XXVIII

The last stream of black rippled through the water. Dumbledore was beside him, keeping to himself quietly. The sound of venomous hissing ceased as the water returned to its normal silvery-sheen.

His hair was completely dry, his eyes completely absent of tears, yet there was the wetness of nervous sweat on his face, dripping slowly down his neck. There were two new Horcruxes he knew of, but not how to find them. There were a slew of hints, infinite possibilities and so much more, yet he did not know where to start. What's more was that the ring in that appeared on Morphin's finger in the first of the memories that Dumbledore showed him were too familiar for comfort. He swore that he could still hear the sly hissing in his ears. The hairs on his body stood on edge.

"Severus," Dumbledore put a steady hand on his shoulder, "I believe that you should sit down for a moment." He placed a chair behind Severus and lowered him down to it.

Time had stopped somewhere in the process of things. Severus became incoherent, and no matter what effort Dumbledore tried to put in, nothing had seemed to bring Severus back. Dumbledore let out shallow breath. His face was haggard; he looked as aged as he had felt. The candles on the gold sconces had begun to flicker on and off as the night drew on.

Helga Hufflepuff's cup…The Gaunt Ring…But where are they?

Severus' mouth was agape, his lips pale. His nearly red tongue brushed over his crooked, slightly yellow teeth. He slumped into the chair. It wasn't going to be easy to find them, he knew this. "When do we go to look for them?"

"As soon as we can find a trace of where one of them could be hiding; then we will look for them."

"The ring…It's in the Gaunt cabin. It must be. That's where you had gone last time, before you returned with…a curse set upon you." He looked up at Dumbledore. "You mustn't come with me. I must keep you from your temptations Dumbledore."

"Then leave Saturday at dusk to retrieve it." Dumbledore pondered for a moment. "Be careful Severus. That stone is very…tempting." There was lust in Dumbledore's eyes. It was something that Severus had never witnessed in Dumbledore.

"The Hallows are not as important as defeating a monster," said Severus before he left Dumbledore to his lethal fantasies.

Severus' eyes were fixed on the repugnant door of the shabby cabin. A hideous dried snake with red, beady eyes was nailed to the door. The door itself was composed of rotting wood and age old moss growing between the wood and bird droppings were on it. The windows of the cabin were broken at the panes. He could barely see the rats and mice mingling inside of the cabin, making their home out of the dilapidated building.

He flicked his wand beneath his robes. There was a muggle town nearby. He wasn't going to risk any sighting of his ability to produce magic. He went through the list of every ward and possible trap that Voldemort could have set on this place. Quietly, he muttered a few incantations in a sort of runic language that had died long ago.

He grabbed the door handle slowly, and twisted it a millimeter at a time. The door opened and the handle fell into his hand. He knew that any sort of magic would be rendered useless after he stepped over the threshold. The minds of maniacs were easy enough to decipher, to him.

He stepped into the house, only to dodge three silver arrows which were shot at the place where he was just standing. He stood still, breathing in the rancid air of the appallingly grotesque interior of the cabin. He had seen the filth of it before, but this was…indescribable through adjectives alone. The rotting wooden countertops were covered by molding, mostly petrified food as well as grubs larger than any one of his fingers. The floor boards were broken and covered by mildew and wet dirt. Lavender-tinted mushrooms grew out of the corner where piles of dung lied thickly piled up and leaning against the yellow, sun stained and archaic walls. Throughout the house there were dead animals, particularly raccoons whose carcasses were rotting, their bones tearing through their molded flesh, which had long ago died because there was no supply of food in the vicinity, nor a way to escape without the use of magic.

He covered his mouth as he tried not to vomit on the already vomit colored floor. The urge was too great and he bent over, holding onto himself, and vomited. He did not know how he would ever get out of this place. His eyes burned; acidic tears began to dot his cheeks. Quickly, he ruffled though his cloak and found a long, silk handkerchief. He used it as a thick mask which he placed over his mouth and nose. It could only take away half of the rancid stench.

