The world shifted with a nauseating lurch, and the next second, Adrian's boots scraped against wet rocks that gleamed in the moonlight. The cold North Sea wind slammed into his face, carrying with it a salty and fishy scent.
Beside him, Dumbledore stood, his simple nightgown having transformed seamlessly into a purple traveling robe that wafted in the howling wind.
Without time to marvel at the headmaster's effortless clothing magic, Adrian began to survey their surroundings.
The coastline stretched in front of them in jagged lines—black rocks thrust up from the churning sea like the broken teeth of some primordial beast.
Not far ahead, a sinister cave mouth yawned open in the cliff face, its entrance so perfectly circular and dark that it resembled a giant creature's gaping mouth, patiently waiting for unwary prey to stumble into its trap.
"That's the place," Kreacher whispered. The house-elf hunched his shoulders defensively, his bat-like ears flattening against his skull as his eyes fixed on the cave with unmistakable terror. His hands trembled as he clutched his tea towel closer to his shrunken body.
Dumbledore stood motionless for a moment, his blue eyes studying the cave entrance then said thoughtfully. "In fact, all of Voldemort's actions can be traced. When Tom was just a boy at the orphanage, he once coerced two children into entering a terrible cave. Perhaps this very one."
His voice grew softer, tinged with an old sadness. "Even then, he was drawn to places where screams would echo and never be heard."
"I don't see the significance," Adrian replied, though his hand instinctively moved toward his wand. The Devil's Snare coiled around his forearm shifted restlessly beneath his robes, its vines contracting with an nervousness.
"But that's Tom's style," Dumbledore sighed, the sound nearly lost in the wind's howling sound. "It's always been that way—turning childhood trauma into weapons..."
At that moment, a massive wave crashed against the shore with thunderous roar, sending icy spray high into the air. The cold water soaked through all three of their robes in seconds, the salt burning against exposed skin and interrupting Dumbledore's pensive words.
"We need to hurry," Dumbledore said, his demeanor shifting into urgent practicality. "This place will soon be completely submerged by the tide."
The tip of his Elder Wand began to emit a soft, white glow that seemed to push back the oppressive darkness. He strode toward the cave entrance with surprising agility for his age, his purple robes snapping behind him.
Adrian and Kreacher followed closely. The rocks beneath their feet were extraordinarily slippery, glazed with a thin film of seawater and what appeared to be some kind of algae that made each step risky.
Adrian could feel his boots sliding with each movement, forcing him to plant each foot with care.
As they approached the cave entrance, the putrid smell in the air grew exponentially heavier as if some invisible malicious force was actively resisting their approach.
This had to be a specialized repelling charm, Adrian realized—one powerful enough to affect even experienced wizards. Lesser magical folk would likely find themselves turning away without understanding why, suddenly remembering urgent business elsewhere.
Of course, for wizards of Adrian and Dumbledore's caliber, this was merely an unpleasant atmospheric effect.
The Devil's Snare coiled around Adrian's arm began to squirm with increasing agitation, its vines twitching and contracting in patterns that showed its deep unease. It had supernatural sensitivity to the aura of Dark Magic and whatever lay ahead was practically radiating maliciousness.
As the group ventured deeper into the cave's throat, their footsteps began to echo strangely. Soon, a smooth rock wall appeared in front of them in the wandlight, appearing completely seamless and impenetrable. The stone was unnaturally perfect, polished to a mirror shine that reflected their images back in distorted, wavering forms.
"It requires blood to open," Dumbledore said softly. "Voldemort has always enjoyed these theatrical designs—making others pay in pain for the privilege of approaching his secrets."
"I always carry my own blood," Adrian said straightforwardly, reaching into an inner pocket of his robes. He withdrew a small vial filled with dark red liquid. The blood within was unmistakably fresh-looking, despite being stored in the glass and cork.
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in surprise, his eyes focusing on the vial with curiosity and perhaps a bit of concern.
