MY APOLOGIES! I was quite sick a couple weeks back and didn't remember until yesterday that I hadn't posted. I didn't have time then, and unfortunately, may as well just skip it at this point... because now I believe Ao3 will be caught up, which means both are going to weekly updates. So next week you'll have the one I would've posted this week, and the week after that you'll be back on track... and then get weekly updates. That's right- WEEKLY (barring some rare holidays... but I usually post more then, not less).

As a reminder, you can find MORE of this on my SubStar (dot adult slash KajaWilder), it's posted up past chapter 111 there... in fact I'm about to start the second book in the series, which begins with what would be this fic's Ch. 112. Am I aiming for 333 (3x3)? No. But it might hit that anyway. lol

And if you're just interested in discussing things with other readers, of course, you can go to my DISCORD here: ht _ tp _ s _: _/ _/ discord . gg / N9yDA8t6Cw

OH, and did you see the new COVER ART? AI Genned by yours truly. Think of it as a Ronform Lilith (but SFW for reasons related to being on the interwebs and no age verification here). The Discord and SubStar of course have more... ;)

Chap. 74: Ring(s) of Remorse

Harry was still scrubbing himself in the shower after forty minutes. The fluids Lilith had left all over him- for fun she said, though he knew she gained no sustenance from her own- had been easy enough to clean, and not only because Harry had scooped up more than a little to add to the meal she'd already squirted into his mouth, while wearing the body of his mother.

As hot as that had been, as nice as shagging Lily Potter had been the night before, he still felt... dirty. Unclean. And not because of the pseudo-incest, either. If anything, Harry could admit to himself that he liked that part.

But no amount of scrubbing, no matter how raw his hands and arms were, would erase the guilt he felt. Yes, Crabbe had deserved some kind of punishment for at least partially orchestrating and largely instigating the attack on Luna. Yes, he deserved some kind of punishment for kidnapping and raping Mandy Brocklehurst (for which Harry still felt guilt, knowing that he could have freed her, even if doing so would have gone against the victim's expressed wishes).

But he did not deserve to be tortured.

He sighed, alone in the shower mostly because he had asked to be, and let his head rest against the tiled wall while the scalding hot water sprayed down onto his lower back. It helped, at least, to ease the tension there... if not much. It was, he decided, something he would have to carry for the rest of his life. That guilt, that knowledge that he would resort to such tactics if pushed too far, was a heavy weight for someone that many others looked on as a paragon of virtue, a hero in every sense of the word.

He, of course, had always known better. He knew who Harry Potter really was, better than anyone. That didn't mean Harry liked who he was the night before. It didn't mean he wanted to do it again. He hated that he'd been pushed so far, even if it still felt... justified, in a way. That was part of the worst bit for him: How very right it made him feel, even as he was ashamed of his actions.

A wiser person, Dumbledore or Lilith or Hermione perhaps, might tell him that it was that very shame, that remorse, that proved he was better. But he still didn't really regret it. He would do it again, in an instant, for the results it had given. So, in his eyes, Harry Potter was no hero.

He would never be one.

And he was alright with that. Yes, he was guilty of a crime... he was a vigilante, as the Ministry had been calling the Order of the Phoenix all the previous year. He was, when he acted like that, outside the law. Extrajudicial, Hermione called it. "So be it," the young wizard whispered, opening his eyes for the first time in several minutes. He looked down at his hands, which splayed against the tile to help support him. They didn't look different than the day before, aside from the red and raw skin.

He was different, there was no doubt about that. But he was also what he had been made by others, and by his own choices.

He would live with that. He could live with that... as long as he remembered why he didn't want to travel down that dark road, Harry thought he could resist the siren's call. And if not, as Hermione, Ginny, Ron, Lilith, and even Lavender had all told him at one point or another... they would be there to help him back. He would, and could, live with that, too.

"On to the day, then," Harry murmured, then stood tall once more, took several deep breaths to let the rest of his tension out with the old air, and finished his shower.

Once he returned to the dorm, Harry found Ron and Neville being woken with blowjobs in their own right. Neville, always easier to rouse, had shifted so his legs were off the bed and was leaning back on his elbows with the bustier, older form of Lilith between his knees. His best friend, on the other hand, was being woken by someone who surprised him: Lavender Brown. She was, unlike Lilith, fully dressed and looking immaculate while she bobbed on Ron's long dick.

Ron still looked like he was asleep, though he was smiling softly and his hand was on the blonde's head, but he groaned and muttered, "Why'd you stop?" when Lavender looked up at Harry. "Harry," his slave chirped happily, "Professor McGonagall asked me to pass on a message from the Headmaster. Uh... it was, 'please come to my office as soon as you are able. We have an urgent matter to attend to. Bring your new friend.' She also mentioned that Dumbledore likes, uh... Sour Lemondrops."

"Ah, thanks, Lavender," Harry said, his whole posture shifting from relief straight to combat readiness. "You get back to sucking Ron off like a good girl. Try not to leave a bloke hanging, alright? And you lot, plans are still on for a Rune Ritual this afternoon or tonight, whenever we can. Unless something else happens, of course. Well try to keep in touch."

"Right," Ron grunted as he pulled Lavender's head back into his lap. "I'll let Hermione and the others know, Harry."

"Alright. See you, mate, Slave."

As Harry turned away, Lilith falling into step behind him invisibly, Lavender sighed with bliss both at her title being used, and Neville sliding his fat cock between her thighs with her skirt flipped up but tights still on.

"Do you understand the plan, Harry? Miss Sendai?" Dumbledore's look was grave, as serious as Harry had ever seen him outside of a battlefield, just as it had been since he and Lilith had arrived at the Headmaster's office nearly an hour earlier.

"Yes, of course," Lilith, currently Lyra and visible once more, nodded. She was surprisingly chipper, considering the danger they were supposedly heading into. But, Harry reasoned, she at least had no real reason to fear. It was extremely unlikely that defenses Voldemort had set up decades ago would be able to do much to her, specifically, besides send her home.

And pain, he had learned thanks to the Succubus herself, could lead to pleasure, too. He was worried... but only to a point. Mostly, what Harry felt was excitement. They would be visiting the shack Dumbledore had shown he and Lilith much earlier in the school year, the home of the Gaunt family. More specifically, it was the home of Merope Gaunt: Voldemort's own mother.

