After Sherlock's warning, Dumbledore's movements took on a new precision.
Beneath Sherlock's sharp gaze and Harry's curious stare, Dumbledore kept his right hand suspended in mid-air, as though clutching something invisible yet heavy. Even the folds of his sleeve hung stiff, revealing the force he was exerting on nothing at all.
Then his feet began to move.
His boot soles scraped over the damp, yielding mud and scattered stones at the lake's edge with a faint shush, shush.
Each step was achingly slow, achingly steady as if he were wrestling some unseen resistance—inching himself toward the water's edge.
At last, the brass buckle at his toe came to rest precisely at the outermost lip of the rock.
Dumbledore drew a slow breath, his chest rising and falling. With his other hand he raised his wand and gave his clenched, empty fist a gentle tap.
The next instant, a glint of understanding crossed Sherlock's eyes; Harry let out a sharp gasp.
They could finally see what Dumbledore had been gripping.
A length of green copper chain, as thick as a man's wrist and eaten through with rust, was rising slowly from the depths of the lake.
Strands of wet weed clung to the links, and the droplets that fell struck the rock below with small, bright splashes. The algae on the chain's surface caught the dim light in a dull, heavy sheen.
Once the chain had fully emerged, Dumbledore released the tense, straining effort he had been sustaining. He raised his wand again, tapped the chain once, and a single clear note rang out—ting—whereupon the chain seemed to take on a life of its own, sliding free from his fist and coiling itself along the rock, settling into a heap on the ground.
Link struck link with a bright, tumbling clatter that rang off the cave's cold stone walls and bounced back again. The crisp sound gathered into layer upon layer of echoes, rolling through the vast hollow and lingering long after the chain had gone still.
As the coils on the ground grew higher, whatever had been tethered at the other end was at last dragged free of the water.
A boat.
A small boat that glowed with the same faint green glow as the chain.
Its hull appeared to be forged from some unusual metal—smooth enough to hold a reflection, yet showing not a single seam or join.
Most remarkable of all, as it drifted toward the three of them across the surface of the lake, its passage left almost no ripple in its trail. Then again, Harry reminded himself, this was the wizarding world; perhaps it wasn't so remarkable after all.
"You were quite right, Sherlock," said Dumbledore.
He turned, a pleased smile was on his face. "Wherever there is magic, it leaves traces. And sometimes those traces are far more visible than we expect. I taught Tom Riddle. I know his style familiarly. He always liked to embed a flaw in an otherwise perfect design—one he was convinced no one would ever find."
Before the last words had faded, a soft thunk announced the boat nudging against the rocks at the shore, where it rested, perfectly still.
Harry didn't need Dumbledore to say a word. He understood immediately what came next: they would cross this lightless lake in that boat, heading for the island of green light at its centre.
He tilted his head back and looked at Sherlock and Dumbledore with admiration.
Since entering the cave, Sherlock had unerringly spotted every critical clue; Dumbledore had met every obstacle with ease. And himself? He seemed to have contributed absolutely nothing from beginning to end—had not said a single useful thing.
A feeling that could only be called shame welled up like a tide and washed through him, and his head dipped slightly.
It was then that Dumbledore noticed the thoughtful, distant expression on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock," he said, "it looks as though you have something to say?"
"Three questions." Sherlock met Dumbledore's surprised look and raised three fingers, one by one. "First: is this boat safe? Second: can it carry all three of us at once? Third: those creatures lurking beneath the water just now—will they surface again while we cross to the centre?"
The admiration in Harry's gaze deepened further.
'That's Sherlock for you, of course.'
In the span of a few moments, he had catalogued every possible danger. Harry gave a quiet internal sigh and told himself he need only follow Sherlock and Dumbledore's lead from here on.
As for the shame he'd felt a moment ago—better to set it aside.
"Beautifully observed, Sherlock." Dumbledore laughed. "As for the boat: I believe it is safe. Voldemort needed a means to cross this lake whenever he wished to visit or retrieve his Horcrux—without provoking whatever he had placed in these waters. In such circumstances, he would never leave himself a dangerous escape route. Knowing him as I do, I am certain he was convinced that only a wizard of extraordinary skill could locate this hidden chain and boat."
