CHAPTER THREE: Nemeses
Part 2
Harry rolled up the sleeves of his shirt above the elbows.
"Right," he said. "Let's run through this again."
The diagram in the middle of the floor emanated soft greenish light. Dumbledore sat behind his desk in a high-backed chair, left hand tapping out an inaudible rhythm.
"Seven parts," said Dumbledore.
Standing in the centre of the diagram, Harry pointed his wand at the glowing representation of his scar. A blue circle appeared around it, marking the horcrux as 'active'. "Harry Potter. Living horcrux."
He marked the next symbol. "Sirius Black. Living horcrux. Originally stored in a locket, a Gaunt family heirloom." Another blue circle.
Dumbledore prodded an object on his desk. A small black book with a hole burned through it.
"Tom Riddle's diary," Harry said. "Horcrux possibly transferred into Ginny Weasley. Destroyed." He jabbed angrily at the diary's symbol in the diagram, crossing it off with a bright red 'X'.
Harry looked up, head tilted. "The Cup."
"Yes, Harry, I trust Sturgis' assurance. You've seen it yourself."
Among the pensieve testimonials Dumbledore had gathered was a memory belonging to Sturgis Podmore. Memory-Mulciber had submitted to an examination and given his word, for what it was worth, that the golden cup he had been given for safekeeping was Hufflepuff's Cup. Voldemort had stolen it from the Smith family and murdered their matriarch to infuse the artefact with his soul fragment. The Cup was said to turn water poured from it into a fantastical cure for all sorts of diseases. After Voldemort corrupted it, the Cup dispensed only poison.
"You hesitate to trust Jervis Mulciber. I understand," said Dumbledore.
Harry sighed. "No, professor. That's the thing—I believe the bastard. I can't explain it, but I don't think he would lie about this." The Cup's representation on the floor became encircled in blue. "Jervis Mulciber, living horcrux. Previously inside Hufflepuff's Cup."
He walked over to the desk, where a small, dark, polished jewel rested on a velvet cushion. A faint crack ran across the surface, but that didn't seem to have impaired the object's magical properties. It was freezing cold to the touch.
"I didn't ask before…"
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I've used it. I don't recommend it."
A silence fell between them as they locked gazes. On impulse, Harry tried probing Dumbledore's mind with Legilimency. His attempt was swatted away like an insect, though Dumbledore didn't scold him for it.
"Why not?"
"Because the stories are true, Harry. There is no magic that can undo death, and the images the Resurrection Stone calls forth are poor imitations. All they leave in their wake is heartbreak. I suspect, however, that you won't take my word for it. Do you remember what I told you about the Mirror of Erised?"
"Yes," Harry said quietly, eyes cast downward.
"Take it if you wish. Disappointment is part of life. But I hope you'll be wiser than to immerse yourself in regret."
Harry slipped the Resurrection Stone into a pocket in his waistcoat and turned back towards the diagram, conjuring a red 'X' on top of the fifth symbol, representing the Stone.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "The snake."
"And now we're down to guesswork."
"Not entirely."
"Mulciber suspects, but doesn't know for sure."
The green light flashed in Dumbledore's glasses when he took them off. He breathed on the lenses to fog them up and produced a polishing cloth from a desk drawer. The animated cloth seized the glasses from Dumbledore's hand and began to shine them clean. "Remember, Harry, that the soulcatcher doesn't require any interaction with horcruxes to perform its task."
"Lucky me," Harry muttered. "Still, I would prefer to reduce their number, ideally down to just Sirius and myself."
The last horcrux was a near-complete mystery. Dumbledore hadn't had much luck in narrowing down where or what exactly it might be—or who—but offered his best theory when they'd been viewing the memories.
"There is one rumoured piece of Rowena Ravenclaw's legacy. It's had many names over the centuries. The Cap of Wisdom, the Silver Crown, Ravenmind, and dozens more in other languages. To my best knowledge, the artefact is real, and if there's one wizard determined enough to find it and secretly claim it, it's Voldemort."
"Any idea where to look?"
"Well, the Hogwarts library is never a bad start."
With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore dispelled the diagram and returned the furniture to its original arrangement. The fireplace blazed brighter.
"What's on your mind, Harry?"
"Oh, only a hundred thousand things."
"Naturally. Shall we pick one I might be able to help with?"
Harry collected his coat from the backrest of an armchair. "That depends on how adventurous you're feeling, sir."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Oh? What scheme are you hatching this time?"
