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The church doors groaned like a dying beast as Roddard shoved them open, revealing a landscape that made Harry's stomach turn. Blood-red skies stretched overhead, casting everything in a sickly crimson glow. The ground itself seemed diseased—grass the color of rust, trees twisted into grotesque shapes that reached toward the sky like arthritic fingers.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, adjusting Millicent's weight against his back. She was light—disturbingly so—but her arm draped over his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. "It's worse in the daylight."
"This isn't daylight," Millicent whispered, her voice soft in his ear. "The sun hasn't properly shone in Caelid for centuries. This is as bright as it gets."
Harry swallowed hard. In all his years at Hogwarts, he'd seen some disturbing sights—the Forbidden Forest at night, the Chamber of Secrets. But this... this was different. This wasn't evil; it was decay, spreading as far as the eye could see.
Roddard stepped out first, his bronze armor gleaming dully in the crimson light, spear at the ready. "Stay close," he commanded, his helmet swiveling as he surveyed the area. "And quiet. Sound travels here, and not everything that hears is dead yet."
"Cheerful bloke, isn't he?" Harry whispered to Millicent, earning a small chuckle that vibrated against his back.
"He grows on you," she replied, her golden eye peering over his shoulder. "Eventually."
"Like fungus, I imagine," Harry said, then immediately winced. "Sorry—poor choice of words given... everything."
Roddard turned back to glare at them through his helmet's slits. "If you two are done chattering, we've a long way to go. Sellia's northeast of here, and the path isn't kind."
Harry followed, his steps careful as he adjusted to Millicent's weight. She wasn't heavy—in fact, she was concerningly light—but carrying another person while navigating a landscape that seemed designed to kill them was no simple task. His shoulders already ached from the fight with Roddard, and he could feel new blisters forming on his feet.
Just once, he thought bitterly, I'd like to land somewhere with a nice soft bed and three square meals waiting, rather than a hellscape with murderous flora and fauna.
"Watch your step here," Roddard called back, pointing at the ground ahead. What Harry had taken for ordinary mud was bubbling slightly, emitting faint wisps of reddish vapor. "Rot pools. Step in one of those, and your foot will be gone before you can blink."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered, carefully skirting the dangerous ground. "So the air wants to kill us, the ground wants to kill us... anything else I should know about?"
"The birds have a taste for eyes," Roddard replied without turning. "The dogs hunt in packs and go for the legs. The bugs prefer the soft parts—belly, throat, the insides of your cheeks if you're stupid enough to sleep with your mouth open."
Harry nearly missed a step. "You're joking."
"He isn't," Millicent murmured. "But he's trying to frighten you. Most creatures here are too far gone to be strategic. They attack whatever moves, without much planning."
"Oh, well that's comforting," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Random attacks from rot-crazed monsters instead of calculated ones. I feel much better now."
After nearly an hour of careful navigation through the blighted landscape, Harry's arms were beginning to shake, and sweat ran freely down his back despite the clammy air. He paused, adjusting his grip on Millicent's legs.
"Need a moment?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.
"I'm fine," Harry lied, his breath coming harder than he wanted to admit. "Just getting my bearings."
Roddard turned back, the expressionless helmet somehow still conveying judgment. "We need to keep moving. The Rot doesn't rest, and neither should we."
"Easy for you to say," Harry snapped, temper flaring. "You're not carrying anyone."
"No, I'm just keeping you both alive," the knight retorted. "A task growing more difficult with every needless delay."
Millicent's arm tightened slightly around Harry's shoulder. "Roddard," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "He needs a moment. The Rot taxes those not accustomed to it, even ones with resistance."
The knight's helmet tilted slightly, then he gave a curt nod. "Two minutes. Then we move."
Harry carefully lowered Millicent to sit on a relatively dry-looking rock, then stretched, his back popping audibly. "So," he said, rolling his shoulders, "this Sellia—why are we heading there?"
Roddard planted his spear in the ground, scanning the horizon. "It's the safest place in Caelid, or what's left of it. The sorcerers who founded it placed wards that still hold, even now. If there's a way to get you back to Limgrave, the knowledge will be there."
"If anyone's still alive there," Harry pointed out.
"They aren't," Millicent said quietly. "Sellia has been empty for as long as I can remember. A ghost town of towers and books, its people long fled or fallen."
Harry frowned, memories of the Hogwarts ghosts floating through his mind. "When you say ghost town... do you mean actual ghosts? Like, transparent, floating people who can pass through walls?"
Millicent gave him a curious look. "No... though there are things in the Lands Between not unlike what you describe. I simply meant it's abandoned. Why do you ask?"
"Where I'm from, we have ghosts," Harry explained, feeling a pang of homesickness. "Nearly Headless Nick, the Grey Lady, the Bloody Baron... they haunt the castle. Mostly harmless, though—they just float about, complain about being dead, and occasionally help students avoid Filch." He managed a small smile. "Better company than most of what we've seen here."
"Your world sounds strange," Millicent remarked, her golden eye studying him with renewed interest.
"Says the woman who lives in a land where the sky bleeds and trees have teeth," Harry retorted, earning another small laugh from her.
Roddard cleared his throat—a hollow, metallic sound inside his helmet. "Time's up. The creatures here are less active during the day, but that won't last. We need to cover ground while we can."
Harry sighed and crouched before Millicent. "Your chariot awaits, my lady," he said with mock formality, earning a bemused look.
As he lifted her onto his back again, she leaned close to his ear. "There's something else about Sellia you should know," she whispered. "The Rot creatures can't enter it. Something in the sorcerers' wards repels them."
Harry perked up at this. "Now that's the best news I've heard all day. Why didn't you mention it before?"
"Because," she replied, her voice dropping even lower, "we don't know why they can't enter. Some say the wards are designed to keep corruption out. Others believe something far worse already dwells within, something even the Rot fears."
"Oh, brilliant," Harry muttered, falling into step behind Roddard once more. "Either way, sounds like a lovely vacation spot. Perfect for a weekend getaway."
As they trudged onward through the red wasteland, Harry couldn't help but wonder if the ghosts of Hogwarts would ever believe where he'd ended up—if he'd ever see them again to tell the tale. The thought of the Fat Lady's portrait swinging open to reveal the Gryffindor common room, of sinking into one of those worn armchairs by the fire, felt like a dream from another lifetime.
I'm coming back, he promised himself, eyes fixed on the twisted path ahead. Somehow.
The first warning was a chorus of snarls that rippled through the crimson mist like stones dropped in a fetid pond. Harry froze mid-step, nearly losing his balance as Millicent's weight shifted against his back.
"Don't move," Roddard hissed, his bronze armor gleaming dully as he lowered into a fighting stance. His spear extended outward, the tip tracing slow circles in the air as if drawing invisible wards.
