For some inexplicable reason, after Umbridge finished speaking those particular words, she suddenly felt an unexplainable palpitation flutter through her chest. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered irregularly for several moments.
But the disturbing feeling vanished in an instant, making her dismiss it as merely her imagination playing tricks on her.
John silently accepted the blood quill she extended toward him. "Very well, Professor, as you wish."
He maintained his calm, compliant demeanor throughout the conversation.
Seeing him still so compliant and docile, Umbridge nodded with deep satisfaction. Her toad-like face arranged itself into what she imagined was a kind smile.
"Come to my office every day after your classes conclude to copy lines for one hour. Tomorrow I'll display what you've written prominently in the classroom for everyone to observe and learn from. I believe this will teach you a profound and lasting lesson about the consequences of speaking out of turn."
She paused, examining her pink-painted fingernails casually. "And remember to write neatly. Presentation matters, after all."
John lowered his head submissively and silently began the meaningless, repetitive copying she'd assigned.
The sound of the quill's nib scratching carefully across parchment echoed through Umbridge's garishly decorated office. The rhythm of nib against paper remained steady and regular.
While John copied his lines in silence, Umbridge settled herself comfortably at her desk nearby, beginning to grade homework assignments with her usual combination of nitpicking criticism and arbitrary standards. Her pudgy fingers shuffled through the papers.
She picked up an essay with the name "Harry Potter" written across the top in familiar, slightly messy handwriting. The mere sight of that name made her lips purse with displeasure.
After briefly scanning the content with a critical eye, already predisposed to find fault, Umbridge's thin lips curled down in an expression of distaste. She casually marked the essay with a large, red "C" that bled through to the next page.
"Very careless work," she muttered under her breath, loud enough to be heard across the room. "Typical of Harry Potter."
Hearing that name spoken aloud, John instinctively paused in his mechanical writing.
At that precise same moment, something unexpected occurred.
The blood quill clutched in John's hand suddenly began trembling uncontrollably, vibrating with intensity. Then it jerked violently up, as though possessed by some malicious force. The wickedly sharp nib plunged straight down into the back of his left hand, instantly opening a thin, elongated gash in his pale skin.
Bright red droplets of blood welled up immediately from the wound, seeping out in a steady flow. But rather than dripping onto the parchment below, the blood was eerily absorbed by the quill's tip, drawn into the enchanted instrument like water into parched earth.
Even the white feather itself took on a vivid, disturbing crimson color as it drank in his blood.
Umbridge noticed this scene unfolding, and her toad-like face broke into an even more sickly, delighted smile. This was exactly the reaction she'd been hoping for: pain, submission, the breaking of another student's spirit.
"It's quite all right, dear," she cooed with false sympathy, not even bothering to get up from her comfortable chair. "This is just a small punishment for your earlier carelessness and insubordination. Your wound will heal very quickly, I assure you, though it will cause you to feel quite a bit of pain in the process. And the scar. Consider it—"
Her words were cut off abruptly, dying in her throat. The smile froze unnaturally on her face, her expression went stiff with confusion and the first stirrings of genuine fear.
John's left hand, where the blood quill had cut deeply into his flesh, had already healed completely and scarred over in a matter of seconds. The wound had closed itself with extreme speed, leaving only a thin white line.
However, beside that fresh scar, something far more disturbing had appeared.
A jagged fissure had opened in his skin, a crack like those found in dried mud during drought. The fracture extended from the back of his hand up toward his sleeve, deep enough to reveal the pale bone beneath, yet not a single drop of blood seeped out from the unnatural opening.
It resembled parched, cracked earth—silent, lifeless, wrong in every way. The edges of the crack were gray and dry, as though his very flesh was turning to dust.
Without realizing when exactly it had happened, Umbridge's broad forehead had become covered in beads of cold sweat that trickled down her temples. She stared intently at that crack in his hand, her eyes were widening with each passing second.
Her lips trembled slightly, opening and closing soundlessly, unable to produce any coherent words.
That terrible feeling of dread washed over her again, stronger this time.
"Professor Umbridge," John spoke softly, his voice was completely devoid of emotion.
Umbridge slowly raised her gaze up, tearing her horrified attention away from his cracked hand. She met John's emotionless face, his eyes were dark and empty, like looking into an abyss.
She stood up from her chair with jerky, panicked movements, stumbling backward several unsteady steps. Her chair scraped harshly against the floor with a screech that set her teeth on edge. She caught herself against the wall, her breathing was rapid and shallow.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of paralyzed silence, Umbridge found her voice again.
"You... you may leave now," she said, unable to disguise the trembling fear in her voice. She pressed herself harder against the wall, as though trying to merge with it, to escape through it. "Your detention ends here for today. Go. Just go."
Seeing this pathetic display of terror, seeing the woman who'd been so confident and cruel just moments ago now cowering against the wall, John let out a cold, humorless laugh.
This was also the first time Umbridge had seen John display such an obvious expression on his emotionless face. The mask had finally slipped, revealing something terrible underneath.
Of course, it would also be the last time she would see anything clearly, because in John's right hand, he now gripped an unremarkable wand that had appeared seemingly from nowhere.
"How gracious of you to give me this opportunity, Professor," John said softly, his lips curving into something that might have been a smile if smiles could be so empty of joy.
"Crucio!" he spoke the curse with perfect pronunciation.
A blinding flash of sickly green light burst from John's wand tip, lighting up the entire office with its malicious glow. The curse struck Umbridge directly in her chest.
