"Ron, how did your Keeper tryouts go?" Hermione asked, her voice carefully casual—though the way her fingers twisted around her quill betrayed her interest.
"Well... actually, I made it," Ron said, attempting the sort of nonchalant shrug that suggested making the Quidditch team was about as remarkable as buttering toast. "It's nothing really—Fred and George always made me play Keeper during the holidays."
"What? Oh—that's brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, his genuine delight breaking through his exhaustion like sunlight through storm clouds. "You really made the team? That's absolutely fantastic!"
"Yeah, now we can train together," Ron said, his carefully constructed indifference cracking to reveal pure excitement. "And Ginny made it too—she's your backup Seeker." He shot quick, hopeful glances at Hermione, who was trying very hard to look like she wasn't hanging on his every word.
But Hermione's attention had already shifted to Harry, her expression growing concerned.
"How was your detention with Umbridge last night?"
"Yeah, what did that pink menace make you do?" Ron chimed in, his triumph momentarily forgotten.
"...Lines," Harry said after a telling pause.
"That doesn't sound too terrible," Ron said hopefully. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Harry." Orli's voice cut through his deflection like a blade. Her eyes had narrowed to sharp points of suspicion. "Show me the back of your hand. I can already see it."
Harry reluctantly extended his hand for the briefest possible moment, but Ron's Keeper reflexes served him well—he snatched Harry's wrist before he could pull away. What they saw made the blood drain from their faces.
The wounds had healed, but the skin remained angry and swollen, marked with faint impressions that looked disturbingly like carved letters. Dried blood had been scrubbed away, leaving telltale traces around the edges.
"Merlin's bloody beard," Ron breathed, turning Harry's hand to catch the light. "What is this? Burns?"
"Umbridge did this?" Hermione's voice climbed toward hysteria. "How? What kind of magic—"
"Just a small cut—it's nothing—" Harry tried to pull free, but Ron's grip was iron. "I secretly took some of Orli's healing potion, so it wasn't too unbearable."
"Just writing lines could do THIS?" Ron's face twisted with revulsion. "That revolting old toad! We're going straight to Professor McGonagall!"
"I don't know if McGonagall can do anything about her," Harry said wearily. "I can't drag her into this mess."
"How exactly did this happen?" Hermione demanded, her analytical mind already working. "You need to tell us everything so we can help."
Harry sighed in defeat. "It was the quill she gave me. She made me write 'I must not tell lies' on parchment."
"And the words appeared on your hand?" Orli asked, though she already knew the answer.
"She didn't give me ink, but the quill wrote in red anyway—like a blade carving into my skin with every letter." Harry's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse.
"If McGonagall can't handle it, we'll tell Dumbledore!" Ron snarled. "Or write to Sirius!"
Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his free hand flying to his forehead.
"What's wrong? Does your hand hurt?" Orli leaned forward with concern.
"No, it's my scar this time." Harry pressed his palm against the lightning bolt mark, wincing. "It's been giving me sharp pains lately. Random ones."
The Great Hall's windows burst open with their usual morning chaos—hundreds of owls streaming in like a feathered avalanche, carrying newspapers, letters, and packages. A nondescript brown owl dropped a thin envelope directly in front of Harry.
"Sirius!" Harry's face lit up as he recognized the familiar handwriting. He tore the letter open with desperate eagerness.
But as his eyes scanned the parchment, his expression crumbled like a sandcastle hit by a wave. The excitement drained away, leaving only hollow disappointment in its wake.
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