Harry's eyes strained against the ruddy haze. The landscape of Caelid played cruel tricks on the senses—distances warped, shadows writhed with imagined movement. But the sounds were unmistakable: the click of claws on stone, the wet panting of hungry mouths.
"Rot dogs," Millicent whispered, her breath warm against Harry's ear. "Pack of five, maybe six. Coming from the east."
Harry squinted in the direction she indicated. "How can you tell?"
"I can smell them," she replied simply. "Like wet leather left too long in the sun."
As if summoned by her words, they emerged from the toxic mist—canine shapes that made Harry's stomach lurch. Their flesh hung in ragged strips, exposing muscle and bone beneath. Where their eyes should have been, bulbous growths pulsed with sickly light. Each breath they took wheezed through rotted lungs, spewing crimson spores that hung in the air behind them.
"Right," Harry muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. "Just like Fang, only... horrifying in every possible way."
Roddard moved his spear, flashing forward, impaling the lead dog through its gaping maw before it could lunge. The creature convulsed, spraying putrid fluid that sizzled where it struck the knight's armor.
"Behind you!" Millicent shouted as two more dogs circled wide.
Harry spun awkwardly, hampered by Millicent's weight. His free hand fumbled for the sword at his hip—the same one he'd found in the ruins near Limgrave. It felt heavy and unwieldy in his grip, nothing like a wand. He slashed clumsily as one of the dogs leaped, catching it across the flank rather than delivering a killing blow.
The beast yelped but didn't retreat, blood-tinged saliva dripping from jaws that could easily crush bone. It stalked sideways, seeking an opening.
"You're telegraphing your strikes," Millicent said, her voice calm despite the danger. "Don't swing from the shoulder—it's too slow. Use your wrist, like you're flicking water from your fingers."
"Bit busy trying not to drop you," Harry grunted, backing away as the wounded dog advanced.
"Let me help," she said, and her arm tightened around his shoulder. "Focus on what you feel when you summoned the lightning before. Not the fear—the power beneath it."
Harry's mind flashed to the fight with Roddard, to the crackling energy that had surged through him when pushed to his limit. He reached for that sensation now, that pins-and-needles tingle that had begun in his chest and flowed outward.
To his surprise, it answered—a current racing up his spine and down his arm, gathering in his free hand. Blue-white sparks danced between his fingers, sizzling against the scarlet air.
"That's it," Millicent urged. "Now release it—like casting a fishing line."
Harry thrust his hand forward, fingers splayed. Lightning erupted from his palm—not the concentrated beam from before, but a jagged bolt the length of his arm. It struck the advancing dog with a thunderclap that shook the ground, leaving behind the acrid smell of scorched meat and rot.
The creature collapsed, twitching, smoke rising from its hide, and its runes were being absorbed by Harry.
"Bloody hell," Harry gasped, staring at his hand in disbelief.
"Look alive!" Roddard barked, his spear skewering another beast that had tried to flank him. "Above!"
Harry glanced up to see dark shapes circling—birds with wingspans wider than he was tall, their feathers matted with crimson growths. Beaks like serrated daggers opened to reveal blackened tongues as they dived.
"Crows," Millicent warned. "They go for the eyes first."
Harry barely had time to duck before talons raked the air where his head had been. The crow banked sharply, preparing for another pass.
Roddard was a whirlwind of deadly precision, his spear a continuous blur of motion. Two dogs lay twitching at his feet, and a third impaled itself on his weapon as he pivoted. But even he couldn't watch every direction at once. A crow dived toward his back, cruel beak aimed at the gap between helmet and pauldron.
"Behind you!" Harry shouted, summoning another lightning bolt and hurling it skyward.
The bolt caught the crow mid-dive, its feathers exploding into smoldering ash. The creature shrieked, a sound like rusted metal being torn apart, and plummeted to the earth.
Roddard grunted what might have been thanks, already engaging the last of the dogs.
Two more crows descended, their flight erratic and unpredictable. Harry managed to blast one with lightning, but the effort left his arm trembling, muscles burning from channeling the energy.
"You're doing well," Millicent encouraged, "but watching the wrong signs. See how they tilt before diving? That tells you where they'll strike."
Harry nodded, focusing on the remaining crow's movements. She was right—there was a pattern to its attack, a slight roll of the wings before it committed to its dive. He waited, timing his next bolt, then released it just as the creature began its attack run.
The lightning struck true, reducing the crow to a smoldering carcass that crashed to the poisoned earth.
Silence settled over the blighted landscape, broken only by Roddard's heavy breathing and the distant cawing of more crows, too far away to pose an immediate threat.
"Well," Harry panted, his legs shaking with exhaustion, "that was... invigorating."
Roddard snorted, wiping putrid gore from his spear tip. "You call that fighting? Flailing about like a drunk peasant at a harvest dance? I've seen fence posts with better form."
"Says the man who looks like he raided a kitchen for his armor," Harry shot back, though there was less heat in his voice than before. He couldn't deny the knight's skill—Roddard had dispatched four of the beasts single-handedly.
"Both of you did well," Millicent interjected, her voice tinged with what might have been amusement. "We're alive, aren't we?"
They found a relatively sheltered spot to rest—a hollowed-out boulder that offered some protection from the caustic air. Harry carefully lowered Millicent onto a flat surface, then slumped down beside her, muscles screaming in protest.
"You're a natural with that lightning," she observed, watching him with her golden eye. "The dragon powers suit you."
Harry flexed his fingers, still feeling phantom tingles from the magic he'd channeled. "Doesn't feel natural. Feels like I'm fumbling in the dark." He studied her for a moment, curiosity getting the better of exhaustion. "What about you? What were you like before... all this?" He gestured vaguely at the blighted landscape.
Millicent's expression softened, her gaze growing distant. "There was no 'before' for me," she said quietly. "I was born of the Rot."
Harry blinked, certain he'd misheard. "Sorry?"
"I was never a child in the way you'd understand it," she explained, tracing patterns in the dust with her remaining hand. "When the Scarlet Rot bloomed during Malenia's battle with Radahn, it didn't just destroy—it created. I came into being afterward... a daughter of the Rot."
Harry stared at her, trying to process this revelation. "So you never had a childhood? Never grew up?"
"I emerged as I am," she said simply. "Or close to it. The Rot gives and takes in equal measure."
"So, you never had a father?" Harry asked, still struggling to understand.
Millicent shrugged her thin shoulder, the movement accentuating the absence of her other arm. "Not in the way you mean. The Rot is my father, Malenia my mother—though she may not even know I exist."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, dozens of questions crowding his mind. Were there others like her? How many children had the Rot spawned from Malenia's power? But the weariness in Millicent's golden eye stopped him. Some questions could wait.
"Can you still use magic?" he asked instead, changing the subject. "Despite..." He gestured at her missing arm.
A small smile curved her lips. "The Rot gives even as it takes," she repeated. She extended her remaining hand, palm upward, and closed her eye in concentration.
