Chapter 142: The Tainted Tea
The walk to Umbridge's office felt like a death march.
Harry's stomach churned with every step. He'd been in this office before—twice, now—and each visit had left him feeling dirtier, more desperate, more trapped. The pink toad had a way of making the very air feel poisonous.
Beside him, Elian walked with his usual unhurried stride, showing no sign of nerves. If anything, he looked almost... amused.
"Are you mad?" Harry hissed as they climbed the final staircase. "You just punched Malfoy across the Great Hall in front of everyone. She's going to—"
"She's going to try." Elian's voice was calm. "That's the important part. She'll try, and she'll fail, and eventually she'll learn."
"Learn what?"
"That I'm not someone she can push around."
Harry wanted to argue, but they'd arrived. The stone gargoyle—now programmed to respond to Umbridge's preferred sweets instead of Dumbledore's—leapt aside at the mention of "Sherbet Lemon," and they ascended.
Filch met them at the top, his greasy face split in a triumphant grin. "The Headmistress is waiting. You're in trouble now, Potter. You too, Thorne. Real trouble."
"Terrifying," Elian murmured, and walked past him into the office.
Harry followed, his heart hammering.
The office had changed. Dumbledore's silver instruments were gone, replaced by doilies and lace and an obscene number of plates decorated with mewing kittens. The portraits of former headmasters—those who hadn't fled to other frames in protest—watched with barely concealed disgust. And behind the desk, in Dumbledore's chair, sat Dolores Umbridge, smiling her sweet, poisonous smile.
"Ah, Mr. Thorne. Mr. Potter. Do come in." She gestured to the chairs before her desk. "Sit, please."
They sat. Harry noticed Elian hadn't waited for permission; he'd already settled onto the sofa against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, examining the confiscated brooms mounted on the wall with mild interest.
"Those are mine," Harry said, spotting his Firebolt. "You can't just—"
"I can do whatever I like, Mr. Potter." Umbridge's voice was syrupy. "I am the Headmistress now. And these... implements of rule-breaking... are exactly where they belong."
Filch, still hovering by the door, rubbed his hands together. "Shall I stay, Headmistress? In case there's trouble?"
"No, no, Filch, that won't be necessary." Umbridge waved him away. "Mr. Thorne and I are going to have a lovely chat. Aren't we, Mr. Thorne?"
Elian's gaze returned from the brooms. "Are we?"
Filch left, disappointment etched on his features. The door closed with a soft click.
Umbridge's smile widened. She rose from her chair—a process that involved considerable effort—and moved to a small table where a delicate porcelain tea service sat waiting. "I thought we might have some refreshment. A gesture of goodwill. I know we've had our... differences, but I do so want to start fresh."
She poured three cups of steaming tea, the movement oddly graceful for her stubby fingers. A plate of iced cakes materialized beside them.
"I don't want any tea," Harry said flatly.
"Nonsense, Mr. Potter. Everyone wants tea." Umbridge's eyes glittered behind her spectacles. "It's a very special blend. From the Ministry's own stores. Not something ordinary students get to sample."
She pushed a cup toward Harry, another toward the sofa where Elian sat. The third she kept for herself, raising it to her lips with a smile.
Harry looked at the cup. The tea was dark, fragrant. Ordinary-looking. But something about Umbridge's eagerness, her uncharacteristic warmth, set every nerve in his body on edge.
He glanced at Elian.
Elian was studying his cup with an expression of mild curiosity. He hadn't drunk from it. He hadn't even picked it up. He was simply... looking.
"Well?" Umbridge's voice had a slight edge now. "Drink up. It's rude to let tea go cold."
"Funny thing about tea," Elian said thoughtfully. "It can be difficult to tell what's in it just by looking."
Umbridge's smile flickered. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Thorne."
"No?" Elian's eyes met hers. They were calm, grey, utterly unafraid. "Then you won't mind if I test it."
Before Umbridge could react, Elian reached out, picked up Harry's cup, and tipped the contents onto the carpet. The dark liquid soaked into the floral pattern, steaming faintly.
"Mr. Thorne!" Umbridge's voice rose to a near-shriek. "That carpet is priceless! How dare you—"
Elian ignored her. He picked up the teapot, removed the lid, and brought it to his nose. He inhaled once, twice, then set it down with a soft clink.