"I think something's happening at Rugberry Creek. I've seen Death Eaters come and go. For all I know they could be throwing dinner parties, but I'll bet all my gold there's more."
"Have you brought your suspicions to Sirius?"
Harry winced. "We're not the closest we've ever been at the moment. He's had people watching the place, but no more than that. Too busy with whatever he's doing with the Ministry and the goblins." Harry paused, eyes narrowed. "He sort of… forbade me from getting involved."
"Perhaps you should trust Sirius' judgment."
"I'm not asking for permission, Professor. Just help. If you won't give it, I'll find someone else."
Dumbledore drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Very well, Harry. Come here the day after tomorrow and we shall investigate Rugberry Creek together."
Surprised, Harry turned sharply to look at Dumbledore. The man was undecipherable. "I'll go now, before you change your mind. Goodnight, Professor."
Rapid apparition was second nature to him now. He had barely left the perimeter of the anti-apparition jinx surrounding Dumbledore's home, and in the space of a step found himself halfway down to his next destination. One step more and he was knocking on the gates of the Foghorn Estate. Moments later, the gate opened just enough for an elf's head to fit through.
"Hello, Bunton."
The elf looked like he wanted to tell him to leave, but couldn't bring himself to be rude. "Mistress Muriel's not taking any visitors now."
"I won't disturb Muriel. I'd just like to visit the graves."
Bunton sighed and nodded. "Harry Potter's being quick, 'fore Mistress sees."
Harry slipped through the gate and took a shadowed path through the unkempt trees and bushes, giving the house itself a wide berth. He had no intention of speaking with the miserable old wretch who lived in it.
The reddish-brown tombstones were as pristine as the day of the funeral, but the graves were now covered in beds of yellow flowers, a kind unique to the Weasley family graveyard, bred by one of their ancestors. Harry almost reached to his waistcoat, but felt a prick at the back of his neck.
"Bunton… I'd like to be alone, please."
A crack of disapparition came from behind a nearby bench and Harry felt no other presence spying on him.
The Resurrection Stone was so cold now it nearly burned his skin, as if it anticipated Harry's intention and tried to warn him not to call on its power. He ran his thumb across the symbol of the Deathly Hallows etched into the jewel, feeling a bit of familiar magic. He didn't have his Cloak with him, but much like it, the Stone guided his instinct. He closed his eyes and breathed out, then turned the Stone over thrice in his hand.
"Harry?"
They looked more real than ghosts, but less real than he wished.
"You're here…"
"Only for a little while. We don't belong here," said Ginny.
Phantom or not, she was as pretty as he'd remembered her. He reached out with his left hand, and she came closer. Their fingers phased through each other, leaving no sensation at all. She smiled sadly at him.
"Are you… speaking to me from beyond death, or is this just some trick, a manifestation of my memories?"
Ron perched up on his own tombstone. "I dunno, mate. This is a completely new feeling."
"New? So… you're not just a projection, you have your own knowledge. You're aware that—that you're dead."
"I think so," said Ron.
"I can come and talk to you, then. We don't have to be separated, not entirely."
Ron's face fell. "Please don't."
"I—what do you mean?"
The siblings shared an uncomfortable glance. It was Ginny who spoke next.
"We don't belong here, Harry."
"This sucks." Ron rubbed his temples. "I feel sick. We're not ghosts like the bloody Bloody Baron. The dead should stay dead."
"You still have a life to live," Ginny said softly. She came right up to him and raised a hand to his face, though she couldn't touch his cheek. "You can't change the past. It doesn't work this way."
"Wait, don't go, I just… Do you remember how you died? Who… well…"
"I didn't see anything," Ron snapped, looking more irritable by the second. "I remember being tied down and shackled and blindfolded and that was preferable to whatever this is."
"Ginny, I need to tell you something. That night at Grimmauld Place, when you were attacked…" Harry swallowed. "I did this. Voldemort possessed me somehow and made me—Merlin's guts, I should've told you back then, you deserved to know the truth—"
"It's alright," Ginny said. "It wasn't really you. You shouldn't feel guilty over it. But it's time now. Let us go."
Harry racked his brain for something else to say, something to make this more substantial but now just felt like a grave robber, disturbing the dead against their wishes.
"Goodbye."
He turned the Stone over three more times and the phantoms vanished. Minutes later, he was back at Dumbledore's.
"Sprinkle!" he snapped.
The elf immediately appeared on the path ahead. "What is Harry Potter wanting?"
Harry tossed the Stone at the elf. "Give this back to Dumbledore. Tell him that whoever named it the Resurrection Stone was a fucking liar."
