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Harry's eyes fluttered open to absolute darkness, the kind that seemed to press against his eyeballs. His head throbbed, and the metallic taste from the chest's smoke still lingered on his tongue.
"Melina?" he called out, his voice echoing strangely in the darkness. Only silence answered him. Something about that silence made his skin crawl – it felt wrong, like the silence in the Chamber of Secrets just before the basilisk appeared.
Pushing away memories of giant snakes, Harry formed a large lightning bolt in his palm. Yellow light illuminated a cave of rough-hewn rock and packed dirt. The walls seemed to weep with moisture, but something about the liquid's color made Harry decide not to look too closely.
Right then, he thought, just need to find the way out and figure out where that chest sent me. He spotted what appeared to be an exit sloping upward, though strangely, no light seemed to filter down from it. After his experiences with the Chamber of Secrets, Harry had developed a healthy skepticism of mysterious caves, but staying put didn't seem like a better option.
He picked his way carefully up the slope, loose rocks skittering under his feet. The cave's walls felt wrong under his free hand – too warm, almost feverish. As he neared the exit, an oppressive heat hit him like opening an oven door.
What he saw at the cave's mouth made him wish he'd stayed in the darkness.
The sky – if you could call it that – was the color of fresh blood, stretching horizon to horizon like an open wound. The ground below was mottled with patches of the same violent red, and strange trees dotted the landscape. Except they weren't really trees, Harry realized with growing horror. They were more like massive fungal growths, their branches dripping with what looked disturbingly like flesh.
Even the basilisk didn't make me feel like this, Harry thought, his stomach churning. At least the Chamber of Secrets had made a twisted kind of sense – it was still part of Hogwarts, still followed some rules he understood. This place... this place felt wrong on a fundamental level.
Massive crows with grotesquely swollen heads wheeled overhead, their cries sounding more like screams than caws. In the distance, Harry could see what he first thought were dogs, but their heads were far too large for their bodies. They repeatedly slammed their oversized skulls into the ground, roaring in what seemed to be constant agony.
"Melina?" Harry called again, more desperately this time. He'd grown used to her appearing whenever he needed guidance, but now only the screams of those twisted crows answered him.
A castle rose in the far distance, its towers scratching at the bleeding sky. Multiple dragons circled it like vultures, their wings creating shadows that looked black against the red sky. The sight reminded Harry of the illustrations in his Defense Against the Dark Arts books, but somehow darker, more corrupted.
If this is still the Lands Between, Harry thought, I must be incredibly far from Limgrave. He scanned the horizon for the familiar golden glow of the Erdtree, but found nothing but that terrible red sky. The absence of the Erdtree's light felt wrong in a way he couldn't quite explain – like looking up at night and finding all the stars had vanished.
Near the cave entrance, Harry spotted what, at first, he thought were more hollows like the ones from the lake. But these were different – their skin was an angry red, and many of them were literally on fire, wandering aimlessly as they moaned in obvious agony.
Don't panic, he told himself firmly. There's got to be a way back. Just need to think. But it was hard to think clearly with the constant background noise of suffering – the screaming birds, the howling dog-things, the moaning of the burning hollows.
Harry took a shaky breath, trying to keep himself calm. Here he was, far from even the closest thing to home he had in Limgrave, staring at a world that looked like it had been ripped from a nightmare. The heat was oppressive, making his clothes stick to his skin, and the air carried a metallic smell that reminded him uncomfortably of blood.
One of the grotesque crows landed nearby, and Harry got a better look at its deformed head – it was swollen to nearly four times the size it should be, with multiple eyes bulging from the flesh. The bird turned to regard him with those unnatural eyes, and Harry's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"Stay back," he warned, though he wasn't sure if the creature could even understand him. The crow cocked its massive head, then opened its beak to reveal rows of teeth that no bird should have. It let out a sound that was halfway between a scream and a laugh before taking flight again.
What kind of magic could twist things like this? Harry wondered. He'd seen some dark magic in his time at Hogwarts, but this felt different. This wasn't just evil – it felt like corruption given form, like something had gone fundamentally wrong with reality itself.
