Chapter 307: Alastor make a small sacrifice
Every few steps, he would reach out to touch the rough cave wall, occasionally pausing to use his fingers to feel up and down a protruding rock, his magic gently seeping into the crevices as if searching for a critical node.
Finally, he stopped in front of a rock on the right side of the cave, placing his palm flat on the cold stone wall for a few seconds.
"It's here." Dumbledore withdrew his hand, his tone firm. "We enter through here. The entrance has been hidden."
He then stepped back three paces, maintaining a distance from the rock wall, and raised his wand, pointing the tip at the spot where his palm had rested. The next moment, the residual Dark Magic energy within the rock wall seemed to find a sudden outlet, surging toward the node Dumbledore's wand was pointing at.
Instantly, a cold, foul-smelling wind blew through the narrow cave, carrying the scent of decay that made them wrinkle their noses.
Dylan took a whiff. "Hmm, a familiar smell, much like my lab."
Within a few seconds, the outline of an archway gradually appeared at the node pointed to by the wand. The outline's edge emitted a dazzling white light. The light was so intense it made them squint, as if a powerful lamp was continuously shining from the other side of the archway's fissure, driving away much of the shadow in the deep recesses of the cave.
"Can we go now?" Moody eagerly stepped closer, his wooden cane loudly striking the stone floor three times—thump-thump-thump—clearly indicating his impatience.
"I think so. Let's go," Dumbledore said, stepping toward the archway.
But just as he took a step, Dylan reached out and stopped him.
The originally dazzling archway outline was visibly dimming at a speed that could be seen with the naked eye. The white light was weakening, flickering against the rock wall like a candle flame in the wind, threatening to disappear completely at any moment.
"Professor, something seems wrong. We might have run into trouble," Dylan warned, his gaze fixed on the faint archway.
He quickly walked to the rock wall, bent slightly, and peered closely at the archway's outline. He soon noticed that small, distorted characters were carved into the rock around the archway's edge. These characters were written in Ancient Runes, surrounded by a faint black magic aura that made them exceptionally clear against the residual white glow.
Dylan deciphered them word by word and found that the runes ultimately formed a complete contract. He studied them for a moment, sensing the magical fluctuation contained within the runes. He then straightened up and stated confidently, "To make this archway fully manifest again, it must be 'fed' with a wizard's blood."
"How much blood is needed?" Moody immediately asked. He raised the copper hip flask at his waist, unscrewed the cap, and took a gulp of the Calming Draught. The cold liquid sliding down his throat calmed his anxious emotions slightly.
Dylan shook his head. "It's hard to say right now. It might only take a drop, or it might require a full adult's blood. However, this is a trap set by Voldemort. Based on his methods, the latter is highly probable."
This was clearly a trap set in the open. Even if they saw through Voldemort's plan, they were forced to comply with his rules, or they would be unable to proceed into the deeper part of the cave.
"This is nothing but petty trickery," Dumbledore's voice suddenly rang out. His eyes were exceptionally firm, fixed tightly on the archway fissure as if trying to see through the stone wall. "Voldemort will never understand that there are many things in this world far more terrifying than physical injury."
Dylan stood aside, watching Dumbledore's back, and felt the man's image instantly become larger—although he didn't fully grasp the deeper meaning of the words, he was inexplicably awed by the aura.
However, the very next sentence Dumbledore spoke instantly shattered that "grand image."
"So, Alastor, are you willing to make a small sacrifice for this?" Dumbledore turned to Moody, his tone deliberately gentle. "I can guarantee that with Tom's petty nature, he'd only need 'a little bit' of your blood."
As he spoke, he gently pinched his index finger and thumb together, leaving a minuscule gap. He held his hand up to his half-moon spectacles, squinting exaggeratedly. He dramatically demonstrated to Moody exactly how much "a little bit" of blood was, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Looking at the tiny gap between Dumbledore's fingers, Moody was thankful he had drunk plenty of the Calming Draught earlier; the cold potion was still working within him, suppressing his emotions. Otherwise, Dylan genuinely suspected Moody would have instantly erupted, grabbing Dumbledore's collar and perhaps even trying to strangle him. After all, any person would find it difficult to remain calm upon hearing such an overtly "self-serving" proposition.
Yet, even with the Calming Draught as a buffer, Dumbledore's words completely enraged Moody. His already furrowed brow tightened further, the veins on his forehead subtly bulging, and his bright blue magical eye spun frantically, glaring at Dumbledore.
The next second, Moody abruptly raised his voice, full of anger, practically shouting: "How high and mighty you are! How impressive! If you're not the one who has to bleed, you can afford to be so cavalier, can't you!" He took a step forward, his oak prosthetic leg clunking heavily on the stone, as if venting his displeasure. The hip flask at his side swung, the remaining Calming Draught sloshing inside. But it was clearly no longer enough to completely quell his fury. Dumbledore's proposal was simply too inconsiderate of his old friend's feelings.
Moody's anger did not subside. He took another step forward, his bright blue magical eye fixed on Dumbledore, his voice filled with doubt and rage. "Why don't you bleed yourself? When that Seeker was spinning wildly at you earlier, I thought the instrument might be faulty, but now it seems you really are harboring ill will, and it's not small!"
Seeing this, Dumbledore softened his tone, trying to calm Moody's emotions. "Alastor, try to calm down. Frankly, if it were just the two of us here, I would absolutely bleed myself without hesitation."