"Veritaserum," he said. "Colorless, odorless, tasteless when properly brewed. Almost impossible to detect without prior knowledge or specialized equipment." He looked at Umbridge with something like admiration. "Almost. But not quite."
Umbridge's face had gone the color of old parchment. Her mouth opened and closed.
Harry shot to his feet. "Veritaserum? She was trying to—to drug us?"
"To question us, more likely." Elian remained seated, his posture relaxed. "About Dumbledore. About where he's gone. About what we know." He tilted his head. "Am I close, Headmistress?"
Umbridge found her voice, though it was shriller than usual. "This is—this is absurd! I would never—how dare you accuse me of—" She grabbed for the teapot. "Give me that! You have no right to touch Ministry property!"
Elian let her take it. His hands remained at his sides. But as her fingers closed around the porcelain, a faint golden shimmer passed through the air—so quick Harry almost missed it.
The teapot, now safely in Umbridge's grasp, seemed to shudder. Then, with a wet glorp, the remaining tea inside erupted upward in a perfect column, arcing through the air and splashing directly onto Umbridge's head.
She screamed.
The tea ran in rivulets through her carefully curled hair, down her face, soaking the front of her pink cardigan. She looked like a drowned toad, sputtering and gasping, her spectacles knocked askew.
"You—you—" Words failed her.
Elian rose. He walked to the door, gesturing for Harry to follow. At the threshold, he paused, looking back at the spluttering, tea-drenched woman who was supposed to be the most powerful person at Hogwarts.
"Professor Umbridge," he said, his voice perfectly polite, "I'd advise against trying to drug students. It's generally frowned upon. And in my case..." He smiled—a thin, cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's a very bad idea."
He opened the door.
"Wait!" Umbridge's voice cracked. "The teapot—you can't just—I'll have you expelled! I'll—I'll—"
"You'll what?" Elian's tone was mildly curious. "Report that you tried to force-feed Veritaserum to students? I'm sure the Daily Prophet would love that story. 'New Headmistress Caught in Potions Scandal.' It has a nice ring to it."
Umbridge's mouth worked soundlessly.
"Good evening, Headmistress." Elian stepped through the door. "Try to stay dry."
He pulled it closed behind them, cutting off Umbridge's strangled shriek of fury.
For a moment, Harry just stood in the corridor, his heart pounding, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. Then, slowly, a laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him—a real laugh, the first in what felt like forever.
"Did you—did you see her face?" He was gasping now, leaning against the wall for support. "The tea—it just—how did you—"
"Magic," Elian said, and there was a hint of warmth in his voice. "Not the kind she understands."
They walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, the sound of Umbridge's muffled screaming fading behind them. Students they passed stared at their laughing faces with confusion, then hurried on their way.
"She's going to make us pay for that," Harry said, though he couldn't stop grinning.
"Probably."
"She'll find some way to get back at us. She always does."
"Almost certainly."
Harry stopped walking. He looked at Elian—really looked at him—and saw something he hadn't noticed before. There was a stillness to Elian, a core of absolute certainty that nothing Umbridge or the Ministry or even Voldemort could shake.
"You're not scared of her at all, are you?"
Elian considered the question. "Should I be?"
"She's the Headmistress. She has the Ministry behind her. She could expel us, arrest us, send us to Azkaban—"
"She could try." Elian resumed walking. "But Azkaban doesn't hold me. The Ministry doesn't control me. And Umbridge..." He shook his head. "Umbridge is a symptom, Harry. Not the disease. The disease is out there, in the shadows, gathering power. That's what matters."
Harry fell into step beside him. "You really think Voldemort's going to make a move soon?"
"I know he is." Elian's voice was quiet, certain. "And when he does, all of this—the decrees, the Inquisitorial Squad, the petty tyrannies—will seem like children playing at war."
They reached the Fat Lady's portrait. She was dozing, but stirred at their approach.
"Password?"
"Mimbulus mimbletonia," Harry said absently. As the portrait swung open, he glanced at Elian. "What do we do until then?"
Elian stepped into the common room, warm and firelit and full of students pretending to study. "We prepare. We grow stronger. And we make sure that when the storm comes, we're ready."
He looked back at Harry, and for a moment, his grey eyes held something almost like warmth.
"Dumbledore asked me to take care of you. I intend to keep that promise."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd of Gryffindors, leaving Harry standing in the portrait hole with a strange mixture of fear, hope, and the unshakable feeling that everything—absolutely everything—was about to change.
(End of Chapter)
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