HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

Malfoy curled his lip in disdain: "At least you won't end up like this, getting yourself a week in jail and more trouble without achieving anything. You can't change anything, Potter. You're just venting."

"Think what you want, Malfoy," Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Someone always has to make a different choice."

Malfoy looked Harry up and down, then shook his head. "What a stupid lion, all he has in his head is recklessness and impulsiveness. Ha, never mind, it's pointless to talk to him."

He didn't give Harry a chance to argue, and turned to leave with Goyle.

Ron made a face at Malfoy's retreating figure: "Who does he think he is? Acting like he knows everything!"

Hermione looked thoughtfully in the direction Malfoy had left, and said softly, "Although I don't like what he said... he might be partly right, Harry. Openly confronting Umbridge like this is indeed dangerous, and could backfire."

"Then what can I do?"

Harry stabbed at a potato with his fork in frustration. "Am I supposed to sit there and nod like she wants, admitting that Voldemort isn't back and that Professor Greengrass is a criminal? I can't do that! He saved my life from Voldemort, more than once!"

Hermione sighed and said nothing more.

At 7:15 p.m., Harry stood alone outside Umbridge's office on the third floor.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door decorated with lace latches.

"Please come in," came Umbridge's sweet voice from inside.

Harry pushed open the door and went inside.

The sight in the office almost suffocated him—everywhere was an overwhelming expanse of pink and lace.

A series of plates depicting cats, all wearing bows and making soft meows, hung on the wall.

The air was filled with a sweet, cloying perfume scent.

Umbridge sat behind an elegant writing desk covered with a pink tablecloth.

She wore that professional, emotionless fake smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter. You’re very punctual,” she said, her voice as soft as if she were talking about the weather.

"Good evening, Professor," Ha replied in as calm a tone as possible.

The two stared at each other, the atmosphere strange and restrained, as if the farce in the foyer that afternoon had never happened.

Umbridge's small eyes lingered on Harry for a moment, as if she were assessing a less-than-satisfactory tool.

Her smile remained unchanged as she took an exceptionally fine piece of parchment and a black quill pen that looked extremely sharp from the drawer, placed them on the table, and pushed them toward Harry.

“I think we need a way that can… resonate with you to help you remember the importance of behaving appropriately in the classroom, Mr. Potter.”

Her voice was still sweet, "You will copy the sentence: 'I cannot lie.'"

"How many times?" Harry secretly breathed a sigh of relief; thankfully, it was just copying sentences.

“I kept copying until I told you to stop,” Umbridge said with a smile.

Harry looked at the pen, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

The pen is out of ink.

“Professor,” he said, trying to keep his tone steady, “this pen seems to be out of ink.”

Umbridge's smile deepened, revealing a row of small, neat teeth.

"Oh, write, it will write, dear. A... very special ink. You'll see. Now, begin."

Harry hesitated before picking up the quill pen.

The pen tip is exceptionally sharp and has a cool touch.

He wrote his first word on the parchment—"I".

A searing pain instantly shot through the back of his hand!

He gasped sharply, nearly dropping his pen.

He looked down and saw that the word "I" that had just been written on the parchment was now deeply engraved on the skin of the back of his hand in a strange, bright red mark, as if it had been cut with a knife, with even a few beads of blood seeping from the edges.

He looked up at Umbridge in disbelief.

The other person was looking at the wound on the back of his hand with an almost delighted expression, as if admiring the blooming of a flower.

"what's wrong?"

Umbridge asked, feigning seriousness, his toad-like mouth twisting into a smile.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said softly.

“Then continue, Mr. Potter,” she urged gently, a hint of excitement in her voice. “Remember, write until I’m satisfied.”

A wave of nausea rose in Harry's throat, but he clenched his teeth tightly.

He knew that screaming, protesting, or throwing down his pen were exactly what this woman wanted to see.

That means her punishment was "very effective," that she had successfully broken his will.

He took a deep breath, enduring the burning pain, and lowered his head again, gripping the wretched quill tightly, pressing the nib back onto the parchment.

I can not……

With each stroke of the pen, a sharp pain shot through the back of my hand.

New wounds overlapped with old ones, and bright red writing gradually took shape on his skin. Blood slowly dripped from between his fingers, falling onto the excessively clean pink carpet in Umbridge, leaving dark red spots.

The office was eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of a quill pen nib scraping across parchment and Harry's heavy breathing as he struggled to suppress his pain.