~~oOo~~
Remus passed the binoculars to his travelling companion. Mulciber surveyed the valley opening up below them and they stood in silence for a minute, watching for any sign of trouble.
Mulciber stuffed the binoculars into his satchel. "I can't see anything, but you can never tell in these parts. There might be a thunder of dragons nesting just outside our view and we'll end up eaten. Got to move fast, but careful."
"It's late," said Remus, looking up. The pale, winter sun was bearing down on the horizon. It was always winter here. "I think we best camp here and cross the valley tomorrow."
Mulciber considered this for a moment. "Fine. You get on the supper, I'll secure the area."
They'd only been travelling together for a few days, but Hit-wizards took to necessary routines quickly. Their equipment was expertly enchanted, but culinary spells demanded a delicate touch that neither of them possessed, so by the time the soup was bubbling away in the cauldron, Mulciber had checked on and fed the green-furred boars that pulled their sledges.
This wasn't wizard country. East of the Ural Mountains was one of the few regions of the world where magic remained largely untamed, and wizardfolk abhorred not being in control. Remus used to look down on the Dark magic practices of Durmstrang and smaller schools in eastern Europe, but what other way was there, when sometimes lighting a candle around here required the wick be dipped in sacrificial blood? What if a powerful curse was the only sufficient way to guard your home against deadlings crawling out of ancient graveyards mid-summer? What if a particularly disagreeable dragon decided to nest at the riverbend just outside your village?
Travel was tricky as well. There were pockets of freak environmental magic all over the region, tattered remains of warding enchantments lingering after the homes they used to protect had long since crumbled into dust. A hedgewizard might have claimed a particular woodland as their domain and placed anti-apparition jinxes, or trained a gryphon to knock broom riders out of the air. Moving by land was slower, but safer.
They settled around the fire, each with a bowl of soup. Remus let his portion steam off and warm his hands. One of the boars trotted into the circle of light cast by the fire. Mulciber reached into a bag by his feet and withdrew a chestnut, holding it for the boar to sniff. It munched on the treat while Mulciber scratched the top of its head. Satisfied, the boar hopped back to its spot and laid down to rest.
Out here, setting the tent at night and tending to sledge-pulling boars, Mulciber struck a completely different figure from the man Remus had thought he knew.
"Out with it," Mulciber said. "You've been wanting to ask for days, so just do it."
"You say you're a… living horcrux of Voldemort's. What does that mean, really? When you described it the first time, it sounded somewhat like the Imperius Curse."
Mulciber sighed. "It goes deeper than that. It's not really about control, though there is a measure of that. I doubt the Dark Lord really knew what he was doing to me during his time as a wraith. It wasn't quite possession. I have neither the terminology nor expertise to lay it out for you. It makes sense in my head. But horcruxes… their function is to anchor the maker to this world. It's not just about being unable to die. Ghosts who refuse to move on are anchored here as well, kept in the world of the living by something they refuse to deal with, for whatever reason. A horcrux allows you to return, no matter how thoroughly you've been destroyed. As long as one piece of the soul is tied to a physical form, the rest is capable of regaining it."
"I'm not asking about feelings, I want to understand—"
"Well, I'm not a bloody teacher," Mulciber snapped, dipping a piece of bread in his bowl. "You've been a teacher. What'd you teach 'em?"
"Magizoology, bits and pieces of spell theory… Why the pivot?"
"How would you explain the Dark Touch to a class of sixteen-year-olds?"
Remus perked up. There was a skill to explaining things, just knowing a subject didn't make one able to lecture on it. How could he explain the Dark Touch? It wasn't merely the practice of Dark magic, but the willing submission to its more penetrating influences, that's what made a Dark wizard. Alastor Moody could use the Killing Curse and the Patronus Charm, so what made him different from Sirius, who was a Dark wizard by his mid-years at Hogwarts, no matter how sternly he had claimed to hate his family? Well, Moody studied Dark magic as a tool, but had never been steeped in it like a teenage boy who'd grown up in a house where water from faucets was purified by blood runes.
Remus had felt the call of the Dark Touch many times, but never stepped over that edge. His interest in it had always been more academic than anything else. He didn't revel in the underlying subtleties of how curses weaved their effects, seeping through down to individual fibres of muscle and the metaphysics of where ill intent originated in the web of consciousness—as much as he fancied himself a scholar, such things were simply out of reach for those who flirted with Dark Arts without fully giving themselves over to their influences.
