Chapter 157: The Severed Bond
Harry didn't know where his body ended and Voldemort began.
The pain was indescribable—not physical, not quite, but something deeper. It was as though every nerve in his being had been set alight, as though his very soul was being stretched on some invisible rack. He tried to pull away, to retreat, to find some corner of himself that was still his own, but the more he struggled, the tighter the connection became.
And then he felt his mouth move. Felt words form that he hadn't chosen.
"Dumbledore! Kill me! If you don't think death is particularly bad, then kill this child!"
Harry's own voice. Coming from his own throat. But the words weren't his.
No, he tried to scream. No, that's not what I—
But he couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't hold onto it. Voldemort's presence was too strong, too overwhelming, pressing against him from all sides like drowning in ice water.
Dumbledore. He forced the thought through the suffocating darkness. Dumbledore, please. Kill me. End this. Death is nothing compared to this—nothing—
And then—
Release.
The pressure vanished. The connection snapped. Harry fell—not physically, but inward, tumbling through darkness until suddenly, shockingly, he was himself again.
His eyes flew open.
He was at Hogwarts. In the Room of Requirement? No—the corridor outside. Ron was kneeling beside him, face pale with terror. Hermione gripped his hand so hard it hurt. Luna knelt on his other side, her silver eyes calm and knowing.
"Harry?" Ron's voice cracked. "Harry, mate, what happened? You just—you collapsed, and then you were screaming, and we couldn't—"
"Voldemort." Harry's voice came out a rasp. "He was inside me. Inside my head. He was using me to—" He shuddered violently, the memory of that suffocating presence making him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Hermione's grip tightened. "What do you mean, inside you?"
"The connection. The scar. It's always been there, but this was—" Harry pressed his hands to his forehead, feeling the raised flesh of his scar, still hot to the touch but no longer burning. "He was trying to become me. To take over completely."
Luna tilted her head, studying him with those unsettling, perceptive eyes. "But he didn't. Something stopped him."
"I saw them." Harry's voice grew stronger as the memory clarified. "Elian. Dumbledore. Sirius. They were in the Ministry—the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort was there too, and Dumbledore was fighting him, and then Elian did something." He frowned, trying to grasp what he'd witnessed. "There was a green light. And then the connection just... broke."
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.
"Elian," Hermione breathed. "Of course. He went alone, and he—" She stopped, pressing her lips together, and Harry saw something complicated flicker across her face. Fear. Pride. Frustration. Worry.
"He's okay," Harry said, understanding what she really wanted to know. "They all are. Voldemort ran."
"Voldemort." Ron's voice was barely a whisper. "Ran. From Dumbledore and Elian." He shook his head slowly. "Blimey."
Harry pushed himself upright, ignoring the protests of his trembling limbs. "We need to get to the Ministry. They might need—"
A golden light flared at the end of the corridor.
Harry raised his wand instinctively, but Luna laid a calm hand on his arm. "It's all right," she said. "They're coming back."
The light swirled, expanded, and became a portal—a circle of shimmering gold that opened onto chaos.
DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES
Elian watched Voldemort vanish with a mixture of frustration and relief. The Dark Lord was gone. Harry was safe. But they'd had him—had him trapped—and he'd still slipped away.
"Damn it," Elian muttered. "He got away."
Dumbledore was staring at him with an expression Elian couldn't quite read. Shock, yes. But something else too. Something that looked almost like... hope?
"What did you do, Elian?" Dumbledore's voice was quiet but intense. "I've never seen anyone sever a connection like that. Not in all my years."
Elian shrugged, aiming for casual and probably missing. "Different kind of magic. The Rings can open gaps in space. The connection between Harry and Voldemort—it's not physical, but it exists in space all the same. I just... widened the gap until it broke."
He didn't mention the Eye of Agamotto. Didn't mention that he'd just used the last of its power. Some things were private.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You may have just saved Harry's life. Not just tonight—but permanently. That connection was always going to be Voldemort's way back, his way in." He paused. "You've changed things, Elian. More than you know."
