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Chapter 29: The Unintended Prophecy
Professor McGonagall guided the trembling Professor Trelawney back towards the doorway Dumbledore had emerged from. Elian, standing off to the side, decided it was time to slip away. The drama seemed to be over.
But just as he turned, Professor Trelawney, being led past him, lifted her grief-stricken gaze. For a fleeting second, her tear-blurred eyes met his.
It was only a glance.
Then, everything changed.
Professor Trelawney, a true but erratic Seer, lived her life on a knife's edge of emotion. The trauma of her very public dismissal, followed by the sudden relief of Dumbledore's intervention, had sent her psyche spiraling. In that moment of extreme collapse and fragile hope, the latent, uncontrollable gift in her blood surged to the surface.
Her body went rigid. With a strength that belied her frail frame, she shoved Professor McGonagall's supporting arm away. She spread her arms wide like great wings, arching her back until she was leaning at an impossible angle, her face turned to the enchanted ceiling. A collective gasp swept through the hall.
Dumbledore's eyes widened in sudden understanding. He knew this posture. He had witnessed it only once before, in a dusty room above the Hog's Head. She was prophesying.
A voice, not her own, issued from her throat. It was hollow, layered, as if spoken from the end of a long tunnel and whispered directly into the mind at once.
"The traveler… from a world unseen…" the voice rasped. "He walks where paths are not yet drawn… The chosen boy's fate… it twists… it frays…"
The hall was deathly silent. Every student, every portrait, held its breath.
"A power awakens… not of this earth… the Master Supreme… shall rise from…"
The final words were lost in a guttural rush, the sounds mangled and indistinct before the voice cut off abruptly.
Professor Trelawney crumpled.
"Sybil!" McGonagall cried, lunging forward. Her wand flicked, and the unconscious Divination professor floated gently before she could hit the stone floor.
Dumbledore was at their side in an instant, his earlier confrontation with Umbridge forgotten. "Minerva, please, take her to the hospital wing. Stay with her. Inform me the moment she wakes."
"Of course, Headmaster." Professor McGonagall's voice was tight with worry. As she turned to go, her sharp eyes found Elian in the crowd. She stared at him for a long, searching moment. The prophecy had begun after Trelawney looked at him. The ancient magic's error… this boy's late arrival… could it be connected? Her mind raced, but she asked no questions aloud.
Dumbledore's gaze followed McGonagall's, settling on Elian. His expression was unreadable. "Ah, Mr. Thorne," he said, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight. "We meet again, and under such curious circumstances. Would you be so kind as to wait for me in my office?"
Elian was still reeling. A traveler from a world unseen? His blood ran cold. He managed a stiff nod.
Umbridge, who had been momentarily stunned into silence by the display of raw magic, now recovered her senses. Her beady eyes darted from the departed Trelawney to Elian, alight with a new, greedy curiosity. "Now, see here!" she simpered, stepping forward as if to take Elian's arm. "This student should come with me. The Ministry has questions about these… disturbances."
Dumbledore moved with surprising speed, placing himself squarely between Umbridge and Elian. "Dolores," he said, and his voice had lost all its grandfatherly warmth. It was the voice of the Chief Warlock. "You have exercised your right to dismiss Professor Trelawney. She is, as of this moment, no longer a Hogwarts employee. Any prophecy she makes is therefore a private matter, of no concern to the school or the Ministry."
Umbridge's mouth opened and closed, fish-like. He was right. She had boxed herself in with her own cruelty. The fury on her face was a sight to behold.
She took a sharp, hissing breath. "Hem, hem. Very well, Headmaster. But mark my words, my authority here is growing. Soon, I will have every right." She shot a last, venomous look at Elian. "We will speak again, boy."
With a swirl of her horrible pink cardigan, she marched away, Filch scurrying after her like a disappointed rat.
The crowd began to disperse, buzzing with theories about the strange prophecy. Hermione and Luna, caught in the throng, both looked at Elian with deep, worried eyes. He seemed to be a magnet for the extraordinary.
If he could have heard their thoughts, Elian would have agreed wholeheartedly. It wasn't my fault! She just looked at me!
As the hall emptied, Dumbledore turned to him. The intensity had not left the old wizard's eyes.
"Come along, Mr. Thorne," he said quietly. "I believe we have a great deal to discuss."
(End of Chapter)
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