Chapter 141: The Price of Arrogance
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual breakfast noise—clinking plates, murmured conversations, the occasional laugh—but beneath it all ran an undercurrent of tension. News of Dumbledore's departure had spread like wildfire through the castle, and everywhere students huddled in groups, whispering, speculating, fearing what came next.
Elian sat with Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, methodically working his way through a plate of toast and eggs. He'd been up late—or early, depending on perspective—and the System's notifications from the giant conquest still flickered at the edge of his vision, awaiting his attention. But for now, he was content to eat and listen to the chaos around him.
Harry looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He'd barely touched his food. "Everyone keeps asking me what happened. Like I'm supposed to have answers."
"You were there," Ron pointed out through a mouthful of sausage. "Makes sense they'd ask."
"I was there, but I don't understand what happened. Dumbledore just... left. And now she's in charge." Harry's gaze drifted to the High Table, where Umbridge sat in Dumbledore's chair, beaming at the assembled students like a toad who'd swallowed a particularly juicy fly.
Hermione followed his gaze, her expression troubled. "The Educational Decrees will only get worse now. Without Dumbledore to push back against them..."
"Cheerful thoughts for breakfast," Elian murmured, turning a page of his book.
Before anyone could respond, a familiar drawling voice cut through their conversation.
"Well, well. Look what we have here. Gryffindor's brave foursome." Draco Malfoy sauntered toward them, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. His chest was puffed out, his chin raised, and pinned prominently to his robes was a gleaming silver badge that hadn't been there yesterday.
Harry's jaw tightened. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"Want?" Malfoy's smile was insufferably smug. "Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd introduce you to my new... responsibilities." He tapped the badge with one manicured finger. "Head Boy? No. Prefect? Please. This, Potter, is something far more exclusive. The Inquisitorial Squad. Hand-picked by Professor Umbridge herself. We have authority to—"
"To make yourselves even more unbearable than usual?" Ron suggested.
Malfoy's eyes flickered with annoyance, but his smile didn't waver. "To enforce discipline, Weasley. Something you wouldn't know much about. In fact..." He made a show of studying Ron's robes. "Five points from Gryffindor. For... untidy appearance."
Ron looked down at himself. His robes were slightly askew—nothing unusual. "You can't do that! Only prefects and professors can take points!"
"Oh, but I can." Malfoy's voice dripped with satisfaction. "Inquisitorial Squad members have all the disciplinary authority of professors themselves. Professor Umbridge was very clear about that." He turned to Harry. "And you, Potter—another five points. For laughing at a duly appointed authority figure."
"I wasn't laughing."
"You were thinking about laughing. That's enough."
Harry's hands clenched under the table. Ron looked ready to explode. Hermione placed a restraining hand on his arm.
Malfoy's gaze slid to her, and his smile turned cruel. "And Granger. Mudblood Granger. Let's see... ten points. For... existing. No, wait—make that fifteen. For being a Mudblood in the presence of your betters."
The word hung in the air like a slap.
Harry was on his feet, wand half-drawn. Ron was right behind him. But Hermione grabbed them both, her face pale but her grip iron.
"Don't," she whispered. "That's what he wants."
Malfoy laughed, a high, nasty sound. "Smart for a Mudblood. Pity it won't save you." He turned to leave, basking in his triumph—
And then he wasn't leaving.
Because Elian Thorne was suddenly there, standing directly in front of him, and Malfoy hadn't even seen him move.
"What—"
Elian's fist connected with Malfoy's stomach.
It wasn't a magical blow. It wasn't enhanced by any spell or system-granted power. It was just a fist, delivered with precise, brutal efficiency, driving every molecule of air from Malfoy's lungs in a single explosive whoosh.
Malfoy flew backward, crashing into a pillar with a crack that made the entire Hall go silent. He slid down it, gasping, his face cycling through shades of white and purple, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
The silver badge clattered to the floor.
