— — — — — —
Tom finally halted the automated corpse-fishing. A glowing orb hovered in his hand, lighting up the cave so he could get a clear look at Regulus's face.
The boy was in his teens, looking about seventy percent like Sirius, but death had stripped almost all the flesh from his features. His skin had turned a bluish green. His eyes stared blankly ahead, and his tightly bound body kept struggling, driven endlessly by the curse, trying to attack the intruders.
Sirius stared at that familiar yet distant face, dazed. Memories he'd kept buried for years broke free, flooding back all at once.
He and Regulus hadn't always been at each other's throats. When they were young, they'd been close. Regulus was his constant little shadow, calling "big brother" dozens of times a day.
Things only fell apart after Sirius went to Hogwarts and got sorted into Gryffindor. From then on, they drifted farther and farther apart.
Regulus grew up exactly as their parents wanted: perfect manners, perfect social graces, perfect pure-blood ideals. Everything Sirius rejected. After a few heated fights, the two became strangers living under the same roof.
Regulus died in a muddled, confusing way. But it had been the height of the war with the Death Eaters. Sirius had wanted to go home and find answers, only to be thrown out the moment he stepped inside. Not long after, his mother fell gravely ill and passed away, taking all answers with her. The whole thing turned into a permanent unsolved mystery.
But Kreacher's complaints, his parents' scolding, and Regulus's death had finally forced Sirius—who had never been good at thinking—to understand something.
Regulus had carried the burden meant for the eldest son. He bore their parents' expectations. And it was Sirius's rebellion that had pushed Regulus into becoming a Death Eater… and dying for it.
Tears slid silently down Sirius's face. When grief hits hardest, you can't scream. You can only breathe in broken, soundless gasps.
The cave was quiet. Lupin wrapped an arm tightly around Sirius, patting his shoulder. No one else said a word. Comfort, in moments like this, meant silence.
Newt's expression was complicated. Regulus's choice and tragic end reminded him of Leta, his almost-sister-in-law, who had also gambled her life for a sliver of hope.
Tom was also silent. He knew perfectly well he wasn't a good person. "Questionable morals" didn't begin to cover it.
And with his results-first mindset, Regulus's actions hadn't actually accomplished anything in the grand scheme of things. But he would never belittle someone who died for their ideals.
...
No one knew how long it took, but eventually Sirius steadied his breathing.
"Sorry," he whispered, glancing at everyone. "I wasted your time."
"It's fine," Tom said. "But now we dragged all the Inferi from this side. We need to get to the island. You and Lupin can stay here."
Lupin nodded. He knew they wouldn't be much help in what came next.
Nicolas carefully cut down the cocoon containing Regulus. And Sirius accepted it with both hands, solemnly, and stepped aside with Lupin.
...
The group moved deeper into the cave, sometimes called the Crystal Cave. (The name comes from the films, not canon—the filmmakers drew inspiration from a salt crystal cave in Frankfurt when designing the set.)
Even though Tom had already hauled up a lot of Inferi, Voldemort's safeguards didn't stop there.
The entire lake worked like a massive altar. Anyone pulled underwater would be overwhelmed by a constant supply of dark energy and turned into an Inferius themselves.
The ceiling of the cave also carried enchantments that blocked all forms of flight. And with the dark energy interfering, even Fawkes couldn't fully use his abilities here.
Every layer of the design was aimed at one person: Albus Dumbledore. After all, in Voldemort's mind, only this old wizard posed a real threat.
Tom sometimes thought Voldemort was incredibly stupid. If it were him, he would have abandoned the whole UK and gone elsewhere to develop his talents. But not only did Voldemort fail to do that, he wasted most of his time on Horcruxes instead of honing his truly remarkable dark magic abilities.
"Really amazing."
Tom tilted his head, staring at the cave ceiling. He was tempted to see if he could fly, but not until the lake's danger was fully neutralized. He wasn't about to risk his life recklessly.
"Professor, here… here… and here."
Tom pointed at several spots around the cave. "These are the cores of Voldemort's spells. Break them and the flight restriction disappears. The lake will still need time to purify itself, though."
Nicolas's gaze followed Tom's hand. He had been examining the surroundings earlier too and had identified a few suspicious points, but nowhere near as many as Tom had—and certainly not with this accuracy.
"Tom, I'm starting to suspect you've been here before," the old alchemist joked.
"I'm just sensitive to magic." Tom grinned.
His magic-sight was basically a hard counter to trap constructs. Weak points lit up like beacons.
"Professor, time for you to show off a little."
Tom shot out a handful of glowing spheres and positioned them over the places he'd highlighted. Ever since they entered the cave, Dumbledore hadn't lifted a finger. Tom couldn't allow that. Elderly wizards needed exercise. It was good for overall health.
