Chapter 74: The Interview - A Battle of Wills
Elian stood in the chilly corridor, the distant, cheerful shouts from the Quidditch pitch a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere outside the disused Transfiguration classroom. He'd been soaring—literally—on a school broom, feeling the bite of the Scottish wind and the simple joy of flight under Madam Hooch's watchful eye, when Professor McGonagall's stern silhouette had appeared on the grass below, summoning him down with a single, sharp wave.
Now, he leaned against the cold stone wall, his flying gloves still tucked into his belt. Beside him, Professor McGonagall stood rigid, her tartan robes seeming especially severe. The lines around her mouth were etched deeper than usual with clear displeasure.
"The interview should not take long," she said, her voice low and taut. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on a particularly ugly troll-shaped umbrella stand farther down the hall. "Once it is concluded, you are to return directly to Madam Hooch. Do not engage in argument. Do not offer more information than is strictly asked for. Answer precisely and briefly."
Elian nodded, understanding her unspoken message. This was an ambush, neatly orchestrated. By sending the Head of Gryffindor to fetch him, Umbridge guaranteed compliance while adding a layer of officialdom that made refusal seem like insubordination. It was a petty, effective power play.
"Her method is… theatrical," McGonagall added after a moment, her eyes finally flicking to his. They held a warning, and something else—a flicker of protective concern he rarely saw in the formidable Transfiguration mistress. "She employs a self-writing quill, a nasty piece of enchantment that has a tendency towards… creative elaboration. Assume everything you say will be misrepresented. The goal is not to give a good interview, Mr. Thorne. The goal is to survive it with your reputation somewhat intact."
Creative elaboration. That was a McGonagall-esque way of saying 'blatant lies.' Elian filed the information away. "I understand, Professor. I'll be careful."
Before she could offer more advice, the classroom door swung open. Harry Potter stumbled out, his face pale beneath his disheveled black hair, his glasses slightly askew. He looked less like the Boy Who Lived and more like someone who had just been through a psychological wringer. Clutched in his hand was a crumpled piece of parchment.
From within the room, a voice like cloying honey dripped into the corridor. "Au revoir, Harry dear! So brave to share your little fears with the public! We must all be vigilant against tall tales, mustn't we?"
Harry slammed the door shut, cutting off the voice. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles white on the parchment. Seeing Elian and McGonagall, he hurried over.
"Professor, it was awful," he burst out, his voice hushed but furious. "I barely said anything! I told her I was worried about security after Hogsmeade, and that we should listen to Dumbledore. But her quill… it was scribbling the whole time. It wrote down that I said the school was defenseless, that Dumbledore was senile, and that I have nightmares about You-Know-Who hiding under my bed!" He thrust the parchment at McGonagall. It was covered in a sprawling, flamboyant script that bore little resemblance to Harry's halting interview answers.
McGonagall scanned it, her lips disappearing into a white line. "Preposterous," she hissed. "Absolute libel."
"She asked about Elian, too," Harry said, turning worried eyes on his friend. "Kept calling him 'the older boy,' 'the mysterious first-year.' She wanted to know if he was a bad influence, if he encouraged rule-breaking. I said no, of course, but who knows what that quill wrote?" He looked at Elian. "Just… don't give her anything. Be a brick wall."
Elian gave a slow, deliberate nod. "A brick wall. Got it."
Professor McGonagall placed a firm hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the door. "In you go. Remember: brevity. Impenetrability. This is not a conversation." She gave him a final, searching look, then opened the door and nudged him inside.
The room was smaller than he'd imagined, stuffy, and dimly lit by a single, gaudy lamp that cast long shadows. The windows were charmed to opacity, sealing them in. The air smelled of strong perfume and old parchment. Two chairs sat facing each other in the center of the bare space. In one sat Rita Skeeter.
She was a vision of calculated ostentation. Her blonde hair was sculpted into hard, elaborate curls that defied gravity. Rhinestones glittered on the frames of her spectacles and on the rings that adorned her fingers. Her robes were a violent shade of turquoise trimmed with what looked like peacock feathers. She looked like a wedding cake that had decided to become a journalist.
As Elian entered, she didn't stand. Instead, she extended a hand adorned with a large, green-stoned ring, her smile wide and utterly false. "Ah! The young man of the hour. Elian Thorne. Come in, come in. Don't be shy. We've all heard such intriguing things about you."
Her voice was a purr, meant to be disarming. It set his teeth on edge. He ignored her outstretched hand. He didn't return the smile. He simply walked to the empty chair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and letting his hands rest loosely in his lap. He said nothing, his face a polite mask of blank attentiveness.
Rita Skeeter's smile tightened imperceptibly. Her hand slowly retracted, coming to rest on a heavy crocodile-skin handbag in her lap. Hovering just by her right ear, a long, acid-green quill was already busy, scratching away at a roll of parchment suspended in mid-air. It moved with a life of its own, jerking and darting.
The silence stretched for a beat too long. She was waiting for him to speak, to fill the quiet with nervous chatter. He remained still.
"Well!" she chirped, breaking first. "A man of few words, I see. Admirable in its way. Now, where to begin? My readers are simply dying to know the truth about the… incident in Hogsmeade. That fanciful story in The Quibbler was quite the fairy tale, wasn't it?" She leaned forward, her beady eyes magnified behind her glasses. "In your own words, dear boy, what really happened that afternoon? Was it as dramatic as they say? Or was it, perhaps, a case of a frightened boy's imagination running wild, and our brave Aurors simply cleaning up the mess?"
The green quill buzzed eagerly, ready to spin his answer into gold—or rather, into Ministry-approved mud.
Elian met her gaze. He thought of McGonagall's advice: Brevity. Impenetrability.
