october 5th, 1995

_______________________________________________

Miranda is in a distinctly foul mood. Not only does she have mountains of homework to complete, loads of studying for a Potions exam Snape sprung on them yesterday, and Quidditch tryouts that she'd promised Harry she'd attend, but tonight is her detention with the dreaded Dolores Umbridge.

    "You excited?" Harry asks, plopping down beside her on the settee.

    Miranda's brows drew together. Was he mad? "For detention with the toad? Not likely."

    "No, silly," Harry nudges her, "for Quidditch tryouts. Ron's going to do brilliantly, I'm sure of it. And you'll finally get to see me play."

    Miranda rolls her eyes, "God forbid I miss the sight of your Quidditch prowess." She glances at the clock, "But— tryouts are later."

    "No, they're not," Harry shakes his head. "Angelina moved them up, they're in an hour, I thought you— I told Ron to tell you."

    "My detention with Umbridge is at five. I can't," Miranda tells him regretfully.                                     Harry's face falls, "But—" At this moment, Ron and Hermione enter through the portrait hole. "Ron!" Harry exclaims, "I told you to tell Miranda about the time change for tryouts ages ago!"

    "I did!" Ron protests, then pauses. "Oh bollocks, I didn't! Blimey, I completely forgot."

    "I can't go anyways," Miranda explains, "I've got detention with Umbridge." She sighs, apologizing, "Sorry, Ron. Good luck."

    "There's got to be some way to around it," Ron muses. "Maybe if you explain to her—"

    Hermione scoffs, "She doesn't strike me as the understanding sort."

    "You should at least try to ask," says Harry, shrugging. "Can't hurt."

    Miranda wavers. It is very important to them. And Hermione will be devastatingly bored without her there. Plus...she does sort of want to see Harry play. The Quidditch uniform— well, it has a certain effect.

    "Well..."

    "Please," Harry says, looking up at her with big, baleful eyes. Pooching his lower lip out, he rests his chin on her shoulder, "For me?"

    How is she expected to resist that? Miranda bites her lip. He needed to stop being so cute immediately.  "Fine," she relents. "I'll try. No promises!"

    At five to five Miranda bids the three of them good-bye and sets off for

Umbridge's office on the third floor. When she knocks on the door Umbridge beckons, "Come in," in a sugary voice. She enters cautiously, looking around. In Moody— well the imposter Moody's days it had been packed with various instruments and artifacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment. Now, however, it is totally unrecognizable. The surfaces have all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There are several vases full of dried flowers, each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls is a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow around its neck.

    "Good evening, Miss McGonagall."                             Miranda nearly jumps. She had not noticed her at first because she is wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blend only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

    "Evening," Miranda replies stiffly.

    "Well, sit down," she points toward a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for him.

    Miranda twists her hands together behind her back. She did say she'd try. "Um," she says, without moving. "Professor Umbridge? Um — before we start, I wonder if you might do me a favor."

    Her bulging eyes narrow."Oh yes?"
     "Well, I don't know if you know— but the Gryffindor team Quidditch tryouts are today and—."

    "You are a member of the team?"

    "Um— no—"

    "You were going to tryout for the team?"

    "Well— no, but you see my friends are on the team. And I sort of promised I'd go and watch. Moral support and all, and it starts in a couple minutes. Well it— it really means a lot to them, and I was hoping—wondering whether I could skip detention tonight and do it — do it another night . . . instead . . ." Miranda knows long before she reaches the end of her sentence that it is no good.

    "Oh no," says Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. "Oh no, no, no. This is your punishment for perpetuating your dear Mr. Potter's nasty, attention seeking lies, and punishments cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one's convenience. And certainly not to go see Mr. Potter. I presume it's Mr. Potter to whom you're referring? No, I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you."

    Miranda feels blood rush to her head , and she is vaguely aware that her hands have curled into tight fists. How dare she speak about Harry that way.

She is watching Miranda with her head slightly to one side, still smil- ing widely, as though she knows exactly what she is thinking and is waiting to see whether she would snap. Miranda inhales slowly, taking a series of deep, controlled breaths as she takes her seat.

    "There," says Umbridge sweetly, "Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Miss McGonagall No, not with your quill," she adds, as Miranda bends down to open her bag. "You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are." She hands her a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point. "I want you to write 'I must not tell lies,' " she told her softly.

"How many times?" Miranda inquires politely. Lines. Not bad, considering. Tedious, but not horrible either.

    "Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in," Umbridge leers. She moves back over to her desk.   

    Miranda raises the sharp black quill and then realizes something is missing.     "You haven't given me any ink."