Dumbledore gave him a helpless smile. Tom could easily solve this himself, yet insisted on making him do it. That boy simply refused to lose out on anything.
Dumbledore and Nicolas murmured through several ideas, then settled on a plan. The Elder Wand slid into Dumbledore's hand and several streaks of golden light shot from the tip, racing toward the marked spots.
No explosions followed. The golden light sank into the stone walls. A moment later, the entire cave began to tremble, enough to make them worry the place might collapse.
Fortunately it didn't. Sickly green magic was forced out of the walls instead. Dumbledore didn't let it escape. More golden mist poured from the Elder Wand and wrapped around the expelled magic.
Tom watched closely. Dumbledore was using an ancient purifying charm, one that didn't exist in modern spellbooks and had to be cast through old runic forms.
The man really was the ultimate all-rounder. From black magic to white magic, transfiguration to ancient runes, he had mastered everything under the sun.
Tom tossed out a few transformed birds. This time they flitted over the lake without issue.
"Looks like we did it," Dumbledore said.
"I brought brooms," Newt said, pulling several from his case and handing them out. Nicolas refused, choosing his flying carpet instead. It was far more comfortable than a broom.
Tom immediately hopped on with him. He'd never ridden a flying carpet before, and the kid in him couldn't help but imagine it as Aladdin's magic carpet.
So in the end only Dumbledore and Newt rose slowly toward the island on brooms.
"This feels nice," Tom said from the carpet, perfectly steady. "Not much of a falling sensation. More like sitting on a couch."
Then he shamelessly added, "Do you have more? Give me two. I want to gift Daph one."
Ignoring Tom, Nicolas turned to Dumbledore. "Voldemort's no-flight spell comes from a special Black Magic. I once saw the ritual in a tribal record. It requires live sacrifices. The more people offered, the stronger the effect."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but his voice cooled. "Decades ago there used to be a village near here. One day it supposedly suffered a plague… at least that was the official story. No survivors."
Newt and Nicolas both looked down at the lake, each arriving at the same conclusion.
"Tom… you don't have anything to say?" Dumbledore finally asked when he saw the boy's complete lack of reaction. He didn't believe Tom had missed the implication.
"Professor, you should read more Muggle history."
Tom turned away from the carpet's edge. "A village's population might sound horrifying in the wizarding world, but in Muggle wars that number is nothing. During wartime, more people die every minute than that entire village put together."
"I agree Voldemort lost all trace of humanity, but I'm not surprised. The world has seen far worse than him."
That was Tom's view. Stripped of raw power, Voldemort didn't even rank in the world's top tier of monsters.
"True…" Nicolas murmured, almost to himself. "Life really is terribly fragile."
He remembered the era he had been born into, the Black Death ravaging Europe, entire towns wiped out. Six hundred years of watching humanity die in waves. Voldemort was hardly exceptional.
Newt thought of Jacob's descriptions of battlefields and suddenly felt that wizards, for all their might, were tiny things in a vast world.
"No matter what, we should treat life with respect."
Dumbledore felt painfully tired. He had planned to turn this into a moral lesson, drown Tom in sentimental wisdom. Instead the boy's worldview was clearer than his own. How was he supposed to lecture someone like that?
...
Fortunately, they reached the center of the lake quickly. A small stone platform rose from the water, and at its center sat a basin filled with green liquid. It was the Emerald Potion, also known as the Drink of Despair. As the name suggests, it induced extreme fear, delirium, intense stomach pain, and unquenchable thirst in anyone who drank it.
And at the very bottom of the lake lay the locket Regulus had hidden.
As soon as the group landed, the stone platform became crowded at once.
Voldemort clearly never imagined so many people would make it here and reach the Horcrux.
"..."
Dumbledore conjured a cup, scooped up the glowing green liquid, and tipped it out over the lake. The liquid vanished before it hit the water and the basin instantly refilled.
Dumbledore tapped around the basin with his wand, frowning slightly. "I could destroy it by force, but the chain reaction would collapse the entire cave. The other option is to drink all of it, like Regulus and Kreacher."
"Try transfiguration," Tom suggested.
Dumbledore nodded and conjured a goat on top of the basin. It managed a few mouthfuls before collapsing with a thud and reverting to stone.
"Ordinary animals can't survive long enough to finish it," Dumbledore concluded. "We'd need a large magical creature. A dragon or a graphorn maybe, but none of those could ever reach the platform."
Dumbledore was now even more aware of Voldemort's methods. More devious and cruel than he'd expected, but still built on manipulating people.
"Voldemort could never imagine someone like Regulus," Newt said. "That's the fatal flaw in all of this."
"No need to overthink it." Nicolas circled the basin and tapped three nodes with his wand.
"Albus, try again now."
.
.
.