At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, crimson mist gathered above her palm, solidifying into the delicate shape of a butterfly. Its wings beat with hypnotic rhythm, trailing scarlet particles that glowed like embers.
"It's beautiful," Harry murmured, genuinely impressed.
Millicent's smile widened slightly. "Watch."
The butterfly's wings beat faster, glowing brighter, until suddenly it burst into scarlet flames. The fire didn't consume it; rather, it became the fire, dancing above her palm in intricate patterns that sent shadows spinning across the rock walls.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, entranced by the display.
Roddard, who had been keeping watch at the entrance to their shelter, glanced back. "Save your strength," he advised, though his tone lacked its usual edge. "We've still far to go."
Millicent closed her hand, extinguishing the fiery butterfly. "He's right," she said, looking apologetic. "That takes more from me than it should."
Harry nodded, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. "Back to being your carriage, then," he said, crouching to let her climb onto his back once more.
As they prepared to continue their journey, Harry couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Millicent might be hiding—and what other horrors Caelid had yet to reveal.
One Hour Later
The horizon rippled with heat as they crested a ridge overlooking what might once have been a lake. Now it was a festering pool of crimson, its surface broken by jutting bones larger than any creature Harry had ever encountered—even Basilisk would have looked like a house-elf next to whatever had died here.
"Hold," Roddard commanded, throwing up a gauntleted hand. He crouched, armor creaking softly, and pointed toward a distant shape circling above the poisoned waters.
Harry squinted against the ruddy light. The creature was unmistakable—leathery wings spread wide, serpentine neck extended as it surveyed the terrain below. It was smaller than Agheel had been, perhaps the size of Hagrid's hut rather than a Quidditch pitch, but still large enough to make Harry's mouth go dry.
"Dragon," he muttered, instinctively tightening his grip on Millicent.
"A younger one," she confirmed, her voice thoughtful. "Not fully grown. Likely drawn to the Rot—they feed on it, in their way."
Harry remembered her words from the church—about consuming a dragon's heart to strengthen his powers. The thought still made his stomach turn, but after their encounter with the rot dogs and crows, he was beginning to understand the brutal calculus of survival in this place.
"You said eating their hearts makes you stronger," he said, still watching the circling beast. "How exactly does that work?"
Millicent shifted against his back, her remaining arm tightening slightly around his shoulder. "The ancient Dragon Cult discovered it. Dragon flesh contains... something. Not just magic, but a kind of primal power. When consumed, it can change a person, imbue them with draconic traits. Your arm transformation—it suggests you've already begun this process somehow."
"I haven't eaten any dragon hearts," Harry protested. "Trust me, I'd remember that."
"Perhaps it works differently where you come from," she suggested. "But here, in the Lands Between, the process is clear. Each heart strengthens the bond, grants new abilities. Caelid is full of dragons—consuming one or two hearts would significantly enhance your powers."
Harry imagined himself tearing into a still-beating organ, blood running down his chin like some deranged vampire, and grimaced. "Lovely," he muttered. "Just what I always wanted."
Roddard rose from his crouch, turning to face them. His helmet concealed his expression, but his posture radiated skepticism. "You can barely swing a sword," he pointed out bluntly. "What makes you think you can kill a dragon?"
Harry bristled at the knight's tone. "I've killed a basilisk before," he retorted. "And drove away a hundred Dementors with a single spell."
"I don't know what those are," Roddard replied flatly, "but they're not dragons. Dragons have scales that can turn a blade, fire that melts armor to flesh, and claws that cut through stone like butter. Even a young one like that would tear you apart."
"Then teach me," Harry challenged, his Gryffindor pride flaring. "If I'm going to be stuck in this nightmare realm, I might as well learn how to survive it."
Millicent's soft laugh vibrated against his back. "He has a point, Roddard. We need him at his strongest if we're to reach Sellia."
The knight stood silent for a long moment, then sighed—a hollow sound inside his helmet. "Fine. But don't blame me when you're nursing new scars. Find a place to set her down. Somewhere safe."
They found a relatively flat area sheltered by an outcropping of rock. The stone was warm beneath Harry's hands as he carefully lowered Millicent to the ground. She arranged herself gracefully, her golden eye glinting with amusement as she settled back to watch.
"Don't mind Roddard's teaching methods," she advised, a hint of mischief in her voice. "He trained under General Radahn himself, before the Rot took him. His idea of 'gentle correction' might involve broken bones."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered, drawing his sword with considerably less confidence than he'd felt a moment ago. "Just what I need—another Snape."
Roddard planted his spear in the ground and circled Harry slowly, studying his stance. "First rule," he growled, "forget everything you think you know. That fancy school of yours didn't teach you to fight—it taught you to wave sticks and mutter words. Here, steel speaks, and blood answers."
Harry's grip tightened on his sword hilt. "At Hogwarts, we learned to defend ourselves against dark wizards, magical creatures, and things that would give you nightmares."
"Did you now?" Roddard's voice dripped with skepticism. He moved with startling speed for someone in full armor, catching Harry's wrist and twisting until the sword clattered to the ground. "Then why are you holding your blade like it's a dead rat?"
And so the training began. For what felt like hours, Roddard drilled him mercilessly—proper grip, basic stances, how to read an opponent's intentions through the tension in their shoulders rather than waiting for their strike. Every time Harry thought he'd grasped a concept, Roddard would demonstrate just how wrong he was, usually with a painful tap from the blunt end of his spear.
"Wider stance," the knight barked as Harry overextended and nearly toppled forward. "You're not dancing at some fancy ball—you're fighting for your life!"
Harry gritted his teeth, sweat running in rivulets down his back despite the clammy air. He repositioned his feet, remembering how Oliver Wood had taught him to grip a broom—firm but not rigid, ready to move with the wind rather than against it.
Roddard circled again, then lunged without warning. Harry reacted instinctively, angling his blade to deflect rather than block—just as the knight had shown him. The metallic ring of contact vibrated up his arm, but this time he maintained his balance.
"Better," Roddard admitted grudgingly. "Now, again."
From her position beneath the overhang, Millicent watched with interest, occasionally calling out observations or encouragement. Her presence was oddly comforting, reminding Harry of Hermione during practices.
As they practiced parrying techniques, she called out: "Did you know the greatest dragonslayer in the Lands Between never used a blade at all? Lord Placidusax was his name—a warrior who turned the dragons' own lightning against them."
Harry, breathless from deflecting Roddard's latest attack, glanced her way. "That sounds familiar," he managed between gulps of air.
She smiled, her golden eye glinting. "The stories say he could call the storm itself, hurling bolts that turned dragonscale to ash. Not unlike what you did with those crows."
Roddard snorted, planting his spear once more. "Ancient tales," he dismissed. "And Placidusax was no human. He was a dragon himself—the king of all dragons, before the Erdtree."
"Dragons killing dragons?" Harry asked, using the brief respite to stretch his aching muscles.