The hedge-witch's history and life story were depressing, and Harry had felt a huge wash of pity for her when he had first seen the memories Dumbledore had shown them, and learned of her sad tale. But in the intervening months, Harry had learned even more. Yes, Merope Gaunt was to be pitied... but she was also a villain in her own right.

Whatever her motivations, she had done, in many ways, far worse than Harry in using Fog of Lust against Daphne, Pansy, Lavender, and others. It was worse even in some ways than what he had done to Romilda Vane, if only by accident. Merope Gaunt, after all, had really, well and truly, destroyed Tom Riddle Sr.'s ability to consent, then raped him repeatedly, enslaved him to her will.

While part of Harry also rebelled against the actions of Voldemort's muggle father- for who could abandon their own child, no matter how dark the circumstances of their conception? Harry wasn't sure he even wanted to know- he also understood. He, possibly, would have done the same.

Likely not, but possibly.

That Voldemort had hidden the Gaunt family ring there, at his family's hovel, seemed in many ways unlikely, too. Merope Gaunt was barely above a squib, according to the Headmaster. On the other hand, the Gaunts were also well and truly descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, thus making Voldemort, the last living member of that family, a true Heir of Slytherin, as the bloody messages Ginny Weasley had been forced to leave on the walls of Hogwarts five years ago had attested.

That connection alone would have convinced Harry, with all he knew of Voldemort, that it was a sacred location to him. A hovel, perhaps. A reminder of misery, perhaps. Certainly not a reminder of family, of ties that Harry himself would value. But that legacy, his one and true claim to fame aside from the darkest of deeds...

No, that was something Voldemort would definitely find value in. As well, Harry could see the logic in hiding an object of such value as the Gaunt Ring... or more specifically, a Horcrux inside the ring, in a place of relative unknown stature. Hardly anyone knew where the Gaunts lived when they resided there. Now, Harry would bet a thousand Galleons that knowledge was limited to less than five people, three of which were in the Headmaster's office. Why would someone bother searching a out of the way, run-down, even dilapidated hovel (especially one likely to have all sorts of magical protections against such prying) for an object of incredible significance?

It was like finding a needle in a haystack the size of a planet.

All the more impressed with Dumbledore's detective work, for he was certain now that there was a Horcrux there, Harry nodded too. "Yes, Sir. I'll follow instructions."

"Excellent. Remember, Harry, Miss Sendai: I have said that you must flee if I instruct you to do so for a reason. I am not the one mentioned in the prophecy. You, Harry, must survive if we are to defeat Voldemort. My life, as much as I do not yet wish to lose it, is of no value compared to yours. It is a harsh calculus, but an accurate one. I hope you understand."

Harry swallowed. It was difficult past the lump that had just formed, but he nodded all the same. "I... Understand, Sir. I... I'll do my best."

"I will make sure he flees if that is what it takes," Lyra added, "I cannot complete my contract if he dies, either. And, no offense to you, Headmaster, but I'd rather you be the one to take a spell if it comes down to it, for more personal reasons."

Despite the fact that Lyra had just said she'd rather he died if anyone, Dumbledore nodded with a happy smile of his own, "Thank you. That is exactly what I wanted to hear. Now... if you'd please, both of you take hold of this quill, here..."

Then, with a woosh, and a whirlwind of sound, color, and light, the too-familiar hook behind Harry's navel pulled he, the Succubus, and the Headmaster far outside of Hogwarts, to the outskirts of the distant down of Little Hangleton.

The three of them appeared half-way up the south-eastern side of a short, wide valley covered in woods that were speckled with pastures. Dotted throughout but mostly concentrated down at the center were small, modest homes of the type a tourist would likely associate with the 'English countryside'. Harry was no expert, but he thought he recognized Elizabethan cottages mostly toward the edges or in the pasture and farmlands, while a slight majority of the houses in the village itself were of the more modern Victorian style.

Like Dumbledore and Lyra, Harry let his eyes rake over the valley to get his bearings for a moment before something caught his attention and held it. Almost directly opposite them, slightly higher, a large, white manor house presided over the lesser homes. At first glance, it looked mighty and noble, the home of a benevolent lord. But with just a moment more, Harry could see even from here that several windows were damaged, the walls overgrown with ivy. The garden was unkempt, wild, the walls themselves showing visible wear, and several shutters or shingles were out of place or missing.

Half-way down the hillside from the manor, another sight captured Harry's eyes the moment he tore them from the old Riddle House. Old, even ancient trees, possibly the oldest in the valley, surrounded a partially cleared area. In an uneven rectangle, in one of the least sloped areas, the trees in the middle were more sparse, and carefully arranged to allow for foot-paths. Wide, barely-kept swaths of grass were dotted with marble, basalt, sandstone, and even a few darker ones that Harry thought might have been onyx. Headstones, he realized.

"That's the graveyard," he whispered.

"That is is," Dumbledore replied softly, following Harry's eyes, "and the Riddle House beyond. I had hoped bringing you here might help. Seeing things we once feared in the dark of night, revealed for what they are in the light of the sun, can be most healthy. Seeing it 'normal', at any rate. What do you think, Harry? Have I erred...?"

The younger wizard was silent for several seconds, then shook his head, "No. No, I don't think you did, sir. It... it's giving me the chills just looking at it, but... but it's just a graveyard. Nothing... special about it. Except what happened there? Only..."

He trailed off, and neither his pet or headmaster interrupted or probed further. Eventually, he finished with, "What happened there... happened. I can't change it. But I also can't... let it hold me back. I feel like if it happened again... if I was there again, now? It would end differently. I don't know if that would be better or worse, but it would be different. I would be more willing to fight. I'd probably die. But maybe, just maybe, I'd take out a few of them with me. That might help, too. Either way, I've learned I shouldn't dwell too much on what happened. I should do what I can do make the future better, instead."

"Well said, Master," Lyra chirped, before stretching onto her toes to kiss Harry's cheek. She took his hand as she settled, taking care to leave his wand-hand free. "What's next? Where's the shack?"

Dumbledore watched the interaction with amusement, adding, "I agree with Miss Sendai, Harry. That was indeed well said. To answer your question, I believe the next step would be to find that very place. I have only been here once, many years ago, but I believe we shall find it about... there. Just up the lane, where the undergrowth is thickest."

