Harry stumbled back into the Gryffindor common room through the fireplace. He still didn't care much for traveling by Floo, but he felt refreshed. The unexpected visit with Sirius had been good for him, and Lupin's encouragement left him feeling safer than he had in a long time. By the time he was bidding Sirius and Lupin farewell, he felt like he was going to be able to take their advice and seek help from McGonagall.

The common room was empty, and he realized he was running late for dinner—everyone was already there. It was actually better that way—fewer questions about why he had been traveling by Floo.

He made his way down to the Great Hall, where he sat down across from Ron and Hermione. "Sorry I'm late."

Ron's eyes widened when he sat down. "Where have you been all day?"

"We were worried about you, Harry!" Hermione cried. "We never saw you come back from detention, and then Ron said you were missing from your bed this morning and you never came to class. Is everything okay?"

Harry nodded. "I went to see Lupin last night after detention. It was late, so he had me stay and have a lie in this morning."

"Lucky," Ron said.

"He was only there because his hand was bleeding so badly, Ronald," Hermione hissed.

"Oh, right. Sorry, mate." Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning red.

"What did Lupin say?" Hermione asked.

"That I should tell Dumbledore or McGonagall about my detentions with Umbridge."

She nodded "You should listen to him."

Harry swallowed, his cheeks growing a bit warm. He had decided to see if he could catch McGonagall between dinner and detention, but he still wasn't sure what he was going to say.

He wasn't hungry enough to make it through the rest of the meal, so he left the Great Hall early. It was just as well, because he'd have to be quick if he wanted to make it to detention on time. A small part of him hoped that maybe if his conversation with McGonagall went well enough, he wouldn't have to go to detention at all.

Harry waited outside of McGonagall's office, heart pounding against his chest. He didn't have long to wait.

McGonagall's eyebrows raised when she saw him standing outside of her own office. "Is everything alright, Mr. Potter?"

He took a deep breath. "I came to talk to you about Umbridge."

Her voice was sharp. "I cannot get you out of detention, if that's what this is about. And I thought I told you I didn't want to hear another word of complaint about it."

He felt himself deflate. There was no point in arguing. The fight had finally been taken out of him.

Her brow furrowed. "Come in, Potter."

He suppressed a wince, realizing he must have looked a lot more dejected than he realized, and followed her into her office. She sat down at her desk and gestured for him to have a seat across from her.

"Biscuit?" She held out a tin.

He shook his head—his stomach was already turning somersaults.

This time, McGonagall didn't push the issue. She set the tin aside. "You believe Professor Umbridge has been unfair to you."

He grasped his injured hand with his good one on his lap, covering the marks.

"And I agree with you. She has."

Harry looked up to meet her eyes. Did he dare hope she already knew what was going on?

"But I'm afraid this is a lesson you need to learn. The ministry will not be fair to you. I warned you not to upset that woman."

"I didn't try to—"

"Did you or did you not speak out of turn in her class?"

"I did, but—"

"You're smarter than that, Mr. Potter. If you can't control yourself, I'm afraid the consequences are deserved."

Harry clenched his teeth. He had thought he was being brave in keeping silent about what Umbridge was doing to him. He realized now that speaking up required quite a bit more bravery, and it was more bravery than he had.

It was too risky. Lupin insisted that other professors at the school had the power to stop Umbridge, but if Harry spoke up and she wasn't stopped, the whole situation would be a hundred times worse. He shuddered, remembering third grade, when he'd made the mistake of talking to a teacher about Dudley's bullying. It had been the worst year of primary school.

One more detention. He could get through one more detention. After that, he'd stay quiet in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He wouldn't give Umbridge a reason to give him detention again. And even if she decided to terrorize anyone else, which he doubted, they'd all get through this year—no Defense Against the Dark Arts professor ever lasted longer than one year, anyway.

"I understand, professor," he said. "Sorry to bother you."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "There's something else on your mind."

He must have been looking dejected again. He really needed to work on keeping a straight face. "I'm going to be late for detention." He stood from his seat, letting his sleeve fall over his injured hand.

"Potter . . . what is she having you do?"

Harry swallowed hard. All he had to do was to show her his hand, and she would understand. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Besides, McGonagall was right. If he couldn't control himself, he deserved what he got.

"Writing lines," he said.

"And that's all?"

"Yes."

A short pause. "What are you writing?"

"I must not tell lies."

Her expression softened a little, sympathy filling her eyes. "Be careful."

He nodded and left her office, a cold weight settling in the pit of his stomach.

Harry was five minutes late for his detention with Umbridge. She gave him a sickly smile as he sat down at the desk without being prompted.

"I'm going to let your tardiness slide this time, Mr. Potter," she said in her irritatingly high voice. "But mark my words, if you should ever arrive late to one of my detentions again, I will be forced to make sure you understand the impropriety of lateness as well as dishonesty."

He didn't know what to say to that. She was already have him carve into his own flesh—it wasn't as if she could threaten much worse.

She seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "Do not think for a moment I cannot worsen this punishment, Mr. Potter. As High Inquisitor, I have quite a lot of work to keep me busy into the night, and we can continue as late as it takes for the message to sink in. And if all else fails, I'm sure I can think of some additional enchantments to add to that quill."

"This is our last detention," he couldn't help but say.

"So it is," she said, but there was a sick gleam in her eyes.

It had never struck him until this moment how much she truly enjoyed this—his pain, his helplessness, his desperation. Harry had been right all along. This was between himself and Umbridge. He was glad he hadn't said anything to McGonagall. Really, he never should have even told Lupin.

He picked up the quill and began to write. He almost hissed when the cuts first reopened, but he managed to keep from making a sound.

As the night wore on, the words ceased to sound like words in his mind, the letters losing their meaning as anything other than the shape of his cuts, the shape of the searing gashes in his flesh. It was easier to think of them as wounds than as words.

Besides, the words hurt almost as much.

I must not tell lies.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He was being forced to lie.

I must not tell lies.

He couldn't tell the truth about Voldemort. He couldn't tell the truth about Umbridge.

I must not tell lies.

The message was sinking in—the opposite of the words on the page, but it was the message Umbridge had intended all the same. He would tell lies. His cowardice demanded it.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

He must tell lies.