"Politics are bloody everywhere, it seems," Millicent replied with a small shrug. "Even among dragons."
Harry considered this as he wiped sweat from his brow. "If I wanted to strengthen these powers quickly, which dragon should I hunt? Are some hearts better than others?"
"Greyoll would be perfect," Millicent said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. "She's said to be the mother of all dragons in these lands. Her heart would grant power beyond imagining."
Roddard's helmet swiveled sharply toward her. "Don't put ideas in his head," he warned. "Greyoll would be certain death, even for a full-grown Tarnished with years of experience."
Harry's curiosity was piqued now. "Where is this Greyoll? Just out of academic interest, you understand."
"Nowhere you'll be going," Roddard growled, but Millicent answered anyway.
"Near Fort Faroth, east of here. But Roddard is right to caution you. She may be ancient and barely able to move anymore, but her children surround her—dozens of them, each large enough to swallow you whole."
"How big exactly is she?" Harry asked, trying to picture a dragon that could birth dozens of others.
"As big as a castle," Millicent replied, her eye widening for emphasis. "They say when she breathes, the winds shift across all Caelid. When she moves—which is rare now—the earth trembles like during an earthquake."
Harry whistled softly, trying to imagine such a creature.
Roddard cleared his throat pointedly. "If you're done filling his head with suicidal notions," he said to Millicent, "we should continue. Daylight doesn't last in Caelid, such as it is."
They resumed training, Roddard demonstrating evasive maneuvers designed to exploit a dragon's size against it. "They're powerful but slow to turn," he explained, illustrating with his spear. "Get beneath them, attack the joints of their wings or legs. Avoid the head and tail at all costs."
As they worked, Harry found his thoughts drifting to Millicent and her mother—both afflicted by the same curse that ravaged the land around them. During a brief water break, he approached where she lay watching them, her expression thoughtful.
"This Rot," he said quietly, crouching beside her, "is there no cure? Nothing to at least slow it down?"
Her golden eye clouded briefly, her gaze turning inward. "Prince Miquella sought one," she said after a moment. "For my mother. He is Malenia's twin brother—the most brilliant mind of his age, they say. He studied the Rot for centuries, searching for a way to cleanse it from her body."
"And?" Harry prompted when she fell silent.
"He disappeared," she said simply. "Before his work was complete. The unalloyed gold needle he created could stem the flow of Rot for a time, but not cure it entirely. And even that knowledge was lost when he vanished."
Harry absorbed this, thinking of his own world—of curses that couldn't be lifted, of dark magic that scarred both body and soul. "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.
She studied him for a moment, then smiled—a small, genuine expression that transformed her gaunt features. "Don't be. The Rot gave me life, even as it takes it. That's its nature." She glanced toward Roddard, who was impatiently adjusting his armor. "He's waiting for you. Remember what I said about the lightning—call it from within, not without. The dragon's power is already part of you."
Harry nodded, rising to his feet. As he turned to rejoin Roddard, he couldn't help but wonder if somewhere in this twisted land, Miquella's cure might still exist—and what it might mean for Millicent if it did.
Three Hours Later
They heard it before they saw it—a guttural rumble that vibrated through the poisoned earth, setting Harry's teeth on edge. He froze mid-step, Millicent tensing against his back.
"There," Roddard whispered, pointing with his spear toward a depression in the landscape ahead.
Harry squinted through the crimson haze. The hollow might once have been a small lake, now dried to cracked clay stained the color of old blood. At its center lay a juvenile dragon, its scales an unhealthy mottled gray tinged with the same scarlet that infected everything in Caelid. Steam rose from its nostrils with each labored breath, small spurts of flame occasionally escaping as it dozed.
"It's sick," Harry observed, noting how the creature's ribs pressed against its hide, how patches of scales had sloughed away to reveal raw flesh beneath.
"The Rot takes all eventually," Millicent murmured. "Even dragons."
Roddard studied the beast with a practiced eye. "Young male. Not yet fully grown but dangerous nonetheless. The Rot has weakened it, but that could make it more unpredictable." He turned to Harry, helmet gleaming dully in the ruddy light. "Are you certain you want to attempt this?"
Harry swallowed hard. This dragon was small, true, but still dangerous, and he didn't have a broom to fly away. Still, the rot dogs had been just the beginning—if they were to reach Sellia alive, he needed every advantage.
"I'm sure," he said, more confidently than he felt. "What's the plan?"
Roddard crouched, using his spear to draw crude shapes in the dirt. "Dragons have three primary vulnerabilities: the throat, the belly, and the joints where wing meets body. This one's sick, which means its reactions will be slower, but its desperation makes it deadly. I'll approach from the front, draw its attention. When it rises to attack, you circle behind and strike at the base of the tail or the belly. One clear hit could be enough in its weakened state."
"And if it decides to fly?" Harry asked.
"Then we retreat," Roddard said flatly. "We can't fight it in the air."
"What about my lightning?" Harry flexed his fingers, remembering the crackling energy that had felled the crows.
Millicent shifted against his back. "Save it," she advised. "Lightning might stun it briefly, but you'll need to get close for the killing blow. Use it only when the moment is right."
They found a sheltered outcropping where Harry could leave Millicent—a small cave in the ridge overlooking the hollow, high enough to be safe from the dragon should it take flight.
"Be careful," she said as he lowered her to the ground. Her golden eye studied his face intently, as if memorizing it. "Dragons don't die easily, even sick ones."
"I'll be fine," Harry assured her, trying to project a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "Roddard won't let me get eaten on my first hunt. Would ruin his reputation."
Her lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. "Strike true and fast. And remember—the heart is what matters. Don't lose yourself in the fight and forget why we're doing this."
Harry nodded, drawing his sword. The blade felt more familiar in his hand after Roddard's training, if not entirely natural. He missed his wand with an ache that surprised him—the smooth holly wood, the way it had practically leapt to cast the spells he needed.
"Ready?" Roddard asked as Harry rejoined him at the ridge's edge.
Harry took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat quicken. "As I'll ever be."
They descended the slope in silence, picking their way through loose scree and patches of ground that bubbled ominously with Rot. The dragon remained motionless save for the rhythmic rise and fall of its ribcage, unaware of the hunters approaching from downwind.
Twenty yards away, Roddard signaled for Harry to circle wide to the right while he continued forward. Harry nodded, crouching low as he began to edge around the perimeter of the hollow, his eyes never leaving the slumbering beast.
Up close, the dragon was both more magnificent and more pitiful than it had appeared from a distance. Its body stretched nearly thirty feet from snout to tail-tip, with a wingspan that could easily have shaded the Dursleys' entire house. But the Rot had ravaged it—patches of scales missing, exposing weeping sores that oozed a viscous crimson fluid. One of its eyes was clouded over completely, and a jagged tear in one wing membrane suggested it hadn't flown in some time.