In the wizarding world, carrying one's own blood was a practice associated primarily with vampires, blood magic practitioners, and those who walked much darker paths than most were comfortable acknowledging.
"I don't think that will work," He said carefully, shaking his head with the long experience. "The magic requires fresh blood with unbroken connection to its source. Once blood is preserved in a bottle, separated from its owner's life force, it becomes merely a dead thing, losing its vital connection to the wizard who shed..."
Before Dumbledore could finish his explanation, Adrian had already uncorked the vial with a soft pop. He poured the blood onto the rock wall, watching as the dark liquid flowed slowly down the unnaturally smooth stone face, leaving crimson trails.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, with a grinding sound like the earth itself splitting apart, a hairline crack appeared in the stone's surface. The fissure spread slowly at first, then with increasing speed, branching and widening until it formed a perfect archway tall enough for them to pass through.
The edges of the opening glowed briefly with an eerie blue light before fading back to ordinary stone.
Adrian shrugged with nonchalance, corking the now-empty vial and slipping it back into his robes. "Looks like you were wrong."
Dumbledore stared at the opened doorway for a long moment, his expression cycling through surprise, and contemplation.
"I'm not always right," He admitted with humility, though his tone showed he was already formulating theories about why Adrian's blood had worked when it shouldn't have. "In fact, I find I'm wrong more often than not."
He raised his wand higher, the light from its tip expanding to illuminate the deep tunnel that stretched beyond the archway.
The three stepped through the archway together. The moment they crossed the threshold, the stone door closed behind them with perfect silence—no grinding, no scraping. They were now completely cut off from the outside world, trapped within whatever horrors Voldemort had designed.
"We can use a Blasting Curse to get out when we're ready to leave," Adrian said, tapping the now-seamless rock wall with his knuckles. The sound was hollow, suggesting the stone was not as thick as it appeared.
"Though I'm not entirely sure if this cave will collapse around us in the process. The structural integrity of magically excavated spaces can be... unpredictable."
The air inside was oppressively thick with humidity and a heavy, salty smell that spoke of deep water and things long drowned. They continued forward through the tunnel, which gradually sloped downward at an angle that seemed they were descending far below the level of the sea above.
The walls seemed to close in around them as they walked, and Adrian could hear the distant sound of water dripping in irregular patterns that created their own eerie drumming.
After walking for what felt like ages, the cramped tunnel suddenly opened into a vast space that took their breath away.
Before them stretched a massive underground lake, its surface so perfectly black and still that it resembled polished obsidian more than water. Not a single ripple disturbed its mirror-like perfection, and the silence was so absolute that their own breathing seemed thunderously loud.
In the center of this lake sat a tiny island, so distant that it appeared as little more than a dark smudge against the far wall.
Whatever they sought clearly lay there.
"This is it!" Kreacher's voice cracked with terror and recognition, his entire body trembling. "This is where Master Regulus... where he..."
The house-elf could not finish the sentence, overwhelmed by memories too painful to say out loud.
Dumbledore stood at the water's edge, his wand held high as he peered into the lake's depths. His aged face was grim with understanding.
"There's something below," He said quietly. "Inferi. Many of them. I can feel their presence—dozens, perhaps hundreds of souls trapped between life and death."
"What should we do?" Adrian asked casually, only to find Dumbledore staring at him intently.
"Think of something, Adrian," Dumbledore said with a smile. "How did you deal with that Horcrux before? I think these things that have already tasted death once certainly won't trouble you... ."
Adrian felt somewhat helpless—Dumbledore was actually passing the problem to him.
"I can't guarantee anything will work," He said with resigned helplessness, "but I suppose I can try."
With that admission, Adrian drew that flamewood wand. Since its abilities had already been exposed in front of Dumbledore, using the wand's full power once more wouldn't hurt.
But before resorting to direct magical assault...
"Go," Adrian whispered to the Devil's Snare coiled around his arm. "Don't be afraid. Those monsters below won't bother with a simple plant."