Harry followed the old man's pointing finger. Perhaps it was his own growing talent, or perhaps the bond he shared with Lilith. Maybe it was even the saturation of magic in the air, but something about the thick leaves and branches of hundreds of bushes, shrubs, flowers, and trees in the vicinity of Dumbledore's point just felt... off to Harry. As if he most assuredly would be foolish to get closer, and more so to step into the area itself. He took a single step back as he had the thought, then realized...

"Repelling charm...?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore commented, glancing down at him with a measure of pride, "Keyed to magicals and muggles and animals alike, I would wager. Aside from perhaps serpents, which I suspect may have been compelled to guard the place."

"It'd be something he would do," Harry agreed.

"Hm. Disillusionment for now, I think," Dumbledore murmured, then tapped Harry's and his own heads with his wand. "Miss Sendai, if you would vanish...? This road is not commonly used judging by the old ruts, but there is still some foot traffic I believe. It would not do to be spotted."

"Of course," Lyra said, then turned hazy and indistinct to Harry's eyes. To Dumbledore, he knew she would have vanished as completely as if she were under his own cloak, which was tucked safely inside his robes, just in case.

"Very well. Keep your hand on my arm, if you would, Harry. Miss Sendai, of course you will keep contact with young Harry. I will take the lead, I think... there are a great many wards and protections here. A simple repelling charm is but the outer layer. We should be cautious. In particular, Harry, if you would keep an ear out for sibilant speech...?"

Harry nodded, before remembering Dumbledore couldn't see him, "Yes, sir. I'll be on the watch for any snakes."

"And if Miss Sendai could keep her senses alert for other beings nearby...?"

"Of course."

"Then let us proceed."

Harry, in later times, dearly wished he could have seen the artwork of spellcraft and magic that Dumbledore must have weaved. He heard a great many swishes of a wand through the air, many murmured words and incantations. They proceeded at a normal walking pace at first, but from the start the headmaster was detecting, identifying, and dispelling enchantments and wards by the drove.

As they neared the spot where, to Harry's eyes, a thin, twisting, almost nightmarishly overgrown path led off the main one into the worst of the thicket, their progress slowed by half. In fact, for a moment Dumbledore stopped there, hummed quietly to himself for a moment, and with the next incantation Harry felt the air itself seem to vibrate around him. Ahead, the atmosphere seemed thick, malevolent, while behind lay safety and security. He wanted to flee. He needed to breathe!

Then, with a sound like a glass wind-chime shattering, the feeling was gone. What was left was... different. The place felt, if anything less safe, more dangerous, but the overpowering need to flee was absent. The dark, hooked branches of the trees and shrubs were, while wild and unkempt, mundane wood and leaves. The path still twisted, was still shadowed, but those shadows were no longer menacing and foreboding... only a bit dark.

"What was that?" Lyra asked quietly. "It felt... horrible."

"A ward of fear," Dumbledore rasped, his voice quiet and hoarse from several minutes of talking rapidly. "A very powerful one, capable of conjuring up the worst of what we expect to see. Similar, in many ways, to both a Boggart and a Dementor. Yet it is gone, now, and I, for one, feel better for it. We can proceed. I will remind you to be alert, stay cautious. If I am acting strangely... flee."

Harry nodded resolutely, "Yes, sir. I... remember what you said. Should Lyra go to her combat form...?"

"I don't think that will be strictly necessary," Dumbledore replied, "but I suppose it would not hurt."

"I would feel better," Lyra murmured, and behind him, her hand still clutched in Harry's grew, the outer portions regaining the chitinous shell of her Hellhide power. "If nothing else, I can respond quicker to a threat."

They moved in the same order into the smaller path, and this time Dumbledore's free hand occasionally pulled Harry to the left, or right, to help guide him around what felt like invisible threads of silk. Yet, when Harry reached out to touch one, he felt a sharp pain in his fingertip. A glance told him it was bloody. "Razorfang spider silk," Dumbledore commented when Harry pointed it out, "you can see it if you are careful. A most ingenious trap- not magical in itself, aside from its incredible strength, yet because it is so thin it cuts like any blade with but a touch. I lost a few inches of my beard before I noticed myself, and I believe my robes will need replacing or significant repair when we return to Hogwarts."

No doubt sensing Harry's grimace at the image, Dumbledore chuckled as he moved on, "Ah, not to worry, Harry. I am yet clothed, I just have many slashes cut in them. I have gone as cautiously as I could, but I do not wish to linger, either. The sooner we are done, the better. I fear I may have missed an alarm ward earlier. If Voldemort comes calling..."

"We flee," Harry finished.

"Just so. Ah, I believe we are clear of the webs. Again, watch for serpents... there is the shack. Yes, it still has the remains of Morfin's snake nailed to the door."

It was in just the sort of horrible disrepair Harry had imagined it. A single room, lopsided, leaning as if it might fall in on itself or cover the remains of Merope's vegetable and herb garden at any moment, the last home of the once-mighty Gaunt family seemed a poor reward for a noble house. Yet, Harry also felt it deserved, if their constant inbreeding and darkness had lead them down this path. Even if he knew it was strange that he was encouraging Ron and Ginny to shag, yet condemned the Gaunts, and many other pureblood houses, for keeping their bloodlines too close. There was a difference, he felt, in doing it for fun with no risk of creating a child with defects, or that would be forever marred by the actions of their parents, and running that risk solely to maintain the much-vaunted 'purity' of their magical blood.

Daphne had, by that point, convinced him that purity was not a bad thing, but Harry still felt that the supremacists like the Malfoys, and the other Death Eaters, had taken the philosophy much too far. Not least of which because Voldemort himself was hardly a pure-blood, no matter his lineage on the magical side.

Just as the headmaster had said, the skeletal remains of Morfin's pet snake, held together by the barest scraps of ancient sinew, still adorned the door. There were no window-panes, only shutters falling off the rusted hinges, and open frames. The door itself was shut, and shimmered with even more magic than the rest of the shack. That alone made the hedges outside look tame. "That's... a lot of defenses," Harry observed.