The burning hollows shambled closer, their moans growing louder. Up close, Harry could see that their flesh wasn't just on fire – it seemed to be actively rotting, peeling away in layers to reveal more burning tissue underneath. The sight made him think of Professor Lupin's lessons on dark creatures, but nothing in those classes had prepared him for this.
"There has to be a way back," Harry muttered to himself, a habit he'd picked up during long nights in his cupboard. "Just need to think it through. What would Hermione do?" He could almost hear her voice: Start with what you know, Harry. Make a plan.
Harry looked around and noticed a church-like structure; its roof was gone, and a knight wearing strange armor was guarding the entrance. The knight guarding the ruined church shifted its position, and Harry ducked behind one of the fleshy trees to avoid being seen. The texture of the trunk against his hand made him recoil – it felt warm and seemed to pulse slightly, like touching something alive.
In the distance, one of the dog-creatures let out a particularly agonized howl as it slammed its oversized head into the ground again. The impact sent tremors through the earth that Harry could feel even from this far away. He watched in horror as the creature's skull split open from the force, only to knit itself back together as the beast prepared for another slam.
"Okay," Harry whispered to himself, trying to organize his thoughts. "I got here through that chest. So either I need to find another chest like it, or..." He trailed off, realizing he had no other ideas. Without Melina's guidance or any familiar landmarks, he felt completely adrift.
The castle in the distance drew his eye again. Unlike everything else in this hellish landscape, it at least looked somewhat normal – or as normal as any castle could look under a bleeding sky. But the dragons circling it made Agheel look friendly in comparison. Their wings were tattered, their scales seemed to be falling off in patches, and their roars sounded more like the screams of the damned than any natural beast.
If this is what the dragons look like, Harry thought grimly, I don't want to meet whatever lives in that castle.
A gust of hot wind carried the sounds of coughing from somewhere behind the church. Harry strained to see what was making the noise, but the angle was wrong. Part of him wanted to investigate – it was the first sound he'd heard that wasn't screaming or moaning – but years of adventures had taught him that mysterious noises usually led to trouble.
"What I wouldn't give for my Invisibility Cloak right now," he muttered. Or the Marauder's Map, though he doubted even the Marauders had ever mapped a place like this. For a moment, he wondered what Sirius would say about this situation. Probably something about how it was exactly the sort of trouble James would have found himself in.
The thought of his father gave Harry a burst of determination. He was a Potter, after all. His father had faced down Voldemort himself – surely Harry could figure out how to escape whatever twisted realm this was.
Just then, the knight by the church turned its head with a sound like grinding metal. Harry pressed himself closer to the pulsing tree trunk, ignoring its unsettling warmth. Through the red haze, he could see that the knight's armor wasn't just covered in growths – the flesh seemed to be growing from within the armor itself, pushing through the joints and seams like some horrible plant seeking sunlight.
"Right," Harry whispered to himself. "First step: don't get caught by the nightmare knight. Second step..." He looked around desperately for any sign, any hint of where to go. But all he could see was more of the same horror – burning hollows, flesh-trees, and that eternal bleeding sky.
The absence of the Erdtree's light felt more oppressive with each passing moment. Harry hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on it as a beacon, a constant reminder that there was still beauty and hope in the Lands Between. Here, there was only corruption and suffering.
"Melina," he tried calling one more time, his voice barely a whisper. "I could really use some guidance right about now."
Only the screams of the twisted crows answered him.
Definitely not friendly, Harry decided as he looked back at the knight. But he had no idea which direction would be safer. Everything about this place screamed danger, and for the first time since arriving in the Lands Between, he felt truly lost. Without Melina's guidance or even the Erdtree as a landmark, he had no idea how to get back to somewhere that made even a little sense.
"If Hermione could see this place," he muttered to himself, trying to find comfort in imagining his friend's reaction, "she'd probably already have three theories about where we are and which books to check first." The thought helped a little, but not much. Because the truth was, Harry had a sinking feeling that nothing in Hogwarts' library could explain where that chest had sent him.
