Chapter 305: Horcrux?
As Dumbledore's words finished, he gently grabbed Dylan's wrist. Before Dylan could ask any more questions, a faint silver light enveloped both of them. With the surge of Apparition magic, they instantly vanished from the spot.
When they stood firm again, they were on a quiet street. Houses lined both sides of the road with sparse vines creeping up their outer walls. Only a few pedestrians slowly walked by, conversing softly amongst themselves. Their topic of conversation seemed to revolve around a nearby neighbor.
"Do you think that Moody fellow is really a bit unhinged? Keeps himself locked up all day, and when he does come out, he's muttering nonsense," a woman in a gray jacket grumbled to her companion as they walked.
"Who knows! But that face of his is truly terrifying. The last time I saw him in the evening, with that scar and that magical lens in his good eye, I had nightmares when I got home," the companion replied with a frown, her voice filled with apprehension.
Dylan stood still, shaking his head gently. "Professor, is there a specific reason for our visit to Mr. Moody?" Dylan composed himself, looking at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, hearing this, looked more perplexed than Dylan. He raised an eyebrow, gave a soft "Oh?" and turned to Dylan, his eyes twinkling playfully.
"You're usually able to foresee things, aren't you? Why don't you try to guess what I need your presence for?"
Dylan was momentarily speechless, inwardly complaining. Almost everyone was susceptible to being a hypocrite about certain things. Taking the example of being cryptic and speaking in riddles, he was guilty of it himself. When he deliberately kept people in suspense with vague words, he always felt a strange sense of satisfaction. But when someone else spoke to him in riddles, he found it incredibly annoying. He wondered if his current strength was enough to teach this riddle-loving old man a lesson. Why does he have to make me use prophecy just to answer a simple question?
Dumbledore said no more, leading Dylan to a house with a black wooden door halfway down the street. He raised his hand and gently knocked on the door.
A moment later, a rasping male voice came from inside, noticeably gravelly, like sandpaper rubbing wood. Just hearing the voice, a weather-beaten, scarred face immediately flashed through Dylan's mind.
"Who's there?" the person inside asked warily, his tone full of suspicion.
"It's me, Alastor. Put your wand away," Dumbledore said gently to the inside of the door, his hand resting on the doorknob.
"Albus?" the husky voice paused, then asked with a hint of scrutiny, "Then tell me, when and where did we first meet? What were you doing, and what was I doing?"
Dumbledore showed a moment of hesitation, then slowly said, "Well, Alastor, it's been so many years, I can't recall a lot of the details."
"But I do remember it must have been when I was teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, and you were a student in my class. I believe that's when we met..." Dumbledore raised a hand to rub his temple in resignation, fingers stroking the white beard that reached his chest, his voice conveying a sense of amusement. "Besides, no one in the entire wizarding world would dare impersonate me, Alastor. Stop wasting time and open the door!"
"Screeeak—"
The old wooden door let out a long, drawn-out sound and slowly opened inward.
A tall, upright old man stepped out. Though his hair was white, his back was not the slightest bit hunched. His left eye was small, the pupil a deep black, calm like an ordinary old man's. But his right eye was exaggeratedly large, round, and an intensely bright blue. That magical eye could easily see through walls, clothes, and even the back of his own head.
Moody's left leg was missing a section, replaced by a somewhat smooth oak prosthetic leg. It made a clear "thump-thump" sound on the flagstones as he walked. Below his thick, dark-gray hair, his face was covered in crisscrossing scars. A deep scar stretched from his left brow bone to his jaw, and another sliced across his partially missing nose bridge, leaving an irregular gap. These were the marks he'd accumulated while fighting the Dark Arts time and again as an Auror.
The bright blue magical eye first spun rapidly, scanning the street in front of the door, before slowly resting on Dumbledore and Dylan. After a full thirty seconds of thorough examination, Moody finally spoke, his voice still hoarse: "Come in."
Dumbledore and Dylan followed Moody into the house. The room's furnishings were indeed simple: a wooden table stood by the window, flanked by two single armchairs. The armchair covers were dark brown and slightly frayed at the edges. Other than that, there were no decorative ornaments. In the center of the room, on a low cabinet, sat a bronze-framed Seeker with a faint green shimmer on its surface and small defensive runes carved into its base. This type of Seeker would immediately sound an alarm if it sensed anyone approaching with ill intent.
Dumbledore walked up, reached out a finger, and lightly tapped the Seeker's frame, leaning down to examine the light and shadows in the mirror's surface.
The next second, the Seeker suddenly started ringing, "Drip-drip," the sound becoming more urgent. The entire mirror surface began to tremble violently, and the faint green shimmer flickered erratically.
Albus Dumbledore: "..."
Moody reacted instantly, his oak prosthetic leg clanking on the floor as he abruptly stepped back two paces. His right hand snapped the wand from his waist, the silver tip instantly lighting up. He pointed it straight at Dumbledore and Dylan, his eyes full of alertness. "What is going on?!"
"Moody, perhaps your Seeker is malfunctioning." Dylan moved closer, his shoulder almost touching Dumbledore's arm. Yet, the Seeker continued to tremble only toward Dumbledore, not even sparing Dylan a glance. He tilted his head. Interesting. Is Professor Dumbledore truly harboring some unspoken intention? Why else would the Seeker only react to him?
"You must trust me, Alastor." Dumbledore gently placed the Seeker back on the cabinet, raising his hands above his head to show he meant no harm. "I just need to see you about something important, nothing more."
"Oh? And what is that?" Moody's grip on his wand didn't loosen, and his brow remained tightly furrowed, but the silver light at the wand's tip had begun to fade.
Dumbledore smiled slowly, lowered his raised hands, and tapped the edge of the table with his index finger, his tone becoming exceptionally serious: "I want you to come with me to destroy something."