Elian stood over him, his fist still extended, his expression utterly calm. The entire Great Hall had frozen—students, professors, even the ghosts—all staring at the scene with wide eyes.
"Since when," Elian said, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the room, "did you think you could say that in front of me?"
Malfoy tried to speak, but only a strangled wheeze emerged. Spittle and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Goyle and Crabbe, finally processing what had happened, fumbled for their wands. Two spells shot toward Elian's back—
Elian didn't turn. He simply raised one hand, and a shimmering golden disc materialized in the air behind him. The spells struck it and vanished, absorbed without a trace.
Goyle and Crabbe stared at their wands, then at each other, then at the disc, which hovered serenely for a moment before dissolving. Their wands clattered to the floor. They backed away, terror on their thick features.
Elian lowered his hand. He looked down at Malfoy, who was still struggling to breathe, still clutching his stomach, still staring up at him with an expression that mixed pain, fear, and dawning comprehension.
"Your father," Elian said quietly, "lost five Death Eaters in Hogsmeade. He ran. He knows better than to cross me. Apparently, he forgot to teach you."
He crouched, bringing his face level with Malfoy's. His grey eyes were cold, utterly devoid of mercy.
"Let me be clear. You can insult me. I don't care. But if you ever—ever—use that word around Hermione again, I won't hit you. I won't curse you. I'll do something far worse."
He picked up the fallen silver badge, examined it for a moment, then dropped it on Malfoy's chest.
"I'll tell your father that you're a liability. That you're drawing my attention. That if he wants to keep what little power he has left, he should have a serious conversation with his only son about who, exactly, is worth provoking."
He rose, turning his back on the crumpled figure.
"Now get out of my sight. And take your pet trolls with you."
Goyle and Crabbe needed no further encouragement. They hauled Malfoy to his feet—he was still gasping, still unable to speak—and half-carried, half-dragged him from the Hall.
Silence reigned.
Then, slowly, conversation began to return—but quieter now, more subdued, with frequent glances toward the Gryffindor table, toward the boy who had just punched Draco Malfoy across the Great Hall and made it look like swatting a fly.
Hermione was staring at Elian, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. "You... you didn't have to do that. He's not worth it. Umbridge will—"
"Umbridge," Elian said, returning to his seat and picking up his book as if nothing had happened, "can try. She'll fail."
"But the Inquisitorial Squad—"
"Is a joke. Malfoy just proved that. He had authority, and he couldn't use it because he was too busy trying to be clever." Elian turned a page. "Now everyone knows that authority means nothing if you can't back it up."
Harry sat down heavily, his heart still pounding. "That was... Elian, that was incredible. But also insane. You just assaulted a student in front of the entire school."
"Defended," Elian corrected mildly. "Not assaulted. There's a difference."
Ron was grinning ear to ear. "Did you see his face? I thought he was going to wet himself! And those two great lumps—dropped their wands like they'd been Stunned!"
"Hush, Ron." Hermione was still staring at Elian, her expression complicated. "This could cause real problems. Umbridge will want to make an example—"
"Let her." Elian finally looked up from his book. "I'm not afraid of Umbridge. I'm not afraid of the Ministry. And I'm certainly not afraid of Draco Malfoy." His gaze softened, just slightly, as it met Hermione's. "What I am is tired of watching people I care about be hurt by bullies who hide behind badges and blood status."
Hermione's flush deepened. She looked away, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
At the High Table, Umbridge had risen from her seat. Her eyes, magnified behind her spectacles, were fixed on the Gryffindor table, on the boy who had just humiliated her chosen enforcer. Her face was pale with fury.
But she did not approach. She did not call for punishment. She simply stared, her hands clenched at her sides, and then slowly, deliberately, sat back down.
The message was clear: This isn't over.
But for now, at least, Elian Thorne had made his point.
And across the Hall, in every house, students who had spent months cowering under Umbridge's reign felt something they hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
(End of Chapter)
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