Harry got up from bed for the sixth time that night. The back of his hand felt like it was on fire—it was the third day of his second week of detention with Umbridge. The relief from the Murtlap essence had been temporary, and the searing pain kept driving him back to the sinks to run his hand under the cold water.

He turned the faucet as high as it would go at first, then lowered the water pressure and let the gentle water cool the inflamed skin, letting out a soft sigh of relief.

He kept thinking he should tell someone what was happening, but he couldn't stand the thought of Umbridge knowing that she'd gotten to him. He hadn't made a noise throughout the whole of his detention, despite the growing agony, and he didn't want to make a noise outside of detention, either.

But it was getting to be impossible to keep up with everything. The detentions themselves took up most of the time he'd usually use to do his homework, and now the cuts were keeping him from sleeping as well. Ron and Hermione both knew about everything that had happened, but he found himself longing to be able to confide in an adult.

He didn't know who to talk to, though. Dumbledore had enough on his plate. He'd been avoiding Harry, anyway, and Harry didn't feel comfortable bringing it up to him—he just wasn't the confidante he had once been.

McGonagall would know what to do, but she'd also never respect his requests to keep what was happening confidential. She would be upset with him for not coming to her sooner; she would fuss and worry and make a big deal out of the whole thing, and it would just make it all seem so much worse.

Harry thought through his other professors, but didn't feel like he was close enough to any of them to talk to them about this, other than maybe Hagrid. Hagrid was a good friend, and an adult friend at that, but he wouldn't be able to help, he probably wouldn't have any advice, and he couldn't keep a secret to save his life.

Harry really wished he could talk to Sirius. But he couldn't tell Sirius, for the same reason that he could never tell him about the Dursley's abuse. Harry was worried that Sirius would take the whole situation too . . . well, seriously. He would try to come out of hiding and tear Umbridge apart. Telling his godfather would be putting him in danger.

He thought through the other members of the Order. He trusted Ron's parents, but Weasley's were suffering through enough, with everything that had happened with Percy, and he couldn't imagine them having any helpful advice for him—it had been too long since they were at Hogwarts. Most of the other members of the Order, Harry just didn't know well enough to confide in.

He really wished his dad were alive. His dad would know what to do. Having Sirius, his dad's best friend, had seemed like the next best thing, but . . .

Harry turned off the faucet. Lupin had been close friends with his dad, too. He'd even been a professor at Hogwarts for awhile, so he knew how things worked among the teachers, but he wasn't around anymore—he was removed enough from the situation that Harry could ask his advice without making it an official report.

And Harry trusted Lupin. He'd been the best professor they'd ever had.

Harry knew he had to be careful about what to put in a letter, but writing to Lupin felt safe, especially if he was just asking to talk. He went down to the common room to draft the letter. Maybe he could make a trip to the Owlery before breakfast tomorrow.

His hand burned the entire time he wrote. There was a strange phantom sting that made it feel as though the words he wrote were being etched into the back of his hand, as if he were still using Umbridge's quill.

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Harry's letter didn't say much, but it was enough to worry Remus. Enough to convince him to contact Professor Dumbledore and request an in-person audience with the boy, which the headmaster granted easily.

Remus wrote a quick reply to Harry, requesting that he use the Floo in the Gryffindor tower to meet him at Number 12 Grimmauld Place that evening at his earliest convenience. After dinner, he settled down at the fireplace alone with a book.

By nine at night, he assumed his message hadn't reached Harry, but he remained by the fireplace just in case. By eleven, he was beginning to drift off.

The last thing he expected was for Harry to stumble out of the Floo at half past midnight. Remus jolted awake and straightened his robes, doing his best to appear as though he had not fallen asleep.

He had been drowsy, but the sight of Harry sobered him immediately. Aside from the windswept look that almost always accompanied wizards who had just traveled by Floo, Harry looked awful. His skin was pale, and there were bags under his red eyes.

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Remus breathed in to ask the boy if he was alright, but somehow it didn't seem like an appropriate question. Somehow no greeting seemed appropriate. He settled on, "I see you received my message."

"Yes. Thank you, sir."

There was a pause. "I have to admit, Harry, I wasn't expecting to see you so late."

"I hope it's not too late."

"No, not at all. Just a surprise."

"I would have come sooner, but I had a detention. With Umbridge."

"Ah." Something in Harry's eyes told Remus not to chide him for his tendency to get into the same type of mischief the Marauders always had.

Harry lowered his head. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Remus sat down on the couch, gesturing for Harry to sit on the one across from him, which he did. "What did you do to earn detention?"

"I said that Voldemort was alive."

Remus sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry. But she's from the ministry. You can't expect her to be fair."