Harry's breath hitched as his eyes locked onto the figure in the distance, a cold knot twisting in his stomach. The armor was a nightmare brought to life—a golden prison of decay and menace. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, though not with the brilliance of polished metal, but with the sickly gleam of something that had been left to fester. Every inch of it was carved, almost alive, the intricate patterns resembling serpentine veins crawling over the surface. Harry couldn't tell if the designs were purely ornamental or if they pulsed, faintly moving, like something infected with dark magic.
The helmet was the stuff of his worst dreams. Its visor was a narrow cage, vertical bars concealing the face behind it entirely. Whatever was in there, it didn't need to see much to find him; he could feel its gaze, piercing, unforgiving. Two wings of dull, tarnished silver flared from the sides of the helm, like a mockery of a celestial being. They didn't lift or inspire—they loomed, bent under the weight of something vile, like a corrupted guardian fallen far from grace.
The figure's chestpiece bore a grotesque organic texture, almost as if the armor itself had grown over the wearer like some twisted fungus. The metal wasn't clean; it was smeared with streaks of what Harry hoped was rust but knew instinctively was something worse. Blood, old and dried, marked it like battle scars, seeping into the tarnished gold and darkening the edges where the light failed to reach. The faint stink of something ancient, metallic and rotted, seemed to hang in the air around it.
Scarlet and white cloth fluttered as the figure moved slightly, the banners draped over its shoulders tattered and filthy. They might once have been a symbol of something noble, but now they clung to the armor like rags on a corpse. A sash hung loosely at its waist, the dirty white fabric streaked with grime. Harry thought of battlefields, of bodies left out in the rain, of things best left undisturbed.
The joints of the plates, dull yet functional, clicked together with an eerie precision, like some cursed automaton built for war. The sheer weight of the thing was terrifying—it wasn't the armor of someone who needed to run. It was the armor of someone who marched, unstoppable, inevitable.
Harry's hand was already trembling, but he tightened his grip.
The ground radiated an unnatural warmth through Harry's boots as he picked his way across the blighted landscape. Blood-red grass crunched beneath his feet, interspersed with patches of scorched earth that still smoldered with ember-like fragments. The air itself felt thick and oppressive, carrying the metallic scent of blood mixed with something that reminded him of the acrid smoke from Uncle Vernon's failed attempts at barbecuing.
What in Merlin's name happened here? Harry wondered, his eyes scanning the hellish terrain. The devastation reminded him of the aftermath photos he'd seen of magical duels in his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks, but this was different – more absolute, as if the land itself had been corrupted rather than merely damaged.
As he approached the dilapidated church, the armored guardian's head swiveled with mechanical precision. Though no eyes were visible through the cage-like visor of its helm, Harry felt the weight of its attention like a physical force. The sensation reminded him uncomfortably of Snape's penetrating stares during Potions class, but far more menacing.
"Leave this place, tarnished filth." The knight's voice emerged from behind its helmet like grinding metal, each word dripping with contempt.
Harry raised his hands in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. "I have nowhere else to go," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I just need to rest for a moment in the church." His eyes darted to the structure behind the knight, searching for any sign of danger.
A sound like rusted hinges emerged from the knight's helmet – a growl, Harry realized with a start. The guardian's gauntleted hand wrapped around its spear, the metal scraping against metal setting Harry's teeth on edge. "Leave now," it commanded, "or I will end your miserable existence where you stand."
Harry's hand instinctively twitched toward his sword, but he forced it still. After facing Agheel, he'd learned to better gauge his opponents, and everything about this knight screamed danger. The way it moved, the confident grip on its weapon, the absolute authority in its voice – this was no mindless hollow.
He was about to retreat when something caught his eye – a familiar golden glow emanating from within the church. Harry's heart leaped as he recognized the shimmer of a Site of Grace. Melina's words echoed in his memory: "All Sites of Grace are connected, forming a network across the Lands Between." If he could just reach it, he could contact Melina and return to the relative safety of Limgrave.
Drawing himself up to his full height – which felt considerably less impressive facing the towering knight – Harry met the guardian's hidden gaze. "I need to get inside," he declared, his voice firmer now. "There's a Site of Grace in there."
