Requested by Queen42805

            Lessons with Umbridge were always a pain — they'd make you suffer to the bone, the mind, making Defense Against the Dark Arts Harry's least favorite subject, which he'd never thought would happen. But detentions were the worst, and Harry had learned it the hard way.

The scar on the back of his hand stung as he ran his finger over it. Inscribed over, were the words, 'I must not tell lies', in his own handwriting.

Heading to the Gryffindor common room, he glanced at Snape's office. Ron was probably there, having detention with Snape. Harry silently pondered in his mind whether who was better — Snape or Umbridge. He was unable to come up with a conclusion.

Harry hissed as he felt another surge of pain in his hand. He carefully wiped off the blood trickling down his fingers, leaving dark smudges on his school robes, wincing at every touch.

He was glad to see that nobody was in the common room except for a few second-years who were silently playing Wizard's Chess. Gingerly running a finger over his cuts, he walked over to the fireplace and fell back onto one of the couches, sighing in relief. If either Ron or Hermione had been with him, they would start to question him like crazy —

"Ahem."

Harry quickly spun around, yanking his aching hand under his robes to see Hermione standing at the arm of the couch, her delicate fingers drumming over the red silk rhythmically.

"H-hermione, I thought you were —"

"Your hand." She spoke blankly, but Harry could easily see confusion and anger building up inside of Hermione behind her eyes. He laughed nervously.

"What about my hand?" He asked, but Hermione took a small step forward, now so close that their knees were an inch away from touching.

"Your hand." She repeated, her voice dangerous. "Now."

With a defeated sigh, Harry pulled his blood-covered hand out from under his robes and held it out sheepishly to Hermione, shyly looking away and feeling his face blush red. He felt soft, cold fingers take holding of his wrist, and her warm breath against his skin as she held his hand close to her face to examine it. A small gasp escaped her half-open mouth.

"I thought you were doing lines." She raised her head from his hand and looked straight into her eyes, which were filled to the brim with annoyance — probably from not telling him about Umbridge earlier and keeping it to himself. But concern was there, too.

So eventually, he had to tell her everything. He told him about the quill, Umbridge, and his future-expected detentions. And he noticed that, the more he seemed to tell her these things, the angrier she became. When he was done, her eyes were filled with terror and shock.

"That stupid woman!" She cried out between gasps and sobs. "How dare she? How dare she just barges into Hogwarts and hurt students like she's in charge of the entire school? How could Professor Dumbledore let this happen?"

Harry didn't say anything, only wiped the blood off the back of his hand, biting his lower lip.

After a long silence, Hermione spoke. "I thought you were hiding something these days." She raised her head to meet his eyes for a moment before turning her gaze to the fireplace. "Does Ron know?"

"No. I wasn't really planning on telling anyone." Harry answered truthfully, and Hermione released another irriated sigh.

"Harry..." She huffed. "That's not what you should have been doing — you know what Umbridge is doing is terribly wrong."

"I know." He replied — he was getting quite uncomfortable. He watched as Hermione leaned in to get a better look at his hand.

"Murtlap Essence." She muttered, pulling away. "I recommend Murtlap Essence. It's..." She swallowed and turned her head to the second-years who were still playing chess. "... good for healing cuts like these." Even though her face shined red from the fire, Harry could still see her cheeks getting exceptionally redder.

"I'll use it — thanks." He quietly thanked her, and she nodded once. They both sat in silence for a moment. Hermione opened her mouth again.

"You know, Harry..." She let out a hearty, but half-sad laugh. "I've always wondered. How do you always manage to be involved in messes like these?" Harry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, and forced his lips apart to answer, even though he didn't really know he should say.

"I dunno. Probably because I'm such a short-tempered git." He blurted out. A sudden burst of rage came surging into his chest, as if to make him burst. But this anger wasn't directed towards Hermione. It was directed towards himself. Yes, Umbridge was a selfish, merciless prat, but if he hadn't really lost his temper, he wouldn't have been sitting there dripping blood all over the Gryffindor common room carpets. Hermione opened her mouth, and closed it again, looking down at the floor.

"... Maybe." She muttered. "Yes, you may be a short-tempered git," Hermione seemed to smile ever so slightly. "... but you're also Harry Potter — one of the bravest friends I've ever had. If it weren't for you, where would I be now?"

"Down at the library reading Hogwarts, A History, I suppose." Harry said, and Hermione frowned with mock sadness.

"Oh, is that all I seem to you, Potter? A bookworm who just loves to stick her nose in some sort of boring book?"

"Maybe. Yes, you may be a bookworm who just loves to stick her nose in some sort of boring book, but you're also Hermione Granger — one of the most smartest, brightest, and warm-hearted girls I've ever met." He grinned, and she grinned back. When he twitched with pain after accidentally brushing the back of his hand against his robes, she stood up, pecked him on the cheek, and spoke.

"Let me try to find some Murtlap Essence."