Chapter 439

Regardless of whether Solim turned Umbridge into a dwarf on Friday, Harry couldn't escape today's confinement. Unless Harry went to Dumbledore, and Dumbledore was willing to sell his old face to Umbridge for Harry, or Harry killed Umbridge as Solim said, he wouldn't be able to hide at five o'clock this afternoon. The thought of spending hours with Umbridge made Harry feel uncomfortable.

In the afternoon, after Harry had finished Professor Sprout's herbal medicine class, he came to the Great Hall for dinner in a groggy state, and he was going to look for Umbridge in a few dozen minutes, and the thought of this Harry's stomach twitched, and he could barely eat anything.

"How much chance do you think Umbridge will let you go on Friday?" Ron said skeptically. Just now they were discussing the success rate of Harry's intercession.

"Not at all," Harry said dejectedly, pouring lamb chops onto his plate and eating them, "but it's better to try, right? I could suggest two more confinements or something?"

He swallowed a large mouthful of potatoes and continued, "I hope she doesn't leave me too late tonight." You know, we're going to write three papers, practice the vanishing charm for McGonagall, design a cracking spell for Flitwick, finish the sketches of the cauldron of the treeguard, and start writing that boring dream journal for Trelawney!"

Ron sighed, and somehow glanced up at the ceiling.

"I can only wish you the best of luck, buddy. Patting Harry on the shoulder, Ron said, "I hope Umbridge just asks you to copy sentences, it's a bit boring, but it's better than going to the trophy room to wipe the dust." Ron still can't forget his experience of confinement years ago.

At five o'clock, Harry said goodbye to his friend and walked towards Umbridge's office on the fourth floor. He knocked on the door, only to hear a sweet voice shouting, "Come in." Harry cautiously stepped inside, looking around.

Harry was familiar with the office when the three Defence Against the Dark Arts professors had lived here. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart lived, the walls were plastered with smiling pictures of himself. After Lupin moved in, every time he came in to look for him, he was likely to meet some very interesting evil animal, locked in a cage or a box. And when the fake Moody's lived here, the room was full of all kinds of utensils and handmade items. It is used to detect other people's misdeeds and hiding places.

But now, right now, Harry simply didn't recognize the office he'd been to several times. Everything was covered with lace coverings and tablecloths. There are also several vases filled with dried flowers, each on a separate small mat. On one wall hangs a set of decorative plates, each with a large, brightly colored cat, each wearing a different bow around its neck.

The things were so disgusting that Harry was so frightened that he stared at them blankly before Professor Umbridge spoke again.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. "

It's still the tone of a little girl who pinches her throat and learns to speak.

Harry was frightened and hurriedly turned around. He didn't notice her at first, because she was wearing a long hug with a fiery red print, the color of which blended with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

"Good evening, Professor Umbridge. Harry said unnaturally.

Everything in the room and what Umbridge was dressed made Harry feel extremely uncomfortable, and he now somewhat regretted that he had eaten dinner.

"Well, sit down," she said, pointing to a small table with lace. She had already placed a straight-backed chair beside her, and there was a blank piece of parchment on the table, apparently for him.

"Well," said Harry, not moving, "Professor Umbridge, um—before we begin, I—I would like to ask you for something. "

Harry tried to look well-behaved, "That's right, I'm a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I'm supposed to be in our team's training session at five o'clock on Friday afternoon, and I'm — I don't know if I can stop coming to confinement that night, and I'm going to find another night to make up for it? or one more confinement. "

Harry didn't wait to finish speaking, knowing in his heart that it wasn't going to be useful. He said these things just to make himself die.

Sure enough, Umbridge wouldn't agree.

"Oh, no. Umbridge grinned wide, as if she had just swallowed a particularly tasty and juicy fly.

"Tut-tut, I don't think there's anything negotiable about your confinement. Umbridge smiled and looked at Harry, who looked a little out of control, and looked satisfied.

"Mr. Potter, the punishment certainly cannot be arbitrarily adjusted for the convenience of the wrongdoer. No, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and Friday, you have to come here at five o'clock in the afternoon and be locked down as planned. I think it's a good thing that you're missing out on some of the activities that you really enjoy. It should reinforce the lesson I intend to teach you. "

Harry's chewing muscles bulged - he was clenching his back molars hard, and although he had been mentally prepared for it, Umbridge's words still greatly stimulated him. Thankfully, Harry had learned how not to make things worse, or he might well have secured himself another week's imprisonment.

Umbridge tilted her head slightly and stared at Harry, still with a sensual smile on her face, as if she knew exactly what was going on in his mind, and was waiting to see if he would have another seizure, yelling. With great effort, Harry looked away from her, tossed his bag and sat down next to the straight-backed chair.

"Yes," said Umbridge, "we've been able to control our emotions a little better, aren't we? Now, you're going to write me a few sentences, Mr. Potter." No, not with your quill,"

Seeing Harry bend down to open her bag, she added, "You're going to use one of my very unusual pens, give." She handed him a long, slender black quill with a particularly sharp tip.

"I want you to write: I can't lie. She said to him softly.

"How many times?" asked Harry, making a commendably polite look.

"Oh, write until this sentence is engraved in your heart. Umbridge snorted, "Let's start writing." "

It seems like it's just copying sentences, as Ron said—a little boring, but it's easier than wiping trophies or something.

Harry soon found out he was wrong.