The quill scratched against the parchment with a rhythmic, jarring precision. Draconia sat in the chair, her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap. The office was too pink, a cloying, nauseating shade of rose that made her head ache. Umbridge sat behind the desk, her small, toad-like face illuminated by the flickering candlelight. The woman did not look up from her ledger, but her presence filled the room like a heavy, sweet scent.
"It was a lapse in judgment, Harry," Umbridge said, her voice high and saccharine. She finally looked up, her eyes narrow and bright. "A momentary lapse in decorum. But the Inquisitorial Committee expects more from a girl of your standing."
Draconia kept her face neutral. She did not let her eyes wander to the silver and green badge pinned to her robes. That badge felt like a hot brand against her chest. "It was a mistake, Professor," Draconia replied. Her voice was steady, though her fingers twitched against the fabric of her skirt.
"A mistake is one thing; a public display of disrespect is quite another," Umbridge said. She picked up a long, sharp-tipped quill. The nib was dark with ink, and the feathers were a sickly, pale pink. "The boys in the corridor were quite vocal about the incident. It is important that the hierarchy is respected, is it not?"
Draconia felt the heat rise in her neck. She thought of the grass, the sun, and the way Harry had looked at her before the crowd had arrived. The memory of his breath against her ear was a physical weight in her stomach. "The hierarchy is understood," Draconia said. She knew she could have excused herself. She could have cited a misunderstanding, or blamed a dizzy spell, or simply claimed she had been distracted by the light.
"Then you will accept the correction," Umbridge said. She gestured toward the desk. A fresh sheet of parchment lay there, waiting. "The rule is simple. The hand writes the truth of the transgression. If you do not learn to temper your temper, the ink will be much heavier next time."
Draconia stood up. Her legs felt heavy as she walked toward the desk. She saw the way the light hit the inkwell, a deep, bruised purple. She could have stood there and argued. She could have used her father’s name to suggest that a detention was beneath a Malfoy. Instead, she reached for the quill.
"Do you have anything to say before we begin?" Umbridge asked. She smiled, a small, tight expression that did not reach her eyes.
"No, Professor," Draconia said. She gripped the quill. The wood was smooth and cold.
"Very well. Write: 'I shall respect the authority of the committee at all times.' Write it ten times."
Draconia began to write. The words were neat, but the pressure of the quill was hard. She felt the sting in her hand as the ink soaked into the page. Each letter felt like a confession. She thought of the way she had looked at him in the grass, and how she had felt the world move around her. The quill felt heavy, an extension of her own guilt.
"Is the hand cramping already?" Umbridge asked. Her tone was patronising, almost motherly. "You must be more diligent with your grip, Droacia. Precision is key."
"The grip is fine," Draconia said. She did not look up. She focused on the letters, making sure the 't's were crossed and the 's's were curved correctly.
"It is a simple task," Umbreage continued. She leaned back, her hands resting on the lace of her cuffs. "One would think a girl of your intellect would find this easy. Perhaps you are simply being stubborn?"
"I am not being stubborn," Draconia said. She felt a sharp jab of frustration, but she pushed it down. She could feel the eyes of the room on her, though she was alone with the woman. The office felt smaller than it had a moment ago.
"A little more force on the 'm', please. It looks weak," Umbridge commanded.
Draconia pressed the quill harder. The nib bit into the parchment. She felt the tension in her forearm. It was a dull, building ache. She could have complained about the ink or the way the quill felt unbalanced. She could have told the woman that she had already learned her lesson. But she said nothing. She simply wrote the words, over and over, until her hand began to shake.
"There," Umbridge said, after the tenth line was finished. She tapped the desk with a manicured nail. "A good start. But you were quite clumsy in the corridor, were you not? It lacked the grace of a Malfoy."
"It lacked grace," Draconia admitted. The truth was a bitter thing in her mouth.
"You will return tomorrow at seven o'clock. We shall see if you can manage the next ten lines without such a clumsy hand," Umbridge said. She picked up a small piece of parchment and began to fold it.
"Will there be more?" Draconia asked. She was asking if there would be more lines, or more punishment. She didn't know which one she meant.
"That depends on your conduct," Umbridge said. She looked at Draconia with a glimmer of satisfaction. "The badge is a privilege, Draconia. It is a weight as much as it is a mark of status. If you carry it poorly, you must pay the price for the correction."
"I understand," Draconia said. She felt a strange sort of numbness. The ink on her fingers was a dark, permanent stain.
"Do you?" Umbridge tilted her head. "You seem a bit distracted. Is the work too taxing for you?"
"The work is fine," Draconia replied. She straightened her robes. She felt the sharp edge of the silver and green pin through the fabric. It was a tiny, sharp pressure.
"Then go. Reflect on your behavior. We shall see if you can be more disciplined in the morning," Umbridge said. She turned her attention back to her ledger, effectively ending the conversation.
Draconia turned to leave. The corridor outside was quiet, the stone walls cool and indifferent. She walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing in the narrow space. She felt the weight of the badge on her chest, a constant reminder of the choice she had made. She could have told the others. She could have told her mother, or told Pansy that the punishment was unfair. She could have told the school that the Inquisitor was being needlessly harsh.
She walked through the corridor, her head held high, even as her hand cramped in her pocket. She felt the sting of the ink on her skin, a secret mark of her submission. She did not tell her friends about the ink-stained fingers. She did not tell them about the way the quill had felt against her hand. She took the punishment and tells nobody, and the reader watches her do it.