"Right then, off we go."
Dumbledore's voice was firm and resolute.
But Dylan, standing by his side, gave a silent shake of his head. He knew all too well that the Horcrux that had been in the rift was long gone. Sirius Black's younger brother, Regulus, had already taken the thing and hidden it away in the Black family's ancestral home at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. But Dylan wasn't about to say a word of that.
Without a second thought, all three of them Disapparated, instantly appearing at the base of the cliff on a bare, jagged rock. The surface was rough and speckled with damp sea salt, and it felt a bit sharp underfoot. Around them, the sea churned, pushed by the wind, crashing against the rocks and sending up a fine spray. The icy mist floated on the breeze, dampening their trouser legs and shoes.
"Looks like we'll have to swim," Moody grumbled, scanning the water with a furrowed brow. He'd spent his life fighting dark wizards and knew better than to waste magic. No one was foolish enough to try and part the sea like some old legend; it was a ridiculous notion and would consume an incredible amount of power. Even though this bit of water wasn't too large, they'd need all the magical strength they could save for whatever traps Voldemort had left behind.
"I imagine you two don't mind a little dip," Dumbledore said cheerfully, leading the way to the edge of the rock. Without a moment's hesitation, he placed his hands on the surface, bent his knees, and slipped into the water with surprising agility for a man his age. He held his wand in his mouth, spread his arms, and started to swim with a perfect breaststroke toward the deep crevice in the cliff face. His strokes were even and powerful, and he made barely a splash, a clear sign he was an expert swimmer.
Though it was late summer, the water near the shore was still quite chilly. Dylan took a deep breath at the water's edge and shivered as he dipped his foot in, the cold giving his skin a slight sting. He pursed his lips and subtly cast a charm to wrap magic around himself. He then followed Dumbledore into the water, his arms churning quickly to keep up.
After a short swim, the crevice widened into a dark passage. No sunlight reached this far, and the air was even damper and colder than outside, feeling heavy and moist in their lungs. The walls of the passage were covered in a thick, slick muck, and the space between them was only about three feet. The light from Dumbledore's wand, which he still held in his mouth, occasionally flickered. The light wasn't harsh; it was a soft, warm white that lit the way without drawing too much attention from any potential lurking dangers. In the wandlight, the muck on the walls glistened, looking particularly slimy.
Finally, Dumbledore stopped swimming, propped himself up on the bottom of the passage, and slowly stood. Water dripped from his silvery hair, and his grey robes clung to his body, shimmering with moisture. Just ahead of him, a set of stone stairs, covered in moss, snaked upwards to the entrance of a wide cave.
Dylan followed him out of the water, quickly gathering his magic to cast a drying charm and a water-repelling spell. A faint golden glow instantly enveloped him. The water on his robes evaporated, and his hair became dry and fluffy again. Once he was completely dry, he walked over to Dumbledore and joined him on the stairs. Dumbledore was taking no chances with Voldemort's handiwork, paying close attention to every single step.
Even with his charms, Dylan felt a chill creep up from his collar and settle deep in his bones. The temperature here was unnaturally low; though it was summer, it felt like a cold autumn night. A damp, icy wind blew from the depths of the cave, stinging their faces. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself.
He looked from side to side, noting the thick, inescapable scent of Dark Arts lingering in the air. When he breathed it in, it felt like tiny bits of ice mixed with a cold, rotting quality. Even the muck on the cave walls seemed to have hardened from the magic, and he could feel an evil power pulsing within it just by brushing it with his fingertips. It was an unrestrained, blatant sort of magic that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Yet, to Dylan, this kind of power wasn't repulsive at all; in fact, it was quite comforting.
After climbing a dozen or so steps, Dylan and Dumbledore stood in the center of the cave. Both raised their wands, and the light from their tips spread out, illuminating the rough walls and uneven ceiling. Dumbledore slowly turned, his eyes scanning every crack in the walls and every dangling stalactite with intense focus. After a moment, he stopped and gave a small nod, clearly confirming that this was the place they were looking for. He knew Voldemort must have left traps here to protect his Horcrux.
"Professor, with moves like that, you've certainly still got it," Dylan said to Dumbledore with genuine admiration. "You're over a hundred years old and still so nimble."
He wasn't just being polite. Dumbledore's strokes in the water had been steady and powerful. He hadn't fumbled or hesitated when getting out of the water; he'd moved with an ease that belied his age. It was truly a rare sight for a wizard of his years.
Just as he said this, they heard a heavy, laboured breathing from behind them, punctuated by a string of curses. Dylan turned to see Moody leaning on the handrail, inching his way up the stairs. His face was flushed, his forehead was slick with sweat, and he was muttering under his breath.
"You two... couldn't you wait for me? Dumbledore, at your age, what's the rush... and you, lad, just following along!"
The retired Auror was clearly annoyed at being left behind. Dylan understood why. This was the result of a long period of inactivity, much like a student who spent the whole summer indoors and got tired after the slightest bit of exercise.
A cheerful smile spread across Dumbledore's face at Dylan's compliment, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. "You know, I have you to thank for it," he said to Dylan, his voice light.