This isn't sport, Harry reminded himself as guilt nagged at him. It's sick, suffering. This might be mercy.
Roddard had reached position, his spear poised to strike. He caught Harry's eye across the hollow and nodded once, sharply. Then, with a movement so swift it seemed impossible for a man in armor, he lunged forward and drove his spear deep into the dragon's exposed flank.
The beast's roar shook the ground beneath Harry's feet, a sound of pain and fury that seemed to come from the earth itself rather than the creature before him. It surged upward with surprising speed, wings flaring wide as its head snapped toward Roddard. Fire erupted from its jaws—not the concentrated jet Harry had seen Agheel produce, but a sputtering gout that nonetheless sent Roddard diving for cover.
"Now!" the knight bellowed as he rolled away from a massive taloned foot that smashed into the spot he'd occupied moments before.
Harry charged forward, his training momentarily forgotten as adrenaline surged through him. The dragon's attention was fixed on Roddard, giving Harry precious seconds to approach from behind. As he closed the distance, however, the creature's tail whipped toward him with the force of a fallen tree, forcing him to throw himself flat to avoid being crushed.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping in the Rot-laden air.
"Strike and move!" Roddard shouted, dodging another blast of flame. The knight was a blur of bronze and determination, his spear darting in to pierce the dragon's neck before dancing away from snapping jaws.
Harry staggered to his feet, grip tightening on his sword. The dragon had fully risen now, its attention divided between the two threats. It's good eye fixed on Harry—a vertical pupil surrounded by amber iris, blazing with hatred.
Right then, Harry thought grimly. Let's dance.
He darted forward as the dragon lunged at Roddard, aiming for the softer scales beneath its wing joint. His blade struck true, slicing through diseased flesh and scraping against something harder beneath—bone or gristle, he couldn't tell. Hot blood gushed over his arm, burning like acid where it touched his skin.
The dragon's roar this time was higher, almost a screech, as it whirled toward him. Jaws large enough to swallow him whole gaped wide, revealing rows of yellowed teeth and a gullet that glowed with building fire.
Harry didn't think—he moved, instinct carrying him into a roll that Roddard had drilled into him barely hours ago. The flame passed overhead, close enough that he felt his hair singe and curl. The stench of his own burned flesh mingled with the Rot, making his stomach heave.
"Its blind side!" Roddard called, pressing his own attack while the dragon was distracted. His spear struck deep into the creature's shoulder, eliciting another shriek of pain.
Harry scrambled to his feet, circling to approach from the dragon's clouded eye. The beast was weakening, its movements growing more erratic, but that only made it more dangerous—like a cornered animal with nothing left to lose.
As he closed in again, the dragon's wing swept toward him in a desperate attempt to bat him away. Harry ducked beneath it, but the movement brought him directly into the path of its thrashing tail. The impact caught him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward.
He hit the ground hard, his sword skittering away across the cracked clay. Pain exploded through his ribs, and for a terrifying moment, he couldn't breathe at all. The dragon loomed above him, bloody maw opening to deliver a killing blast of flame.
Something snapped inside Harry then—a barrier breaking, a dam bursting. Heat surged up his right arm. He watched as scales erupted from his flesh, spreading from fingertips to shoulder in a heartbeat. His hand elongated, fingers merging into curved talons that gleamed like obsidian.
The transformation was both agonizing and exhilarating, like being turned inside out and reborn in the same moment. As the dragon's head descended toward him, Harry thrust his transformed arm upward with a cry that was half defiance, half pain.
His claws sank into the soft tissue beneath the dragon's jaw, piercing through and erupting from the top of its skull in a fountain of corrupted blood. The beast froze, a gurgling hiss escaping its ruined throat, its single good eye wide with what might have been surprise.
For a moment, they remained locked together—Harry on his back, arm buried to the elbow in dragon flesh, the creature suspended above him in its final moment of life. Then, with a shudder that seemed to begin at the tip of its tail and roll forward like a wave, the dragon collapsed.
Harry barely managed to wrench his arm free before the full weight crashed down beside him, the impact sending tremors through the hollow. Silence descended, broken only by his ragged breathing and the distant cawing of crows drawn by the scent of fresh blood.
"Well," Roddard said as he approached, his armor splattered with gore, "that was... unorthodox."
Harry stared at his arm, watching in mute fascination as the scales slowly receded, leaving behind unmarked human flesh. "Is it..." he began, his voice hoarse.
"Dead?" Roddard prodded the dragon's massive head with his spear. "Thoroughly. That was... impressive. Foolish, but impressive."
A strange warmth spread through Harry's body, unlike anything he'd felt before. Golden motes of light rose from the dragon's corpse, swirling around him before sinking into his chest. He remembered Melina telling him that killing any kind of creature would grant him runes that would strengthen him.
Harry struggled to his feet, ribs protesting with each movement. "Now what?"
Roddard gestured toward the dragon's chest. "Now comes the part you won't enjoy. The heart lies beneath that central plate of scales, behind the breastbone."
Harry stared at the massive corpse, the reality of what came next hitting him like a Bludger to the gut. "You're not going to help, are you?"
"Your dragon, your heart," Roddard said with what might have been amusement in his metallic voice. "I killed my first at twelve. Consider it tradition."
With a grimace, Harry approached the fallen beast. Its body was already cooling, the heat of life fading rapidly. He retrieved his sword and, after a moment's hesitation, plunged it into the softer scales of the dragon's belly.
The stench that erupted from the wound nearly knocked him backward—a putrid miasma of rot and digestive juices that had him retching instantly. Harry doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the cracked clay. When he straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Roddard was watching impassively, making no move to assist.
"Lovely," Harry muttered, returning to his grim task.
It took nearly twenty minutes of cutting, sawing, and reaching into cavities no human hand was meant to explore before Harry finally located the heart. It was surprisingly small for such a large creature—about the size of a Quaffle—and dense as stone to the touch. Unlike the rest of the dragon's corrupted body, the heart seemed untouched by Rot, pulsing with a deep crimson glow.
Harry cradled it in his bloody hands, looking up at the ridge where Millicent watched. Even at this distance, he could see her golden eye gleaming with anticipation.
"Do I just..." he began, looking to Roddard.
"Eat it," the knight confirmed. "Every beat that remains."
Harry stared at the organ, his stomach turning again. "Right. Here goes nothing."
He closed his eyes and bit into the heart.
The taste was indescribable—not like meat at all, but like drinking lightning or consuming fire. It burned going down, each swallow sending fresh waves of heat through his body. Harry forced himself to continue, gagging more than once but persisting until nothing remained but the memory of that terrible, wonderful taste.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, without warning, power erupted within him—a storm breaking against the shores of his consciousness. He fell to his knees, head thrown back as lightning coursed beneath his skin, illuminating his veins from within until he glowed like a human constellation against the crimson landscape.
