Fawkes' feather gleamed in the darkness like a magnet, guiding Dumbledore's path.
After several Apparition adjustments to hone in on the direction, the headmaster followed the feather's faint pull, crossing the desolate wilderness of the English countryside.
Emerging through a final thicket of dense shrubs, a majestic manor loomed into view, crouching in the night like a slumbering beast.
Unlike the ostentatious luxury of Malfoy Manor, with its preening white peacocks, the Lestrange family's stronghold exuded an austere dignity tempered by time.
Towering Gothic spires pierced the gradually lightening sky, and ancient ivy clung to the black stone walls. Above the main entrance, a coat of arms displayed a raven with outstretched wings, clutching a wand in its talons, its ruby-encrusted eyes seeming to scrutinize the uninvited guest.
From this distinctive family crest, Dumbledore recognized Lestrange Manor.
The manor was enveloped in potent protective enchantments. Dumbledore sensed the magical currents in the air, interwoven like countless invisible spiderwebs.
His piercing blue eyes narrowed slightly behind his half-moon spectacles, carefully discerning the magical signatures: red protective charms, purple warning spells, and several unsettling black barriers of dark magic.
At that moment, the horizon began to pale with the first light of dawn, the morning star fading as the sky took on a sickly gray-blue hue.
Standing in the shadow of the trees at the manor's perimeter, Dumbledore swiftly waved his wand, muttering a complex incantation.
His body turned transparent, blending seamlessly with the surroundings, and Fawkes dissolved into a streak of red light, vanishing into his robes.
Raising the Elder Wand, he cautiously approached the gate. The massive doors were sealed shut, showing no signs of recent activity.
"Let's see…" Dumbledore murmured soundlessly, his fingertips grazing the icy surface of the gate, feeling the ancient magical pulses emanating from it.
Then, in a strange, archaic tongue, he whispered something to the iron doors.
At last, the gates trembled slightly, parting just enough to reveal a narrow gap, barely wide enough for a single person to pass through.
Slipping sideways into the courtyard, Dumbledore watched as the gates silently closed behind him.
The manor's interior was even more foreboding than its exterior. Deep crimson carpets lined the floors, and iron chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their candles flickering within glass shades, casting shifting shadows.
A low murmur of voices drifted from a hall ahead, and Dumbledore glided noiselessly toward the sound.
As he drew closer, he recognized three familiar voices: Bellatrix Lestrange, her husband Rodolphus, and his brother Rabastan.
Through a half-open, intricately carved wooden door, he glimpsed their figures seated around a round table crafted from obsidian, strewn with parchment scrolls and empty goblets.
Bellatrix's trademark Black family dark hair hung in disarray, and a fresh-looking wound marred her right cheek near the corner of her eye. Though it no longer bled, the mark remained a vivid crimson.
"—the Master will be displeased," Rodolphus said in a low, cautious tone. "We're ten Muggles short of the plan. If this continues…"
"Shut up!" Bellatrix cut him off with a shrill snarl, impatiently tossing her thick, dark curls. "Those filthy creatures keep dropping dead halfway through! They can't even handle Portkey travel—vomiting, fainting, collapsing like piles of sludge. Disgusting!"
"What are you trying to say, Rodolphus?" Her voice quivered as her fingers brushed the wound on her face. "Do you think I want to face the Master with failure?"
"Enough, both of you," Rabastan drawled from where he leaned against the fireplace, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "I told you Muggles are laughably inferior. They can't even cope with basic magical transport." His gaunt face twisted in disgust. "Fragile as insects. Can the Master truly rely on such worthless trash?"
At that moment, a soft pop sounded behind Dumbledore, followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
A Death Eater wearing a silver mask steadied himself, clutching a Portkey. A group of unconscious Muggles materialized in the center of the corridor.
Dumbledore retreated a few steps, melting into the shadows, watching as the Death Eater roughly dragged the magically bound, insensate Muggles past him and into the hall.
It was a middle-aged Muggle couple and their daughter. All three were deathly pale, eyes shut tight, the young girl's mouth stained with traces of vomit.
"Another batch," the Death Eater reported gruffly to Bellatrix upon entering. "This is my fourth lot today. Two more days, and we'll meet the Master's quota."
"Take them below," Rodolphus ordered with a dismissive wave, his face contorted in revulsion. "And make sure they're alive—at least until we ship them off. No more rotting corpses like last time."
The Death Eater hauled the unconscious Muggles toward a narrow, shadowy passageway on the far side of the hall. Dumbledore noted how, when one Muggle let out a faint moan, the Death Eater promptly silenced them with a Stunning Spell.
Once the Death Eater vanished down the passage, Bellatrix's voice dropped to a fervent whisper, her eyes glinting with fanatic zeal. "Don't you see? The Master needs so many Muggles because he's building an army—an army of Inferi!" Her voice trembled with excitement, her fingers twisting together unconsciously.
"Inferi…" Rabastan mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "That does suit the Master's style. Imagine it—hundreds, thousands of undead swarming the Ministry. Even if they're frail individually, they'll tear through the Ministry's officials. It'll usher in a new era for pure-blood wizards!"
"The Ministry?" Bellatrix interrupted with a cruel smile. "No, my dear brother, I'd rather the Master take Hogwarts first! That meddling old fool of a headmaster keeps defying him. It's infuriating."
"And…" Her fingers grazed the wound on her face again, her eyes gleaming with a deranged hatred. "I have a charming friend still there." She ground her teeth. "I'd love to visit Hogwarts as a teacher before he graduates, to give him some… proper instruction."