Before Elian could respond, the door burst open.
Cornelius Fudge stood in the doorway, his lime-green bowler hat askew, his face purple with exertion and fury. Behind him, a dozen Aurors fanned out, wands raised.
"There you are!" Fudge wheezed. "Dumbledore! I might have known—breaking into the Ministry, attacking my Aurors—"
"Cornelius." Dumbledore's voice cut through the Minister's tirade like a knife through butter. "You're too late. Voldemort was here. He's gone now."
Fudge's mouth opened and closed several times, goldfish-like. "V-Voldemort? Here? At the Ministry?" He laughed, a high, nervous sound. "Preposterous! You expect me to believe—"
"The Death Eaters are still here."
Elian gestured toward the shadows where Lucius Malfoy had stood moments ago. But Lucius was gone, along with the other survivors. Only Bellatrix's body remained, crumpled and forgotten on the stone floor.
Fudge's eyes found her. His face went white.
"That's—that's Bellatrix Lestrange. She escaped from Azkaban, she's supposed to be—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "She's dead."
"Yes," Dumbledore said simply. "She is."
More Aurors were arriving now, filling the chamber with the sound of boots on stone and shouted orders. Fudge seemed to shrink as he realized the scale of what had happened—the breach of the Ministry, the dead Death Eater, the implication that Voldemort had actually been here.
"Dumbledore," he began, his voice considerably less confident now, "I'm going to need a full report. A complete explanation of—"
"You'll have it." Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument. "But first, I'm returning to Hogwarts. There's a student there who needs me."
Fudge's face reddened again. "Now see here, you can't just—you're still wanted for questioning, you can't just leave—"
"Cornelius." Dumbledore fixed him with a look that had made stronger men quail. "Voldemort just tried to possess Harry Potter through the scar connection. If you want to continue your vendetta against me while that boy suffers, you're welcome to try. But I assure you, the Wizengamot will hear of it."
Fudge's mouth opened and closed again.
"And while we're on the subject," Dumbledore continued, his voice hardening, "you'll recall Dolores Umbridge from Hogwarts. Immediately. You'll also instruct your Inquisitorial Squad to cease their harassment of my staff and students. Hagrid will return to his post without further interference."
"You can't—you have no authority to—"
"I have the authority of fifty years as Headmaster of Hogwarts." Dumbledore drew himself up, and for a moment, Elian saw not the kindly old man but the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald. "And I have the proof, lying dead at your feet, that Voldemort has returned. The question is, Cornelius: will you continue to deny it? Or will you finally do your duty?"
The chamber fell silent.
Fudge looked at Bellatrix's body. Looked at the shattered prophecy spheres. Looked at the evidence of battle carved into the very walls.
When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"I... I need to... there are procedures..."
"There are." Dumbledore's tone softened fractionally. "And you'll follow them. I'll give you your explanation tonight, at Hogwarts. But right now, I'm taking these students home."
He raised his wand, and Elian felt the familiar tug of a Portkey forming.
Fudge opened his mouth one last time—then closed it. He stepped aside.
Dumbledore nodded once, gravely. Then the golden light enveloped them, and the Ministry of Magic fell away.
HOGWARTS - THE HEADMASTER'S OFFICE
They landed in a swirl of color and nausea, Elian catching himself on the edge of Dumbledore's desk while Sirius stumbled into a cabinet of silver instruments.
The office was exactly as Elian remembered it—the whirring gadgets, the sleeping portraits, Fawkes watching from his perch with knowing eyes. But there were new faces too.
Harry. Ron. Hermione. Luna. Neville. Ginny. All clustered together near the fireplace, all staring at them with expressions of wild relief.
"Sirius!" Harry crossed the room in three strides, crashing into his godfather with enough force to knock them both into Fawkes's perch. The phoenix squawked indignantly but didn't move.
"You're all right," Harry said into Sirius's shoulder, his voice muffled. "You're all right."