The pain was exquisite, transcendent, washing away all thought until only sensation remained. Harry wasn't aware of screaming, though his throat was raw when awareness finally returned. He found himself on all fours, steam rising from his body as if he'd been doused in boiling water.
"Harry?" Millicent's voice reached him, closer than expected. Somehow, she had made her way down from the ridge, dragging herself across the ground to reach him. Her golden eye was wide with concern. "Are you alright?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but instead of words, a crackling sound emerged—like the moment before lightning strikes. He coughed, sparks literally flying from his lips. "I... think so," he managed finally.
"Show me," she urged, excitement replacing concern. "What can you feel?"
Harry focused inward, sensing the new power thrumming through him. It was similar to what he'd wielded before, but stronger, more controlled. He raised his hand, concentrating on the energy pooling in his palm.
Lightning erupted from his fingers—not the arm-length bolt he'd produced against the crows, but a jagged spear of crackling energy three times larger, so bright it turned the crimson landscape momentarily white. The bolt struck a distant rock formation, shattering it with a thunderclap that echoed across the hollow.
"By the Erdtree," Roddard breathed, taking an involuntary step back.
Harry stared at his hand in wonder. The lightning hadn't drained him as before—if anything, he felt invigorated, power still surging just beneath his skin, eager to be used. On impulse, he focused on that same energy but directed it inward rather than outward.
Scales erupted across his body—not just his arm this time, but flowering across his chest, encasing his legs, armoring him in gleaming draconic plates. They weren't permanent, fading after several seconds, but while they lasted, he felt invulnerable, as if nothing in this blighted land could touch him.
"Remarkable," Millicent whispered, reaching out to touch his arm where the last scales were receding. "You took to it naturally, like you were born for this power."
Harry shuddered, suddenly aware of something else—a hunger deep within, a craving for more that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the power he'd just tasted. It whispered to him, urging him to seek out other dragons, to consume their essence, to grow stronger still.
"Be careful, Harry," Millicent warned, as if reading his thoughts. "The dragon's power is a gift, but also a curse. Those who consume too many hearts often lose themselves. The beast becomes the man, memories fading as scales take their place. Eventually, you would be neither human nor dragon, but something in between—powerful but hollow, forgetting everything you once were."
The warning struck home, cutting through the heady rush of newfound power. Harry thought of Ron and Hermione, of Sirius waiting for him. What good was power if he lost himself in the process?
"I won't eat another," he said firmly, meeting Millicent's gaze. "No matter how dire things get. One is enough." He stood, flexing his fingers as the last traces of lightning danced between them. "I'll find my own way back, not by becoming something I'm not."
Roddard approached, cleaning the last of the gore from his armor. "One heart is wise," he agreed, surprising Harry with his support. "It gives you an edge without risking your humanity. Now, we should move. The scent of dragon blood carries for miles, and not everything in Caelid is afraid of lightning."
Harry nodded, crouching to lift Millicent once more. As he settled her against his back, he realized the weight seemed less burdensome than before—whether from the dragon's power or simply growing accustomed to carrying her, he couldn't say.
They left the fallen dragon behind, its massive corpse already attracting the twisted scavengers of Caelid. Harry didn't look back, focusing instead on the path ahead and the strange new energy coursing through his veins—a power that would help him protect Millicent and find his way home, not consume him.
The dragon's power coursed through Harry's veins like liquid lightning, making each step feel weightless despite Millicent's form draped across his back. Where before his muscles had burned with the effort of carrying her, now he moved with newfound vigor, the landscape passing beneath his feet at a pace that surprised even Roddard.
"Slow down," the knight growled, clanking along behind them. "This isn't a race, and Caelid punishes the careless."
Harry grinned over his shoulder. "Can't keep up, tin man? And here I thought General Radahn trained his soldiers to be faster."
Roddard's helmet tilted in what Harry had come to recognize as his version of a glare. "Radahn's soldiers knew that speed means nothing if you're dead. The ground shifts here—steps that look solid can swallow you whole."
As if to punctuate the knight's warning, the earth ahead of them suddenly bubbled and burst, spewing a geyser of crimson mist that reeked of metal and decay. Harry skidded to a halt, heart hammering as the mist dissipated to reveal a smoking crater where solid ground had been moments before.
"Point taken," Harry muttered, adjusting his grip on Millicent.
She chuckled softly against his neck, her breath warm on his skin. "You're both right, in your ways. We should move quickly, but cautiously. Night falls differently in Caelid—faster, darker. We don't want to be outside the barriers when the sun fades completely."
Harry nodded, falling into a more measured pace that still ate up the distance with dragonfire efficiency. As they traveled northeast, the landscape began to change subtly. The cracked, desolate clay gave way to patches of strange fungal growth—mushrooms that towered above them, their caps glowing with an eerie blue phosphorescence that contrasted sharply with Caelid's omnipresent red.
"What are those?" Harry asked, eyeing a particularly massive specimen that pulsed with inner light.
"Sellia's mark on the land," Millicent explained. "The sorcerers who founded the town specialized in astral magic—spells that drew power from the stars themselves. These mushrooms grew where their magic seeped into the soil over centuries."
Harry studied the bizarre growths with newfound interest. They reminded him vaguely of the magical plants Professor Sprout cultivated in Greenhouse Three—beautiful but potentially lethal if handled incorrectly.
"Are they dangerous?"
"Only if you're foolish enough to eat them," Roddard replied. "Though some say they whisper secrets to those who listen too long. Drive them mad with knowledge not meant for mortal minds."
"Cheerful as always," Harry quipped, giving the nearest mushroom a wider berth nonetheless.
As they continued, the concentration of glowing fungi increased, casting the path in pale blue light that made the surrounding crimson landscape look even more otherworldly. Overhead, Harry noticed strange motes of light drifting lazily through the air—not unlike the golden runes he'd absorbed from the dragon, but silver-blue and smaller, like dust motes caught in moonlight.
"It's beautiful," he murmured, reaching out to touch one. It danced away from his fingers, leaving a fleeting trail of light.
"Star dust," Millicent said, her voice oddly tight. "Remnants of Sellia's magic. It was once the greatest center of celestial sorcery in all the Lands Between."
Harry glanced at her, noticing the tension in her remaining arm where it gripped his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head slightly, her golden eye darting nervously between the floating lights. "Something feels... off. The magic is restless, agitated. It wasn't like this the last time I passed near Sellia."
"When was that?" Harry asked, slowing his pace to let Roddard catch up.
"Centuries ago," she admitted. "Before we found the church. I had hoped to find information there—about the unalloyed gold needle Prince Miquella was crafting for my mother. A cure, or at least a treatment for the Rot."
"And?" Harry prompted when she fell silent.
"The town was abandoned even then. I found only echoes and empty towers." Her grip tightened slightly. "But there was peace in that emptiness. Now... now there's something else. Something watching."
