"What's wrong?" Ron asked, his voice tight with concern. "What did Sirius say? Has he come back?"
"See for yourself." Harry thrust the letter toward him with barely contained frustration.
Orli and Hermione crowded closer as Ron unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was unmistakably Sirius's, but it looked like it had been scrawled in desperate haste—ink blots and hurried scratches that spoke of urgent circumstances.
"Harry,
Sorry I couldn't see you off at the start of term. I'm searching for R.A.B.'s whereabouts—that cave has thousands of Inferi. Finding him in there will take considerable time, but I'll try to make it back before Christmas. I hear Hogwarts has acquired someone with ill intentions. Stay alert and keep yourself safe. Stick with your friends, and seek Dumbledore's help if necessary.
Padfoot."
"So Sirius might not come back all year?" Ron's voice cracked with disappointment.
Harry's expression darkened further, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes. He snatched his bag and crammed the letter inside with more force than necessary.
The following days stretched like a nightmare that refused to end. Mountains of homework grew taller by the hour, but worse still, Umbridge extended Harry's detentions for an entire week. Despite Orli's daily potions and a specially brewed healing salve, his wounds barely had time to knit together before splitting open again. Angry red inflammation crept around the edges, and the carved words seemed to burn deeper each night.
By Friday evening, when Harry's final detention mercifully ended, they had planned a small celebration. But Harry sat hunched over in his chair, pressing his palms against his temples.
"Your headaches are getting more frequent, Harry," Hermione observed, her voice tight with worry.
"My scar always throbs worse when I'm trapped in Umbridge's office," Harry muttered through gritted teeth. "Especially when she grabs my arm to inspect her handiwork."
"Are you worried You-Know-Who is controlling her? Like he did with Quirrell?" Hermione leaned forward intently.
"Maybe," Harry said, lowering his voice and glancing toward Fred and George, who were tossing a Quaffle back and forth near the fireplace. "It's possible, isn't it?"
"I don't think so," Orli said thoughtfully. "He's back now—he has his own body. Why would he stoop to possessing someone else? Especially someone who wears that much pink..."
The mental image of Voldemort draped in Umbridge's signature color made her lips twitch despite the gravity of the situation. She made a mental note—Rita Skeeter should have finished her assignment by now.
"I agree," Hermione said. "Last year your scar hurt when no one was touching you. Dumbledore said it responds to You-Know-Who's emotions, didn't he? Maybe this has nothing to do with Umbridge—maybe it just happens to hurt when you're with her?"
"Or maybe she's just such an evil, twisted creature that she naturally resonates with Voldemort's frequency," Harry said bitterly.
"She's absolutely vile, Harry, but I think you need to tell Dumbledore about your scar," Ron said earnestly. "This isn't something to ignore."
Harry's jaw tightened. The hurt from Dumbledore's summer-long silence still festered like an unhealed wound.
"I don't want to burden him with this. He has enough problems without me whining about headaches. My scar hurt all summer anyway—this is just... worse."
"Harry, I think Dumbledore wants to be burdened with this," Orli said gently.
"Right," Harry's voice turned sharp with resentment. "The only thing Dumbledore cares about regarding me is monitoring my scar like some kind of Dark Arts barometer."
"Don't say that," Hermione protested. "You know he cares about you."
"I need to sleep." Harry stood abruptly, one hand pressed against his forehead where the lightning bolt scar throbbed with renewed vengeance. "Maybe it'll stop hurting if I'm unconscious."
He stalked toward the boys' dormitory, leaving his friends to exchange worried glances in his wake.
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