She immediately let out a piercing, inhuman shriek. Her body went stiff for a split second before she collapsed heavily against the wall, then slid down to curl up on the floor.
The Cruciatus Curse brought unimaginable, excruciating pain. It felt as if tens of thousands of hot needles were simultaneously piercing every single inch of her nerves, every pain receptor was firing at once. Her entire body trembled uncontrollably.
She flapped her arms wildly in mindless agony, her fingers were scrabbling at the floor with desperate, animal movements. Before long, the floor was covered with chaotic scratch marks gouged by her fingernails. Several of her nails had broken off completely during the struggle, leaving bloody tracks.
What a pitiful sight.
John walked slowly closer. He looked down at Umbridge writhing in absolute agony on the ground, and a genuinely cruel smile spread across his face.
He let the curse continue for several more seconds, savoring her suffering, before finally releasing it.
"Imperio!" he commanded, waving his wand again in a precise motion.
Another spell's light flashed through the air, this time pale and ghostly. This was the Imperius Curse.
Umbridge's violently trembling body suddenly went completely rigid, her limbs were locking into place. Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut in pain, opened wide but became vacant and hollow.
Then, moving like a puppet controlled by invisible strings, she slowly climbed up from the floor where she'd been squirming. Her movements were jerky and unnatural. She rose to her feet, then immediately knelt down again before him in a posture of complete submission.
"Master," she said in a flat, monotone voice completely devoid of any inflection or personality. The word emerged mechanically, without thought or feeling.
"Good," John nodded with deep satisfaction.
He casually straightened the hem of his robes with his uncracked hand, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then he walked out of the office without looking back at his new puppet. He even had the presence of mind to lock the door behind him with a casual flick of his wand.
Perhaps due to the lingering aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse, Umbridge seemed somewhat stiff and uncoordinated after he'd cast the Imperius Curse on her. Her movements would be slightly robotic for a while.
But with just half a day's rest, perhaps a night's sleep, she would return to her normal manner of movement and speech. No one would notice anything amiss.
His Imperius Curse was almost undetectable to most people. Of course, he deliberately hadn't used his full power in casting it. If he went too far, if he made it too strong or obvious, Dumbledore would certainly notice the dark magic signature.
This school, this ancient castle, had inherent protections—the ability to sense particularly powerful dark magic being performed within its walls. After all, this was Hogwarts, Dumbledore's domain. Everything required careful, restrained action.
After leaving Umbridge's office and her kneeling form behind, John headed straight for the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor, taking the familiar route through mostly empty corridors. He needed to rest properly, to recover from what he'd just done.
A body with an incomplete, fractured soul could collapse at any moment—the vessel simply wasn't meant to contain what he was. Recently, these alarming symptoms had been intensifying with frightening frequency.
When he dragged his heavy footsteps up the stairs to the eighth floor and finally reached the familiar stretch of wall where the Room of Requirement could be summoned, he suddenly stopped walking.
A wave of intense dizziness overtook him without warning, the world was tilting sickeningly. His body pitched forward uncontrollably. He finally collapsed silently onto the stone floor, his body was crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.
The impact should have hurt, but he felt nothing as darkness covered him.
"John? John! Can you hear me?"
Through a thick haze, as though hearing someone calling from the bottom of a deep well, John heard a familiar voice calling out to him urgently. He forced open his heavy eyelids with tremendous effort, each one was feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.
In his severely blurred vision appeared Harry Potter's anxious, concerned face. The boy was running quickly toward him.
"John! What happened?" Harry called out as he approached.
Just as Harry crouched down beside him, preparing to help him up and check for injuries, John suddenly propped himself up with his right hand. Moving faster than seemed possible for someone who'd just collapsed, he quickly stood on unsteady legs.
"I'm fine," he said curtly, deliberately hiding his cracked left hand behind his back, tucking it into his robes where Harry couldn't see the unnatural fissures.
Only then did Harry breathe a sigh of relief, though his tone still carried concern and confusion. "I just saw you lying here on the floor and thought something serious had happened."
"No," John said with forced calmness, his voice was steady despite his internal turmoil. "I was just tired from a long day and wanted to rest here for a moment. That's all."
This explanation was clearly questionable and absurd. What student collapsed in corridors from simple tiredness? But although Harry found it somewhat strange and his expression showed skepticism, he didn't probe further or press for details.
"Well, you'd better come inside to rest properly then," Harry said practically, turning toward the blank wall. He began walking back and forth three times in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, concentrating on what he needed.
Following his movements, a door slowly appeared on the previously blank wall surface. Harry reached forward and pushed open the door to reveal a warm, comfortable lounge inside.
John followed him into the Room of Requirement.
The lounge was perfectly ordinary but inviting, exactly what was needed. It featured a crackling fireplace already laid with wood and several particularly comfortable-looking sofas upholstered in worn leather. The kind of room that invited relaxation.
Harry waved his hand in a casual gesture, producing a small flame that danced on his palm. Without needing his wand, he directed it toward the fireplace. The flame leaped from his hand to the waiting wood, igniting it immediately.
Warm light began to fill the room.
"Wandless magic?" John looked genuinely surprised for the first time that evening.
"Yes," Harry turned his head and replied easily.
John nodded slowly, processing this information, and settled carefully onto one of the sofas. His body sank into the cushions with relief.
Harry, meanwhile, crossed to a nearby bookshelf and picked up a book from the shelf—one he had temporarily stored in this particular version of the lounge for private study. He began leafing through it idly, giving John space to rest while maintaining a companionable presence.
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