"It is, yes," Dumbledore noted, "but I see a distinct lack of creativity. There are many wards, but aside from the spider-silk and possible snake dangers, they are relatively common. A curse-breaker team could dismantle the lot within an hour, I would say. I shall begin. Once again, please keep an eye out. I suspect that if there are serpent defenders, they will attack quickly once I begin, likely hoping to capitalize on my distraction."

Harry felt another tap on his head, and a few seconds later both he and the old wizard were visible again. Dumbledore did indeed have several cuts and minor lacerations on the sleeves of his robes and legs, but even while he saw blood Harry knew none were truly dangerous. He thought the spider-silk was indeed meant to be lethal, but the old man's reaction time was quite good, and he was as keen-eyed as ever despite the spectacles he wore.

Dumbledore then strode to the center of the small yard and aimed his wand toward the house again. Words flowed from his lips in an unbroken litany, their tone alternating from conversational to deep and powerful, high and soft, something reminiscent of phoenix song, to a pipe organ, then harp music, or angelic choirs. The shimmering around the hovel itself grew more intense, like a heat-mirage almost, as Voldemort's defenses combatted Dumbledore's own spells, but there was no great light show. No dazzling magic to feast his eyes on.

He was almost disappointed... when he spotted the first snake. It was small, just a foot or so long, and likely not even poisonous. It slithered toward the headmaster quickly, though. Deliberately. "There's one," he pointed it out to the still invisible, battle-ready Succubus. Then, switching to Parseltongue, Harry commanded, "Stop."

The snake hesitated, slowed briefly, and even looked in his direction. It did not stop, however, and in just a few moments had resumed its rapid movement toward the tall wizard nearby. "Stop," Harry commanded again, more firmly, and lifted his wand.

This time, the Snake only looked toward him again without slowing. It was about six feet from the headmaster, and would reach him in moments. What it would do then, Harry did not know. Perhaps Voldemort had enchanted the snake to be deadly, or bred it with another type. Either way, he knew that the determined creature could not be allowed to bite Dumbledore. With a sigh, he aimed carefully, "Stupefy."

His jet of red light hit the snake dead-on. Even a narrow target like that, from five feet away, was an easy enough thing for him. It jerked, rolled half onto its side as the energy hit it, then went still.

He watched... it twitched. Then it wiggled. Then it rolled, and started slithering again, this time toward him.

"Not enough power, Master," Lilith chided gently, then reached down with one cloven hoof and smashed the thing. "I applaud your kindness to animals, but it seems these ones are resistant to magic."

Dumbledore had glanced briefly in their direction during the interaction, but seemed to think Harry and Lilith together were up to the task, for his full attention was back on dismantling Voldemort's enchantments. Unfortunately, that first, small snake was just one of several. Hundreds, in fact, that Harry suddenly spotted all around the shack, the garden, and the wilder growth beyond. "Oh, crap... Sir?"

"I believe you can handle this, Harry. I must concentrate for a few minutes longer, else I am afraid I will have to start over with stronger protections enabled. Call me again if you have desperate need, however."

Harry frowned. It was very nice, in a way, to have the old wizard's complete trust. To know that Dumbledore believed in him even at the risk and safety of his own life. Yet, it would have been nice to have his help. That was a lot of snakes!

Of course, they could not oblige by coming in singly, either. The next assault was a mere eight. Passionfire was launched quickly from Lilith's clawed hands, which took out five of them between the two bursts of eldritch flame, and the next three were taken out by Harry's spell-work. He was already starting to worry, though, because no sooner had that first wave been slain than Harry saw twelve more coming right behind them. A third wave followed, even more of them. Beyond, he could see the great mass of them, with still more appearing every moment, inching slower closer, too.

The waves were growing in size, getting closer, and moving faster.

They were screwed, in other words, unless the situation changed. One wave had been easily handled. But long discussions of Quidditch strategy, chess strategy, and combat strategy with Ron and, this year, the large-scale battle tactics Dumbledore himself had taught Harry in DADA classes that by the fifth or maybe sixth wave, they would be overwhelmed. At least one of them would be bitten. By the tenth, they all would have suffered injuries, and one might have fallen.

By the fifteenth... it would be over.

And there were now hundreds upon hundreds of serpents, most small but some as much as eight or ten feet in length, looping down branches, crawling through the grass, toward the three of them. "New tactic," he gasped, "Need- we need some kind of barrier!"

"Flame seems to work," Lilith agreed, "but I've not got the ability to just conjure up a wall of fire."

"I, however, can do just that, I believe I have finished with the defenses," Dumbledore grunted amid his own blindingly-fast casts. A moment later, Harry felt a wash of relief fall over him as the Headmaster's wand moved high overhead. It swirled once, twice, three times, and with each twist a roaring gout of flame erupted, snake-like in form. The cascading orange plasma fell in rings around them, encircling all three at a distance of several feet, with a few more between each one. The inner ring, closest to Harry and the others, seemed to burn the hottest. Vegetation, and more importantly the swarm of attacking snakes, were incinerated into ash within moments of coming in contact with the high-energy wall. The middle was somewhere between, while the outer wall resembled mostly natural fire. It did nothing to deter the snakes aside from a momentary hesitation before they plunged through, but it did burn and crack. Some of the smaller ones died there, and only the largest serpents made it to the last, most deadly barrier.

That left the problem of those already inside, of course. With Dumbledore holding off the mass of them with repeated bursts of fire wherever the lines started to falter, Harry kept using his simple but effective cutting or blasting curses to take care of all he could. With a limited number to contend with, Lilith decided to change her own tactics.

She shifted into her battle form in just a moment. After that, she became a blur of motion moving quite as fast as the ancient wizard's wand as both clawed hands, diamond-hard hooves, and the spikes at the ends of her wings and tail lashed out and downward. She did not always hit, but there were just so many attacks flowing from the Succubus, combined with her own occasional blasts of Flaming Hands, that those around them were quickly subdued, stabbed, burned, or crushed into oblivion just as thoroughly as those that survived to attempt the innermost wall of fire.

Though Harry could feel the blistering heat, smell the burnt scales and grass, and hear the hiss and writhing thumps of the snakes as they burned on the ground in mortal agony, it did not burn him, or Lilith, or Dumbledore himself. Somehow, the older wizard had aimed the vast majority of his flames' heat outward, shielding them from the worst effects. All was not well, however. Just as the serpents began to taper and then retreat, Dumbledore slumped, his slow forward steps faltering. Then he staggered, and fell to one knee. Around them, the fire still raged, but it stopped coming from his knobbed wand, and soon the great inferno flickered and died, leaving only the more mundane fire that had been set by his magic as the vegetation and animals burned.