    "Oh, you won't need ink," Professor Umbridge says, with the mer- est suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

    Miranda places the point of the quill on the paper and begins to write the sentence: I must not tell lies. Immediately, she lets out a horrified gasp of pain. The words have appeared on the parchment in glistening red ink. At the same time, the words have appeared on the back of Miranda's right hand, cut into her skin as though traced there by a scalpel. Then, the skin heals over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth. Miranda looks to Umbridge. She is watching her closely, beaming in a a maniacal manner that turns Miranda's stomach.

    "Yes?"
     "Nothing," Miranda mutters quietly. She focuses back on the parchment, placing the quill upon it once more, and writes I must not tell lies. She feels the searing pain on the back of her hand for a second time.

    And on it goes. Again and again Miranda writes the words on the parchment in her own blood. And again and again the words cut into the back of his hand, heal, and then reappear the next time he set quill to parchment.

Darkness falls outside Umbridge's window. Miranda does not ask when she can stop. She knows she is watching her for signs of weakness and she is not going to show any, not even if Miranda has to sit here all night, cutting open her own hand with this quill.

    I must not tell lies, Miranda writes. The cut on the back of her right hand opens and begins to bleed.

    I must not tell lies. The cut digs deeper, stinging and smarting.
I must not tell lies. Blood trickles down her wrist.

    The parchment is dotted with blood, and the pain is blinding. Still, Miranda refuses to flinch, refuses to let her eyes water.

    I must not tell lies.
     I must not tell lies.
The parchment is soaked through with the blood of her hand, which hurt so bad Miranda felt she might faint.                                "Come here," Umbridge commands, after what seemed hours.

    Miranda stands, hand stinging painfully. Her skin is red raw and stained with blood.

    "Hand," Umbridge says. Miranda extends it, recoiling as she touches her with her stubby fingers. She nods, seemingly satisfied, "You may go."

    Miranda leaves the office without a word, and once she is several corridors away from it, she lets her tears fall. They stream silently down her face, noiseless. Miranda does not utter a sound, her features a stony mask. Tears roll off her chin, leaving wet spots on her robes. Carefully, she inspects her hand, a dull ache replacing the harsh sting. The wound is still fresh, but it will scab over with time.

    When she arrives back in the common room, face scrubbed of any remnants of tears, and hand concealed in the pocket of her robes, Ron, Hermione, and Harry are waiting up for her.

    "So," Hermione inquires anxiously, "how was it?"

    Miranda swallows, "She— um— well, she had me do lines." She's not entirely sure why she lies to her friends, but that's the decision she makes.

    "Lines?" Ron asks. "That's all? Well, that not so bad, then."

    "Right," Miranda nods, voice quiet and subdued. "Not so bad..."

    The following day, Saturday, Hermione, Miranda, Harry, and Ron's day starts early. They arrive at Hogsmeade at an ungodly hour, to begin prepping for the meeting that is to occur. As promised, Hermione had gotten the word out about their little plan. Hopefully, at least few people were interested.

    They'd chosen the Hog's Head was their meeting place, since it was less conspicuous than the often crowded Three Broomsticks. For good reason, the Hog's Head is filthy and completely empty when they walk in

    "You know what?" Ron murmurs, looking over at the bar with enthusiasm. "We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, he wouldn't care. I've always wanted to try firewhisky —"

    "You — are — a — prefect," snarls Hermione.
     "Oh," Ron's smiles fades from his face. "Yeah . . ."
     "So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?" Harry asks, wrenching open the rusty top of his butterbeer and taking a swig.                 "Just a couple of people," Hermione checks her watch and then looks anxiously toward the door. "I told them to be here about now and I'm sure they all know where it is — oh look, this might be them now —"

     The door of the pub opens, a thick band of dusty sunlight splitting the room in two for a moment and then vanishing, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people. First comes Neville with Dean and Lavender, who are closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with, much to Miranda's chagrin, Cho and one of her usually giggling girlfriends, then Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch- Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, three Ravenclaw boys named Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot; Ginny, followed by Zacharias Smith, and bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan.

    "A couple of people?" Harry hissed to Hermione. "A couple of people?"

    "Apparently, you're quite popular," Miranda nudges him teasingly.

    "Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?" Hermione motions frantically, students continuing to filter on. The barman has frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looks as though it has never been washed. Possibly he has never seen his pub so full.

    "What have you been telling people?" he rounds on Hermione. "What are they expecting?"

    "I've told you, they just want to hear what you've got to say," Hermione soothes, but Harry continues to look at her so furiously that she adds quickly, "You don't have to do anything yet, I'll speak to them first." Every eye is upon Harry.