A low moaning noise came from behind a doorway and out came a bearded, semi-translucent specter. He had a heady of busy, uncut hair that looked to be the same texture as his beard. His face would barely be seen, but you could make out his blank eyes hidden behind his bangs. His ragged clothing was composed of a straw-like fabric shirt, and suspenders covered by what seemed to be caked blood. There was a powder blue mist coming from the tips of its bare toes. Its mouth opened; he had no teeth.

"Morphin?" Snape inquired.

He hissed out something, but when he realized that Severus was incapable of understanding, he spoke clearly, "Yeah, that's my name."

"I was rather inclined to believe that you do not know how to speak English."

"Ghosts 'ave certain privileges, ya' see." He whooshed past Severus, and then circled around him intimidatingly. He stopped to face Severus. They were nose to nose. "Why are ya' here?"

Severus gulped loudly. He knew that he would never be able to trust a shady fellow, much less a mysterious and impertinent specter such as this one. The intangible Morphin flew through Severus; a chill ran through his spine.

"Well?" he whispered into Severus' ear. "Got any answers for me?"

"It's none of your business. Go off and haunt some other corner of this dingy place."

"Oho, yehr here for the ring, aren't ya?" He flew to the face Severus this time. "But you can't 'ave it. It'll kill yah, yah know that boy?"

"And if I haven't a reason to live, or a reason to find one?"

"I would pity ya. Yehr damn right a fool to be livin' then, don't ya think?"

He chose not to further converse with Morphin; it was an insipid waste of time, in his opinion. Ignoring the angered specter behind him, he proceeded to find the ring. He knew it would not be hidden amongst the filth of most of the rooms of this house. Tom Riddle would have wanted it to be hidden somewhere…safe—somewhere worthy of an object such as a Horcrux.

He climbed up a rickety stair case, holding the rusted iron rail with his gloved hand. The stairs collapsed one after one with each step, but he kept going through the house. He felt the air thicken as he went further up the stairs. He flew backwards as some archaic charm was set off. He was hanging off the rail by his fingertips. The rail was all that was left.

Feeling no magic within him, he shimmied his way up the rail, moving his hands slowly as possible. He felt water beneath his feet. When he looked down he saw a greenish sludge filling the floor of the home; everything touching it burned and then disintegrated. He quickened his pace, sweat forming on his brow. Then a stroke of genius hit him, he flung his feet onto the rail and slowly, slightly resembling a miserable crab, made his way to the upper level of the cabin. He looked to see that half way up the stair case, the sludge had stopped to seep into the bottom floor. Some sort of magic had held this house sturdily.

The upper floor, though not as dirty, was even more disheveled than the bottom. The taupe wallpaper was peeling and shredded. There were holes in the ceiling; sunlight escaped through these holes and glimmered on the glass scattered across the floor. He looked carefully, instinctively searching for the ring. He pushed every little thing aside with his feet. He looked through the cracks in between the floorboards, but it was not there.

After searching through the indescribably horrendous bathroom, he gasped for breath and leaned on a wall. There was an undulating vibration on the other side of the wall. He turned—something told him that it had to be there. There could be no other place. He salivated as he thought about what lied so close to him.

With an ivory pocket knife, he cut his fingers and spread his blood on the wall, but there was no secret door revealed. Instead, the wound burned with an unbelievable searing pain. He took the white silken handkerchief from his mouth and wrapped it around the wound. The blood on the wall disappeared within seconds. He felt delirious.

Fangs sank into his skin; the smooth poison ran through his veins within seconds. The feeling of an icy, dejected winter ran through his neck first, and then within less than a minute, his body felt as if it were a terribly carved ice statue.

He looked at his murderer, slithering away, following its master's undulating robes. The world was different, clearer, and more precise. He saw everything in a new light, yet went back to the old with the snap of his fingers.

A gasp escaped his thin lips. Reaching into a pocket that only he knew of, he pulled out a crystalline vial, more precious than anything he had every owned. In it was a gold liquid, glimmering sublimely for the bright sunlight was shining upon it, illuminating the pure genius of it. The contents of the bottle included the venom of the very species of his killer. He pressed his lips against the bottle for luck.