But as the flames vanished into remnants that softly crackled, sending wisps of dark gray smoke into the air, the serpent army did not return. They kept running, whatever hold Voldemort had over them gone.

"Professor?" Harry asked, his concern switching to the old man, who was now supporting himself with one arm, almost crawling on the ground. His breathing was ragged and rough. "Are you alright?"

"I... believe I am not, Harry. I may have missed one serpent, hiding in a burrow. My- my left ankle burns." As he finished talking, Dumbledore keeled over to the right, rolling with a wince of pain and a gasp onto his back. Bright purple boots with pointed toes, extremely old fashioned in style but well maintained, peeked from beneath his robes.

Without hesitating, uncaring that Dumbledore was several times his own age, Harry threw himself down and took hold of the old wizard's legs. He hiked up the robes to the knee, and scowled. There, just above the boot-line, were a pair of bloody holes. Not quite circular, it seemed like Dumbledore had been walking or had yanked his foot away when he was bitten. Blood ran out, though not a lot. Harry guessed the poison, whatever it was, had caused the swelling that surrounded the wounds. The flesh was already darkening to a deep purple, and was raised about the width of his finger from the skinny, white-haired leg.

"It's... definitely poisoned," Harry muttered.

"I had surmised as much given the pain and difficulty breathing," Dumbledore gasped, somehow still finding the strength to joke, and even smile. "It may be best to sever the leg. I do not know what antidotes or spells might be required to remove the poison otherwise, and we must act quickly."

"I can- I can take you back to Madame Pomfrey, or St. Mungo's," Harry protested, "Surely they-"

"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted, "If Voldemort knows, somehow, that we were here, he will stop at nothing to hide the other Horcruxes in ways we will never find them. My injuries must not be reported- yet. And I cannot leave you here, not even in Miss Sendai's care. Please, a simple cutting charm of sufficient strength will do. I believe I can cauterize the wound for now. Just above the knee, if you would."

"But I-"

"Harry," Lilith said, her voice gentle and concerned despite the battle-form she still wore. A clawed hand landed on his shoulder too, her sharp, talon-like fingers pressing into his shirt just enough to remind him she was there, of her solid presence, "it might well be for the best. He doesn't have long, look at his color. We have to act now. I will do it if you wish, sir."

"N- No," Harry whimpered, "I'll... I'll do it."

"Thank you, Harry," the Headmaster grunted, and positioned his own wand just above Harry's. "I am ready."

The younger wizard watched for a moment as black shadows moved of the veins of Dumbledore's leg. In just seconds they would pass his wand, and the older wizard was already struggling to breath. What would happen if the poison entered his system more fully? There was no guarantee the Matron or the hospital could even treat him in time.

No... this was the only way. They were right. "Diffindo," Harry intoned, screwing his eyes shut as the sharp, clean line of red appeared, and Dumbledore's lower leg fell to the ground.

The old wizard grunted again, and then another torrent of words left his mouth in a rush. Through his eyelids, Harry saw silvery light, then gold, then blue, and then a flash of pure white. The last spells Dumbledore cast, Harry recognized from his many visits to the Hospital Wing: Bandage-conjuring charms.

When Harry could bring himself to open his eyes again, he saw a bloody, half-charred stump where the Headmaster's lower leg had once been. Near the blackened spots, even the old wizard's white leg hair had been scorched away, black and curly if there was anything left but stubble. A little further down, in a tightly controlled line that made Harry boggle at the level of control over his magic Dumbledore exerted even in the most trying of circumstances, there was a thin strip of red skin and then black. Below that, the charred line only a half inch or so thick, there was partially-regrown flesh, which was quickly vanishing even as it regrew beneath the white, clean bandages being conjured around it.

The sight would have been nauseating from this close, and Harry still felt his stomach twist at the sight, but with all he had seen in the last year, especially since the attack on King's Cross during what should have been the happiest time of most students' years, he felt largely inured to gore. Knowing that it had been his wand, his spell, his will, that had severed his greatest mentor's limb was stomach-turning in a different way. Yet, even now despite everything, Dumbledore was already breathing easier, his hand just a little steadier as the long, thin fingers guided his wand, which in turn directed the bandages where they needed to be.

"Are you... going to be alright, sir? Aside from... well..."

Somehow still amused, Dumbledore's bright blue eyes moved up to Harry's, and the younger wizard saw his beard and mustache twitch in what must have been a small smile. "I suspect I shall have to get in touch with Alastor about where he gets his own prosthetics, but all things considered... yes, Harry. Thanks to your timely action, I think I will survive the day."

Harry felt himself slump in relief. He didn't think he had fallen that far, but the next thing he knew Lilith's clawed hand was circling his upper left arm. "Careful, Master. I can feel you getting dizzy... shock, I think."

"Hm? No," Harry murmured, "I don't think that's- I- but I don't-"

"Harry look at me," Dumbledore said firmly, his empty hand rising from the snake-corpse filled grass to cup Harry's chin, "It is alright to feel. Remember that. But I think your friend is right- your pupils are dilating. We shall remain here for a while to help you steady yourself. I believe I also have a Calming Draught..."

"No, I'm fine," Harry protested again, "I just-mmf'!

He found his words cut off by having his face pressed rather suddenly into Lilith's impressive bosom. He would have protested, but even in this situation the love and lust she felt for him was clear, so he couldn't bring himself to pull out of her embrace. When he did, he quickly found a small vial pressed into his hand/

"Drink," Dumbledore said, "remember you said you would follow my instructions. I think this is easier than being told to flee, no? It will help you. A single swallow should be sufficient. You are, I am afraid, rather used to... let us call them, 'extreme circumstances'. You will be as fine as you claim to be with just a little help."

Reluctantly, Harry did as the old man wanted. He couldn't very well break his promise to do as he was told after cutting the man's leg off. Even if that had been under his instructions, too. Of course, the old wizard was quite right, and within a few seconds of taking a single large pull from the vial, emptying about half of it, Harry did have to admit he felt a bit more sanguine about the whole thing.