"Now, I'm not a werewolf," Mulciber said, interrupting Remus' train of thought, "but I reckon it ain't much different. I can no more consider myself separate from the horcrux than you can separate yourself from the wolf."
"That's not a bad comparison," said Remus.
They ate in silence for a while. Plainly, Mulciber was done with the subject and Remus didn't intend to pursue it further. Then, in the space of a breath, the silence of their camp was shattered. Fast shadows exploded from the bushes. Mulciber was on his feet in a blink and conjured a shield around the two of them. Remus grabbed one of the attackers mid-air and slammed him down onto the ground. A snarl escaped the man as air was forced out of his lungs. Remus delivered two sharp blows to his temple and he was out of it. There was a familiar smell in the air—these were Greyback's wolves.
Mulciber was pinned down on the ground. Remus leapt over the fire, grabbed the werewolf by the shoulder and tossed him towards the boars. Startled, they attacked furiously, biting, kicking, stabbing with their tusks.
More werewolves emerged from among the trees, some armed with wands, some just with claws and teeth. One of them charged—Remus kicked. He ducked under another attacker and punted the third one back into the trees.
Mulciber was too quick with a wand to allow the wolves to land any spell. He found an opening and exploited it viciously—one of the wolves was split vertically, from crotch to brains. The attackers paused and that was their doom.
"IMPEDIMENTA!" roared Remus, sweeping his wand in an arc above his head.
Magic crackled in the air as Mulciber conjured chains that bound the werewolves one by one. The Impediment Jinx wore off quickly, but in the end, Remus and Mulciber stood surrounded by nine disarmed, bound-up werewolves, one corpse in two neat parts, and another in bloody, trampled bits. The boars seemed to be enjoying themselves.
"Wait here," said Mulciber, then walked into the forest.
Remus collected the wands of the disarmed and considered snapping them in half, but decided against it. He didn't recognise any of the attackers. Some of them seemed quite young, too. Either Greyback's little tribe had suffered some catastrophic losses, or the old dog had deliberately sent fresh meat after two experienced killers. None was marked with Voldemort's brand. They didn't deserve to have their wands destroyed for being pawns in a Death Eater's game. Curiously, no one spoke, even though Mulciber hadn't Silenced them.
Remus had just finished cleaning up the remains of the boars' kill when a battered and dishevelled Fenrir Greyback was flung across the clearing like a ragdoll. The old werewolf was hardly a pushover, but then few wizards could come out ahead in single combat against Jervis Mulciber.
"Lupin, you recognise any of this trash?" Mulciber hollered, emerging back into the clearing. "I didn't see any familiar faces, myself."
"No. No one notable enough to remember, and I would if they were."
"That's what I thought," said Mulciber. He came up to Greyback and kicked him in the head. The werewolf bore the blow without a word of protest. "I can't decide whether I'm more insulted or thankful that you sent children after me, you perverted fucker."
Remus knelt down and grabbed a fistful of Greyback's mangled hair. "I amost pity you, Fenrir," he whispered. "It's an ignoble end, out here in the middle of nowhere." He placed one hand under Greyback's chin and the other on top of his head, but before he could snap the werewolf's neck, he felt the tip of a wand poking his temple.
"He goes free," said Mulciber. "I know you have very good reasons to want him dead, but I can't let you do that. As long as we're working together, I will require you not to kill him."
Remus breathed in and out slowly. "Why?"
Mulciber shrugged. "He's my only friend. As close to a friend as I can have, anyway."
"Always knew you were a kook," Greyback said, spitting out blood.
"You'll learn to appreciate me when the Dark Lord is dead."
One of the boars came closer, sniffing curiously. Greyback growled to scare it away. "What will it be, then?"
Remus pulled Greyback's head up closer. "Our next encounter will be our last, one way or another."
The werewolf band spent the night tied up and knocked out, and in the morning Remus left them all with a Confundus Charm as a parting shot and scattered their wands through the forest.
"I don't know what deal you made with Sturgis," said Remus, "but if Greyback comes after us again, I will bury him where he stands, your friendship be damned. Get the boars ready."
Mulciber didn't protest, though if that was a sign of agreement, Remus couldn't tell. They set off in silence, wands at the ready, in case something more deadly than a pack of werewolves came out to try its chances with them.
~~oOo~~
Three more days passed before Harry decided it was time to enter Rugberry Creek. Zabini was easy to find and follow—his tradecraft might have fooled most, but instruction from Hit-wizards and Aurors had taught Harry how to counteract Zabini's unsophisticated tricks.
