Chapter 73: An Unexpected Embrace
In Umbridge's suffocatingly pink office, the air was thick with false camaraderie. Two of Cornelius Fudge's most useful tools had found each other.
"My dear Dolores, you understand why I'm here," Rita Skeeter purred, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. "That dreadful little magazine has given the Minister such a headache."
"But of course." Umbridge's smile was a razor-thin gash. "I have arranged interviews for you tomorrow. With Harry Potter and the Thorne boy. I trust you can… reframe their recent stories. The Minister's peace of mind depends on it."
Rita's eyes gleamed behind her jewelled spectacles. Perfect. In and out in twenty-four hours. "The new 'Child of Prophecy', hmm? And the old seer, Trelawney… she's still here?"
"I'm afraid I had to let her go," Umbridge said with mock regret, puffing up with pride. "A necessary streamlining. Such a pity she couldn't be more… coherent."
"A shame," Rita murmured, not meaning a word of it. One less interview was a blessing. She made a mental note to spin Trelawney's dismissal as a victory for educational rigour over superstitious nonsense.
The meeting concluded with more saccharine compliments. As soon as Rita was out the door, her polite smile vanished into a grimace. "Puffed-up toad," she muttered, brushing imaginary cat hair from her garish robes. "Riding Fudge's coattails all the way to a fancy office…"
Inside, Umbridge sniffed. "Sensationalist hack. Thinks she's powerful because she can twist words. The Minister prefers real power."
The mood in the Gryffindor common room was a stark contrast—wary, but laced with dark humour.
"She's a menace, Harry!" Ron said, his voice rising. "Remember the Triwizard article? 'Cries for his mother every night'? I'd like to turn her into a flobberworm!"
"Ron, shh!" Harry hissed, flushing. He didn't need the whole house reminded of Rita Skeeter's creative libel.
Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the rug beside Elian, nudged him with her shoulder. "You never saw that article, did you? You have to be careful with her Quick-Quotes Quill. It has a mind of its own. You might end up quoted as a toddler who wets the bed."
She started giggling, the memory of the absurd, infuriating article bubbling up. Ron, seeing Harry's resigned expression, finally gave in and let out a snort, which turned into a guffaw. "Sorry, mate! But it was ridiculous!"
Harry, after a moment's struggle, cracked a smile too. The injustice had been galling then, but time had sanded the edges into something almost farcical.
Hermione, caught in the wave of shared laughter, threw her head back. Her balance, already precarious on the floor, gave way. With a soft oof, she toppled sideways—directly into Elian's lap.
The laughter around them hiccupped. Ron's eyes went wide. Harry's smile turned into a look of surprise.
Elian, acting on instinct, caught her, one arm automatically coming around to steady her. He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Easy there."
Hermione froze. Every nerve in her body was suddenly screaming. Her face, already flushed from laughing, burned crimson. She was in his lap. His arm was around her.
Merlin's beard! Get up! her mind shrieked. But her body seemed to have turned to stone. A traitorous part of her noted how solid his chest felt, how his robe smelled of parchment and something uniquely Elian.
Act natural. Just… act natural. Pretend it didn't happen. Oh, but it IS happening! My face is on fire!
She made a valiant, utterly failed attempt at a casual chuckle, which came out as a strangled squeak. She stayed perfectly still, hoping the earth would swallow her, or that everyone would suddenly forget she existed.
Elian, for his part, seemed momentarily unaware of the social earthquake he was cradling. He was still smiling faintly at the memory of Harry's fictional bed-wetting, his gaze distant, his hold on Hermione entirely unconscious.
The common room, for a few seconds, held its breath.
(End of Chapter)
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