Chapter 69: A Lesson in Reality
Chaos erupted, then darkness. The moment the D.A. members opened fire, Elian vanished. The chandelier exploded, plunging the Room of Requirement into blackness broken only by the fading after-images of spells.
From the shadows, his voice was a calm, assessing murmur. "Better. But not fast enough. Not decisive enough. Petrificus Totalus."
Another thud as a body hit the floor.
Panic set in. Spells flew wildly, harmlessly lighting up the dark—Lumos beams crossed, Incarcerous ropes tangled in the air, harmless jinxes sparked and fizzled. They were shooting at phantoms, hitting each other more often than not. In the confusion, Elian was a ghost. Wrapped in his Levitation Cloak, he moved silently, his wand a precise instrument. He didn't use complex magic. Just the Body-Bind Curse, over and over. A whispered incantation, a flash of grey light, another student frozen mid-motion, collapsing to join the growing pile on the floor.
It was a massacre. A humiliating, one-sided demonstration. The students—fourth, fifth, sixth-years—were rendered helpless by the most basic of defensive spells, delivered with ruthless efficiency by someone they'd considered a friendly, if odd, first-year.
Elian didn't gloat. He worked. When the chaos of their own spells subsided, he didn't even need the cloak. He stood in the center of the room, a clear target, and simply out-cast them. His wand moved in tight, economical arcs, deflecting the few spells aimed his way with silent, wandless shields of golden energy before countering with another Petrificus Totalus.
Finally, the last spell-shot died away. The only people standing were Elian and Luna, whom he had, with deliberate irony, spared.
"Reparo," he said, pointing his wand at the ceiling. The shattered crystal of the chandelier soared upward, knitting itself back together with soft chimes. Light flooded the room once more.
The scene it revealed was stark. Twenty-two students lay petrified on the floor in various ungainly poses. Boys and girls alike, frozen in expressions of shock, fury, or dismay. Only Luna stood beside him, serene and unruffled.
Elian walked slowly among the fallen, his boots echoing on the stone. "Well?" he asked, his voice flat. "Twenty-two of you. Against one first-year. Using nothing but a spell you all learned years ago. Is this the fighting force you imagined yourselves to be?"
He stopped, looking down at Colin Creevey's frozen, indignant face. "Harry can teach you spells. Hermione can drill you on theory. But if you can't use them under pressure, if you hesitate, if you wait for 'fairness'… you're already dead."
He turned to Luna. "Your task is to revive everyone. One by one. Consider it… practical revision."
Without another glance at the room full of humiliated, immobilized witches and wizards, Elian turned and left, the door of the Room of Requirement swinging shut behind him.
The silence he left behind was absolute, broken only by the ragged breathing of those still conscious in their petrified state. They could see. They could hear. They could feel the burning shame.
Luna Lovegood knelt beside the nearest student, her wand held gently. "Finite Incantatem," she whispered, her voice a soft melody in the heavy quiet. The spell washed over the boy, and he gasped, limbs unlocking.
He didn't get up immediately. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the lesson—harsh, brutal, and utterly necessary—sinking in.
Elian hadn't just beaten them. He had shown them the vast, terrifying gap between practicing magic and fighting with it. The D.A. had been a club. After today, if they had any sense, they would understand it needed to become something else entirely.
(End of Chapter)
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