"I was in Hogsmeade," he said, his voice even and devoid of inflection. "There was a disturbance. The authorities arrived. That is all."
The quill scratched furiously for a moment, then seemed to hesitate, as if disappointed by the meager offering.
Rita Skeeter's eyes narrowed. "A 'disturbance.' How… vague. Were you not, according to some, at the very heart of it? Seen by witnesses? Some even whisper you were found standing over the fallen, like some… adolescent vigilante?" She infused the last word with a mixture of horror and tantalization.
"I was questioned by the Ministry," Elian replied, sticking to documented, uninteresting fact. "I cooperated fully. Minister Fudge was satisfied."
He saw a flash of irritation in her eyes. He was stonewalling her, and doing it with boring, bureaucratic language. She tried another angle, her tone shifting to one of faux-concern. "It must be so difficult, coming to our world so late. A… Muggle-born, isn't it? And at sixteen! One must feel so behind, so out of place. Do you think this feeling of alienation, of needing to prove yourself, might have led you to… exaggerate your role in events? To seek attention?"
It was a vile insinuation, wrapped in sympathy. The quill poised, hungry.
Elian didn't rise to the bait. His expression didn't change. "Hogwarts has been welcoming. I am here to learn. My background is irrelevant to the events in Hogsmeade."
"Is it?" she pressed, her smile turning razor-thin. "Some might say it explains a great deal. A longing for belonging, a desire to impress new peers… perhaps even to impress a certain Headmaster who has taken a peculiar interest in you?"
Ah. So they were going there. To Dumbledore. Elian felt a cold calm settle over him. "Headmaster Dumbledore is responsible for all his students. My interactions with him have been regarding my academic transition. Nothing more."
"Academic transition?" Skeeter pounced, scenting blood. "Is that what they're calling private, late-night meetings in the Headmaster's office now? Meetings from which other students emerge looking… haunted?" She was clearly referencing Harry's recent state. "What exactly is taught in these 'transitional' lessons, Mr. Thorne? Is it standard curriculum? Or something… darker?"
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier. The quill was a frantic green blur.
Elian leaned forward, just an inch. For the first time, he allowed a trace of something other than neutrality into his voice—a faint, cool amusement. "Are you suggesting, Ms. Skeeter, that the Headmaster of Hogwarts is engaged in improper conduct? That is a very serious allegation for your quill to record. I'm sure the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and indeed the wider wizarding public, would be fascinated to see that particular quote in print, accurately attributed."
He wasn't defending himself. He was turning her weapon back on her. The smile vanished from Rita Skeeter's face, replaced by a frozen mask. The quill stopped dead, hovering uncertainly. She had not expected him to understand the game, let alone play it.
The silence this time was charged. Elian didn't break it. He simply waited, his gaze steady.
Finally, she gave a short, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "My dear boy, what an imagination you have! I merely inquire after a student's welfare. Now," she said, shifting gears with the agility of a seasoned predator, "let's talk about something lighter. Christmas plans! I hear you've received quite the invitation from the Lovegoods. Xenophilius is such a… unique thinker. Tell me, are you looking forward to a holiday filled with discussions of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Nargles?"
It was a blatant attempt to paint him as a gullible eccentric, associating him with The Quibbler's ridiculous reputation.
Elian offered a small, non-committal shrug. "I'm grateful for any hospitality during the holidays."
"And the Granger girl?" Skeeter inserted smoothly, her eyes sharp. "Lovely, bright witch. Very… close with you and Mr. Potter, from what I observe. A bit of a trio, aren't you? Or is there a special… closeness with one over the others?"
The insinuation was as clear as it was crude. The quill quivered with anticipation.
For the first time, a flicker of genuine coldness passed through Elian's eyes. He didn't defend, didn't explain. He simply repeated his mantra, his voice dropping a degree in temperature. "My personal relationships are not a subject for this interview. Are we done? My Flying lesson is waiting."
He made to stand.
"Not quite!" Rita Skeeter said, a note of desperation entering her voice. She hadn't gotten her headline. "The prophecy! Sybill Trelawney's little performance! You were there. What did you feel when she pointed her finger at you and babbled about 'Supreme Mages' and 'changed paths'? Were you frightened? Flattered? Do you feel the weight of destiny upon you, young man?"
This was it. The heart of the sensational story she wanted. She leaned so far forward she was almost out of her chair, the perfumed smell of her overwhelming.
Elian stood up fully. He looked down at her, his tall frame making her seem suddenly small and ridiculous amidst her frills and glitter.
"Professor Trelawney makes many predictions," he said, his tone utterly flat, dismissing the entire event as trivial. "It is part of her subject. I have nothing to add."
And with that, he turned and walked to the door. He didn't ask for permission to leave. He simply opened it.
"But—the public has a right to know!" Skeeter called after him, her composure finally cracking.
Elian paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. The green quill was frantically trying to record his exit. "Then I suggest you stick to facts, Ms. Skeeter," he said quietly. "They are dramatic enough."
He pulled the door shut, cutting off her sputtered response and leaving her alone in the stuffy room with only her malicious, scribbling quill for company. In the corridor, the cool air felt like a victory. Harry and Professor McGonagall were gone. He straightened his robes, touched the wand in his pocket for reassurance, and headed back towards the distant, welcoming sounds of the Quidditch pitch.
(End of Chapter)
✨If you're enjoying this story, consider supporting me on Patreon —
Patreon.com/TofuChan
💕Patreon members get early access to chapters, bonus content, and voting power on future ideas.💕
Every bit of support helps me write more and faster. Thank you so much for reading! 🥰
Bonus Chapter For Every 100 Power Stones
Lets hit the goal of 200 Patreon Members now for 5 Extra Chapters 💕
We are at 166 members 🎉