Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Laugh.’
    ‘I’m not laughing,’ said Harry. Ron blinked. ‘It’s a brilliant idea! It’d be really cool if you got on the team! I’ve never seen you play Keeper, are you good?’
    ‘I’m not bad,’ said Ron, who looked immensely relieved at Harry’s reaction. ‘Charlie, Fred and George always made me Keep for them when they were training during the holidays.’
    ‘So you’ve been practising tonight?’
    ‘Every evening since Tuesday … just on my own, though. I’ve been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at me, but it hasn’t been easy and I don’t know how much use it’ll be.’ Ron looked nervous and anxious. ‘Fred and George are going to laugh themselves stupid when I turn up for the tryouts. They haven’t stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made a prefect.’
    ‘I wish I was going to be there,’ said Harry bitterly, as they set off together towards the common room.
    ‘Yeah, so do – Harry, what’s that on the back of your hand?’
    Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success as Ron with his Cleansweep.
    ‘It’s just a cut – it’s nothing – it’s –’
    But Ron had grabbed Harry’s forearm and pulled the back of Harry’s hand up level with his eyes. There was a pause, during which he stared at the words carved into the skin, then, looking sick, he released Harry.
    ‘I thought you said she was just giving you lines?’
    Harry hesitated, but after all, Ron had been honest with him, so he told Ron the truth about the hours he had been spending in Umbridge’s office.
    ‘The old hag!’ Ron said in a revolted whisper as they came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was dozing peacefully with her head against her frame. ‘She’s sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!’
    ‘No,’ said Harry at once. ‘I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s got to me.’
    ‘ Got to you? You can’t let her get away with this!’
    ‘I don’t know how much power McGonagall’s got over her,’ said Harry.
    ‘Dumbledore, then, tell Dumbledore!’
    ‘No,’ said Harry flatly.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘He’s got enough on his mind,’ said Harry, but that was not the true reason. He was not going to go to Dumbledore for help when Dumbledore had not spoken to him once since June.
    ‘Well, I reckon you should –’ Ron began, but he was interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching them sleepily and now burst out, ‘Are you going to give me the password or will I have to stay awake all night waiting for you to finish your conversation?’
    *
    Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Though Harry automatically glanced towards the staff table when he entered the Great Hall, it was without any real hope of seeing Hagrid, and he turned his mind immediately to his more pressing problems, such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to do and the prospect of yet another detention with Umbridge.
    Two things sustained Harry that day. One was the thought that it was almost the weekend; the other was that, dreadful though his final detention with Umbridge was sure to be, he had a distant view of the Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with luck, be able to see something of Ron’s tryout. These were rather feeble rays of light, it was true, but Harry was grateful for anything that might lighten his present darkness; he had never had a worse first week of term at Hogwarts.
    At five o’clock that evening he knocked on Professor Umbridge’s office door for what he sincerely hoped would be the final time, and was told to enter. The blank parchment lay ready for him on the lace-covered table, the pointed black quill beside it.
    ‘You know what to do, Mr Potter,’ said Umbridge, smiling sweetly at him. Harry picked up the quill and glanced through the window. If he just shifted his chair an inch or so to the right … on the pretext of shifting himself closer to the table, he managed it. He now had a distant view of the Gryffindor Quidditch team soaring up and down the pitch, while half a dozen black figures stood at the foot of the three high goalposts, apparently awaiting their turn to Keep. It was impossible to tell which one was Ron at this distance.
    I must not tell lies , Harry wrote. The cut in the back of his right hand opened and began to bleed afresh.
    I must not tell lies. The cut dug deeper, stinging and smarting.
    I must not tell lies. Blood trickled down his