Zabini met with other Death Eaters twice in those three days—first with Malfoy, who then ordered him to meet with Amycus Carrow. Neither was able to extract any information. Harry laughed when he saw Carrow's frustrated grimace. Hidden under Peverell's Cloak of Invisibility, he could have been singing opera into the man's ear and remained undetected. The magic of the Chamber of Secrets prevented Zabini from even disclosing where he had been that day he'd been kidnapped, much less what was said and by whom.
"Come to the Creek tomorrow," said Carrow, reapplying the silver mask to his face. "Everyone will be there. Perhaps Bellatrix knows a way to unshield this memory."
That evening, Harry left a message for Dumbledore, then returned to Grimmauld Place. Kreacher made sure to be as noisy as possible when delivering the potion ingredients Harry had requested. The opaqueness scale placed his hurried batch of the Wakefulness Potion rather below average quality, but he just needed to stay awake an extra day, not a week.
In contrast, he approached the concoction for his post-curse pain relief with the sharp attention worthy of a master potioneer. Hermione remained uncharacteristically silent while she watched him chop, mix and brew.
The third night came. Harry took extra care with his preparations. He relaced and reclasped his boots by hand rather than using a spell—the spell was just as good, if not better, but doing it manually did more to calm the anxiety he felt creeping in. He would have Dumbledore at his side, yes, but they would be walking into a den of Death Eaters, possibly Voldemort, and who knew what else.
"Just jitters," Harry mumbled to himself as he checked the buttons on his sleeves. His holster was drawn up tightly against his side, but not so tight that it impeded movement. A few emergency potion vials sat in the combat belt given to him by Sirius.
His godfather bade him an unceremonious goodbye.
"You will have one hour before I lead the full raid inside. I'm already giving you far too much rope with this."
"I will be with Dumbledore," Harry said—the words came out more certain than he felt.
"Which is the only reason why I'm letting you—"
"Letting me?" Harry interrupted. Sirius harrumphed at him, arms crossed, but didn't say another word.
Hermione held him close for a long moment. "Be careful."
Enough stalling, Harry thought. He went out into the backyard and apparated away.
Sprinkle showed him to Dumbledore's expansive outdoor terrace, which looked out towards a wooded lake in the distance. Dumbledore was lounging on a lawn chair with a tall glass of some cocktail, the rim frosted over with cloudy ice.
"Evening, Harry,"
"Hello, Professor. That's a rather picturesque view."
"Strictly speaking, I'm not anymore."
"Well, I'm not calling you 'Dumbledore' to your face. It tastes strange in my mouth."
Dumbledore put his drink away—the glass stood in the air as if on a table. Sprinkle popped in, snatched it, and vanished again.
"Shall we?"
"Yes, we'd best get moving," Harry said, fidgeting. His hands kept brushing the belt, the wand holster, the clasp of the Cloak. "Sirius has given us an hour before he leads his party in."
The hillside overlooking the Rugberry Creek estate cast a shadow on the valley floor, where a wide road of beaten dirt led up to the front gate. A tranquil scene most days, but tonight a line of carriages snaked up that road. Some were open-air, some roofed. Some drawn by thestrals, others by hippogriffs or horses or enormous boars, or—in one case—a deer with antlers wider than the carriage, decorated with rings of metal and jewels. The beast looked more fierce than Buckbeak and spat bright purple flames when it neighed.
"It's the place to be tonight," Harry said. He looked over at Dumbledore and blinked. In the few moments since he'd looked away, the elder wizard had applied a disguise that cast him as a clean-shaven, middle-aged wizard with short, salt-and-pepper hair.
"Will you be relying on your marvellous Cloak?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes. I want to snoop around a bit, as circumstances allow."
"Very well. Follow me, but take caution."
Harry raised his hand, fingertips lightly touching Dumbledore's shoulder as he apparated. They arrived next to one of the carriages. Wasting no time, Dumbledore swung the door open and snapped off a Confundus Charm. Harry climbed in after him. The occupants—an elder witch and a young couple—appeared dazed for the space of a breath, then resumed their conversation as if they'd never been interrupted.
The carriage wobbled up the road. Two Death Eater sentries were stationed at the gate, ominous and stoic in their masks and robes. One cast a diagnostic spell on the carriage and the pair of horses pulling it, while the other looked inside the cabin.
"Hmph," the Death Eater grunted, and waved them through.
Harry hadn't even noticed when Dumbledore had Confounded the Death Eater. The elder wizard sat opposite him with a relaxed smile on his face, as if they were coming round to a friend's for tea and a game of cards.
