Harry knelt by the lakeside, sniffing the air. "Something used to be stored here."
"Inferi?"
A creature mentioned only in textbooks during Defense Against the Dark Arts classes—no professor had ever produced a real specimen. Not even the Forbidden Forest harbored them.
Only pure dark magic, with a corpse as its material, could create them. They never arose naturally.
Dumbledore approached and nodded.
"Yes, there used to be many Inferi here."
Harry pulled on dragonhide gloves and cautiously touched the lake. "You destroyed them all?"
"No." Dumbledore shook his head. "When I came here, not even one Inferius remained."
Harry froze and turned back. "You know what that means."
"Of course," Dumbledore smiled. "So I double-checked. Either Tom is overconfident or too naive. He only removed the Inferi and checked that the Horcrux was still there—but didn't take it."
Harry continued testing the water. "Maybe he believed leaving the Horcrux here was safer than keeping it with him."
"After all, he's facing two people stronger than he is." Dumbledore held up two fingers.
The glove hissed as it touched the water—visible corrosion eating away at the dragonhide.
Harry pulled his hand back. "Quite a move."
"He enchanted the entire lake."
Dumbledore nodded. "At his peak, Voldemort was nearly my equal. He could do as he pleased."
"So, Harry, how do we cross the lake?"
Harry met his gaze. They stared at each other silently.
Harry sighed. "So I have to do this too?"
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Harry, I want to see what you've learned," Dumbledore raised his hand. "Besides, I'm an old man and recently injured."
Harry looked into the distance.
He expanded his Witcher senses.
The darkness in this space wasn't just shadow. It was magic, Voldemort's manifestation of obsession—his desire to hide and be unseen.
The flashlight's beam was blocked.
Even Witcher senses struggled.
But as Dumbledore had said: all magic leaves traces. Like pulsing lights, magical veins flickered. Harry reached out—and caught one.
"This way," he said.
They followed the edge of the black lake. The magic clung to every inch of the cave, cycling the walls every thirty meters, making it seem like they weren't moving at all.
Harry ignored the illusion and kept walking.
After more than ten minutes, he stopped. "We're here."
Dumbledore said nothing.
Harry took a deep breath, reached forward—there was a rustling sound. He yanked hard, and what he held became visible: a heavily rusted chain, green and corroded like a snake.
He tapped it with his wand.
It slithered back, dragging something from the lakebed.
Six coils later, the object emerged: a tiny, pitifully small boat. It was originally a light-blue child's rowboat.
"He cared about his childhood," Harry said, watching the boat.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "Every adult lives in regret. The past is stickier than honey, inescapable."
"Even Voldemort."
"Except…" He paused and sighed. "I failed to notice in time, failed to guide him."
"I don't think it's your fault," Harry stepped onto the rickety boat. It wobbled.
Dumbledore joined him. "I was the headmaster."
"You were deputy headmaster then. And if it had been me—would I have done better?" Harry asked.
The boat drifted forward toward the opposite shore.
Harry stared at the unnaturally still lake. "You have to admit—some people are born bad."
"He took root, grew wild, and never got pruned. Who he is now was inevitable."
"How's that your fault?"
He paused.
"Professor Dumbledore, you think too highly of yourself. As if even a sneeze from you affects the whole world."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Is this the third time you've lectured me?"
"I know, Harry."
"But who hasn't imagined a better future—especially when they feel they had the chance?"
The lake looked vast, but the crossing was quick.
Between their chat, they reached the center.
They stepped carefully off the boat.
It was an island, unnaturally flat—a slab of black marble Voldemort had likely cut from somewhere and dropped here. Empty, except for a stone pedestal in the center glowing faintly with eerie green light.
They approached.
Atop the pedestal sat a stone basin the size of a human head, filled with green liquid. The phosphorescence came from it.
"Three," Harry said, eyes scanning the ground around the pedestal.
Dumbledore blinked. "Three what?"
"Three sets of traces," Harry said softly. "Thankfully, magic preserved this place—even the footprints."
"One is very old."
"More than ten years ago—hard to tell who it was."
"Two are recent."
"One was three months ago—Voldemort came after his resurrection?"
"The other about a month ago—was that you?"
Dumbledore stared hard, trying to see what Harry did, but couldn't make out anything beyond the dusty floor.
"Looks like Voldemort is weaker than I thought," Harry sneered. "Even at his peak, he came back to check on his Horcrux?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "It is a Horcrux."
Harry looked up, eyes on the basin. "It's hidden in there?"
He waved his wand.
The liquid inside thrashed violently but couldn't escape, bound to the basin.
"A contract, like the door," Harry said, putting his wand away. "How did you get past it? Drink it?"
Dumbledore nodded and conjured a goblet. "You're sharp. Yes, I had to drink it. But the potion is extremely painful. Voldemort enjoys torture. Godric is just a portrait—he couldn't force me to finish it."
"Harry, wai—"
Harry waved him off. "Just wait."
He reached out toward the basin—a magical barrier stopped him, an invisible wall.
He drew his wand and carefully dismantled the spell, then touched the green potion and sniffed it.
"Not highly toxic. Strong hallucinogenic effects."
He licked the drop off his finger.
The potion kicked in.
Harry remained expressionless. "Inspired by the Resurrection Stone? Painful memories?"
"I'll handle it."
He held out his hand for the goblet.
Dumbledore hesitated. "Harry, are you sure?"
Harry nodded and stepped forward, snatching the goblet.
He scooped a cup and drank.
"If Snape were here, he'd probably identify every ingredient instantly," Harry muttered, scooping another.
Second cup. Third cup.
Dumbledore watched anxiously. He himself couldn't get past the fourth.
Harry gripped the basin, smacked his lips. "Euryale's stalactite… Half-ear grass bud…"
"Modified from Veritaserum?"
"Genius."
Fifth. Sixth.
Dumbledore watched as Harry kept going.
"Moonstone powder," Harry continued analyzing. "Designed to make one relive their worst pain in their calmest state?"
Tenth. Eleventh…
The basin was empty. At the bottom lay an amber-colored, octagonal locket with a green gem "S"-shaped serpent in the center.
"Harry, how do you feel?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry tossed the goblet aside, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the Sorting Hat, uncorked it, and drank. "Tastes awful. Tom's taste is garbage."
He paused and met Dumbledore's eyes. "Relax. I'm fine."
"This potion is far weaker than the stuff I usually drink. Just tastes worse."
His amber eyes were clear.
Dumbledore breathed out, retrieved the locket, and looked toward the lake. "The Inferi were probably his fallback plan. But he…"
Harry frowned at the locket. "Professor Dumbledore, I think we've been played."
He couldn't sense any dark magic or soul energy from the locket—not even a reaction from the Horcrux in his own scar.
Inside… seemed to be a letter.
Dumbledore looked too, frowning.
"Voldemort swapped the Horcrux?" he asked.
Harry opened it. "Let's see what kind of mockery he left us."
Inside was a crumpled note:
To the Dark Lord:
I know that when you read this, I will be dead. But I want you to know: it was I who discovered your secret. I have taken the real Horcrux and will destroy it as soon as I can.
I am ready to die in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.
The words stunned them both.
This… was not what either of them had expected.
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Powerstones?
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