"But there are three of us, and we still have unknown dangers ahead. We must conserve as much strength as possible. This is only the first obstacle Voldemort set, and typically, it should be the simplest one with the smallest price. That's why I'm asking you to be the first to pay the price. The subsequent stages will only be harder, and Dylan and I still need your experience and strength to protect us. Your sensitivity to Dark Magic traps is stronger than ours."
As Dumbledore's explanation unfolded, the anger on Moody's face gradually subsided, and his tense shoulders slowly relaxed. He remained silent for a few seconds, as if weighing the pros and cons. Finally, he grit his teeth and nodded, agreeing with Dumbledore's logic.
"Someone has to step up and make the sacrifice first. Since this stage is relatively easy, I'll be the one!" Moody slightly turned his head, his scarred profile looking particularly resolute in the faint light of the wand. The previous anger was gone from his eyes, replaced by a flash of light akin to conviction—the decisive courage of a veteran Auror facing danger.
Dumbledore, seeing this, waved his wand. A silver flash appeared, and a small silver knife materialized in his palm. The blade was sharp, and the handle was etched with simple anti-slip patterns. He handed the knife to Moody and said softly, "Alastor, take this."
Moody took the knife and, without hesitation, gently slashed his left wrist. Instantly, a line of crimson blood appeared. The blood dripped from the wound, splashing onto the special node on the rock wall. He didn't stop, tilting his wrist slightly to let the blood flow down the node, soaking the surrounding rock.
Soon, the bright white outline of the archway reappeared on the cave wall. This time, the white light did not gradually dim as before. Instead, it grew brighter and steadier, firmly holding its position on the rock wall.
A moment later, the rock within the archway, soaked with blood, suddenly vanished as if pulled away by an invisible force, revealing a pitch-black doorway. The depths of the doorway were utterly dark, with no visible end, seemingly concealing endless blackness.
Dumbledore immediately stepped forward and gently tapped Moody's bleeding wrist with his wand. A faint golden magic flowed from the wand tip, enveloping Moody's wound. The fresh, long wound, which had been seeping blood, instantly stopped bleeding and quickly scabbed over, leaving only a shallow mark.
"That's enough, Alastor," Dumbledore said, a hint of relief in his voice.
"Thank you..." Moody's voice sounded weak. The blood loss had not only sapped his physical strength but also slightly diminished his magical reserves. He stood in place, his steps slightly unsteady.
Seeing this, Dylan quickly stepped forward, hooking his arm under Moody's armpit from behind to steady him and help him stand upright. He looked down at Moody's face, noticing it was considerably paler than before, his lips drained of color.
After settling Moody, the three of them raised their wands, the tips glowing faintly—Dumbledore's was warm white, Moody's was pale blue, and Dylan's was light gold. They supported each other and slowly walked into the pitch-black doorway.
The moment they passed through the doorway, the scene before them abruptly changed.
A bizarre tableau appeared before the three. They stood on the shore of a vast black lake. The water was an ink-like black, the surface perfectly still without a ripple, stretching out until it merged with the dark cave walls, its boundaries invisible. The cavern space they were in was extremely high; looking up, they saw only endless darkness, unable to discern the ceiling's outline.
In the far distance, seemingly the center of this black lake, a hazy, faint green glow shimmered. The light was weak yet persistent, reflecting in the dead still lake water to form a long, slender green reflection, looking exceptionally eerie in the darkness.
Besides the distant green glow and the flickering lights from their wands, the surroundings were enveloped in a darkness as thick as congealed ink. Even the slightly brighter warm-white light from Dumbledore's wand could only illuminate the ground within half a meter; extending further, the light seemed swallowed by an unseen force, unable to create a single ripple. The darkness here was far denser and heavier than that of an ordinary night. Standing in it, even breathing seemed to make contact with the cold "blackness."
As soon as Dylan stabilized, he felt the black magic surging around him like a heavy tide. His chest felt crushed by a weighty boulder, making even inhalation difficult. His magic circulation became sluggish. It took a full three minutes before he slowly regulated his breathing and adapted to the suffocating oppression.
"Interesting design."
Moody, next to him, was in worse shape. His already pale face was now white as paper, and the hand gripping the rock wall was trembling slightly. His body swayed, and he nearly fell forward. He finally bit down, pressing his cane hard into the ground to barely support his shaking body, his breathing heavy like a worn-out bellows.
"The place beneath that green light in the center of the lake... that must be where the Horcrux we're looking for is, right?" Moody raised his trembling hand, pointing into the distance. His voice was weak, yet his vigilance remained apparent. Following his pointed direction, a small, raised piece of land was vaguely visible beneath the green light, like a miniature island surrounded by the pitch-black water.
"I believe so." Dumbledore sniffed. The black magic permeating the air carried a smell of decaying mildew. It made him wrinkle his brow, his lips pressed into a thin line. His right hand slowly circled in front of him, his fingertips imbued with a faint warm-white magic, as if he were feeling for or capturing an invisible object in the air, his movements slow yet extremely focused.
Moody held his breath, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore's actions. Soon, Dumbledore's fingertips suddenly tightened, as if grasping something cold. He then slowly pulled a mass of "invisible" black air from the darkness in front of him. The black air was almost imperceptible to the naked eye; only those extremely sensitive to magic could vaguely sense the cold energy churning within it. It writhed in Dumbledore's palm like an uneasy little snake.
Dumbledore held the black air and slowly walked toward the lake shore, his hand gripping the air suspended, while his other hand held the Elder Wand, the tip gently tapping his fist.
The next second, tiny ripples suddenly spread across the still surface of the black lake.
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