The wall afore him was full of crevasses; an ingenious idea had dawned upon him. Uncorking the bottle, he tipped it into the largest crack. Effortlessly, it slipped into each crack, not a single drop spilling. The volume of the liquid expanded, until finally, the entire wall was flowing with gold. The glowing ceased; the wall collapsed in jagged chunks.

Inside, there was a space unlike anything he had ever seen. Flecks of diamond-like gems were in the walls. There was a stair case, trailing lower and lower, into a deep, seemingly endless cavern. He walked down it uncertainly. He wobbled with each step. There was no rail for him to hold himself on.

A hundred steps later, there was a pressure in his ears, along with a high-pitched ringing. The air had grown musky, like a newly born forest. The muscles in his legs were cramping, but he held is stride.

He gulped once he saw the faint glimmering of a shining stone in the distance. He quickened his pace down the stairs. When he had reached the bottom, there was still about a quarter of a kilometer separating him from the Horcrux. He ran, faster than his legs could carry him. His hair blew; there was an odd, strong wind blowing. Then, five meters away from the ring, there was a vortex, swirling with granite and shrapnel, as well as a liquid he assumed to be either acid or poison.

His body felt as if a sheet of frost had developed over his skin, and so he collapsed onto the jagged floor, later curling up into the fetal position. The presence of a Dementor was thick in the air, but he knew that none was near this place. He could hear the cries Lily had cried in fifth year and the screams she had screamed on the night that Severus nearly died, no too long ago. Tears fell from his cheeks and pooled onto the floor soon enough. The feeling of his skin and emotions eroding quickly became present as time passed. He began to scream words; words that he had yelled long ago, pleading, trying to atone for the mistakes that he had made; words that he had so long ago wished to say—ones that he had intended for Dumbledore to hear, because he wasn't weak enough to stoop to a mission so low, a mission meant for scum like he used to be.

He wasn't ready to welcome death, though he had known very well that this could be a suicide mission. He did not intend to die, before Voldemort died first as a completely defenseless mortal. Yet he felt his will shrinking further and further, until, finally he felt depleted of everything. Though he could see everything, the world around him was varying shades of black. It was not a welcoming color.

He stared at the ring, so close to him, yet so out of reach.

Please, just for once, let me do something until the very end.

It was right then that he had thought of Lily, but not of the way she looked, nor about how she had made him feel, but how she made others live life in a better way. He thought about how her soul ignited every unlit match, so the world would shine a little brighter with each passing day. As he thought of her, his fingertips began to glow with an iridescent light, burning bright, burning hotter, till he felt his heart beating with the same hopes he had, had such a long time ago.

He got up, his fingers still glowing. Something otherworldly possessed him. He touched the vortex with his flowing fingers and particle by particle, it drifted away, until the pedestal holding the black ring was clearly visible. The pedestal was made out of gray marble, a red, silver-tasseled pillow holding the Gaunt ring, atop it.

With a handkerchief, he picked it up, bracing himself for whatever lied ahead. But nothing had happened. He climbed the staircase back up; all the while paranoia welled in his cavernous and seemingly infinite mind.

As he reached the top of the lengthy stair case, the house came off of its hinges. A low rumbling emanated from the bowels of the house. At first, there was only the noise, but soon followed the rocks coming down, chunks of the cabin falling in every possible place.

Severus ran toward the top of the stairs. He put the carefully wrapped ring into his pocket when saw what lied on the top floor. The roof was ready to collapse; remnants of what it used to be were already crashing onto the floor, cement particles and splintered wood heavily on it. Using quick thinking, he took a chair and stood up on it. He clutched his hands onto the largest whole in the ceiling and pulled himself up.