Surely, the Headmaster would have been in worse shape without their actions, no matter how dreadful they had been. They had all done what they needed to. And really, Alastor Moody had proven himself right that losing a body part here and there was a small price for catching the darkest of wizards. For Voldemort? A lower leg was a mere pittance.

Even if Harry still wished it had been his that was lost, instead.

Speaking of loss... "Sir? Before we lose our chance to get this Horcrux... are you okay to keep moving? I feel better already."

The old man looked down at his now-bandaged stump, then nodded, before offering a hand to both Harry and Lilith. Since both helped him to his feet rather faster and easier than he had expected, Dumbledore nearly stumbled, falling against Harry. Fortunately, thanks to the runes that had made it to easy for them both to pull him upward in the first place, the younger wizard steadied him handily too. "Sorry about that, Professor. I think both of us forget sometimes how much Lilith's runes... augment me."

To her credit, the tall woman who so resembled a mythological demon blushed, "I did, actually... sorry, sir. I didn't mean to half yank your arm out."

"Quite alright," Dumbledore waved off their concern, gesturing with hsi free hand down at his leg, "in light of things, a bit of muscle strain seems a bit small to worry about. First, a crutch, I think..."

Harry frowned as he saw the old-fashioned stick, little more than a pole with an uncushioned arch affixed to it, that the older wizard conjured. "Sir... if you don't mind, what's the spell for that...?"

It took him a few tries to get it right, though Dumbledore was patient as always. He seemed quite grateful when the much more modern-looking one, with a padded shoulder-rest and hand grip, was fitted under his arm. "Ah, yes. Thank you, Harry. I might be suffering a bit of shock myself... I do remember the muggles inventing this style decades ago, now that it's been brought to mind. Still... press on, then?"

Harry nodded, and Lilith only gestured toward the shack. "Should I lead? I'm a bit harder to hurt..."

For once, Dumbledore actually seemed to consider it, but then shook his head, "No... not just yet, I think. It is my understanding that you cannot sense our magic in quite the way I can, is that correct?"

"No, not the same way," Lilith replied, "but I can sense it in general. And your Dark Lord's magic is... particularly tainted. It permeates this place, for example, but there is more of it that is even older."

"That would be his line, the Slytherins down to the Gaunts, who were his mother. I believe I will still take the lead, though. The specific spells needed to counter an effect will be easier for me that way. If you would take up the rear behind Harry to protect against a secondary- or tertiary, I suppose- attack such as the snake that bit me, however...?"

"Of course."

Harry did not like being stuck in the middle. It made him feel weak, defenseless, and that grated on the teenage- or young-man sensibilities he possessed in spades. Worse, it made him feel like he was letting others take things meant for him, as Voldemort often accused him of in their meetings. But he was also not a fool, and even wounded as he was, Harry knew the Headmaster was his superior in nearly every way. Wiser, stronger, smarter, faster... he had demonstrated as much in their Defense classes this very year, time and again. The older wizard's ability to think on his feet, to maintain his cool and calm in the most extreme of circumstances was inspiring to Harry, even as the rational part of him knew that he possessed those qualities too. Others, after all, looked to him for the same thing.

Leadership.

He hated leading from the rear, or in this case the middle... but he also understood that, sometimes, as a leader one had to make sacrifices. Sadly, for him personally, this seemed to be one of those times. It was a hard lesson, one most recently driven home with the loss of Mandy Brocklehurst, and then the friends and family wounded or lost forever in the attack at King's Cross.

They could only do the best they could do, any of them. For a leader, sometimes that meant making decisions that they hated... and had to do anyway.

So he swallowed his pride, and raised his wand, instead. "Alright. I'm ready."

"Excellent. A bit slower pace, I think... I'm not used to this crutch after all, and casting with my left hand will always be a bit more awkward I'm afraid..."

It was only a few more feet, perhaps a dozen, but it felt like it took an hour for the wizened man to hobble up to the door, and wave his wand in front of it. Now, as Dumbledore murmured, chanted, sang, and eventually shouted, Harry could physically see, with his own eyes, the wards and enchantments layered over the hovel bleeding waste energy into the visible spectrum. Greens, reds, violets, argent silver, and a myriad of other colors broke like a kaleidoscope of sparks, or a prism of glass shattering, or waves of fluid energy that rippled and tore at the fabric of reality as they passed. It was, for lack of a better word, spellbinding to watch. Both Harry and Lilith stared on in complete fascination as Dumbledore's magic proved stronger, but only just. Or, Harry reasoned as the last of the light show ended, perhaps the Headmaster was more educated... or simply that little bit more determined.

The effort of breaking down the defenses seemed to sap what remained of Dumbledore's strength, and he sagged against the crutch, his thin chest heaving beneath his robes as his wand-hand, now his left for the time being, fell limply to his side. "That was... more than I expected. Fortunately, my soul and body are yet intact, and we have not been scourged by the very element we used against Voldemort's serpents. Come... but carefully. There may yet be defenses inside."

Harry had seen the inside of the Gaunt Shack in the memories Dumbledore had shown he and Lilith, from Voldemort's uncle Morfin. It had been a wretched place then, when Merope had been around to do the slave-work for Morfin and their father, Marvolo, who had been a wretch himself. When Morfin had left Azkaban after serving his relatively short sentence there, he had been forced to take care of himself without either his father, who had died during his stay, or his sister who was either still with Tom Riddle Sr., or about to give birth to Voldemort, or already dead after having done so.

Under Morfin's care, the place was even more abysmal. Dirty dishes piled on every surface near the ramshackle 'kitchen', even the large, rickety old bed, now moth- and snake-infested, he was sure, the three of them had shared in the one-room home. Trash and garbage, mostly old, torn books and clothes, littered the place along with snakeskins, potion or booze bottles, and all manner of other detritus covered the hard-pack dirt floor. A single chamber-pot was covered in something nasty to look at, but which had sat there so long even the stench had faded. Aside from the bed, the cooking fire, and the small counter and sink, the only other furniture was Marvolo's old, terrible-looking and now blood-covered armchair, a wooden rocking chair that Morfin had once sat in while carving, and the single large, wooden table that had somehow split in half lengthwise, leaving half standing and the other tottering against the old armchair.

