentle.

"Show me your hand," he commanded once they were alone. Fincher hesitated for a moment before slowly extending his right hand. The back of it was marked with red, angry lines, clearly caused by the blood quill.

A pang of sympathy shot through him, quickly replaced by a burning anger. He was a harsh teacher, yes, but he would never stoop to this level of cruelty. Umbridge's actions were beyond reprehensible. They were barbaric.

With a wave of his wand, he conjured a healing bal, the same he had used on Harry. "This will help with the pain and help it heal," he said, his voice softer than Fincher had probably ever heard.

The boy just nodded, his eyes wide as he carefully applied the salve. "Thank you, sir," he whispered, and the gratitude in his voice twisted something in Severus's chest.

"Report this," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument. "Go to Professor McGonagall. Tell her what happened. Understand?"

Fincher nodded again, his eyes still wide. "Yes, sir."

With that, Severus dismissed him, watching as he hurried out of the classroom. He sat there for a moment, staring at the empty room, the silence heavy around him. He had done his duty, done what he could. But it didn't ease the sickening feeling in his gut.

The students were supposed to be safe in Hogwarts, supposed to be protected. And yet, one of their own was inflicting harm upon them. It was enough to make his blood boil. They would have to do something more immediately.

The silence of the corridors was abruptly interrupted by the high pitched, pulsating hum of the monitoring charm Severus had placed on his quarters. It was a tell-tale sign of intrusion, something he'd never imagined would go off. Pausing for a moment, a feeling of dread washed over him. His eyes narrowed with apprehension and disbelief as the name appeared in his mind. Potter.

A deep sigh escaped him as he thought of the irony. His rooms, the one place in the castle that had been Potter-free, invaded. Yet, he had no time to dally on the thought. His seventh year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were due to arrive any moment for their potions class.

Quickly, he scribbled a note and pinned it onto the classroom door, instructing them to use the period for independent study. He knew they would grumble about it, but their complaints were the least of his worries at the moment.

Steeling himself, he swept through the castle, his mind full of questions. What could possibly have led Potter to his private quarters? The journey was brief, but every step felt heavy with the weight of the unknown.

The door to his quarters swung open at his command, revealing a scene he was not prepared for. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, sat awkwardly in his personal space, his face ashen and his green eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Severus swept into the room, his robes billowing around him as he shut the door behind him. His quarters, normally a sanctuary of solitude, felt invaded with the presence of the Gryffindor boy. His gaze narrowed as he took in the scene; Harry sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his sofa, the blanket he had draped over him earlier haphazardly thrown aside.

"Potter," he began, his voice as icy as his gaze, "I didn't expect to see you awake so soon."

He watched as Harry shifted, glancing away before looking back at him, defiance glinting in his eyes. "I didn't plan to wake up in your quarters, Professor," he retorted, his voice a shade quieter than his usual brash tone.

Severus merely raised an eyebrow at the response, crossing his arms over his chest. He was used to their banter, their exchanges that more often than not led to pointed jabs and reprimands. But today, the gravity of the situation overshadowed their usual antagonism.

"Believe me, Potter, this was not my first choice either," Severus replied, the irritation in his tone only slightly feigned. "But under the circumstances, it was necessary."

He watched as Harry seemed to swallow, his eyes flickering down to his bandaged hand before returning to Severus. It was clear the boy was uncomfortable, wary even, but Severus could also see something else. Determination. It was a trait he had come to begrudgingly admire in the boy. It reminded him, though he'd never admit it, of Lily.

"Why?" Harry asked, his tone indicating he was trying to keep his cool.

"Because Umbridge has proven herself to be a threat," Severus responded bluntly, not mincing words. "Your safety, as well as that of the other students, is at risk."

Harry seemed to mull over his words, his expression hardening. "I can handle myself," he finally said, his jaw set stubbornly.

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Your bravado is noted, Potter, but this is not a matter of your personal courage or skill. This is a matter of a person in power abusing that power, using it to inflict harm. This is a matter for adults to handle."

Harry looked as if he wanted to argue, but he deflated somewhat, looking at his hand. "I don't like being caged, Snape," he muttered, almost too low for Severus to hear.

"Well, Potter, I don't particularly enjoy playing nursemaid," Severus retorted, a hint of his usual sneer curling his lip. "But you will stay here, under my protection. This is not a discussion. This is not a negotiation."

Harry looked up, a spark of anger in his eyes. "I won't be your prisoner—"

"This is not a prison, Potter," Severus interrupted, his voice low and stern. "This is a safety measure. It's the last place Umbridge would think to look for you. The idea of the Potter brat willingly staying with the dungeon bat would be utterly ridiculous to her."