The house was still shaking, but much more than a few minutes before. He walked down the roof, hoping that with each step it wouldn't collapse under his feet. One of his feet made a hole in the roof, but he quickly pulled his foot out. At the edge of the roof, he looked down. It wasn't a tall house, but it was certainly tall enough for you to break a bone, if you were to jump from it. His magic was still disabled—it wouldn't return until he was a good three meters away from the home.

So he jumped, and when he did, it felt like success finally come in all of its bravura glory. The jump itself was not a simple thing. It was elaborate and well timed. As his feet touched the soft, muddy ground, the cabin had collapsed, dust scattering in the air, gleaming behind him.

It had been a struggle, just as all things are. But it was worth it. Would he do this time and time again? He was sure he would, if it meant taking the enigmatic killer one step closer to defenseless mortality. Knowing that what he had done was for the light, that he had actually done something, and not Harry Potter, was indescribable.

The feeling boiling within him was indeed glorious.

He walked through the muggle town, his hands in his pockets. People would look at him as he walked toward the sunset. They would see him in his dust covered black suit, and his face slightly scratched, still dripping with blood, but they could only begin to imagine what he had gone through.

He stepped through the gates of Hogwarts. Dumbledore had been waiting for him to arrive. Dumbledore's blue eyes were full of anticipation and hope. Wordlessly, Severus answered all his questions with a nod. Dumbledore smiled.

They walked down the road; a lantern in Dumbledore's wrinkled hand. They would talk about what had happened later, and somehow they both knew it too.

In Dumbledore's office, they sat the sound of Fawkes' cheerful lament in their ears. "Severus, my boy," Dumbledore began, his hands on the papers on his desk.

Severus took out the ring, and carefully set it in front of Dumbledore, keeping an eye on the man. Dumbledore's eyes were clouded by lust. "It isn't worth it." said Severus. "You won't have time to compose an epitaph if you dare to put it on," joked Severus.

"How do we approach this?" he asked.

"Perhaps it would be best to destroy it now."

"Or would it be better to gather them all first, and then destroy them all at once?"

"Will you keep it safe Dumbledore? I fear that if I entrust you with this…you will be once again cursed and I will not have everything I will need to save you at my disposal."

"I will not make that mistake Severus. I will keep myself away from my wants. It is for the best."

"Very well." With that said and done, Severus stood up from the chair and walked into the halls. He had a night of blissful sleep ahead of him. One less worry was out of his mind. Tomorrow he would drive himself mad with the stress of many more things to do. But that night, he was happy, and he intending on keeping it that way for the next several hours.

When he awoke he was in a place that he had never seen. The room was full of mahogany furniture. It was painted the color of fresh, steamy cream. It was carpeted, the indigo carpet, soft and fluffy. The room had bookshelves filled with ancient volumes of books. He was on a large leather couch, and on the floor sitting up, her eyes closed, was Lily, quietly snoring. How he had gotten there, he didn't know. The light in the room was dim, but he could clearly make out every detail of her. She was wearing a silk, white night gown. She looked angelic.

He got onto the floor next to her, and brushed her hair off of her face. He caressed her for a moment, before climbing on top of her and pressing his lips to her, kissing her softly, edging her on to wake up. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she saw him she kissed him back.

"What was that for?" she asked after she pulled herself away from him, slightly dazed by the early morning surprise.

"Thank you," was all he said.

"For what?"

But he kissed her, for it was all he wanted to do. Soon everything could get overly complicated. It was not a pleasant thing to know. Soon, he knew he would have to distance himself from his heart, from his soul, from all that made him the person he was. It was not the time to entwine himself in such thoughts. It was the time to savor all he had for as long as he could, because it was what he needed more than anything at the time.

A/N: This is by far my favorite chapter that I had to write, and that isn't just because my favorite number is 28. It was such a grand experience, writing this. I hope you love this chapter, no matter how grotesque the settings were. Thank you to my reviewers—you all give me the strength to keep writing. The next chapter will be posted on Sunday. This is the last weeks where I will be posting two chapters a week, for a while.

Read my other stories, if you like this: Mourning Colour and Reflections

Sincerely,

Grey