Harry and Dumbledore joined the stream of guests, following the crowd through a tunnel of blossoming vines. At the other end, the estate emerged before them. The namesake creek ran down the middle of the courtyard and under a stone arch, which itself was a part of the building's foundations. A small bridge joined two halves of the courtyard. The main entrance to the asymmetrical building dominated the left side of the façade.
The gathering was to begin outdoors. Elves in gold and green livery levitated trays of drinks and bite-sized snacks. A quartet of enchanted violins filled the background with a pleasant melody. Torches and lanterns illuminated the scene with soft, amber light.
The high-pitched notes of metal striking glass brought everyone's attention to the figure standing at the top of the stairs leading up and inside the mansion.
Draco Malfoy cleared his throat. "Good evening. Thank you all for attending this charming soirée."
Polite laughs from the crowd accompanied Malfoy's smile. Harry's grip tightened on his wand, but he stopped himself there. It would be the work of a moment to sever that platinum-crowned head from the shoulders… but one head wasn't what he'd come here for. Since the moment he'd crossed the main gate, Harry had felt an oily, familiar taste in his mouth. The air was permeated with the sweet, putrid smell of something dead decaying in the woods—a sensation no doubt revolting to Dumbledore, who surely noticed it as well. Dumbledore didn't have the Dark Touch. To Harry, it was an enchanting, delicious sweetness of a favoured dessert.
There were dementors nearby.
"...and last but not least, raise a glass to our gracious host, Morpheus Fawley." Malfoy led the toast, allowing the applause to linger for a moment, before raising his hand to silence the crowd. "But enough of speeches. More important people will have more important things to say later. For now, mingle, drink, eat, enjoy yourselves!"
Harry found Dumbledore off to the side, enjoying appetisers at the buffet table.
"Dementors," Harry said.
Dumbledore nodded. "I have noticed, yes."
"I can move more freely than you. I'm going inside. Send your patronus if something goes wrong."
"Most of the Inner Circle are in attendance. I've spotted Bellatrix, Amycus Carrow, and Antonin Dolohov."
Harry froze for a moment. "More important people will speak later… It sounds like Voldemort is going to make a personal appearance."
"A safe assumption, given the circumstances. Go. I shall keep an eye out."
Unconcerned about the noise of his footsteps, Harry moved as quickly as caution allowed. He was unseen and unheard, but if he walked through a cursed doorway, the Cloak wouldn't save him from being cut into ribbons. Guests had begun to trickle indoors, taking seats at tables, splitting into gossip groups, venturing out onto the dancefloor in the ballroom. A pair of masked sentries guarded every way leading deeper inside the building, clearly signalling to partygoers how far they were allowed to roam.
Harry walked right past the guards, down a long, spacious hallway. The interior shed aristocratic grandeur the further he went. Wood panelling and the parquet floor became raw, unhewn stone. The hallway seamlessly became a tunnel curving down, deeper into earth and rock. Wide steps disappeared into darkness. Wall-mounted torches didn't light up for him, hidden as he was under the Cloak, so he conjured a wandlight and kept walking.
The spiral staircase didn't tease for long and soon he entered a large dungeon. Exhaling mist into the cold cavern, he brightened the wandlight and sent the miniature star up towards the ceiling. The sweet rot on his tongue gained a tangy note of rust. With every step, the dull silence gave way to deafening ringing in his ears. His wandlight blinked and died. Harry conjured another and followed it with his eyes as he sent it up.
At first glance, it seemed as though a colony of enormous bats swarmed restlessly at the top of the cavern. Then, Harry saw the wings were instead tattered cloaks. Eyeless, toothless mouths adorned in silky shadows searched hungrily for a shred of happiness to devour. The Cloak protected him from the dementors' senses, but Harry couldn't help but feel exposed. The cavern appeared endless from where he stood. This horde dwarfed the one he repelled in his third year. If Voldemort unleashed it, he could suffocate all of Britain under a blanket of misery.
His thoughts raced with ideas, but none was a solution. He knew of no way to outright destroy dementors. They could be 'bred' under certain conditions, they could be repelled, but there was no enchantment that could erase them or simply lock them out. A dementor went where it wished, until it encountered something that chased it away—a Patronus charm, Fiendfyre, or a monster hungrier than itself. Harry couldn't imagine Voldemort promised them anything less than the happy memories of thousands of wizards and witches to keep them from simply leaving here. The magic of Azkaban that had attracted dementors and sustained prisoners enough to keep the wraiths from looking for another hunting ground was layered and ancient—not something even Voldemort could reproduce in a year.