Dylan was stunned, raising a quizzical eyebrow and tilting his head. What did he have to do with this?
As if recalling a happy memory, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "A couple of Christmases ago, you gave me a Pensieve rock, didn't you?"
"I've been practising with it every day without fail."
Dylan's mind finally caught up. He'd had so many gifts to prepare each year, and some of the more common ones were hard to give out. So he'd created a bunch of strange things, like the Pensieve rock that taught people to do Tai Chi.
He never expected it to actually be useful! And that Dumbledore would actually do the exercises? How very interesting.
Just then, a "creak, creak" sound, like wood scraping against stone, came from behind them. Dylan turned and saw Moody limping toward them, leaning on a dark brown walking stick. His wooden leg and staff were soaked and covered in bits of seaweed. Each step produced a sharp, grating sound as the fake leg and staff scraped against the smooth stone.
"You two did that on purpose, didn't you? Knowing I've got a bad leg and still going so fast! Couldn't you have waited?" Moody stopped beside them, fuming as he wiped water from his face with his sleeve. "Now I'm completely soaked. If we could have just Disapparated here, I wouldn't have had to suffer like this!"
Dumbledore's gaze fell on Moody's false leg, and a flash of memory crossed his face. He remembered Moody telling him that the leg was a piece of magical alchemy, stronger and more agile than a real leg and immune to cramps. It had helped Moody greatly during his time fighting the Dark Arts.
Having known Moody for so many years, Dumbledore understood that this was just his way of grumbling about his retirement being interrupted. A small smile played on Dumbledore's lips. "I seem to recall you taught Apparition to the older students at Hogwarts for a time," he said playfully. "Have you forgotten the three D's?"
Without waiting for Moody to retort, Dumbledore continued. "Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. You can't be missing any of them. From the cliff above, we couldn't see what was inside the cave. Without a clear destination, there's no way you could have successfully Apparated here. If you'd tried, you might have ended up halfway in the sea! You'd have to hope the local sharks weren't hungry to make it out alive!"
"Hmph, I know that already..." Moody, left speechless, could only let out a frustrated huff. He unhooked a copper flask from his belt, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. A satisfied sigh escaped him, and the anger on his face slowly melted away, replaced by his usual calm demeanour.
Dylan had assumed Moody was drinking something strong, like whiskey. People who spent their lives fighting often used spirits to soothe their nerves. But Moody's next words made him stop dead in his tracks, filled with a sense of utter shock.
"Honestly, only a Calming Draught can make me talk to a 'blasted old bee' like you without getting in a fight." Moody lowered his flask and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. A flicker of lingering frustration remained in his voice, but he was far more composed than before.
Dylan's mind raced. Moody's flask contained a Calming Draught, not firewhisky? But on second thought, it made perfect sense. As a highly experienced former Auror, Moody would have been incredibly disciplined about his physical condition. The chance of him becoming a drunk was slim. Drinking alcohol would seriously damage his mind, and his job required him to be constantly clear-headed to assess dangerous situations and fight the Dark Arts; a single mistake could cost him his life.
Even so, a new layer of respect for Moody dawned on Dylan. This wasn't just about his professionalism; it was about the Calming Draught itself. The potion was incredibly bitter, with a metallic tang that could make an ordinary person sick to their stomach. But Moody was drinking it like it was a common beverage. Dylan had seen him take at least five swigs in the past few hours without so much as a grimace.
Moody's years as an Auror had made his senses sharp, and he quickly noticed the surprise in Dylan's eyes. He raised an eyebrow, a hint of impatience in his voice. "What's that look for? Don't think I drink this every day. Back before I retired, I'd only take a couple of sips before a fight, just to keep my mind sharp..."
He trailed off, then slowly turned in a circle. His fake wooden leg made a soft noise on the stone. Moody's bright blue magical eye spun frantically, scanning every inch of the cave, not missing a single crack in the walls.
After a moment, he spoke again. "There are signs of Dark Arts everywhere. This must be the place we're looking for, right?"
"Sadly, Alastor, this is only the antechamber, the entryway," Dumbledore said slowly, a grave tone entering his voice. "We have to go deeper inside... What's in front of us now isn't a natural obstacle, but a trap Voldemort himself set all those years ago."
Dumbledore raised his wand, and the light from its tip grew brighter, illuminating the depths of the cave. He walked to the wall and lightly brushed the rough surface with his right hand, as if trying to feel something. Then, he lowered his head and began to mutter in a strange tone, his voice quiet yet clear enough for both Dylan and Moody to hear.
Dylan held his breath, straining to make out the words. He quickly realised Dumbledore was speaking in Ancient Runes. He deciphered the general meaning: "Show your path, reveal your secrets."
With every word Dumbledore spoke, the sense of dark magic in the walls grew stronger. To Dylan, the shadowy magic in the stone seemed to awaken like a wild beast, becoming more and more active. It almost formed into a gaping serpent, its icy forked tongue flicking out, ready to strike Dumbledore at any moment. But Dumbledore showed no fear, walking slowly around the left side of the cave, circling the walls twice.