Chapter Fifteen: Detention and a Promise
"Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard alive," Elian continued, his voice cutting through Umbridge's spluttering. "He's spent his life guarding against his return. What has the Ministry done? Chased shadows and accused the one man who can protect us of senility!"
"The Daily Prophet prints what it's told to print! It's not—"
"And you!" Elian's gaze was fiery now, all pretence of deference gone. "You come here in your pink frills, talking about 'Ministry-approved theory' while a real threat gathers in the shadows! Is the Deputy Minister here to teach, or to seize control? How can an institution that won't even name the danger possibly lead us against it?"
The classroom was a tomb. First-years stared, aghast and thrilled. No one talked to a professor like this.
"SILENCE!" Umbridge's shriek was so high-pitched it cracked. Her face was a mottled puce. "YOU WILL BE SILENT! Another five points from Gryffindor! And you will report to my office for detention tonight! You and Mr. Potter will receive a… thorough education on respect for authority!"
Elian didn't flinch. He'd crossed the Rubicon. The system notification for the Cloak of Levitation had already chimed in his mind—[Claimed]. The cost was clear: fifteen points vanished into the ether, and a night of punishment awaited. He sat down, his heart hammering not with fear, but with a fierce, clean satisfaction.
The rest of the class passed in a tense, hateful silence. Umbridge's voice trembled with suppressed rage as she droned on about the importance of 'non-confrontational defence.' Elian ignored her, his mind already elsewhere.
Detention in Umbridge's office was as grim as expected. The room was oppressively pink and cluttered with ornamental plates depicting frolicking kittens. Harry was already there, looking resigned. He gave Elian a curt, knowing nod. They didn't speak.
Umbridge handed them each a long, thin, black quill with a surprisingly sharp point. "You will write, 'I must not tell lies,'" she simpered. "The special ink will ensure the lesson sinks in."
There was no ink. The words had to be carved into the back of their own hands. Each letter burned with a sharp, cruel magic, etching itself into the skin. Elian clenched his jaw, focusing on the heat of the sandalwood wand in his pocket, on the cool weight of the yet-unseen Cloak waiting for him. I must not tell lies. The hypocrisy of it was almost funny.
By the time they were dismissed, the back of his right hand was raw and stinging, the words an angry, scabbed red. Harry left with a grimace, heading back to the common room. Elian, however, checked the time and broke into a run.
He had a promise to keep.
He sprinted through the echoing corridors, past snoozing portraits, his footsteps loud in the castle's late-night hush. He skidded to a halt outside the library doors.
There, pacing anxiously with a stack of books hugged to her chest, was Hermione. Her bushy hair was a wild halo in the torchlight. Relief flooded her face when she saw him, quickly replaced by concern.
(End of Chapter)
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