Chapter 152: The Hall of Prophecy
The night air was cold against Elian's skin as the Thestral descended through the clouds, its leathery wings cutting silently through the darkness. London sprawled below them, a patchwork of lights and shadows, and Elian scanned the streets until he spotted it—a red telephone box,standing on a corner, exactly as Harry had described it in the stories he'd told.
The Thestral landed softly, its hooves making no sound on the pavement. Elian slid from its back, patted its bony shoulder in thanks, and watched as it melted back into the night sky.
The telephone box was old-fashioned, the kind that had largely disappeared from Muggle London. Elian stepped inside, closed the door, and lifted the receiver.
A cool, female voice spoke immediately. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."
"Elian Thorne. I'm here to find someone. And something."
There was a pause—a beat too long, as if the voice was consulting something beyond his knowledge. Then: "Thank you. Please place your visitor's badge on your person."
A badge slid from the coin return slot. Elian pinned it to his robes.
"Visitor, you require security clearance. Please proceed to the security desk with your wand for registration."
The floor of the telephone box shuddered. Sinking. Elian watched as the pavement rose past the small windows, then darkness, then a golden light that illuminated the depths below. The box came to rest in a vast, echoing atrium.
Elian stepped out.
The Ministry of Magic at night was a different place entirely from the bustling hub of daytime. The golden fountain stood silent, its waters still. The polished floors reflected the dim emergency lighting. And everywhere—everywhere—there was the sense of being watched.
But no security desk appeared. No Aurors rushed to greet him. The atrium was empty.
Elian smiled thinly. Of course. The trap wasn't set for him. It was set for Harry.
He walked toward the lifts, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The lift doors opened at his approach, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the Department of Mysteries.
The descent felt longer than it should have. When the doors finally opened, he stepped out into darkness.
The corridor stretched before him, lined with doors. Elian knew which one to choose—the black door at the end, the one that led to the circular room with its many identical doors, each leading to a different mystery.
He passed through the first room—the one with the glass tanks and the floating brains, their tentacles waving lazily in the preserving fluid. He didn't stop. He knew what he was looking for.
The circular room. Twelve doors. He chose the one that led to the amphitheatre.
The room was vast and dim, its stone benches descending in concentric circles toward a central stage. At the centre hung a tattered curtain, rippling slightly in a wind that came from nowhere.
Elian stopped at the edge of the benches. He could feel them—presences in the shadows, watching, waiting.
"Come out," he said quietly. "I know you're not Sirius. And I'm disappointed for you—Harry didn't come. Only me."
The curtain rippled. Nothing emerged.
"No? Fine."
He turned and walked out, feeling their eyes on his back, their confusion at this unexpected visitor.
The Hall of Prophecy was exactly as he'd imagined—towering shelves stretching into darkness, each laden with dusty glass spheres that glowed with an inner light. The candles burned blue, casting eerie shadows across the rows.
Elian walked slowly, reading the labels. Names he recognized. Events he knew would come to pass. Prophecies made and prophecies yet to be fulfilled.
And there, on shelf ninety-seven, row fifty-four, was the one he sought.
The sphere was dusty, unremarkable. But the label was clear: S. P. T. to A. P. W. B. D. Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter.
Elian reached for it.
The air behind him shifted.
He placed his left hand on the sphere. With his right, he drew a circle in the air—not a portal, but something else. A containment spell, woven from the golden light of the Vishanti. The shelf shimmered, and the sphere lifted free, hovering into his palm.
Got it.
"Give it to me."
The voice was cold, silky, and very close. Elian felt breath on his neck.
He turned slowly.
Twelve figures stood in the shadows between the shelves. Twelve wands pointed directly at his heart. And at their centre, his red eyes gleaming in the blue candlelight, stood Lucius Malfoy.
"Elian Thorne." Lucius's voice dripped with venom. "We meet again. Though I must admit, I expected the Potter boy."
"Disappointed?"
"Surprised." Lucius smiled—a thin, cruel expression. "And pleased. The Dark Lord will be very interested to meet you personally."
Elian looked at the circle of Death Eaters, at the wands trained on him, at the trap that had been meant for Harry but had caught him instead.
He smiled.
"You know," he said conversationally, "I was hoping you'd be here. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down later."
Lucius's smile faltered. "You're outnumbered twelve to one, boy. Your tricks won't—"
Elian moved.
Not toward them—that would be suicide. But upward, the Levitation Cloak carrying him into the air above the shelves. Spells shot past him, smashing into spheres, shattering prophecies into showers of light.
"After him!" Lucius roared.
But Elian was already gone, weaving between shelves, drawing them away from the Hall of Prophecy, leading them deeper into the Department of Mysteries.
He had what he came for. Now it was time to have some fun.
(End of Chapter)
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