The knight's response was immediate and unmistakable. The bronze tip of its spear thrust forward, stopping mere inches from Harry's face. The metal gleamed with an odd, almost organic sheen that made his stomach turn.
"I just need to activate it," Harry pressed on, fighting the urge to step back. "Once I do, I'll be gone. You have my word." He could feel heat radiating from the spear's tip, like standing too close to a fire.
"Find another," the knight growled, its voice somehow managing to sound both bored and threatening.
Frustration and fear warred in Harry's chest, finally erupting in a burst of anger. "Another one? Are you mad? Have you seen what's out there?" He gestured at the nightmarish landscape. "I'm not wandering through that horror show when there's a perfectly good Site of Grace right here!"
The knight shifted its stance slightly, and Harry's words died in his throat as the spear began to glow. The bronze tip took on a red-hot hue, and the air around it seemed to ripple with heat. Harry was reminded forcefully of the dragon at the lake – the moment just before it had unleashed its flames.
"Sorry," Harry muttered under his breath. "But I've got no intention of turning back."
The lightning bolt left his hand with a thunderous roar, illuminating the church in a blinding flash. It streaked toward the knight, who tilted his head ever so slightly before sidestepping with uncanny ease. The lightning bolt causes a piece of stone to break down, and Harry tried to gain some distance from the Knight, but the knight was already moving.
Too fast.
Harry barely managed to draw his sword in time. The first strike of the spear met the blade with a deafening clang, the shock traveling up Harry's arm. He parried the second blow by instinct alone, his feet stumbling backward. But the third strike came too quick, too precise. The spear's blade bit into his hand, and his sword clattered to the ground.
A gasp escaped him as blood dripped from his palm. Panic clawed at his mind. This was it. He was finished. The knight's spear angled toward his chest, poised to pierce his heart.
Time seemed to slow as something primal awoke inside him. His arm burned—not with pain, but with a searing, otherworldly heat. His flesh twisted and expanded, his human hand transforming into a massive dragon's claw. Scales, black and glistening, rippled over his arm as sharp talons curved wickedly from his fingers.
The knight's spear thrust forward, impaling the dragon's palm with a sickening crunch. Harry winced in pain, a sound he barely recognized as his own, but instinct took over. His monstrous hand clamped around the spear, yanking it from the knight's grip. With a surge of strength, he swung his arm wide, slamming the knight across the place.
The knight flew through the air but landed gracefully, his boots skidding against the cracked stone floor. Harry blinked in disbelief as the knight rose, unharmed save for the scrape of his armor. The spear was still lodged in Harry's dragon claw, the wound throbbing as blood dripped to the ground. The pain was unlike anything he had felt before, but he couldn't let it stop him. He tried to steady his breathing, though his heart pounded like a war drum.
The knight reached to his side, retrieving a second spear from his back. "A dragon cultist," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "What business do you have here, defiler?"
Harry's brow furrowed. Dragon cultist? What was he talking about? "I don't know what you're on about," Harry said, his voice sharper than he intended. "I just need to activate the site of grace. That's it."
The knight's silence was heavy, judgmental. Finally, he spoke. "I swore to Prince Miquella that no soul—man, beast, or monster—would desecrate this sacred ground. A knight does not break his word."
He lunged.
Harry had been ready—or so he thought. The knight moved with inhuman speed, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. Harry swung his dragon claw, hoping to catch him mid-charge, but the knight ducked beneath it with an agility that seemed impossible for someone clad in full armor. The spear slashed across Harry's dragon arm, sending a shockwave of pain through his body. He hissed, retreating a step as blood dripped from the fresh wound.
The knight was relentless, each strike of his spear forcing Harry further back. His mind raced, panic threatening to overtake him. He couldn't keep up; the knight was faster, stronger, and impossibly skilled.
"Think, Harry, think!" he berated himself. The claw was powerful, but its size made it unwieldy against someone so quick. He needed something more. Something bigger.