He paused. "I will admit, that confidence was not entirely without foundation."
"You're right," said Sherlock, and he smiled too. "Only a wizard of extraordinary skill could find it."
"Forgive me for being immodest," Dumbledore added with a smile, "but I would say there are no more than five people in the world who could have done so."
"And your second question—Voldemort never concerned himself with weight; only with how much magical power passed through his lake. I therefore believe this boat was enchanted to carry only one wizard at a time."
"What?" Harry stared. "Then Sherlock and I can't come across at all?"
The implication seemed plain: if the boat could hold only one wizard, Dumbledore would have to go alone. Bringing Sherlock and himself along had been pointless.
But before Dumbledore could answer, Sherlock gave a slow, slight shake of his head and said one word: "Wrong."
"Wrong?" Harry frowned, bewildered. "But the Professor just said—only one wizard?"
"One powerful wizard," Sherlock corrected.
He was always patient with Harry. He looked toward Dumbledore and continued quietly: "Compared to the great Albus Dumbledore, the magical power you and I possess combined is, I think, negligible. Or rather—by the terms of Voldemort's enchantment, together we might not even count as one person."
"…What?"
Harry's expression of confusion deepened. 'Not even count as a person?'
"What Sherlock means," said Dumbledore, catching Harry's lost look and offering it a gentle explanation, "is that your magical ability and his are, relative to mine, so faint as to fall below the threshold this enchantment was designed to detect." A note of warm amusement coloured his voice. "Voldemort never imagined that two fifteen-year-old boys would find their way into a place he had so carefully designed. In his mind, anyone who reached this shore could only be an adult wizard of my kind."
'Oh.
So we actually don't count.'
Seeing Harry's expression, Dumbledore cleared his throat and quickly added: "Of course, Voldemort was wrong—and not merely wrong, but profoundly wrong. It is the height of foolishness for an old man to underestimate the courage and ability of the young."
He straightened. "Now—let us return to Sherlock's third question."
After reassuring Harry, he went on, "However confident Voldemort may have been, his nature would have demanded he prepare for the possibility that a skilled wizard might locate the boat—"
"In other words, he took precautions against you specifically," Sherlock interjected.
Dumbledore: "…"
He allowed himself a single cough, then continued: "Knowing him as I do, I suspect he has placed further obstacles ahead—obstacles only he could navigate. Those creatures in the water, for instance: the moment they realize we are not Voldemort, they will almost certainly act. But, like many things that live in cold and darkness, they fear light and warmth. Should they become a problem, we can call upon—fire."
"I—is that right?" Harry swallowed; his voice slightly unsteady.
Knowing the creatures had a weakness helped, but the thought of all those bodies drifting and stirring beneath the hull still made his skin crawl. He was only a boy who had just turned fifteen; faced with this, fear was simply the body's honest response. There was no comparing himself to Dumbledore—hardened by a lifetime of battle—or to Sherlock, who was, in this respect at least, something other than ordinary.
Just then, Sherlock turned to look at him. "What we truly fear is never the thing itself," he said quietly, "but the unknown. Now that we know what they are and how to counter them—what is there left to be afraid of?"
His tone was even, but it carried an odd, settling quality.
He was right.
Dumbledore said they fear fire. Harry steadied himself. When the time comes, a Fire-Conjuring Spell. Like the Devil's Snare in first year—burn the lot of them clean.
Then again—
His eyes drifted back across the black and boundless lake, and somewhere in its depths, the pale shapes stirred in his imagination. The small courage he'd just assembled dissolved a little in the chill.
"No need to worry, my dear friend."
Sherlock read his expression at once. He smiled. "Remember this: all fear is due to a shortage of power."
"All fear is due to a shortage of power?"
Harry repeated the phrase to himself two or three times, then glanced at Dumbledore—tall, unhurried, utterly untroubled—and felt the last of the dread lighten in his chest.
Right. With Dumbledore here, and Sherlock's mind behind them, whatever came next, they would find a way through.
"We're nearly there."
Dumbledore's voice broke the silence, bright with something like anticipation.
Harry's head snapped up; his spirits lifted at once.
The green glow ahead was burning stronger now. He could just make out the silhouette of something resting within it.
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