Chapter 155: The Dark Lord Rises
The chamber had gone very still.
Voldemort stood in the center of the shattered prophecy aisle, his red eyes fixed on Elian with an intensity that seemed to press against the very air. Behind him, his Death Eaters remained on their knees, Bellatrix's sobs the only sound breaking the silence.
"You destroyed it," Voldemort said softly. Not a question. A statement. His voice was high and cold, like wind through winter bones. "My prophecy. My future. You shattered it on the floor like so much rubbish."
Elian met those crimson eyes without flinching. "Took you long enough to come out. I was beginning to think you'd spend the rest of your life hiding in other people's minds or behind your servants' robes."
Something flickered in Voldemort's gaze—amusement, perhaps, or the first stirrings of genuine interest.
"You speak for the Potter boy, then. I felt his mind brush against mine not long ago. Such fear. Such pain." His lips curled. "He thinks I am torturing his beloved godfather. How deliciously cruel."
"And yet here Sirius stands, perfectly healthy." Elian's voice was flat. "Almost as if you can't actually touch him without resorting to cheap tricks."
The temperature dropped another degree.
Voldemort's gaze swept the chamber, taking in the shattered prophecy sphere, the trembling Death Eaters, the still form of Sirius Black pressed against the far wall. When his eyes returned to Elian, they held something new.
"Months," he whispered. "Months of planning. Months of carefully constructing that boy's visions, feeding him just enough truth to make the lies believable. And when the trap finally springs..." He laughed, the sound soft and terrible. "The wrong prey appears."
"Master." Bellatrix crawled forward, her face streaked with tears. "Master, forgive us. We didn't know—we couldn't—"
"Silence." The word was gentle, almost affectionate, but Bellatrix's mouth snapped shut as though struck. Voldemort didn't even look at her. "Lucius. Explain to me how a sixteen-year-old boy defeated twelve of my most loyal servants."
Lucius Malfoy's pale face went paler still. "Master, he—his magic is unlike anything we've encountered. It doesn't require a wand, doesn't follow our rules. He created copies of himself—twelve of them—and each fought independently. We couldn't—"
"Couldn't." Voldemort savored the word. "Couldn't stop a child. Couldn't secure a prophecy. Couldn't do the one thing I asked of you." His wand traced a lazy circle in the air. "I did not risk exposing myself to the Ministry—to all those fools who still deny my return—to listen to excuses."
Lucius bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the stone. "Master, I only ask for the chance to prove myself worthy. Let me—"
"You'll do nothing." Voldemort's attention returned to Elian. "Not yet. First, I want to understand what I'm dealing with."
He took a step forward. Elian's hand tightened on his wand, but he didn't retreat.
"Extraordinary," Voldemort murmured. "No fear. No trembling. Most grown wizards wet themselves when I stand this close." His head tilted, snake-like. "What are you, boy? What magic flows through your veins that makes you so different?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"I would." The red eyes glittered. "And I will. After I've killed you, after I've torn your mind apart and devoured every secret it contains, I'll know everything. Every spell. Every technique. Every pathetic dream you've ever had." His wand rose. "But first—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light erupted from Voldemort's wand, but Elian was already moving—not away, but through, pulling Sirius with him in a burst of teleportation that deposited them twenty feet to the left. The Killing Curse shattered a row of prophecy spheres behind them, glass and mist exploding outward.
"Running already?" Voldemort's laugh followed them. "I expected more from the boy who conquered giants."
"This is Voldemort!" Sirius's voice was ragged, his wand arm shaking. "Elian, this is insane—we can't fight him, we need to—"
"Run? Hide?" Elian's voice was calm, almost conversational, even as he dodged another curse. "Didn't you spend twelve years in Azkaban dreaming of this moment? Didn't you want to face him?"
"I wanted to face him with an army! With Dumbledore! Not—" Sirius threw himself sideways as a jet of red light barely missed his head. "Not alone in a basement with a sixteen-year-old!"
Elian grinned—actually grinned—and something in Sirius's chest went cold. This boy wasn't afraid. He was enjoying this.
"Stay close," Elian said. "I promised Harry you'd make it home."
Voldemort was advancing now, his Death Eaters finding their courage and spreading out to flank them. Bellatrix's face was a mask of hatred, Lucius's pale eyes calculating. Curses flew—green, red, purple—and Elian wove between them like water through stones.
"Stupefy!" Sirius's spell flew wide.
"Expelliarmus!" Useless. Voldemort didn't even bother dodging; the spell splashed against his shield like water against stone.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Nothing.
Despair began to creep into Sirius's chest. They couldn't touch him. Couldn't even slow him down. Voldemort was toying with them, herding them toward the center of the chamber like a cat playing with mice.
And then—
A wooden horse erupted from the shadows.
It wasn't really a horse—Sirius saw that immediately. One of the enchanted creatures from the Hall of Prophecy, a carved beast that had sat motionless for decades, suddenly alive. Its wings spread wide, shielding them from a volley of curses, and when a flash of green light struck its chest, it absorbed the blow without a sound.