    Miranda lightly puts a hand on his shoulder, "Calm down, Potter. You're gonna be fine. We're all right here."

    "Er," said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual out of nerves. "Well — er — hi." The group focuses its attention on her instead, though eyes con- tinue to dart back regularly to Harry.

    "Well . . . erm . . . well, you know why you're here. Erm . . . well, I had the idea — that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us" — (Hermione's voice becomes suddenly much stronger and more confident) — "because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts" — "Hear, hear," says Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looks heartened — "well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands."

    She pauses, looks sideways at Harry, and goes on, "And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells, and — well, Harry can explain better than I can."

    Harry blinks rapidly, "Erm— right, well like Hermione said, you lot are here because you want to learn how to defend yourselves, or stick it to Umbridge, or both. Now, I don't know whether I'm the most qualified for this, but everyone seems to think I am so— er— I'll do my best." The bar is silent.

    Hermione awkwardly adds, "Harry is really too modest, I mean first year he got the Sorcerer's Stone, second year he went into the Chamber, third year—never mind about third year, and last year, he fought...Voldemort." There is a collective gasp at the name, as expected.

    Harry's embarrassed, "I— I had loads of help all those times, Hermione makes it sound so heroic, really I just got...lucky."

    "Is it true you can produce a Patronus charm?" Luna looks up from her Quibbler.

    "Sorry?" Harry asks.

    "A Patronus charm, is it true you can produce one?" Luna repeats.

    "I suppose so...wait— where'd you hear that?" Harry muses.

    "I heard that you fought You Know Who with a disarming spell!" Another person shouts out. Immediately the room erupts into a cacophony of questions about Voldemort and Cedric. Harry looks frozen, and then Miranda catches sight of Frederick's face. She jumps into action.

    "HEY!" Miranda bellows, commanding silence. "If any of you are here to get information about what happened that night when— when it happened, you should just leave now because that's not what this is about. Harry is not a zoo animal for you to gawk at. He is an accomplished wizard who can teach you how to fight if you let him. Is that clear? Good."

    Harry looks at her gratefully, "Thanks."                    "Yes, well," Hermione clears her throat hastily, "moving on . . . the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?" There is a murmur of general agreement. "Right," Hermione looks relieved that something had at last been settled. "Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don't think there's any point in meeting less than once a week —"

    "Hang on," Angelina pipes up, "we need to make sure this doesn't clash with our Quidditch practice."
     "I'm sure we can find a night that suits everyone," Hermione, says slightly impatiently.                                            "Well, once a week sounds cool," Lee Jordan nods.
     Hermione marks a note down in her planner, "Well, the other thing to decide is where we're going to meet. . . ." This is rather more difficult; the whole group falls silent.

    "Library?" suggests Katie Bell after a few moments.
     "I can't see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library," Harry says wryly.

    "Maybe an unused classroom?" Dean.

    "What about the common room?" Ginny suggests

    "Can't," Harry vetoes, "Umbridge has eyes everywhere."

    "The Shrieking Shack?" Miranda offers.

    "Too small," Hermione interjects.

    "How about the Room of Requirement?" Ron proposes.

    Hermione stops short, "That's-- that's a good idea Ron!"

    "You don't have to sound so surprised. I do have them every once in a while." Ron says loftily.

    Hermione laughs, exhilarated. "It's rather exciting breaking the rules, isn't it?"

    "Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger." Ron is stunned beyond belief. As is everyone else in the pub.

    Hermione rummages in her bag and produced parchment and a quill, then hesitates, rather as though she is steeling herself to say something. "I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here. But I also think," she takes a deep breath, "that we all ought to agree not to shout about what we're doing. So if you sign, you're agreeing not to tell Umbridge — or anybody else — what we're up to." Fred reaches out for the parchment and cheerfully put down his signature, but Miranda notices at once that several people look less than happy at the prospect of putting their names on the list.

    "Er . . ." Zacharias Smith says slowly, not taking the parchment that George was trying to pass him. "Well . . . I'm sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is." But Ernie is looking rather hesitant about signing too. Miranda raises her eyebrows at him.

    "I — well, we are prefects," Ernie bursts out. "And if this list was found . . . well, I mean to say . . . you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out . . ."

    "Ernie, do you really think I'd leave that list lying around?" Hermione asks testily.

    "No. No, of course not," Ernie blusters. "I — yes, of course I'll sign."

Nobody raises objections after Ernie. When the last person — Zacharias — had signed, Hermione takes the parchment back and slips it carefully into her bag. There is an odd feeling in the group now. It is as though they have just signed some kind of contract.