"That's not why I'm here."

There was a bit of a haunted look in his eyes. "Did something happen during the detention?"

Harry hesitated, his face turning pink. "She had me write lines."

Remus knew better than most the power that harmful words could have. "What did she make you write?"

"It's not what she made me write, it's . . . the quill she made me use."

"The quill?"

Harry took a deep breath, pulled back his sleeve, and held out his hand, face down.

It took Remus quite a lot of effort not to gasp aloud. The boy's skin was crimson and swollen around the open cuts that spelled out the words: I must not tell lies.

Rage filled him. "How did she do this?"

"The quill cuts the words into the back of my hand when I write them."

A blood quill. Usually only used for special contracts. But . . . "This should have healed as soon as you were finished writing."

"It did, the first few hundred times."

This time Remus did gasp.

"It's . . . not that bad. It doesn't even really hurt."

"I'm surprised you can still lie, with those words cut into your hand."

Harry winced, and Remus regretted his comment—it had been a low blow.

He took Harry's hand gently, looking over the cuts. He gently touched the edge of Harry's hand, beside the I, but Harry hissed and pulled his hand back. "Sorry. What have you done for the pain?"

"Nothing this time. Hermione had me soak it in murtlap essence last night."

"Clever girl, but we can do a bit better. I'll be right back."

He stood from the couch and went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to search for a few items. He returned with a bottle of murtlap essence and a roll of bandages.

He sat down on the same couch as Harry, poured a bit of the essence onto a strip of the bandage, letting it soak in. "Hand?"

Harry held it out, and Remus wrapped it with the bandage. Harry's muscles visibly relaxed.

"There you go. Now you should be able to sleep tonight."

"Thank you, sir." Harry took his hand back and let his sleeve fall over his wrist.

Remus watched him for a moment, considering his next words carefully. "Harry, who have you told about this?"

Harry swallowed. "Ron and Hermione."

"What adults have you told?"

"I didn't want to tell Sirius. I was worried he'd put himself in danger if he knew."

Harry was probably right about that one. "You haven't told Professor Dumbledore?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't want to tell any of the professors at school. I didn't want Umbridge to know she was getting to me."

Remus let his breath out. He knew all too well what Harry meant. He also knew what a deep trap it was. His throat choked up a little at the thought that Harry had trusted him enough to be honest. "Harry, I need you to listen carefully. Can you do that?"

Harry nodded.

He put an arm around the boy's too-small frame. "What that woman is doing to you is illegal. It's wrong, and it's twisted, and you deserve better. Speaking up isn't weakness. In fact, it takes quite a lot of bravery."

Harry didn't say anything.

"The ministry will not be fair to you, but even they can't ignore this. Those marks on your hand give you power over her. If you speak up now, you can get her removed from Hogwarts."

Harry was still silent, and Remus knew he wasn't getting through. He'd have to speak in a language the boy could understand.

"Do you think you'll be the only one she hurts?"

A short pause, then Harry shrugged.

"You could protect other students from her."

Harry gripped his injured hand in his good one. "I didn't think about that."

Remus let go of Harry, though he tousled his hair before returning to the couch across from him.

Harry's green eyes traveled up to meet Remus's. "Are you going to tell Dumbledore about this?"

Remus gave him a hard stare. "Are you?"

"Dumbledore has been . . . ignoring me."

Remus sighed. He knew why Dumbledore had been withdrawn from Harry. He didn't like it, and he didn't quite agree with it, but he did understand. He also knew that if one of the teachers was physically abusing a student, Dumbledore would want to know, regardless of any other circumstances at the time. But he knew how Harry felt as well. "Maybe you can talk to Professor McGonagall."

Harry nodded. "I'll think about it."

"You do that." Remus knew there would be no more reasoning with Harry while he was as tired as he was. "I'm going to speak with Professor Dumbledore about excusing you from your classes tomorrow. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"No, it's okay, I—"

"This is not up for discussion, Harry."

Harry looked down.

Remus softened his tone. "Go get some sleep."

"Sir, can I . . . can I sleep here?"

Remus blinked. The request surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn't have. "Yes, you may."

"Thank you." Harry adjusted himself so he was leaning back against the side of the couch.

Remus went to fetch a blanket from the other side of the room. "I'll send word to Hogwarts that you're here. You can visit with Sirius before you go, but you'll need to return by dinnertime tomorrow. I'll let Sirius know not to wake you until at least noon, you need your . . ."

Remus returned to where Harry was lying on the couch. His eyes were closed, and he was lightly snoring.

He chuckled and draped the blanket over the child, tucking it in at the sides. He put a hand on Harry's head.

"Sleep well, my boy," he whispered, and he retired to his own room.