The answer came unbidden, a spark of inspiration—or desperation. He reached deep into himself, pulling on the crackling energy that had become as familiar as breathing. This time, it wasn't his human hand that summoned it. The lightning coiled around his dragon claw, growing brighter, hotter, wilder. It expanded until the air itself seemed to tremble under its weight.
The knight paused, his head tilting ever so slightly. "What are you—"
Harry didn't let him finish; the yellow lightning bolt grew to the size of a bus. Harry tried to throw it right at the knight, but the pain from the bolt of lightning, and he had never had to hold something as large and powerful as this, without thinking he just threw it, but not at the knight, but it was going towards the church entrance.
"Noo!" The knight shouted as he put himself between the entrance and the lightning bolt.
It tore through the air like a furious beast, its golden brilliance lighting up the entire church. The impact was deafening, the explosion shaking the ground. Harry was thrown backward, his body slamming against the cold stone floor. Dust and debris filled the air, and his dragon arm reverted to its human form, limp and trembling at his side.
Gasping for breath, Harry struggled to his feet. His vision swam, but through the haze, he saw the knight emerging from the smoke. His armor was scorched, and blood seeped from a jagged crack in his breastplate, staining the tarnished gold. But he was still standing.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, his legs shaking under him.
The knight raised his head, and for the first time, his voice faltered. "You... You bear the strength of a dragon and the recklessness of a fool. But you will not pass."
Harry's heart sank. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. The knight, though injured, was far from defeated. But as fear threatened to overwhelm him, a single thought pierced through the chaos.
I've faced worse. I've beaten worse.
Harry looked at the sword lying on the ground; he needed to grab it. It was obvious that his lightning magic was nowhere near strong enough to defeat this Knight. He stood up, ignoring his wobbly legs as he tried to devise a good strategy to win this fight, but then something happened...
Harry's lungs seized suddenly, wracking his body with violent coughs that drove him to his knees. The red grass beneath him felt fever-hot against his palms as he struggled to breathe. Pain bloomed in his chest like poison spreading through his veins.
"You are dying," the knight stated matter-of-factly, his hollow voice devoid of either triumph or pity. "The rot has taken hold."
"What..." Harry managed between coughs, "what did you do to me?"
The knight didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to retrieve his first spear from where it had fallen, the bronze metal still stained with Harry's blood. "It will be slow," he said, turning back toward the church entrance as if Harry were already dead.
No, Harry thought fiercely. I didn't survive the Dursleys, the Basilisk, and everything else just to die in this nightmare place. Faces flashed through his mind – Sirius offering him a home, Hermione's worried expressions, Ron's loyal grin. He couldn't fail them.
With tremendous effort, Harry pushed himself to his feet. The movement caught the knight's attention, causing him to turn back sharply.
"Impossible," the guardian breathed. "The Scarlet Rot should have paralyzed you by now."
A sudden, searing pain shot through Harry's right arm, different from the dragon transformation. His skin began turning an angry red, and he could feel something changing in his lungs. His breath came out tinged with crimson mist.
"Who are you?" the knight demanded, his voice shaking for the first time. "Only Princess Malenia can withstand the Scarlet Rot like this."
Harry barely heard him, his eyes fixed on his fallen sword. One more chance, he thought. Just need one more chance. He lunged for the weapon, his fingers closing around the familiar hilt.
Something had changed in him. When he charged the knight, he moved faster than before, his strikes wild but powerful. The guardian deflected blow after blow, but for the first time, he was being pushed back.
Like flying, Harry thought deliriously, remembering the freedom of Quidditch as he pressed his attack.
Despite the burning pain that wracked his body, Harry pressed forward with a speed he'd never known before. His sword moved like lightning, each strike flowing into the next with a desperate fury. The red mist that escaped his lips with each breath seemed to trail behind him like war banners.
The knight brought up his spear to parry Harry's first slash, the metals meeting with a sound like thunder. Harry didn't pause, spinning into another strike that forced the guardian to step back. Where before the knight had seemed untouchable, now Harry was pushing him onto the defensive.
This is different, Harry thought through the burning haze. His movements reminded him of seeking the Snitch, that pure instinct that took over when nothing existed except him and his target. But this was faster, more violent – each strike meant to end the fight.