    In twos and threes the rest of the group took their leave too, until it was only the four of them left.

    "Well, I think that went quite well," Hermione exclaims happily, as she,  Miranda, Harry, and Ron walk out of the Hog's Head into the bright sunlight a few moments later.

    "That Zacharias bloke's a wart," Ron glowers after the figure of Smith just discernible in the distance.

    "I don't like him much either," admits Hermione, "but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested in coming, so what could I say? But the more people the better really."

    Miranda nods in agreement, "She's right — I mean, Michael Corner and his friends wouldn't have come if he hadn't been going out with Ginny —"

    Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from his butterbeer bottle, gags and sprays butterbeer down his front.

    "He's WHAT?" Ron is outraged, ears resembling curls of raw beef. "She's going out with — my sister's going — what d'you mean, Michael Corner?"

    Miranda stifles a laugh with much difficulty as Hermione informs Ron, "Well, that's why he and his friends came, I think — well, they're obviously interested in learning defense, but if Ginny hadn't told Michael what was going on —"

    "When did this — when did she — ?"

    "They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at the end of last year," Miranda tells him nonchalantly.
     "Which one was Michael Corner?" Ron demanded furiously.

    "The lanky one with the curly hair," Miranda says, absentmindedly.
     "I didn't like him," Ron says at once.
     "Big surprise," Hermione mutters under her breath.

    Much later that night, Miranda is curled up in the common room with a cup of tea and her notes from Arithmancy. Everyone else has long since gone to bed, but Miranda had had a headache and was not able to return to sleep.

    There is a rustling behind her, and she turns her head to find Harry, tiptoeing down the stone staircase, black hair rumpled with sleep and even messier than usual.

    "Hey," he smiles at her, fixing his glasses, which are crooked on the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping I'd find you out here."

    Miranda brushes some of her hair back from her face, scooting to make room for Harry on the sofa, "That predictable am I?" She takes a sip of her tea, "I have trouble sleeping sometimes."

    "Yeah, so do — Miranda, what's that on the back of your hand?"  Harry frowns, concerned. He has spotted her wound, Miranda had forgotten to conceal it when she'd taken a sip of her tea.

    Immediately, Miranda tries to hide it, but she is extremely unsuccessful. "It's just a cut — it's nothing — it's —"

    But Harry has grabbed Miranda's forearm and pulls the back of her hand up level with his eyes. There is a pause, during which he stares at the words carved into the skin, then he releases Miranda, looking sick and enraged all at once. His face contorts, hissing, "I thought you said she was giving you lines?"

    Miranda hesitates, teeth digging into her bottom lip. She wants to tell Harry the truth, she does, but she doesn't know how he'll react. "I—"

    "Did she do this to you?" Harry presses, voice filled with anger. "Did she hurt you? What is this— Miranda are you—"

    So Miranda tells him. Tells him about her evening in Umbridge's office. The quill, and the words ingrained on her skin. I must not tell lies.

    "The old hag!" Harry says in a revolted whisper.  "She's sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!"

    "No," Miranda shakes her head vehemently. "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!"

    "You'd do the same thing, I know you would," Miranda replies flatly. "Besides, I'm not worrying Auntie, she's got enough to deal with already."

    "Well, I reckon you should —" Harry begins.

    "Harry just—" Miranda interrupts, lips pinched together tightly.  "Just— drop it. Okay?"

    "Okay," he nods. Harry gazes at her for a long moment, "I'm so sorry, this is all my fault, Miranda. I was the one who provoked her, it should've been me. I—"

    Miranda stops him, "It's not your fault, Harry."

    "But—"

    "Harry..." Miranda implores, looking at him pleadingly.

    He sighs, "Dropping it."

    "Thank you." There is a beat of silence.

    Harry gazes at her for a long moment, as if debating whether he should say what had crossed his mind. Miranda returns his eye contact, staring up at him questioningly though thick lashes.

    "Are you okay, Miranda?" Harry finally ventures, voice low and eyes searching. His words are steeped with so much affection that it causes tears to spring to Miranda's eyes.

    Furiously blinking, she lifts a shoulder, "Yeah." She smiles lightly, flicking her view down to the back of her hand and back up again, "Okay as any of us are, I suppose."

    Harry returns her smile, "Right."  Gently, and without saying another word, Harry takes her hand in his own, tracing the jagged cuts with soothing care. His touch is sweet and soft, and Miranda relaxes under it.

    Her heart swells with appreciation, and thumps loudly as Harry wraps his strong arms around her. Not wanting to ruin the moment, Miranda stays quiet, both contentedly enjoying each other's company well into the night.