Chapter 105: The D.A.'s First Stand
Elian didn't wait for an answer. He saw the indecision, the fear, and the lingering arrogance in Malfoy's eyes, and he acted.
His sandalwood wand came up in a swift, precise motion. There was no flash of light, no roar of power. He spoke a single, clear incantation that made several older students wince.
"Furnunculus!"
The Pimple Jinx shot across the short space, a streak of mild orange light. It was a spell from their first-year curriculum, childish, almost insulting in its simplicity.
It struck Malfoy square in the chest.
For a second, nothing happened. Malfoy looked down, patting his robes, a sneer of triumph beginning to form. "Is that it? A first-year's hex? You really are a—"
Then it hit. Not pain, but a sudden, violent, overwhelming cramping in his lower abdomen. His eyes widened. A sickening gurgle echoed from within him, loud enough for those closest to hear. His face, pale a moment before, flushed a deep, mortified red, then turned a shade of green. He doubled over slightly, clamping his legs together.
"Ventris Torqueo," Hermione whispered beside Elian, her voice a mix of horror and reluctant admiration. The Intestinal Constriction Curse. A medical charm gone rogue, used by cruel or creative duelists to devastating psychological effect.
"You—you filthy, disgusting—" Malfoy choked out, sweat beading on his forehead. The urgent, undeniable need was a physical torment, overriding all pride, all strategy. He grabbed Goyle's arm, his knuckles white. "WC… now!"
But the path was blocked by the wall of D.A. members. They didn't move. They just watched, their earlier fear replaced by a hard, cold understanding. This was the lesson Elian had beaten into them: in a fight, you use every advantage. You don't wait for permission.
Malfoy's control snapped. The public humiliation, the physical distress, the smirking faces of his enemies—it was too much. "DO IT!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "Attack them! Now! I'll take the blame! STUN THEM ALL!"
He was raving, desperate.
But while his squad hesitated, shocked by his breakdown, the D.A. did not.
There was no shouted order, no discussion. It was as if a single switch had been flipped. Wands came up in unison.
"Stupefy!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spells weren't flashy or advanced. They were the workmanlike tools of their months of secret practice: Disarming, Stunning, Binding. They fired not in a chaotic volley, but in crisp, targeted pairs. Seamus and Dean took Goyle. Neville and Ernie Macmillan targeted Crabbe. Ginny and Luna disarmed Pansy Parkinson with simultaneous flicks.
It was over in less than ten seconds. The Inquisitorial Squad lay in a groaning, disarmed, and partially petrified heap in the corridor. Malfoy was among them, writhing, his dignity utterly shredded.
A profound silence fell, broken only by Malfoy's pained gasps and the thump of the train. The watching D.A. members looked at their own wands, then at the results, with stunned awe. They had done that. Together, quickly, efficiently. No one had panicked. No one had used anything darker than a Stunner.
"Merlin's beard," Ron breathed, a huge grin spreading across his face.
Then the smell hit. A foul, organic odor began to seep from the pile of Slytherins. Seamus gagged. "Oh, blimey. He didn't hold it."
That broke the tension. A few strangled laughs escaped. The reality of what they'd just done—assaulted Umbridge's official squad—began to dawn, mixed with the giddy thrill of victory.
"EVERYONE DISPERSE!" Harry yelled, his seeker's instincts kicking in. "Back to your compartments! Now!"
The D.A. members scattered like smoke, melting back into the train, their faces alight with a fierce, shared secret. Elian grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her into the nearest empty compartment, Harry and Ron piling in behind them, shutting the door just as heavy, furious footsteps came pounding down the corridor.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" bellowed the voice of the train's conductor. "BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY—STOP RIGHT THERE!"
But there was no one to stop. Just a pile of incapacitated, smelly Slytherins, and a corridor full of innocently peering students who had, apparently, seen nothing at all.
When the Hogwarts Express hissed to a stop at Hogsmeade station, an unprecedented reception committee awaited on the platform. The heads of all four houses stood in a grim line, their expressions ranging from furious to exasperated.
From the train emerged a sorry procession. Draco Malfoy, now cleaned by a hasty Scourgify but pale and trembling with fury and residual sickness, was supported by a sullen, pimple-covered Crabbe and Goyle. The rest of his squad looked similarly worse for wear.
Trailing them, looking chastised but strangely united, were representatives of the other houses—Neville, Seamus, Ernie, Luna, and Ginny.
"This is an outrage!" Severus Snape's voice was a silk-covered whip. "A coordinated assault by a mob upon students acting under the High Inquisitor's authority! I demand the maximum penalties. Detention for the rest of the term. Points! A hundred from each house involved!"
Minerva McGonagall's lips were a thin line. "We will determine who assaulted whom, Severus. I have it on good authority that Mr. Malfoy threatened an unauthorized search and initiated the conflict. Are only Slytherins permitted to defend themselves?"
"My students," squeaked Filius Flitwick, wringing his hands, "are usually so level-headed! This… this external influence is most disruptive!" He glanced nervously at where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Elian were disembarking casually, as if nothing had happened.
Pomona Sprout shook her head, her hat trembling. "A nasty business. But it seems confined to these few. I suggest we handle our own, Severus. A month of detention mucking out the greenhouses should cool hot heads. Now, if you'll excuse me, my Fanged Geraniums are due a feeding."
The teachers argued in hissed tones as the student body flooded onto the platform, whispers about the "train battle" already spreading like wildfire. Elian caught Snape's eye across the crowd. The Potions Master's gaze was inscrutable, but it held none of the protective fury he showed for Malfoy. It was a look of assessment, and perhaps a flicker of something else—resignation, or the faintest hint of grim satisfaction.
As the carriages pulled themselves up the winding path to the castle, its towers glowing against the darkening sky, Elian knew one thing for certain. The fragile peace of the holiday was over. The lines were drawn, not just in the wider war, but within Hogwarts itself. And the D.A. was no longer just a study group.
They were a militia. And they had just won their first skirmish.
(End of Chapter)
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