"Your technique is wild," the knight commented, deflecting another flurry of attacks, "but effective."
Harry didn't waste breath responding. His blade danced through the air, leaving trails of red mist in its wake. The knight's armor sparked where Harry's sword found gaps, drawing more of that strange dark liquid that served as his blood.
But the guardian hadn't survived this long by being easy to kill. He began to adapt to Harry's new speed, his defenses becoming more precise. Where before he had seemed surprised by Harry's transformation, now he was reading the patterns in Harry's attacks.
He's learning, Harry realized with growing dread. And I'm getting tired.
The knight proved this by suddenly shifting from defense to offense, his spear becoming a bronze blur. Harry barely managed to deflect the first thrust, the force of it sending vibrations up his arms. The second strike came even faster, forcing him to leap backward.
"Your strength is impressive," the knight said, pressing his advantage, "but strength alone isn't enough."
The guardian's next attack was a complex series of thrusts and sweeps that forced Harry to give more ground.
Harry's new speed saved him from the first five strikes, but he could feel himself slowing. The Scarlet Rot was still spreading through his body, and whatever energy had fueled his transformation was beginning to fade. His breaths came harder, the red mist growing thicker.
The knight noticed his fatigue. "You fight well," he said, almost gentle, "but this ends now."
The spear thrust came at an angle Harry couldn't possibly block. The bronze tip found his shoulder, and Harry's world exploded into pain.
His scream echoed across the blighted landscape, sending the twisted crows scattering into the bleeding sky.
In that moment of agony, Harry's free hand shot out, grabbing the knight's helmet. Lightning erupted from his fingers, coursing through the guardian's armor. The knight's scream echoed inside his helm as he stumbled backward, leaving his spear embedded in Harry's shoulder.
Blood spurted from the wound as Harry yanked the spear free, adding to the growing collection of injuries. His whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out, and exhaustion pulled at his limbs like lead weights.
"You may be a fool," the knight said, his armor smoking from the lightning strike, "but you are brave—"
A weak cough from inside the church cut him off. The sound was small, almost childlike, but it transformed the knight completely. Without another word, he turned and rushed into the church, leaving Harry swaying on his feet.
That cough, Harry thought through the haze of pain and fatigue. Someone's in there. Someone he's protecting. The realization came with a strange clarity, even as his vision began to blur at the edges. The knight wasn't just guarding a church – he was guarding someone inside it.
The Site of Grace still glimmered tantalizingly through the entrance, but Harry could barely stay on his feet.
With monumental effort, Harry dragged himself through the church entrance. His vision swam, the world tilting dangerously as blood dripped from his shoulder wound. Inside, he could hear voices – the knight's hollow tone and another, softer voice responding – but the words seemed to come from very far away, distorted as if traveling through water.
The Site of Grace glowed before him, its golden light a beacon of hope in this nightmarish realm. Harry tried to take another step forward, but his legs finally gave out. He collapsed to the stone floor with a dull thud, his body feeling like it was made of lead.
"Who's there?" A woman's voice, clear and musical despite its weakness, cut through his haze.
Harry reached out toward the Site of Grace, his fingers trembling with effort. Just... need... to reach it... The moment his hand touched the golden light, it pulsed brilliantly, sending waves of healing energy through his broken body. The burning of the Scarlet Rot subsided slightly, and Harry let out a shuddering sigh of relief.
He turned his head, finding the knight standing over him, spear positioned mere inches from his face. But Harry's attention was drawn past the guardian, to the woman sitting against the far wall.
She was beautiful, with hair the color of sunset and a single golden eye that seemed to pierce straight through him. She was wearing clothes that seemed almost rotten in a way, she lacked a right arm, and her face seemed pale and weak. But there was no fear in her eye.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Harry... Harry Potter," he managed to say before exhaustion finally overwhelmed him. His last thought before consciousness fled was that her hair reminded him of his mother's in the photos Hagrid had given him, that same brilliant red that spoke of life even in this land of death.
Then darkness claimed him, and Harry knew no more.
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