Chapter Fourteen: The Line in the Sand
Professor Umbridge took slow, deliberate steps until she stood directly in front of Elian's desk, forcing him to look down at her. She tilted her head back, a wide, toothy smile plastered on her face that didn't touch her small, cold eyes.
"Hem, hem. I heard you performed a rather impressive silent charm this morning, Mr. Throne. A flair for the dramatic, it seems. Pity that flair doesn't extend to a respect for punctuality. A bad habit for a new student to learn."
Her voice was cloyingly sweet, each word designed to needle. Elian's jaw tightened, but he bit back a retort. He couldn't afford to lose more points, not when he needed twenty. The three from Flitwick felt like a precious, fragile thing now.
"I'm sorry, Professor," he said, forcing his voice level. "I got lost. The castle is… large."
"In that case, a lesson to help you remember the correct path. Three points from Gryffindor for tardiness. Let that be a reminder of what we must uphold at Hogwarts. Hem, hem."
She turned on her low heel and waddled back to the podium, the matter settled in her mind. Elian watched her go, a slow-burning anger replacing his initial frustration. The three points were gone, wiped out as easily as they were earned. He took his seat, his mood dark.
Umbridge addressed the class again, her voice reverting to its sickly-sweet lecturing tone. "Your previous instruction in this subject has been alarmingly haphazard. This year, we will follow a structured, Ministry-approved course of defensive theory."
A flick of her wand sent a stack of pristine pink booklets floating to each desk. Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard. Elian flipped it open. Page after page of dry, bureaucratic text about the 'principles' of defense, with not a single practical spell in sight.
The first-years around him glanced at the pages with confusion but remained silent, too intimidated to question a professor. Elian's anger simmered. This was how she neutered them—with theory that would be useless when a real wand was pointed their way.
Just as he was about to raise his hand, a familiar chime sounded in his mind. The [Bonus Objectives] panel glowed anew.
[The dignity of a Master is inviolable. To bow to injustice is to weaken your own spirit. A true mage walks his own path, fearless.]
[Bonus Mission: Challenge Umbridge's dogma. Stand for what you believe is right.]
[Reward upon Success: The Cloak of Levitation.]
The Cloak of Levitation. Elian's breath caught. An artifact of immense power—sentient, protective, capable of flight. It wasn't just a reward; it was a symbol of the autonomy and strength he was supposed to be cultivating. The system was pushing him, shaming his earlier timidity.
His frustration evaporated, replaced by a cold, clear resolve. He had been worried about points, about fitting in. But what was the point of power if he didn't use it to stand against something so obviously wrong? The cloak was a prize, but the act itself was the point.
He raised his hand, his expression now one of calm defiance.
"Hem, hem. It seems the earlier correction has taught you to follow protocol," Umbridge simpered, pointing her wand at him as if granting a royal audience. "What is your question, Mr. Throne?"
Elian stood up, his voice clear and carrying in the quiet room. "Professor, if danger were to come, wouldn't we first-years need some way to actually protect ourselves? Shouldn't we learn spells, not just theory?"
Umbridge's smile grew strained. "What danger, Mr. Throne? There is no danger at Hogwarts. The world is perfectly safe under the Ministry's guidance. Even if… hypothetical troubles arose, the Ministry would handle them. Your concern is misplaced."
She was laying the official line thick. Elian didn't blink.
"Harry Potter says You-Know-Who has returned," he stated plainly. The first-years flinched at the name. "Professor Dumbledore has confirmed it. He's said He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is stronger than ever. Shouldn't we be preparing for that? Or are you saying their warnings are lies?"
The room went deathly still. You could have heard a pin drop in the dust between the floorboards.
Umbridge's face lost its last vestige of pleasantry. It hardened into a mask of pink-washed fury. This was the second time today this narrative had been challenged, and now it was coming from a first-year—a planted one, no doubt! Dumbledore's influence was clearly pervasive.
She drew a sharp breath, her chest puffing up. Before she could unleash her reprimand, Elian struck the final blow. He looked her directly in her small, piggy eyes.
"If theory is all we need, Professor, then why does the Ministry bother employing Aurors? Why give them wands? Shouldn't they just hand out these booklets instead?"
The question hung in the air, logical and devastating. It stripped her argument bare. A flush crept up Umbridge's neck, mottling her skin. The class held its breath.
(End of Chapter)
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