Harry's mouth twisted in a grimace at Severus's words, but he didn't interrupt. Severus continued, "I understand you're used to your independence, your... reckless bravery. But while you're here, you'll follow my rules. And that includes not destroying anything."

"I don't plan on being here long enough to destroy anything," Harry shot back defiantly.

"That's where you're wrong, Potter," Severus replied coldly. "You'll stay here as long as it's necessary. I won't have you endangering yourself or others with your foolhardy heroics."

They locked eyes for a long moment, both sets filled with defiance, understanding, and a begrudging respect. Neither spoke, but a strange understanding passed between them.

Finally, Harry broke the silence. "I'll stay," he muttered reluctantly. "But I won't like it."

"Trust me, Potter," Severus said dryly, "the feeling is entirely mutual. Now let me see your hand."

As his fingers traced the contours of the marred skin, his expression remained unreadable. His touch, despite being firm, was far from harsh - something that took Harry by surprise. There was a level of tenderness that the young wizard had never seen from the usually stern professor.

"How are you feeling, Potter?" Severus asked in a low voice, his onyx eyes meeting Harry's emerald ones.

"I'm... I'm okay," Harry responded, although the discomfort in his face told a different story. He was shivering slightly, the effects of the Cruciatus Curse still lingering.

"Potter," Severus's voice was softer, "It's evident you're not 'okay'. It's Crucio after all. And that fever... You're still in pain and we need to get your fever down."

Harry remained silent, looking away, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. Severus's concern was as surprising as it was unsettling, but it was also oddly comforting.

The potions master stood up and walked towards his cabinet filled with glass vials and jars of potions. He selected two: a purple one and a green one. The purple one was a potent Pain Relieving Potion and the other was Fever Reducer.

"Drink these. They should help with the fever and the pain," he said, his voice returning to its usual curt manner, though a touch softer than it typically was.

Severus watched as Harry took the potions with slight hesitation but did not protest. The boy knew better than to ignore medical advice, especially when it came from the potions master himself. His stern gaze didn’t leave Harry until he was sure the boy had taken every last drop.

"The fever should break soon, and the pain should subside considerably. Come with me," Severus instructed, rising from his seat. "I guess you should get comfortable in the guest room."

"Guest room?" Harry echoed, looking rather taken aback.

Severus nodded, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "Yes, Potter, a guest room. Did you think I would have you sleep on the floor?"

"No, but..." Harry's voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words. He hadn't expected to be treated like a guest. He'd thought he'd be more like a prisoner.

Severus rolled his eyes, ignoring Harry's obvious confusion. "Follow me," he commanded, leading Harry down a narrow hallway.

The guest room was small but comfortable, with a large four-poster bed dominating the space. Severus had taken the time to clean and prepare the room, and it was far more welcoming than the dank, stone-walled dungeons many might associate with the Potions Master.

Harry stepped into the room, looking around with wide eyes. There was a wardrobe on one side, a small desk with a lamp on the other, and a set of shelves with a few books and scrolls.

"I know it's not as lavish as Gryffindor tower," Severus said dryly, watching Harry. "But it should be adequate for your needs. The washroom is through that door there."

Harry simply nodded, his gaze roaming over the room. He looked surprisingly shy, a stark contrast to his usual confident demeanor. "It's... It's nice," he admitted, his voice quiet. "Thank you."

Severus simply nodded, turning to leave. "Get some rest, Potter," he said, not unkindly. "Dinner will be brought to you. Don't fly a broom through my quarters while I'm away."

With that, Severus swept out of the room, leaving Harry to settle in. He had much to do and not a lot of time to do it. As he returned to his classroom, his thoughts raced. He had known Hogwarts was no longer safe, but to have it hit so close to home... It was more than concerning.

Upon entering his classroom, he found the seventh years deep in their independent study. Several pairs of eyes turned towards him, a few raising their hands, likely with questions about their self-guided work. Severus simply raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"Your work for the day is complete," he announced, a collective sigh of relief rising from the room. "You are dismissed." The students were quick to gather their belongings and scurry out of the room, a few throwing uncertain glances in his direction. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and turned towards the staffroom, deciding he'd better update Minerva on the recent developments.

As he moved through the corridors, he noticed Dolores Umbridge standing in his way. Her pink attire and toad-like face always did bring a sour taste to his mouth. She looked at him sweetly, but the sugary facade couldn't hide the venomous character within. "Severus, have you seen Potter?" She inquired, her voice coated with feigned worry. "It's such a shame, him skipping his classes."