"A sad state," Dumbledore sighed as he stepped in far enough for the others to follow. "If you recall, Harry, Morfin was still alive when his nephew found him, and framed him for the death of the Riddle family. Worse, he then modified Morfin's memory so that he thought he had done it, and was proud of it. He died in Azkaban less than three years later. His second stay was almost twice as long as the first."

"I still can't feel too sorry for him given what we saw of his character in that other wizard's memories," Harry reminded him, "Ogden, or whatever it was."

"Yes, I do understand the sentiment. Still, I do not feel he deserved quite that fate. He did not, after all, commit that crime, and he did serve his time for the one he did commit. All the same... I do not sense much in the way of magic inside. There... and there. Ah... and there, too."

Harry followed the Headmaster's finger, lifted from the crutch, as it pointed to a small pot, devoid of any plant, on the windowsill over the kitchen sink opposite them. From there, it went to a spot of dirt on the ground underneath the broken table, and then underneath the bed.

"I wonder... Harry, where do you think Voldemort would be most likely to hide a prized possession here?"

Lilith stayed with Harry as he moved further in, his own senses straining to pick up whatever traces Voldemort might have left. Dumbledore himself stayed by the door, using the frame to lean against while he caught his breath. Even so, Harry knew he was casting spells in rapid succession, most probably aimed at detecting or halting whatever traps and defenses might have been set up.

Yet, after the light show at the door, it seemed most of the danger had passed, for nothing jumped out at them, nothing harmed them as they moved about, aside from the stench of mould and decay, and the leavings of snakes and their meals.

Harry eventually pointed at the sill first, "The pot, maybe? If Merope thought about Riddle Sr. whenever he walked by, that could be it... if Voldemort knew about her feelings, anyway."

"I know that he knew of their relationship, given how the Riddle family were murdered, but if he knows the whole story I would be surprised. That sort of sentimentality would only seem a weakness to him, I expect... yet I see no reason not to check. The magics on the pot are relatively minor. Lilith, would you mind bringing it here, please...? Carefully, just in case."

"Of course," the Succubus murmured, then turned to him, "Step back please, Master. I don't want it to explode."

She reached out, and the two wizards, like the Succubus, waited with baited breath as her clawed hand closed around the relatively small pot. It was clay, orange-brown, the kind one might find by the dozen at a muggle garden store, and it sported one large crack down the side. Lilith glanced in, then showed Harry that it was filled with old, dried dirt that had withered away from the edges due to lack of care, and a barely-visible bone-dry sprout that might have been a whole inch long before it fell and wilted.

Harry felt nothing, so he could only shrug. When Lilith took it to Dumbledore next, the old wizard's wand moved over it for a few moments, and then he frowned as the dirt lifted up, levitating under his control, to break on the ground. Aside from further adding to the dirt, only one small glint caught Harry's eye. His heart started to race...

And then fell quiet as he rolled his eyes. A penny. A muggle penny, buried in the dirt. It rose up too, and for the first time, he thought he might have detected the faintest trace of magic. Yet it felt more familiar, less alien, than Voldemort's. More recent, too. Dumbledore's, perhaps...?

The penny floated in front of the old wizard's spectacles for a moment, then he gave a sour sort of chuckle. "It would be cute, if it were not surrounded by such sorrow. See, Harry... a penny given for a wish. Merope must have carved that in great secret, and imbued it with all the magic she could muster before her love potion had a chance to work."

As he examined the copper in turn, the head was faded to near-nothing, but clearly etched in by magic were a few simple words.

Merope + Tom.

Love Forever.

"That... that might be the saddest thing I've ever seen," Harry whispered. Beside him, Lilith nodded.

"Love too often is. I admit, I feel a great deal of pity for Merope Gaunt. She was... what she was made, and yet for all the harm she did for whatever twisted form of love she could manage... it was, in its own way, love. Yet, what harm did come from it. That, Harry, is why I once mentioned that there is a room in the Department of Mysteries wherein is studied a force both more beneficent and yet more deadly and dangerous than any other."

Harry nodded. He remembered that conversation well. If it was, indeed, 'the Power He Knows Not', then it was indeed the one thing Voldemort, the child of a love potion (for all one side may have indeed felt real love), and raised in an orphanage, different from everyone else... if it was the one thing he would never, could never, understand... then yes.

"Fortunately, Master has me, and all of his other friends and family," Lilith reminded them.

At her words, Dumbledore smiled in the demonic woman's direction, "Yes. Yes, it is a fortunate thing indeed, I am starting to think. Well... the pot was at least evidence of some good in the world, for all it was twisted. I think I shall pick the plain spot under the floor... Harry, if you would levitate the table pieces away...?"

The simple charm did exactly as intended, and with two silent casts (managed easily, thankfully, because Harry would have been embarrassed to fail at casting such a simple spell in front of his mentor, even now), the table was shoved to the side of the hovel. A few seconds later, dirt streamed upward in a neat arc to follow them. The line was thin at first, and grew progressively wider until it was a foot wide or more. Once it reached that point, it was just a few moments more before it stopped.

What was inside the hole was not a Horcrux, however. As Dumbledore had described them, a Horcrux radiated death. Even the one they now suspected was in Nagini, the one in Harry's scar before it was sealed away by Lilith, worked to twist the life around them.

This... this thing, radiated no such thing.

Even Harry, unable to sense magic like Dumbledore or Lilith, could feel its opposite, the energy of life itself, radiating from the simple shape.

Ovoid, but not an oval. Mottled, white with dark blue splotches and pale pink patches a few shades lighter than Lilith's hair just visible amid the white. "An... Egg?"

The thing was perhaps nineteen, or twenty inches tall, at least half that wide. Harry's first thought was a basilisk or dragon egg, but he had seen eggs of the latter before, and they did not give the same feel. At least, not that he could have sensed when facing a Hungarian Horntail in an arena for the amusement of the masses.

"Not of a breed I am familiar with," Dumbledore murmured, his wand moving out over it in intricate patterns again. "Nicholas and I studied dragon blood more than dragons themselves, which was my first thought... but I doubt even Hagrid would recognize this... whatever it is. Also, it is old. Far older than Voldemort, I would wager... older even than his grandfather. By a century or more, if I am not mistaken..."