Roddard moved up beside them, spear at the ready. "She's right. The air tastes wrong." Despite his helmet, Harry could sense the knight scanning their surroundings with heightened vigilance.
They crested a small ridge, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. Ahead of them, perhaps a half-mile distant, rose the silhouette of Sellia—a town of slender towers and angular structures that seemed to defy gravity. Unlike the squat, practical buildings of Limgrave, Sellia's architecture reached desperately skyward, like hands stretching toward the stars. Blue light emanated from windows and doorways, and the space above the town shimmered with what looked like a transparent dome of energy.
"The barrier," Roddard explained, following Harry's gaze. "Ancient sorcery that keeps the Rot at bay. Nothing corrupted can pass through—not the beasts, not the infected hollows, not even the air itself."
"How do we get in, then?" Harry asked, suddenly concerned. "Millicent carries the Rot within her."
The knight shook his helmeted head. "The barrier doesn't reject those who carry the Rot but control it. It senses intent, purpose. The mindless infected are repelled, but beings with will and consciousness can pass through—though it's said to be... uncomfortable for those touched by corruption."
Harry glanced at Millicent. "Will it hurt you?"
Her golden eye met his, uncertainty flickering within. "I don't know. I never tried to enter before. But if there's any chance of finding information about Miquella's needle—about a cure—it's worth the risk."
"We'll find another way if it causes you pain," Harry said firmly, already making up his mind to carry her back out if necessary.
They continued their approach, the mushroom forest growing denser around them. The path narrowed, winding between towering fungi that cast long shadows in the strange blue light. Harry noticed that many of the caps were oddly misshapen, as if something had gnawed upon them.
"Does anyone still live there?" he asked, studying the distant town. Despite the ethereal glow from its windows, he couldn't discern any movement within.
"Not living, perhaps," Roddard said cryptically. "But not entirely gone either."
Harry frowned. "Meaning?"
"Sellia's sorcerers didn't die easily," the knight elaborated. "Some say they transcended flesh entirely, becoming one with their celestial magic. Others believe they linger as spirits, bound to their towers and tomes, unable to leave the knowledge they spent lifetimes accumulating."
"Like ghosts," Harry murmured, thinking again of Nearly Headless Nick.
"Not quite," Millicent interjected. "Ghosts know they're dead, cling to memory of life. Whatever remains in Sellia exists in a different state—neither alive nor dead, but transformed. Scholars who became so consumed by their studies that the boundary between self and magic dissolved."
Harry digested this, uneasiness growing in his gut. "And they'd be... friendly? To visitors?"
Roddard's laugh was like stones grinding together. "Sorcerers are rarely 'friendly,' even when fully human. Whatever dwells in Sellia now has had centuries of isolation to further warp whatever humanity they once possessed."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "So we're walking into a town of potentially hostile magical entities who've had hundreds of years to go completely round the bend. Any other cheerful news?"
"The barrier will keep most threats out," Millicent offered, though her voice lacked conviction. "And if there are still intellects within Sellia, they might be reasoned with. Knowledge was their purpose—perhaps they would be willing to share it."
They had nearly reached the edge of the town now. The barrier was more visible up close—a subtle shimmer in the air, like heat rising from sun-baked stone, but tinged with that same blue luminescence that characterized Sellia's magic. Beyond it, the streets appeared empty, though shadows moved in ways that didn't quite match the swaying of the strange, star-shaped lanterns that lined the roads.
Roddard stopped a few paces from the barrier, planting his spear in the ground. "Once we cross, there's no guarantee we can return the same way. Barriers like these sometimes... remember those who pass through. Change the terms of passage."
Harry exchanged a glance with Millicent, reading the determination in her golden eye despite her obvious anxiety. "We've come this far," he said, adjusting her weight against his back. "Might as well see it through."
With a deep breath, he stepped forward, approaching the shimmering veil that separated Sellia from the rotting wasteland of Caelid.
The barrier felt like walking through a waterfall of ice and electricity. Harry's skin prickled as they passed through, tiny blue sparks dancing across his arms and chest. Behind him, Millicent gasped, her body tensing against his back—though whether from pain or surprise, he couldn't tell.
"Alright?" he asked once they were through, the shimmering veil now at their backs.
"Yes," she replied, her voice strained but steady. "It... recognized me. Questioned me. But let me pass." Her golden eye darted nervously around the deserted street before them. "It knows we're here now. All of Sellia knows."
The town was both beautiful and unsettling—a place built by minds that thought differently than those who had constructed Hogwarts or even the curving structures of Limgrave. Buildings rose at impossible angles, their walls inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed in time with some unseen heartbeat. Doorways stood open to reveal only darkness beyond, and windows gazed down like empty eye sockets, reflecting nothing.
Roddard moved ahead cautiously, his spear at the ready, armor gleaming in the ethereal blue light that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the street. "Stay close," he warned. "The magic here has had centuries to... evolve."
They hadn't gone more than a dozen paces when they encountered their first obstacle—a glowing sigil hovering in mid-air, blocking the narrow street ahead. It resembled a snowflake made of blue fire, its pattern so complex it hurt Harry's eyes to follow.
"A seal," Millicent murmured, leaning forward to study it. "Sorcerers used these to protect their private quarters. This one blocks the main thoroughfare—strange."
Harry approached carefully, feeling the seal's magic wash over him like a physical force. "Can we break it? Or go around?"
Roddard probed the edges of the street with his spear, where dilapidated buildings pressed close on either side. "No way around without going through these structures, and I wouldn't recommend that. The sorcerers were fond of traps."
"Perhaps I can dispel it," Millicent suggested. "Set me down, Harry."
He complied, carefully lowering her to sit on a relatively intact portion of the cobblestone street. She stretched out her remaining hand toward the seal, her brow furrowed in concentration. The air between her palm and the sigil warped subtly, like heat rising from summer-baked stone.
"It's old," she murmured, "but familiar. The pattern resembles those my moth—"
A sharp sound cut through the eerie silence—a boot scraping against stone, somewhere ahead of them beyond the seal. Harry tensed, his right hand dropping instinctively to his sword hilt while his left tingled with the dragon's lightning, ready to be summoned.
"We're not alone," Roddard growled, shifting to place himself between the sound and Millicent.
A figure stepped into view on the other side of the glowing seal—slender and female, cloaked in tattered red fabric that might once have been fine cloth. As she drew closer, the blue light illuminated her features, and Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.
She looked almost exactly like Millicent.
The same delicate features, the same fiery red hair streaked with ash, the same haunting beauty marked by the Rot's touch. But where Millicent had lost her right arm, this woman's left arm ended in a stump. Where Millicent had one golden eye, this woman's right eye gleamed like molten amber while her left remained hidden behind a curtain of hair.
Harry glanced between them, his mind struggling to process the mirror-image figures. "What the..."
"It cannot be..." Millicent whispered, her voice barely audible, her remaining hand trembling as she lowered it from the seal. "Aurelia?"