"A daily private lesson," she giggled, her laughter chilling. "I'll make him regret being born. I'll have him begging me to rip out his entrails and feed them to the Giant Squid to end his misery…"
Bellatrix's voice trailed off into a bone-chilling murmur.
Rodolphus and Rabastan instinctively leaned back, exchanging uneasy glances.
Ever since Bellatrix returned from a failed mission to purge the Black family's traitors, bearing that scar, she'd been prone to outbursts of barely contained rage. Yet she refused to reveal who had marked her face—not even the Master had managed to erase the wound.
As the Lestranges continued fantasizing about their Master's reign, Dumbledore slipped silently toward the shadowy passageway on the opposite side.
Fawkes' feather grew warm in his pocket, continuing to guide him.
The passage sloped downward, growing steeper until it became a spiraling stone staircase.
Dumbledore moved like a shadow, hugging the walls. As he brushed past the Death Eater from earlier, he caught the reek of blood and sweat clinging to the man.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a dank, frigid dungeon. Torches were wedged into the rough stone walls, their flames casting dancing shadows.
Two masked Death Eaters stood in the center of the dungeon, processing the newly arrived Muggles. In a corner, seven or eight unconscious Muggles were piled haphazardly, some stacked atop one another like cargo.
"This one's stirring," one Death Eater remarked, hitting a twitching Muggle man with another Stunning Spell. "What a hassle. Why can't we just kill them? Save us the trouble of babysitting."
"Because the Master wants them alive," the other, apparently senior, Death Eater replied coldly. "Your job is to obey, not question."
"I'm just curious why it's such a pain," the first Death Eater shrugged. "Why not send all the Muggles straight to the destination? Why the stopover here? And where are we even sending them?"
"Caru," the senior Death Eater, Charles, whirled around, his wand pointed at his companion's throat. "You're my second partner since I got here. Know what happened to Sean Rivera?"
"No… I don't…" Caru stammered, visibly nervous. "Hey, relax, Charles."
"Sean was curious, just like you," Charles hissed. "So he followed a batch of Muggles. And then? No one ever saw him again. The Master says curiosity is a dangerous thing. So, I'll ask you once more—any more questions?" He waved his wand meaningfully.
"N-no," Caru shook his head quickly, his eyes wide with fear behind the mask.
Dumbledore observed silently, his mind piecing together the puzzle.
By now, the dungeon held over a dozen Muggles. The two Death Eaters began chaining them together with a rusty iron chain, ensuring their limbs touched.
Once satisfied, Charles carefully withdrew a parchment-wrapped object from his robes, handling it as though it were dangerous.
Peeling back the parchment, he revealed a battered tin tea canister.
Charles thrust the canister into a Muggle's hand, and it began to glow with a blinding blue light.
As the Portkey activated, Dumbledore darted from the shadows, lightly placing a hand on the outermost Muggle's shoulder.
A sharp tug yanked at his navel, and a dizzying whirl enveloped him, his long beard and hair whipping wildly in the wind.
When his feet hit solid ground, Dumbledore moved with the agility of a much younger man. He released the Muggle's shoulder and ducked aside, wand already in hand, scanning his surroundings warily.
He immediately sensed the abnormality of this place—a strange, oppressive constraint. Apparition was impossible here, and even Fawkes' teleportation might be restricted.
The dungeon's stale air was gone. Dumbledore now breathed fresh, salty air, like sea breeze, but tainted with a hint of decay.
The atmosphere was silent and cold, broken only by the occasional groans of the Muggles echoing off the rock walls.
He stood on the shore of a vast black lake, its surface stretching endlessly into the distance. Above, the cavern's ceiling vanished into darkness.
Far off, seemingly at the lake's center, a faint, eerie green glow shimmered, reflected in the still, lifeless water. Beyond that glow and an approaching orange light floating toward him, the darkness was absolute.
As the orange light neared, Dumbledore saw it was the wand glow of a pale, emaciated wizard. The wizard's robes were tattered, and he trembled as he dragged the unconscious Muggles toward the lake's edge.
Dumbledore held his breath. The wizard pulled the Muggles to the water, then drew a silver dagger inscribed with runes from his robes. The blade gleamed ominously in the green light.
"Bodies… more blood is needed…" the wizard muttered. "The Master needs more guardians…"
As he raised the dagger, Dumbledore pointed his wand from behind.
The silver dagger and the wizard's wand flew from his grasp, landing in Dumbledore's hands.
The wizard spun around, revealing a gaunt, almost skeletal face. His sunken eyes, clouded with fear and confusion, stared at Dumbledore.
"Who…" he rasped, a flicker of hope in his voice. "Did the Master send you to replace me? I've… I've already completed thirty-seven."
"Perhaps you should answer that question," Dumbledore said, his form materializing fully from the air.
"Professor Dumbledore!" A spark of recognition lit the wizard's eyes. "Do you remember me? I'm Sean Rivera, Ravenclaw." His voice dropped to a whisper. "No, you shouldn't be here… No one can leave… No one…" He began to sob, blood seeping from his cracked lips.
"Sean," Dumbledore said, keeping his wand trained on him. "Why are these Muggles being turned into Inferi? What is your Master planning?"
"It's their honor," Sean cackled hysterically, pointing toward the green glow. "Look! They're all awaiting rebirth!"
Dumbledore followed his gaze. Beneath the green light, the lake's calm surface seemed to conceal countless pale, humanoid shapes suspended in the depths.
At that moment, a blinding white archway materialized on the dark cavern wall.
Dumbledore spun around.
The white light faded, revealing a doorway.
Lord Voldemort's pale, serpentine face emerged from the darkness. In his hand, he held a struggling, bloodied wizard, his crimson eyes fixed coldly on Dumbledore.
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