"Could it be a basilisk egg, then? If it came down the Slytherin line...?"

Dumbledore shook his head, "No... I have seen those before. They are leathery, about as large as an adult male's fist, and brown. Whatever this is, it is likely unrelated to Voldemort aside from a familiar connection. Let us set it aside for now... under the bed. My turn to check, I think."

"No, sir, I-"

It was too late. The shack was small enough that even with his crutch, it only took Dumbledore a moment to reach the bed. It took several agonizing seconds for him to move to his last knee (thankfully the other didn't quite reach the ground) and lean forward, almost hanging from the crutch's grip, to push his other hand under the bed. "Ah... a simple lock box, I believe... one moment... Ouch. That's sharp. Aaand here we go. If you would be so kind, Lilith. Harry, could you help me up again, please...?"

The box itself looked heavy and sturdy. It was squat, plain oak Harry guessed, but stained dark walnut or similar, with brass fittings around the corners, with a silver lock that was tarnished with age. The locker was perhaps two feet side to side, eighteen inches wide, and eight or nine deep if Harry guessed right, with two simple brass handles that rattled as Lilith bent to pick it up carefully. This time, Harry did feel magic, and more than one, as it moved past him while he waited to help the Headmaster up.

A tingle, a rush of warmth and heat, perhaps the softest of shimmers like a heat mirage in the air. Beneath all of that, a roiling, simmering anger and hatred, a malice that was all too familiar, though he hadn't felt it in a while.

"It's in there," he whispered, and unconsciously reached his free hand up to rub his scar, though it did not so much as twinge. "I can feel... something."

"Does your scar hurt, Harry?"

It was Lilith, who was watching him closely with the box held just beneath her bountiful chest, who answered, "No... it doesn't hurt him at all. He's a bit confused by that... but that's normal. He isn't used to being around a Horcrux and not having it hurt. But I can feel the foul thing, too. It's definitely in here."

"Excellent. Well... I suppose we can put it on the bed, and back away... there are a few more magical protections I can sense already."

Harry nodded numbly, his arm wrapped around Dumbledore's wand-hand to help support him even after he was standing. Whatever the poison had done, combined with the extensive use of probably potent magicks, it had tired the Headmaster out significantly. From about five feet away, back by the door, the three watched, Lilith now flanking the older wizard with Harry closest to the door, as the knobbed wand flicked and moved.

There was no great light show this time, only an audible whump and shockwave of air pressure as the last enchantment gave way. "There. A simple Alohamora... and it's open. Do not touch! But I believe... oh. Oh, my. The Ring... the Resurrection Stone... after all these years..."

Harry watched as the old man staggered on one leg forward, tearing his arm from Harry's own grasp. He followed, concerned... and stopped. Atop a pile of mildewed clothes straight out of the sixteen hundreds, was a silvered ring with a large, ugly black stone set where a diamond might be on a wealthy person's wedding band.

That magic, the magic on the ring, he could feel quite powerfully. "Sir, you shouldn't touch-"

Again, it was too late, but Dumbledore did not touch the ring with his hand. Instead, he lifted it with the wand tip, and the two began to glow. "Harry... would you mind, terribly, if I borrowed your fabulous Cloak...? Only for a moment."

Something felt... off. Harry could not put his finger on what, exactly, but he caught Lilith's eye. She was nervous, cautious, in the same way he was. Perhaps she was feeding on his emotion, or perhaps she felt what Dumbledore was feeling... but this behavior was not normal. "I don't think so, Sir. I... forgot it."

A lie. He had never, aside from omission, lied to Dumbledore.

"A pity... well. Perhaps later, then. And I suppose... but no."

Then he heaved a great sigh, and tipped the wand so that the ring fell back onto the clothes. "A moment, Harry. Step back again... there may be shards. This is a great shame, and may be the second hardest thing I have ever done... but it must, indeed, be done."

He did as the old man said, but Lilith stayed closer, warily keeping an eye on him. A few feet back, he could not make out the words, fifteen or sixteen, that Dumbledore stated.

Shouted. Roared. Whispered. Coughed? Sang? A cacophony of voices radiated, in Mermish and English and Cantonese and Dwarvish, Goblin and Fey. In every variety of life that existed, so far as Harry knew, the words echoed. Ancient and vast, yet small and simple for what they did.

Avada Kedavra might have killed a mortal.

It, Harry had been taught, severed the connection between Soul and Body. Severed it utterly.

A Horcrux might have been killed, or destroyed perhaps might be a better term, in the same fashion.

But what Dumbledore did, whatever he did, registered only as blissful, light-filled chaos in Harry's mind, in his memory. The phrase might have taken minutes to utter, or seconds, but when it was over, there was a flash of light, and a thunderous crash that blew him back a full step into the door-frame.

Dumbledore sagged again as his eyes cleared. "Ah... I have not had to speak those words aloud before. I... did not expect the resonance. Interesting. Harry, I believe the ring is safe to touch if you wish to take it... I find I no longer desire it."

Harry swallowed as he stepped closer. "Sir... what was that? Why did you want my Cloak, after touching the ring with your wand? Why did they both light up? What were those words? Were they words?"

"That is a great many questions," Dumbledore wheezed, "but briefly... In answer to your first questions, I will recommend and loan you my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. It is... clarifying. At least, I believe you will find The Tale of the Three Brothers enlightening." His words were interrupted with a cough, then he continued, "As for the words... I do not know the name of the language. It is old, older than any I know of. Some call it Allspeak. Some call it Primordial. Some Enochian, or Carthaginian... though it is far older than ancient Carthage, and quite possibly older than the long-gone city of Enoch. I learned the words in the same book where I first discovered Horcurxes. They are, perhaps, the safest means of destroying one... aside from basilisk venom, at any rate. Fiend Fyre may also work, or the Killing Curse, but I find I have little taste for dark magic these days. In fact, I think I may have lost my taste for standing, too. I may... may need to.. to rest."

Lilith caught him half-way to the floor, a look of surprise and panic in her eyes.

Harry gave her a hard look. "Shadow Step. Straight for the infirmary."

The Succubus clearly hated it, but she listened. Despite the danger, despite the harm it might do to the old wizard who had already suffered so much that day, she vanished in a swirl of shadowy smoke, leaving Harry the last one in the Gaunt's old hovel.

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