The Devil's Snare hesitated, its vines appendages twitching with uncertainty. Finally, responding to Adrian's encouraging tone, it began to extend slowly toward the dark lake surface.
The moment the plant's vines made contact with the water's surface, the lake immediately erupted into eerie, unnatural waves. Just as Adrian had predicted, the Inferi showed no reaction to the plant's presence.
The Devil's Snare's vines moved nimbly through the lake water, soon entangling a pale figure at the bottom—only its aura was different from the others.
A young wizard in tattered black robes was slowly dragged to the surface. Although Regulus Black's face was pale and swollen, it was still somewhat recognizable.
Kreacher immediately let out a heart-wrenching cry that echoed: "Master Regulus! Oh, Master Regulus!"
The house-elf rushed forward with desperate swiftness, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch his beloved master's cold, drenched face. Tears streamed down his cheeks as decades of grief and guilt poured out in that single moment of reunion.
Just as Adrian opened his mouth to warn Kreacher to stay back, the Inferius that had once been Regulus Black suddenly snapped its eyes open revealing cloudy white eyeballs, and reached his hands toward Kreacher's neck.
Fortunately, the Devil's Snare had been standing ready. Its vines instantly tightened around Regulus's arms holding the Inferius immobile.
Immediately after being restrained, Regulus let out an inhuman shriek that echoed throughout the cave, and the entire lake surface began to boil.
From the black water, hundreds of pale arms broke through the surface. The Inferi surged toward the shore like a tide.
Dumbledore immediately waved his Elder Wand in a complex pattern, weaving a protective barrier around the three of them.
But even as the barrier solidified, Adrian had already raised his flamewood wand with grim determination. This was no time for subtlety or restraint.
Flames erupted from the wand's tip—not ordinary fire, but Fiendfyre, the most dangerous and uncontrollable of all magical flames.
The cursed fire continued to expand and surge with a life of its own, transforming from simple flames into the shape of a massive dragon made entirely of living fire. It wove continuously through the hordes of Inferi, its every breath turning the undead to ash.
In mere moments, the entire underground lake became a hellscape of Fiendfyre. The Inferi twisted and screamed in the flames. They turned to ash with no power to resist, their dark magic consumed by an even darker force. Even the Inferi that remained at the bottom of the lake began to burn, the cursed flames spreading through the water as if it were air.
The lake water was useless against the Fiendfyre—this was no ordinary flame that could be quenched, but a magical force that devoured everything.
"Adrian!" Dumbledore's voice cut through the heat waves, sounding somewhat anxious. "Control them!"
Recognizing that the threat had been thoroughly eliminated and sensing Dumbledore's concern about collateral damage, Adrian raised his flamewood wand high into the air above his head.
The tip began to glow with a different kind of light. The raging Fiendfyre seemed to receive some invisible signal, and the massive fire dragon began to contract its burning form with obvious reluctance.
The flame dragon let out a final, unwilling roar that spoke of its desire to continue burning, to consume everything in its path until nothing remained but ash and memory. But it was bound to obey its master's will, and slowly, reluctantly, it transformed into a smaller fire serpent that burrowed back into the wand with a sound like rushing wind.
The flames gradually died out, their light fading until only the gentle glow of Dumbledore's wand remained.
The entire cave fell into an eerie silence that was somehow more unsettling than the previous chaos. Where hundreds of Inferi had once lurked, now only ash floated on the lake's surface like gray snow.
"Problem solved," Adrian said lowering his wand and shrugging as if he had just completed a minor household chore rather than unleashing one of the most dangerous spells in existence.
Dumbledore wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his appearance showing signs of the heat they had just endured.
Honestly, he had been moments away from summoning Fawkes to help contain the situation. The magical commotion Adrian had created was far more dramatic and potentially dangerous than he had imagined possible.
After all, Fiendfyre was no gentle parlor trick to be wielded lightly.
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