Chapter 275. Inferi and Fiendfyre
The next second, Wesson's feet were already on the slick, wet rock. The cold sea wind struck his face, carrying a salty, fishy tang.
Albus Dumbledore stood beside him. At some point his nightgown had been exchanged for a deep-purple travelling wizard's robe.
With no time to marvel at Dumbledore's speed of changing, Wesson began to look around.
Not far away, a grim cave yawned like a great beast's bloody maw, waiting for prey to step in of its own accord.
"That's the place," Kreacher said, drawing in his neck.
Dumbledore fixed his gaze on the cave and, after a moment's thought, said, "In fact, Voldemort leaves traces in all his actions. When Tom was in the orphanage, he once coerced two children to enter a terrifying cave—perhaps this is it."
"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Wesson said.
"But that is Tom's way," Dumbledore sighed. "He has always been like that…"
At that moment, the waves slammed hard against the shore. The cold spray soaked the robes of all three and cut Dumbledore short.
"We must make haste. This place will soon be flooded by the tide." Dumbledore said no more. The tip of the Elder Wand glowed with a soft light as he strode briskly toward the cave mouth; Wesson and Kreacher followed at his heels.
The rock underfoot was treacherously slick; every step required extra care.
As they drew nearer to the entrance, the air grew laden with the stench of decay, as if some invisible force were resisting their approach.
It ought to be a specialised Repelling Charm, one that could affect even wizards.
Of course, for wizards of Wesson's and Dumbledore's calibre, it was no problem at all.
Under Wesson's robes, the Devil's Snare crawled restlessly; of late it had been especially sensitive to the taint of Dark magic.
As they pressed on, a smooth rock face soon barred their way; it seemed there was no path forward.
"It requires blood to open," Dumbledore said softly. "Voldemort always had a taste for the theatrical."
"I always carry my own blood," Wesson said, taking a small red bottle from his inner pocket, the dark-red liquid inside plainly blood.
Dumbledore looked slightly taken aback, uncertain why Wesson would carry blood on his person—something only vampires were likely to do in the wizarding world.
"I fear that won't do," he said with a shake of his head. "It must be fresh blood. Once kept in a bottle, blood becomes a dead thing and loses its connection to the wizard…"
Before he had finished speaking, Wesson had already splashed the bottle's contents onto the rock face.
The blood trickled slowly down the stone. Suddenly, a fissure appeared within the rock, widening by degrees until it formed an archway.
Wesson spread his hands. "Looks like you were wrong."
Dumbledore blinked. "I am not always right. In fact, I am wrong more often than not."
He raised his wand as he spoke, the light at its tip brightening the depthless tunnel.
They stepped through the arch; behind them, the stone door sealed itself without a sound, shutting them in the cave entirely.
"We can blast it open on the way out," Wesson said, rapping the wall. "But I'm not sure the cave won't collapse."
The air was thick with brine and rot. They continued, and the tunnel sloped steadily downwards. No one knew how long they walked before the passage suddenly opened up: a vast underground lake spread before them, its black waters unnervingly still, not a ripple to be seen. In the middle lay a tiny island, so distant it was barely visible.
"This is the place!" Kreacher trembled all over.
"There are things below," Dumbledore said, staring at the lake. "Inferi. Many of them."
"What do we do?"
Wesson asked, only to notice Dumbledore watching him.
"Think of something, Wesson," Dumbledore said with a twinkle. "How did you deal with that Horcrux before? I should think these things, already dead once, won't be able to stop you."
Wesson could only sigh—Dumbledore had, it seemed, handed the problem straight to him.
"I can't promise anything," he said helplessly. "But I'll try."
With that, Wesson drew his Flamewood Wand—since it had already been exposed before Dumbledore, using it again would do no harm.
But before that…
"Off you go, child," Wesson said to the Devil's Snare coiled around his arm and shivering. "Don't be afraid—those monsters won't trouble a plant."
The Devil's Snare hesitated, twisting its tendrils; under Wesson's encouragement, it finally reached slowly toward the black surface.
At the first touch of the tendril, eerie ripples spread across the water. Just as Wesson had expected, the Inferi made no move. The Devil's Snare slipped nimbly through the lake and soon ensnared a pale figure on the bottom—its presence, and nothing else, set it apart.
A young wizard in a tattered black robe was hauled slowly out of the water. Though Regulus Black's face was pallid and swollen, it was still faintly recognisable.
Kreacher let out a heart-rending cry at once. "Master Regulus!"
The house-elf threw himself forward, trembling as he stroked his master's icy cheek.
Wesson had just opened his mouth to warn Kreacher to keep back when the Inferius that had been Regulus snapped its eyes open, revealing clouded white orbs, and reached both hands for Kreacher's throat.
Fortunately, the Devil's Snare had been poised to act. Its tendrils tightened in an instant, binding Regulus's arms fast.
A bestial roar tore from Regulus's throat, echoing through the cavern; the entire lake boiled at once.
From the water, hundreds of pale arms punched through the surface, and the Inferi surged toward the shore like a tide.
Dumbledore swept the Elder Wand; a shield sprang up around the three of them.
But even as the shield fell into place, Wesson had already brandished his wand; flames burst forth.
Fiendfyre swelled and rolled, becoming a savage dragon of fire that wove through the horde of Inferi.
In an instant, the whole underground lake became a hell of Fiendfyre.
The Inferi writhed and screamed in the blaze and crumbled to ash, powerless to resist; even the Inferi on the lakebed caught fire.
Water?
To Fiendfyre it meant nothing; Fiendfyre devoured certain things whole.
"Wesson!" Dumbledore's voice cut through the heat, edged with urgency. "Keep it under control!"
Judging the timing right, Wesson raised the Flamewood Wand high; the tip glimmered, and the rampaging Fiendfyre seemed to catch a signal. It recoiled at speed; the dragon of flame hissed in frustration, but was forced to yield to its master's will, coiling into a fiery serpent and plunging back into the wand.
The flames dwindled. A strange silence fell over the cavern.
"Problem solved," Wesson said with a shrug.
Dumbledore wiped his brow. To be quite honest, he had been a hair's breadth from calling Fawkes. The commotion Wesson had stirred up was far beyond what he had expected.
After all, Fiendfyre was hardly some mild little parlour trick.
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