"What—" Voldemort spun, his wand rising—
And stopped.
Because standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight, was Albus Dumbledore.
"Tom." The old wizard's voice was calm, almost weary. "I must say, I'm disappointed. Breaking into the Ministry like a common thief? It's rather beneath you."
For one frozen moment, no one moved. Then Voldemort's wand snapped toward Dumbledore, a jet of red light screaming across the chamber—
Dumbledore vanished.
Not Apparition—Sirius would have felt the crack of displaced air. Simply gone, as though he'd never been there at all.
Elian watched, and something clicked in his mind. The cloak. He'd been so focused on Voldemort, on the immediate danger, that he'd completely forgotten his own advantages. He still had the Levitation Cloak. He still had the Sling Ring. He still had—
He smacked his forehead. "Voldemort showing up completely threw off my priorities."
Sirius stared at him like he'd gone mad.
Voldemort was scanning the chamber now, his wand weaving patterns in the air, sending curses left and right in an attempt to flush Dumbledore out. Red. Green. Purple. They flew everywhere, shattering more prophecy spheres, carving trenches in the stone walls.
Nothing.
Then, in the split second when Voldemort paused to listen, Dumbledore appeared behind him.
The old wizard's wand flicked toward the remaining enchanted horse, and it surged to life, galloping straight at the Dark Lord. Voldemort vanished—Disapparated—reappearing across the chamber just as the horse thundered through the space he'd occupied.
"Now!" Dumbledore's voice cut through the chaos. "End this!"
Elian didn't hesitate. He grabbed Sirius's arm and moved, appearing directly behind Bellatrix and Lucius before they could react.
"Crucio!"
Sirius's curse caught Bellatrix square in the back.
She screamed—a raw, horrible sound—and spun, firing blindly in their direction, but they were already gone, reappearing behind her again. Her curses hit nothing but air.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Elian said quietly, and she whirled to face him. There was fear in her eyes now. Real fear. "You should be grateful I didn't bring Neville tonight. I don't think he'd mind if I collected on his behalf."
"No—"
The enchanted horse's horn punched through her chest.
Bellatrix looked down at the wood protruding from her body, disbelief written across every feature. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her wand hand twitched, once, twice, trying to raise it, to cast one last curse.
"Master," she whispered. "Master, save—"
But Voldemort was across the chamber, locked in combat with Dumbledore. He didn't look back. Didn't even glance in her direction.
Bellatrix's eyes found the space where he stood, and something in them—something that had burned for decades—flickered and died.
Her body crumpled to the stone floor.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Luna—who had somehow appeared at Elian's side, her silver eyes fixed on Bellatrix's still form—spoke quietly.
"She was waiting for him to save her." Luna's voice held no pity, only observation. "She really thought he would."
Elian looked at the direction Bellatrix's eyes had faced in her final moment. Empty space. Nothing.
Lucius Malfoy was backing away now, his wand shaking, his composure completely shattered. "Master!" he called desperately. "Master, help me! Help me!"
Voldemort didn't respond. He was too focused on Dumbledore, the two greatest wizards of the age circling each other like ancient predators.
But Elian saw it—the way Voldemort's eyes flickered toward Lucius, the brief calculation, the dismissal.
He doesn't care about them, Elian realized. He never did. They're tools. Weapons. Expendable.
And then—
A flash of movement. A cold presence directly behind him.
Voldemort's face materialized inches from Elian's ear, his breath like ice against Elian's neck.
"Avada—"
The enchanted horse—headless now, but still moving—slammed into both of them, its massive body absorbing the Killing Curse meant for Elian. The spell shattered it completely, wood exploding in every direction.
When the debris cleared, Dumbledore stood between Elian and Voldemort, his wand raised, his eyes blazing with a power that made the very air hum.
"It's over, Tom," Dumbledore said quietly. "You've lost. The prophecy is gone. Your servant is dead. And the Ministry will soon be swarming with Aurors." He paused. "Leave now, and you might escape before they arrive."
Voldemort's lips peeled back from his teeth. "This isn't over, old man. Nothing is over. I'll have my prophecy. I'll have the boy. I'll have everything."
"Perhaps." Dumbledore didn't lower his wand. "But not tonight."
For a long, terrible moment, the two stared at each other. Then Voldemort laughed—soft, cold, horrible—and vanished.
The chamber was suddenly very quiet.
Elian let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Beside him, Luna took his hand, her small fingers cold but steady.
"You came," he said. "You actually came."
"Of course." She looked at him like he'd said something absurd. "You needed us."
And when Elian looked past her, he saw them—Harry, pale and shaking but upright. Hermione, wand raised, ready to fight. Ron, Neville, Ginny, all standing in the doorway, all staring at the aftermath of battle with wide eyes.
His friends.
His family.
For the first time since entering the Ministry, Elian smiled.
(End of Chapter)
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