Footsteps echoed in the great cavern. Harry faced the new arrivals, poised for combat, even though he knew they couldn't see or hear him. Draco and Bellatrix looked the part of aristocrats in perfectly tailored evening robes. The third was hidden behind a silver mask of the Inner Circle.
One of the dementors separated from the horde and floated down to receive the Death Eaters' message, but before Bellatrix could speak, a streak of pale moonlight shot past her. The dementor envoy backed off as if launched from a slingshot, screeching at the patronus. The silver phoenix spoke in Dumbledore's voice: "He is here. Get out."
"That's Dumbledore's!" Bellatrix spat out.
"Who's out there?" demanded the masked Death Eater, scanning the darkness, wand raised. "Show yourself! You have no way out!"
Harry raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra." The masked Death Eater collapsed, dead.
Draco and Bellatrix acted in unison. Shockwaves rippled through the cavern as the ground shook beneath Harry's feet. The dementor horde spread out, sucking and clawing at the air to force the invisible foe to reveal himself. Dumbledore's patronus was snuffed out like a candlelight without oxygen.
Harry had half a mind to stand his ground and take on the two Death Eaters and the dementors, but then the dungeon's traps activated. Cracks opened in the stone, releasing gas that had Harry coughing in an instant and would likely have killed him seconds later were it not for his quick Bubblehead Charm. He nearly fell into a pit when a section of the floor where he'd been standing a moment before vanished. Then, spikes of black metal shot out of the floor in random spots, retreated, and then more spikes sprang up.
Forced on the defensive, Harry ripped a slab of stone from the floor, hopped onto it and levitated the platform above the spikes and the poisonous gas. He slammed a Shield Charm down around himself, but Bellatrix slung a Killing Curse at the floating chunk of rock. Harry manoeuvred out of the way and straight into a wind blast Draco had summoned. Harry fought to keep the platform stable as it barreled towards the mouth of the exit tunnel. He leapt forward when it was yanked from beneath him, tumbling across the floor until he slammed into a wall. He climbed to his feet under spellfire. Draco and Bellatrix were retreating up the staircase, back to the mansion, their curses blowing chunks out of stone as they went.
"Bombarda!" Harry bellowed. The tunnel collapsed behind him, trapping dementors in the cavern. It wouldn't stop them for long. He began a slow, determined climb up the spiral staircase, blasting through cave-ins and dismantling traps Bellatrix and Draco had laid for him. Up ahead, he heard shouting.
"Who the hell is that? Stop them!"
"I'm trying!" Draco yelled, "They just keep coming! We need more wands!"
"Dolohov's dead down there! Get Carrow!"
Taken by a sudden hacking cough, Harry reached for one of the potions in his belt, popped the cork and drank it, hoping that it would stave off the lingering effects of the gas until a Healer could have a proper look at him. A Death Eater braved the corner, searching for a target. Harry yanked him off his feet with a Summoning Charm and immediately Banished him away as the Death Eater flew past him. The man was ragdolled down the stairs, bouncing off the walls, screaming out in pain with each impact.
A momentary silence descended. Harry knew the enemy was lying in wait at the top of the stairs; he'd been stalled long enough for Death Eaters to prepare an ambush.
"Aguamenti. Engorgio."
He enlarged the conjured blob until a wall of swirling, foaming water filled the breadth of the tunnel. He Banished it forward, expanding the conjuration into a wave that exploded out into the hallway at the top of the stairs. Bellatrix and two others tried to stop the frothing maelstrom from sweeping them all away while Draco led another party in blasting spellfire in Harry's general direction.
Harry willed the Cloak to reveal him. The Death Eaters paused for the space of a breath—that was the opening Harry needed.
He transfigured the water into boiling steam; those too slow to react fell to the ground, writhing as they were cooked alive. Draco, Bellatrix and two others now stood between Harry and his way out; he didn't give them an opportunity for complex spellwork. The fight became a contest of speed, an exchange of fast curses slamming into shields. Bellatrix put herself on the backfoot trying to protect her nephew. Spell after spell, the duel moved down the hallway towards the ballroom.
Harry exploited the Death Eaters' mistakes mercilessly. An imperfectly cast shield shattered under the force of his curse and he sliced a masked Death Eater's wand arm clean off at the shoulder. The other flinched when Harry detonated a chandelier into shards and was too late to react; dozens of wounds bloomed with blood as the shards perforated him.
