Chapter 117: A Classroom of One
When Elian pushed open the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, he stopped short.
The room was empty.
Not just sparsely attended. Completely empty. Dozens of desks and chairs sat vacant, polished and waiting in the dull afternoon light filtering through the high windows. It was utterly silent.
A slow smile spread across his face. He knew the Weasleys' products were popular, but this was a wholesale rebellion. The entire first-year cohort—Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and, most surprisingly, Slytherins—had apparently reached a unanimous, cross-house consensus: Umbridge's class was not worth attending.
It was a beautiful, silent protest. And as the only student present, Elian felt a peculiar sense of privilege. He chose a seat in the middle of the room and sat down, the scrape of his chair unnaturally loud in the quiet.
With time to kill, his thoughts turned inward. His life at Hogwarts had become a precarious balancing act. He wasn't like the other students, dreaming of O.W.L.s and future careers. He was a piece on a chessboard where three factions—Voldemort's Death Eaters, the Ministry's corrupt denial, and Dumbledore's embattled Order—were all trying to capture or control him. Peace was a fantasy.
The Supreme Mage System guaranteed that. Its missions pushed him relentlessly—hunt Death Eaters, subjugate giants, grow in power. It wasn't just making him stronger; it seemed to be using him to force its own unique brand of magic into the fabric of this world. To carve out a space for the mystic arts. To do that, the old order—Voldemort's tyranny, the Ministry's wilful blindness—would have to break.
His primary enemy was clear: Tom Riddle. But to truly forge a new path, his ultimate adversary might well be the entire stagnant, fearful establishment embodied by Cornelius Fudge and his pink-clad enforcer. The complexity was daunting.
"Good afternoon, my dear students! Another splendid day for learning, is it not? Today we shall continue our examination of the theoretical underpinnings of counter-jinxes, focusing on Ministry-approved…"
Umbridge's saccharine voice, dripping with faux cheer, cut through his reverie. She bustled in, her eyes on a sheaf of notes, a smug little smile on her wide mouth. No doubt Malfoy had fed her some morsel about the D.A., fueling her sense of petty power.
She reached the podium, placed her notes neatly, and finally looked up, her smile ready to encompass her captive audience.
It froze, then shattered.
Her piggy eyes blinked, then widened. She scanned the room left, then right, her head making small, jerky movements. The smile melted into an expression of pure, uncomprehending shock, then curdled into fury. Her gaze finally landed on the sole occupant.
Elian met her eyes, offering a bland, polite smile.
"Is… is there a special event for the first years today?" Umbridge managed to choke out, her voice several octaves higher than usual.
"Not that I'm aware of, Professor," Elian replied, his tone deliberately light. "Just a normal schedule."
Umbridge's face flushed an ugly puce. Her knuckles, where she gripped the podium, turned white. "Then perhaps you can explain, Mr. Throne, why you appear to be the only student in attendance?"
Elian shrugged, enjoying himself immensely. "I believe they've all submitted sick notes. You should have the records, Professor. Perhaps you should check?" He nodded helpfully towards the thick ledger she carried.
With trembling, furious fingers, Umbridge flipped the ledger open. Her eyes darted down the first-year column. Line after line was marked with a bright red 'APPROVED' stamp, each accompanied by a hastily scrawled reason.
Prolonged Emetic Episode.
Uncontrollable Nasal Haemorrhage.
Acute Lingual Engorgement.
Persistent Pyrexia.
Intermittent Catatonia.
Rip.
A long, ragged tear appeared in the parchment where her pink-polished nails dug in. A vein throbbed at her temple. This wasn't absenteeism; it was a coordinated, blatant insult. A manifesto of disrespect written in red ink. And the fact that Elian Throne—the one student she loathed perhaps more than Potter—was here, witnessing her humiliation, made it a personal, exquisite torture.
"I see," she hissed, the words squeezed out through a tight smile that was more of a grimace. "Very well. It appears student discipline at Hogwarts is in a more… advanced state of decline than I realized."
She took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to compose herself. The sight was almost pitiable—a tyrant whose subjects had simply walked away. Don't bow your head, the crown falls. Don't cry, the villains laugh. Umbridge was fighting desperately to do neither.
"It seems further educational decrees may be necessary," she stated, her voice regaining some of its officious squeak. "But as Mr. Throne has seen fit to grace us with his presence, we shall begin. Please open your textbooks to page one hundred and twenty-three, 'The Principles of Non-Offensive Magical Deterrence'."
Elian opened his book, the sound absurdly loud in the vast, empty room. He didn't look at the page. He kept his eyes on Umbridge, his expression one of mild, detached interest, as if observing a particularly strange and volatile specimen. He was the audience to her crumbling performance, the living proof of her failure. For the next hour, in this classroom of one, the power was not with the teacher on the podium, but with the lone student who had come not to learn, but to witness her downfall.
(End of Chapter)
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