Umbridge stopped talking and just sat there quietly, her face bearing that unchanging fake smile, enjoying the silent torture she had created.

Harry remained silent, simply burying himself in writing, using his willpower to fight against wave after wave of pain.

He bit his lower lip until he tasted blood in his mouth.

He would never show weakness in front of this woman.

The pain and the blood that flowed out were like a brand, making him remember her more clearly, remember the Ministry of Magic's lies, and remember the truth he had to uphold.

Chapter 414 Copying Sentences

Time passed slowly amidst silent suffering.

Harry had written "I can't lie" countless times, and the pain on the back of his hand had gone from a sharp burning sensation to a numb, persistent one.

The bright red ink was repeatedly etched, healed, and then etched again, leaving the skin red and swollen, so sensitive that even the slightest breeze would cause a stinging pain.

The faint meows coming from the cat bowls on the office wall sounded like a mockery of his pain.

Umbridge finally stirred when the clock struck midnight and the sound of the bells could be faintly heard in the distance.

She put down a pink teacup she had been fiddling with and said in that sickeningly sweet voice, "It seems that's enough for tonight, Mr. Potter. You can stop now."

Harry silently put down the quill pen that resembled a torture device.

The moment the pen tip left the parchment, the excruciating pain on the back of my hand eased slightly, but the repeatedly cut skin still burned intensely.

Umbridge stood up, walked around to the front of the table, and grabbed Harry's left hand without saying a word.

Her touch made Harry feel nauseous, but he forced himself to hold it in.

She examined his swollen, red hand closely, as if inspecting a work of art.

"Um……"

She hummed with satisfaction, like a bee buzzing, “It works well, but it lacks a bit of persistence. It hasn’t left a ‘deep’ mark yet.”

She looked up, a chillingly fake smile on her face. "So, I think we'll probably need to continue this practice tomorrow night, and for the next few nights. Now, you can leave."

Harry slowly withdrew his hand, said nothing, and turned to leave.

He tried to keep his steps steady until he closed the office door, shutting out the pink nightmare behind him, before allowing himself to lean against the cold stone wall and take a few deep breaths.

……

Only the dying embers of the fireplace glowed faintly in the common room.

Ron was hunched over the table copying his history of magic homework, his quill pen moving incessantly.

Hermione was diligently practicing her spells, the tip of her wand flashing with dazzling electricity.

Upon hearing the sound of the portrait opening, the two immediately looked up as if they had woken up.

"Harry! How are you?" Hermione asked immediately, looking at him with concern. "What did she ask you to do? Why are you so late?"

Ron rubbed his wrist and muttered, "It's almost midnight! Did she make you clean all the toilets in the castle?"

Harry looked at his two friends' concerned faces, but swallowed the words he was about to say.

In such situations, confiding in someone is more like a sign of weakness, a disguised form of surrender to Umbridge.

Moreover, he didn't want them to see the terrible marks on the back of his hand, didn't want to hear their horrified gasps, and didn't want them to worry about him.

He hesitated for a moment, then simply said, "Copy the sentences."

Ron yawned widely. "Oh, that's not so bad, is it? At least it's better than when Snape made me clean toilets."

Hermione keenly sensed the strangeness and weariness in Harry's tone, but seeing Harry's deliberately averted gaze, she hesitated for a moment and did not press the matter further.

"Sit down and rest. You look exhausted. Would you like something to eat?"

Harry shook his head, silently walked over and sat down next to them, took out his homework, and began to catch up on the lessons he had missed that day.

He carefully covered his left hand with the sleeve of his robe, but the pain, like a constant noise, reminded him of his pain at all times.

The second night of confinement was a horrific replay of the first.

The same pink office, the same cloying perfume, the same fake smile, and that black quill pen that brings tearing pain.

When Harry's hand gripped the pen again, the wound that hadn't fully healed the day before was reopened, and the pain was even more unbearable than the night before.

The skin on the back of his hand has become unusually red and sensitive; every stroke of the pen feels like pouring a spoonful of oil onto a burning flame.

He could feel the magic forcing the wound to heal quickly, but the healing felt more like preparation for the next, deeper cut.

But Harry did not give in.

He clenched his teeth, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead, but his back remained ramrod straight.

Throughout the entire evening, apart from the suppressed "Good evening, Professor" when he entered and the cold "Good night" he squeezed out with his last bit of strength when he left, he didn't say another word.