Chapter Twelve: A High-Risk Profession
Dumbledore finished his announcements and glanced back at the staff table. The witch in the fluffy pink cardigan dabbed her lips with a napkin and rose, her hands clasped demurely before her. The movement caused a ripple of muffled laughter through the hall, as she seemed to gain no height from standing up.
Professor Dolores Umbridge made her way to the front of the High Table. She was swathed in varying shades of pink, from her woolly hat to her cardigan, looking for all the world like a particularly smug, upright toad. Only her low, black heels offered a contrast.
"She was at my hearing," Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione, his voice low. "Works for Fudge."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Umbridge simpered in a high-pitched, girlish voice that set Elian's teeth on edge. "It is so lovely to be back at Hogwarts!" She smiled, showing small, pointed teeth. "And to see such happy little faces! I'm sure we're going to be very good friends."
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief. At the staff table, Professor Snape rested his chin on his hand, his dark eyes watching Umbridge's performance with detached, icy boredom. His long fingers tapped slowly against his cheek.
Suddenly, Snape's gaze shifted. He had felt eyes upon him. His black eyes swept across the Gryffindor table and locked onto the new, older student—Elian Throne. At first, Snape's expression was one of mere recognition, another curious anomaly to file away. But then he paused. The boy wasn't looking at him with curiosity or fear. There was something else in his expression. Something that looked unsettlingly like… pity.
Snape's lip curled almost imperceptibly. The boy had the audacity to look at him, Severus Snape, with an air of sorrowful understanding, and then give a faint, sympathetic nod.
Insolent little fool, Snape thought, the familiar cold anger settling in his gut. He marked the boy's face in his memory—another arrogant Gryffindor to make miserable.
Elian, completely unaware he had just made a formidable enemy, had already looked away. He'd been lost in thought, reflecting on the cursed Defence Against the Dark Arts post. If not for Umbridge's Ministry appointment, Snape would finally have gotten the job he'd wanted for years. For a fleeting second, Elian had felt genuine sympathy for the man's perpetual disappointment and tragic life. It was a sentiment Snape was uniquely equipped to despise.
"Another one," Ron whispered, pulling Elian's attention back. "That's the fifth Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we've had."
Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief. "As long as it's not Snape. And if the pattern holds, she'll be gone by next year anyway."
Hermione shook her head, a wry smile on her face. "It's becoming a tradition. A dangerous one. When you think about what happened to the others…"
Elian knew the grim roster all too well. Quirrell: dead. Lockhart: memory wiped. Lupin: resigned (and later, fallen). Moody: impersonated and imprisoned. And now Umbridge, destined for her own ruin. Then Snape himself, killed. It was, without exaggeration, the most dangerous job in the wizarding world.
He made a show of looking quizzically at Hermione, but she held a finger to her lips, her eyes on Umbridge, who had cleared her throat and was beginning to speak again in a slow, measured tone, quite different from her earlier simper.
"The Ministry of Magic," she said, as if explaining something very simple to very small children, "has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed."
She paced slowly, her toad-like eyes sweeping over the silent students. "While each headmaster has brought something… unique to this historic school, progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged. Let us preserve what must be preserved, perfect what can be perfected…" she paused for dramatic effect, "and prune practices that ought to be prohibited."
With another sickly-sweet "hem-hem," she turned and waddled back to her seat. The applause was sparse and scattered, mostly from a delighted-looking Filch, who seemed to think every word was pure gold.
Despite Umbridge's jarring presence, Elian felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him. The feast was ending, the castle was waiting, and he was here.
"Oh, Ron," Hermione hissed, swatting his arm as he reached for one last treacle tart. "We have to lead the first-years! Stop eating!"
She turned to Elian, her prefect's badge gleaming. "Elian, Ron and I are Gryffindor prefects this year. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
"Prefect! Congratulations, Hermione," Elian said, genuinely impressed. "I might need to borrow your brain for some studying."
Hermione beamed. "I'm usually in the library or the common room. Find me anytime."
With that, his first night at Hogwarts was drawing to a close. As the prefects marshalled the students, Elian fell into line with the other Gryffindors, his mind buzzing with the magic, the mystery, and the mundane reality of his new life. He'd made a friend in Luna, intrigued Hermione, annoyed Snape, and found a house. Not bad for a day's work.
The journey to the Gryffindor common room was a familiar blur of moving staircases and whispering portraits. Finally, they arrived before the Fat Lady.
"Password?" she asked.
"Caput Draconis," said Ron.
The portrait hole swung open, revealing the warm, red-and-gold common room. As the younger students found their trunks and gaped at the cozy space, Elian felt a wave of tiredness. His own dormitory, shared with the eleven-year-old boys, was up the stairs. It was a slightly absurd situation, but it was his.
(End of Chapter)
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