"I'm fine, pup." Sirius's voice was gruff, but his arms tightened around Harry. "Thanks to your friend." He jerked his chin toward Elian. "Kid's got more guts than sense, walking into that trap alone."
Elian shrugged. "It worked out."
"Worked out?" Hermione's voice was shrill. She stood apart from the others, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between fury and tears. "You went to the Ministry alone to face Voldemort and a dozen Death Eaters and you say it worked out?"
"I had Sirius with me. Eventually."
"That's not—" Hermione stopped, pressing her hands to her face. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "I thought you were going to die. We all did."
Elian crossed to her, gently pulling her hands away from her face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't have time to explain. Harry's vision—I knew it was a trap, but I also knew it was an opportunity. The prophecy, the Death Eaters—it had to be done."
"You could have died."
"I know." He held her gaze. "But I didn't. And Harry's safe. Sirius is safe. And Voldemort knows now that he can't touch any of you without going through me."
Hermione stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a wet, slightly hysterical sound.
"You're impossible," she said. "You know that? Absolutely impossible."
"I've been told."
From across the room, Dumbledore cleared his throat. The chatter died as everyone turned to face him.
"I'm afraid we don't have much time," he said. "Cornelius Fudge will be arriving shortly, and he'll want answers. But before that—" His eyes found Harry. "Harry, my boy. How are you feeling?"
Harry touched his scar almost unconsciously. "It doesn't hurt anymore. For the first time in... I don't know how long. It just... stopped."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Elian severed the connection between you and Voldemort. It was a bond I didn't think could be broken." He turned to Elian. "Whatever magic you used, you've given Harry something priceless. Freedom from a burden he never asked to carry."
Elian shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't just me. The Eye helped."
"The Eye?"
"The Eye of Agamotto. It's... complicated." Elian wasn't ready to explain the Time Stone, the System, any of it. "The point is, Voldemort can't use Harry as a spy anymore. Can't possess him. That connection is gone."
Harry looked at Elian with an expression of such profound gratitude that Elian had to look away.
"Thank you," Harry said simply. "I can't—there aren't words—"
"Don't." Elian held up a hand. "You'd do the same for me."
"Absolutely," Harry agreed. "Though I'd probably find a way to get myself killed in the process."
Laughter rippled through the room—nervous, relieved, slightly hysterical laughter that released tension none of them had realized they'd been holding.
Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder. "That's my godson. Terrible self-preservation instincts run in the family."
"I got them from you."
"Fair point."
Dumbledore watched them with a gentle smile, but Elian caught the shadows beneath his eyes. The old wizard was tired—more tired than he'd ever admit. Fighting Voldemort took something out of him, something he couldn't get back.
As if sensing Elian's gaze, Dumbledore turned to him. "You did well tonight. Better than well. But I must ask—" He hesitated. "The prophecy sphere. What happened to it?"
Elian met his eyes steadily. "I destroyed it. Voldemort wanted it too badly to let him have it. Whatever it said—" He shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. The future isn't written in glass balls."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"No," he agreed. "I suppose it isn't." He looked around the room—at Harry and Sirius, at Hermione and Ron, at Luna and Neville and Ginny, at Elian standing apart but somehow at the center of it all. "The future is written by choices. By courage. By the bonds we forge with one another." His eyes rested on Elian. "And by those who refuse to let fate have the final word."
From the fireplace, green flames erupted.
Fudge stepped out, followed by a retinue of Aurors and Ministry officials. He looked around the office, taking in the assembled students, Sirius Black (an escaped prisoner, technically), Dumbledore standing calm and unrepentant.
"I want answers," Fudge said. "And I want them now."
Dumbledore gestured toward a chair. "Then sit, Cornelius. It's a long story."
As the Minister lowered himself into the offered seat, Elian caught Luna's eye across the room. She smiled—that distant, knowing smile of hers—and nodded once.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
All of them.
(End of Chapter)
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