The newcomer tilted her head, studying Millicent with an expression of cold curiosity. When she spoke, her voice was like Millicent's but harder, edged with something that raised the hairs on Harry's neck.
"Sister," she said, the word falling like a stone into still water. "You survived after all. How... unexpected."
"You know her?" Harry asked Millicent without taking his eyes off the newcomer.
"We were born together," Millicent replied, her voice hollow with shock. "Daughters of the Bloom. Sisters, of a sort. I thought... I thought they were all dead."
Aurelia's lip curled in a mirthless smile. "Some of us adapted. Some of us thrived. While you hid in your little church, waiting for a prince who never returned, I found purpose." Her golden eye flicked to Harry, then to Roddard. "Interesting companions you've found. A Tarnished and a knight who's forgotten his oath."
Roddard bristled visibly. "My oath remains unbroken."
"Does it?" Aurelia's gaze returned to Millicent. "You were to remain at the church until Prince Miquella returned. Yet here you are, in Sellia—a place forbidden to you."
"Forbidden by whom?" Harry challenged, disliking the woman's tone intensely. "She's free to go where she pleases."
Aurelia's attention shifted to him, her golden eye narrowing. "You know nothing of us, outsider. Of our purpose, our burden." She studied him more intently, head tilting further. "Though you've tasted dragon flesh, I see. Embracing new powers while in lands not your own? Dangerous."
Harry felt exposed beneath her gaze, as if she could see straight through to the dragon's power coiled within him. "How did you—"
"The Rot knows its own," she interrupted. "As do daughters of Malenia. We see what others cannot, you have Scarlet Rot inside you."
The seal between them pulsed brighter suddenly, its pattern shifting and reforming. Aurelia raised her remaining hand, and the sigil responded, contracting until it was no larger than a dinner plate.
"You seek entry to Sellia," she stated. "Why?"
Millicent shifted, attempting to stand. Harry moved to help her, but she waved him off, rising shakily on her own. "We seek knowledge of Prince Miquella's needle—the unalloyed gold that might stem the Rot."
For the first time, Aurelia's composure cracked. Her golden eye widened fractionally, and her posture stiffened. "The needle?" she repeated, her voice sharper. "Why would you seek that now, after all these centuries?"
"To help her," Harry interjected. "To find a cure."
Aurelia's laugh was like breaking glass. "A cure? There is no cure. The Rot is not a disease to be cured—it is a blessing, a transformation. One must not resist it, but embrace it." Her gaze returned to Millicent, hardening. "You always were the weakest of us, sister. Still clinging to delusions of returning to what you never were."
Millicent stood taller, her golden eye flashing with sudden defiance. "Prince Miquella believed otherwise. His needle was nearly complete before he disappeared. If his research remains in Sellia—"
"It does not," Aurelia snapped. "And if it did, I would destroy it myself." The small seal floating before her began to spin faster, throwing off sparks that sizzled against the cobblestones. "The Rot is our heritage, our future. Those who seek to undo it are traitors to Mother's legacy."
In one move, she reached into her tattered robe and withdrew a curved dagger that gleamed wetly in the blue light. Its blade dripped with a viscous crimson substance that Harry recognized immediately—concentrated Scarlet Rot, weaponized.
"You should have stayed in your church, sister," Aurelia hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Now you've brought corruption to the one who protected you—and doom to yourself."
The seal before her shattered with a sound like breaking crystal, fragments dissolving into the air. Aurelia lunged forward, dagger raised, her face twisted in a mask of hatred.
Harry moved instinctively, pushing Millicent behind him while summoning lightning to his fingertips. Beside him, Roddard's spear flashed forward, but Aurelia was impossibly fast, ducking beneath the thrust and slashing upward.
The Rot-infused blade missed Harry by inches, leaving a trail of crimson droplets suspended momentarily in the air. He scrambled backward, drawing his sword with his free hand while positioning himself to shield Millicent.
"You can't protect her," Aurelia snarled, circling them like a predator. Her movements were unnaturally fluid, as if her joints bent in ways a human's shouldn't. "None can stand against the Blooming."
The air around her shimmered, and to Harry's horror, scarlet butterflies began to materialize—just like those Millicent had conjured, but larger, their wings leaving trails of caustic mist as they fluttered toward him.
"Harry!" Millicent cried in warning.
He raised his arm to shield his face as the first butterfly exploded against his chest in a spray of Rot that hissed against his skin. Pain blossomed where it touched, but the dragon's resistance held—barely.
Aurelia's golden eye widened in surprise, then narrowed with renewed fury. "Interesting," she murmured, readying her dagger for another strike. "But not enough."
She darted forward again, her blade aimed not at Harry this time, but at Millicent's heart.
Roddard's gauntleted hand shot out, catching Aurelia's wrist in mid-strike. The sudden stop almost wrenched the dagger from her grasp, but she held firm, snarling up at the knight's expressionless helm.
"You forget yourself, guardian," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Roddard's response was wordless and brutal—his other fist connecting with her face in a sickening crunch of metal against flesh. The impact sent her staggering backward, golden eye wide with shock and rage, blood streaming from her nose.
Before she could recover, the knight pivoted, his spear thrusting forward toward her midsection. But Aurelia was faster than she appeared. She twisted sideways, the spear's tip grazing her tattered robe as she leapt away.
"Traitor!" she spat, blood mixing with Rot as it dripped down her chin. "You'll die with her!"
Harry stepped forward, dragon lightning crackling between his fingers, casting harsh shadows across the cobblestones.
"Back away," he said, his voice unnaturally calm despite the storm building inside him. "Back away now, or die."
Aurelia's bloodied lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing teeth stained crimson. "I will never let you pass," she hissed, summoning more of those deadly butterflies that swirled around her like living flames. "Sellia and its secrets are mine. Mine alone."
Something shifted in Harry then—a subtle change, a merging of the boy from Hogwarts and the dragon power that now flowed through his veins. He felt it happen, felt his right eye burn with sudden heat. Millicent gasped behind him, and even Roddard took a half-step back.
"Your eye," Millicent whispered. "Harry, it's—"
But he already knew. He could see differently now, the world through his right eye tinged crimson, details sharper, movements slower. He could see the poison flowing through Aurelia's veins, the Rot that had shaped her into what she was.
When he spoke again, his voice carried a strange dual timbre, as if something else spoke with him. "I've killed a Basilisk with nothing but a sword and phoenix tears," he said, each word dropping like ice into still water. "I've driven away a hundred Dementors with a single spell."
Lightning crawled up his arm, no longer blue-white but tinged with crimson, mirroring his transformed eye. "You? You're just another obstacle. And soon," he raised his hand, the air around it distorting with power, "you'll be nothing but bones."
Aurelia's golden eye widened, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face for the first time as she stared into the crimson depths of Harry's transformed gaze.
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