"Crack!" With a light sound, the magical fluctuation dispersed.
The figures of Dylan, Dumbledore, and Moody materialized in a place covered with broken rocks. The stones under their feet were sharply angled, some still slick from the seawater, allowing them to clearly feel the rough stone surface scraping against their soles. As soon as they stabilized, a salty sea breeze rushed into their nostrils. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks surged in their ears.
The weather seemed fine, but Dylan knew that the weather in Great Britain was always unpredictable. In perhaps twenty minutes, the sky could be completely covered with dark clouds, followed by a sudden downpour. He stood on a high black rock that rose considerably above the sea surface, its face extraordinarily smooth from years of erosion. The waves below constantly rolled and foamed, occasionally splashing the edge of the rock and wetting his trousers.
Dylan turned and looked back. Behind him stood a steep cliff, the dark brown rock face descending almost vertically to the sea. Numerous ravines etched by the seawater were visible on the rock face. Scattered around were several colossal, bare rocks, covered with a thin layer of salt spray. Their shape and location suggested they had broken off the cliff face long ago and smashed into the shore. The entire area was notably desolate, with nothing but the endless sea and the ubiquitous rocks. There was no sign of a single tree, patch of grass, or beach, only the constant howl of the sea wind.
"What do you think of the environment here?" Dumbledore spoke first, his gaze sweeping over the scene, asking calmly.
"What's hidden here?" Moody asked, glancing around and instinctively shifting his position, his oak prosthetic leg making a "thump-thump" sound on the rock. His gaze was sharp, constantly moving between the surrounding rocks and cliff crevices, clearly planning. He assessed which spots were suitable for cover in a fight, which rocks could be used as shields, and how to utilize the terrain advantage during an attack.
"There is an orphanage nearby, but what we're looking for shouldn't be inside it," Dumbledore said slowly, his finger lightly brushing the salt spray on a nearby rock.
Hearing this, Dylan already had his answer. Dumbledore was here to destroy Voldemort's Horcrux. Hmm. How did Dumbledore realize Voldemort might have more than one Horcrux? And how did he pinpoint the exact location?
"Little Seer, why don't you guess where the thing we're looking for is hidden?" Dumbledore suddenly turned to Dylan.
"I guess... it should be in that cave down there, right?" Dylan said, stepping toward the edge of the cliff to a position where he could overlook the sea. The lower rocks, smoothed by prolonged exposure to the seawater, were exceptionally slick, reflecting faint human figures. Cold, fishy-smelling waves occasionally splashed up, hitting his cheek with a chill.
Following his gaze downward, a dark, black crevice marked the cave entrance on the cliff face below. The edges of the cave were covered with dark green seaweed, and the inside was pitch black, completely swallowing the sunlight. Deep blue seawater continuously poured into the opening, making a "whooshing" sound.
Dumbledore slowly nodded, his white beard trembling slightly with the motion, his eyes becoming more serious. He turned to Moody, his tone calm but with a profound meaning.
"I think so too. By the way, Alastor, I forgot to mention something—Voldemort's name when he was young was Tom Riddle. He hadn't yet become the way he is now."
"When he was a boy, he brought a few of the children he bullied to this spot." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the steep rocks before him, and continued, "Muggles couldn't possibly climb this large rock. The surface has almost nothing to grip, unless they are seasoned climbers. Otherwise, they'd fall halfway up. As for a boat, it can't get close to the cliff. There are many hidden reefs near the shore, and the waves crashing against them can spray water over two meters high. An ordinary small boat would be flipped immediately upon approach."
"I can guess how Riddle got up here back then—magic would certainly be more effective than ropes for him. A simple spell would stabilize his body."
"He even intentionally brought two small children, probably finding it amusing to watch them shake with fear on the cliff edge. The feeling of controlling others' fear must have been especially appealing to him back then."
"For Tom, this place must be very special, holding the secrets of his youth."
Dylan stood aside, watching Dumbledore, and suddenly understood why Voldemort was so afraid of him. To others, Voldemort was a mysterious and terrifying Dark Lord. But Dumbledore had seen his most embarrassing teenage years and knew his darkest, hidden intentions. It was as if Dumbledore had exposed all his secrets, leaving nothing concealed. If Voldemort were standing here now and heard Dumbledore's words, he would probably be unnerved.
Dumbledore stopped talking about Voldemort and pointed to the edge of the rock beside him, indicating for Moody to take a look. Moody walked over, leaning on his wand, and realized the side of the rock had many uneven crevices. Some were large enough for a whole foot, others only for a toe. These crevices extended down the cliff face, leading directly to the colossal boulders partially exposed in the sea below. Those boulders were dark gray, smooth from the seawater, and covered with dark green seaweed, gently swaying with the waves.
Dumbledore took the lead. He held the rock face, his fingers grasping the edge of the crevices, and steadily stepped onto the depressions, moving much more nimbly than he appeared. Finally, he landed on the gigantic boulder closest to the cliff face, leaned slightly forward, and peered into the fissure at the base of the cliff, his gaze locking onto his target.
"The thing we're looking for is in that fissure!" He raised his hand, pointing toward the dark cave entrance, his tone absolutely certain. His voice carried over the sea wind to Moody and Dylan.
Dylan wanted to collect all of Voldemort's Horcruxes and refine them. He wasn't planning on refining something like a banner of souls, but rather Voldemort's soul fragments—especially the Horcrux that wouldn't die no matter what magic was used on it. Dylan truly loved this idea.
But where did this old Dumbledore suddenly get the information that a Horcrux was here? It was truly strange.
The Diadem had already been destroyed by him. The Diary had also been taken by him. Even if Dumbledore knew Voldemort had Horcruxes, he shouldn't know about the others or their specific locations.
.......
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