Severus's eyes flicked towards her, a frosty smile etching itself onto his face. "Indeed, Dolores," he replied, using her first name in the way that always seemed to irk her. "Unfortunately, I've been caught up in my own classes. Perhaps he is just lost."

A brief flicker of annoyance crossed her face before it was replaced with that faux sweet smile. "Yes, perhaps. Do let me know if you see him."

"Of course," Severus agreed, nodding politely before sweeping past her. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but it was a necessity. He couldn't risk Umbridge finding out about Harry's whereabouts.

With the encounter behind him, Severus moved through the corridors swiftly, making his way to Minerva's office. As he rapped lightly on the door, he heard her familiar voice bidding him enter.

"Severus," she greeted, looking up from the pile of paperwork on her desk. Her gaze was steely, yet held a hint of worry. "Thank you for sending Fincher to me. I fear I found two more who have suffered the Blood quill, a Ravenclaw and another Gryffindor."

Severus's scowl deepened at her words. "That woman is causing more harm than even the most stubborn members of the Ministry would dare to ignore," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Unfortunately, Fudge and his lackeys are turning a blind eye," Minerva responded grimly, "They believe that she's instilling discipline and order."

Severus snorted derisively. "Torture is not discipline."

"No, it's not," Minerva agreed, her expression mirroring his own. "We need to take action, Severus. With Albus's hands tied, it falls on us."

Severus nodded, his mind already turning over their options. "We can't involve Albus, but we'll need others we can trust."

Minerva sighed, "We need strength in numbers, but also secrecy...We should bring in Filius and Pomona, the other Heads of Houses. I trust them implicitly."

Severus nodded in agreement. Flitwick and Sprout, though not as outwardly stern as he or McGonagall, were no less dedicated to their students' well-being. "I agree. They'll need to know."

"But we must be careful, Severus," Minerva warned, "If word gets back to Umbridge, or worse, Fudge..."

"It won't," Severus cut in, a grim determination in his voice. "We'll meet under the cover of night, in my quarters. Umbridge wouldn't dare step foot in there, and it's the last place anyone would look."

Minerva nodded. "Very well. Tomorrow night, after the students have gone to bed. I'll inform Filius and Pomona. In the meantime, Severus, please keep an eye on Harr."

Severus sighed, a hint of reluctance flashing across his face. "Of course, Minerva," he responded, standing from his seat. "I'll ensure his... safety."

With a final curt nod, Severus swept from the room, his dark robes billowing behind him. His thoughts were as swift and unyielding as his strides, planning and plotting the best way to rid their beloved school of the poisonous presence that was Dolores Umbridge.

He knew he was playing a dangerous game. To protect Harry, to protect all of Hogwarts, meant defying the Ministry, meant putting himself at risk. But the alternative, to stand by and do nothing as Umbridge's reign of terror continued, was unthinkable.

As he traversed the echoing corridors of Hogwarts, he could not help but feel a heavy weight settling upon him. It was not just the burden of responsibility, but also a sense of mourning. Hogwarts, once a place of joy and learning, had become a battleground, a place where the innocent were punished and the guilty reigned.

Arriving at his private quarters, he glanced back at the door to the guest room where he'd left Harry. He trusted that the boy was wise enough not to venture out and make trouble. With a silent incantation, he strengthened the protective enchantments around his quarters.

Inside his room, the soft light from the numerous candles cast long, dancing shadows. Severus moved to his desk, reaching for a piece of parchment and a quill. He began to pen instructions for the following night's meeting, being careful to write in a coded language only the four of them understood.

He had no doubt that they were walking a perilous path. There would be no going back once they started, and the cost of failure was unthinkable. But they were not alone. They had each other and, more importantly, they had the courage and resolve to do what was necessary.

The night fell like a blanket around the school, its usual calming effect marred by the unsettling tension that hung heavy in the air. But within the gloom, there was a flicker of defiance, a spark of rebellion that refused to be extinguished. As Severus finished his letters and sealed them with his personal sigil, he allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. They were not beaten yet.

As the last candle was extinguished and he prepared for a restless sleep, Severus had one final thought. Dolores Umbridge had awakened a dangerous enemy. For when you threatened Hogwarts, you didn't just face the faculty; you faced the protectors, the guardians, the very soul of the school. And they would stop at nothing to defend their home.

With that thought in his mind, Severus fell into a fitful sleep, ready to face whatever challenges the next day would bring. Tomorrow, he knew, was the beginning of a very difficult, but necessary battle. It was time for the Hogwarts rebellion to begin in earnest.