Bellatrix changed tactics. "Run!" she said. Draco turned at once and took off down the hallway. Bellatrix, now unconcerned with protecting another, turned her full attention to Harry.
Her spellwork was impeccable and the power behind her spells humbling, but Harry gave no ground, meeting her thunderous curses with unshakeable shields and perfectly timed blocks. There was no room for mistakes, one misstep meant death.
A burning pain churned in Harry's chest. His potion was wearing off. He had enough foresight to hide under the Cloak again just as bile rose to his throat and he fell to one knee, coughing.
"Oh, you're not hiding from me, Potter!"
He reached for another vial—the second and last dose of the Soothing Draught he'd brought along. It would have to be enough.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" Bellatrix shrieked. Harry felt a chill rising behind him—dementors had broken through the cave-in. He called on his Occlumency training to ward off the fear creeping in at the back of his mind. For the space of a breath, he wished he could still conjure a Patronus.
With a sweep of his wand, he called forth wind and lightning, and within moments he stood in the eye of a storm. Elements raged around him as he pulled himself to his feet. A hurricane filled the hallway, whipping at the dementors, smashing them into each other and against the walls. Bellatrix beat a retreat back towards the ballroom. Harry followed.
The ballroom was a cacophony of spellfire and noise. Death Eaters and some of the party guests waged battle against Sirius' Knights. Everyone was trying not to become a casualty of the duel between two titans. Dumbledore once again crossed wands with Voldemort and this time, the Dark Lord had the upper hand.
"Ignis Maledictus!"
Fiendfyre obeyed, and a horde of fiery hippogriffs galloped at Voldemort, screeching and beating their wings. The Dark Lord slashed with his wand and the flames turned neon green, the hippogriffs transformed into gigantic snakes; Harry had to fight off his own conjurations.
Dumbledore unleashed a spell that sent a shockwave through the foundations of Rugberry Creek. Voldemort met it with a silver shield. Dumbledore's spell struck and split it in half, eliciting a deep, booming note. The two halves of the shield morphed into spears. Harry deflected the one launched at him. It embedded itself into the ceiling and the entire ballroom groaned in protest. Dumbledore transfigured the other into a flock of hummingbirds that flew back towards Voldemort, their beaks glinting like knives.
Voldemort set the pace of the three-man duel, somehow able to keep up with two opponents. Harry slung a Killing Curse at the Dark Lord, but a floor tile intercepted it. Bellatrix flanked Dumbledore, splitting his attention. Voldemort seized the opportunity to launch a volley of lethal curses at Harry.
Then, dementors arrived. The storm Harry had conjured wasn't enough to hold them back.
"RETREAT!" Sirius' amplified voice rang out above the noise of battle.
Voldemort seemed to take Sirius' command as a taunt. Harry grit his teeth. It took all his skill to stay alive against Voldemort's onslaught. Each impact against his shield rattled him physically, as if he were holding onto a vibrating gong. Spell after spell hammered down upon him as he backed away towards the exit.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Voldemort roared.
Harry summoned a Death Eater into the path of the curse, but he was too slow to anticipate Voldemort's follow-up attack. A bloody gash opened on his right arm and he nearly dropped his wand. In that instant, he saw death coming for him.
Then, out of nowhere, Dumbledore was between him and the Dark Lord, shielding Harry with his own body.
"Harry…" Dumbledore whispered, and fell to his knees.
The force of a spell yanked Harry backwards off his feet. Dumbledore, limp and unconscious, was pulled alongside him. He only barely held onto his wand landing outside in the courtyard in a heap of limbs.
"Get up!" Sirius barked. "Move!"
The Silver Knights formed a half circle in front of them. Death Eaters began pouring out into the courtyard and the fight was about to resume.
"Do not engage! FALL BACK!" Sirius yelled. The Knights began to disperse, ducking behind cover, running towards the carriages, conjuring shields as they retreated to get outside the range of the Anti-Disapparition Jinx laid over Rugberry Creek.
Voldemort and the dementors were nowhere to be seen. Only Death Eaters pursued them now. Harry levitated Dumbledore in front of him. He placed the old wizard inside one of the thestral-drawn carriages, then climbed onto the driver's bench.
"Greengrass estate! Go, now!"
The pair of thestrals reacted immediately, beating their wings with enough force to raise a cloud of dust around the carriage as it rocketed upwards. Harry leaned out of his seat, but the carriage was gaining altitude too fast for him to assist in anyone else's escape. He faintly heard several cracks of disapparition and then the thestrals flew even faster and Rugberry Creek dissolved into the distance.