Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Tarnished Potter.
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The distance between them disappeared in seconds.
Harry's boots hammered stone. The Misbegotten moved fast. Its mane flowed behind it, bright gold against Caelid's red sky, almost beautiful if you ignored the murder in those amber eyes.
Their blades met with a sound like a church bell being struck by lightning.
The impact traveled up Harry's arms, through his shoulders, into his teeth. His sword barely caught the overhead strike, and for half a second he thought he'd actually blocked it properly. Then the Misbegotten's strength registered, and Harry's feet skidded backward across stone, his boots leaving dark marks. His arms screamed. The numbness started in his wrists and spread fast.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, because sometimes that was the only word that fit.
The creature pressed forward. Its greatsword came around in a horizontal slash that would've taken Harry's head off if he hadn't thrown himself backward. The blade passed close enough that he felt the wind of it. No time to recover. Another strike came, this one angled down at his left shoulder. Harry got his sword up, barely, and the clash sent lightning bolts of pain through his forearms.
This thing was stronger than the troll. The troll in the first year had been stupid, all size and no brain, easy enough to trick once you figured out it couldn't think past "smash the thing." This Misbegotten fought like someone who'd spent centuries learning exactly how to kill people efficiently. It attacked again.
Harry's shoulder erupted in fire.
He'd been too slow on the block, and the Misbegotten's blade had caught him, cutting through his shirt and into flesh. Blood ran warm down his arm, and Harry stumbled back another step.
The Misbegotten didn't give him time to process it. Another overhead strike. Harry parried. His arms nearly buckled. The impact drove him to one knee, stone grinding against his kneecap. Sweat ran into his eyes, turning everything into a blurry mess of red sky and golden mane and dark metal swinging at his face.
Harry rolled right, came up on his feet, nearly fell because his ribs chose that exact moment to remind him about the Deathbird. Lightning gathered in his palm, white-gold and crackling, and he threw it without aiming properly.
The Misbegotten moved.
Just shifted its weight and the lightning spear passed through empty air, scorching stone behind where it had been standing. Those amber eyes tracked Harry. It tilted its head slightly, and Harry saw the intelligence there. Saw the moment it categorized his attack speed, his favored angles, the way he compensated for his injured shoulder.
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "It's smart. Of course it's bloody smart."
Behind him, he heard Millicent make a sound that might've been his name. Wanted to turn, to tell her it was fine, he had this under control. Except he absolutely did not have this under control. His arms felt like they'd been beaten with cricket bats. His shoulder leaked blood with every heartbeat. And the Misbegotten was circling now, patient, clearly understanding that time was on its side.
Harry had fought a Basilisk by stabbing it through the roof of its mouth. That had worked because the Basilisk was essentially a really big snake with really big teeth, predictable once you understood the pattern. This wasn't a pattern. This was a warrior who'd probably killed more people than Harry had met in his entire life.
The Misbegotten lunged.
Harry threw himself left. The greatsword crashed into stone where he'd been, and chips of rock peppered his legs. He came up swinging, aimed for the creature's exposed side, and the Misbegotten pivoted, caught his blade on its own, twisted. Harry's sword nearly flew from his grip. He held on through sheer stubborn refusal to be disarmed, but his palms were slick with sweat and blood, making the leather-wrapped hilt feel like it was made of soap.
Another strike. Harry blocked. His knees nearly gave out.
Another. This one he dodged by dropping flat, feeling the blade pass overhead so close it displaced his hair. Rolled, got his feet under him, backed away. Put space between them. Needed to think. Needed to breathe. Needed his arms to stop feeling like they were going to fall off.
The Misbegotten watched him retreat. Didn't press. Just stood there, greatsword held ready, tail swaying slightly behind it like a cat's. Waiting to see what Harry would try next.
Harry's mind raced. He couldn't match this thing's strength. Couldn't outlast it. Every exchange left him weaker while the Misbegotten barely seemed winded. Direct combat was suicide. He needed something else. Needed to be smarter.
Hermione's voice in his head, sharp and certain: "Observe before you act, Harry. You always rush in."
Right. Observe. What did he know?
The Misbegotten favored overhead strikes. Had done three already. Big, powerful swings that committed its weight forward. When it prepared those strikes, it planted its back foot firmly, gathering power. That was predictable. That was something.
What else?
Harry kept backing away, kept the distance, watched. The creature's tail. It moved constantly, never still, but there were patterns. When the Misbegotten shifted left, the tail went left first. When it prepared to lunge, the tail went rigid.
Tells. It had tells.
"Come on then," Harry called out, his voice steadier than he felt. "That the best you've got?"
The Misbegotten's eyes narrowed. It understood the challenge. Good. Harry needed it aggressive, needed it predictable.
It charged.
Harry was already moving, angling right, and the overhead strike came exactly where he'd expected. He deflected rather than blocked, letting the blade slide past, conserving his strength. The Misbegotten recovered fast, spun, brought the sword around in a horizontal slash. Harry ducked under it, came up close, lightning crackling along his right arm.
He jabbed his hand forward, releasing the electricity point-blank into the creature's thigh.
The Misbegotten roared, a sound that made Harry's bones vibrate. It kicked out, caught Harry in the chest, and suddenly he was airborne. Flew backward three meters, crashed into a fallen pillar, felt something in his ribs give way with a crack that he both heard and felt. Couldn't breathe. The world spun sideways.
Get up. Get up or die.
Harry rolled onto his hands and knees, coughing, tasting copper. His vision tunneled. Somewhere distant, Roddard was shouting something. Couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears.
The Misbegotten limped slightly as it approached. The lightning had hurt it. Not enough, but enough to matter. Its tail twitched right.
Harry threw himself left.
The greatsword embedded into the pillar he'd been leaning against, stone cracking like thunder. Harry scrambled away, got his feet under him, nearly fell because his legs didn't want to support his weight anymore. His ribs were on fire. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass.
But he'd learned something. The tail telegraph worked. The creature couldn't hide that tell.
Harry changed tactics. Stopped trying to block and started focusing entirely on evasion. Used his smaller size, stayed mobile. When the Misbegotten swung, Harry wasn't there. When it lunged, he'd already moved. He gathered lightning, threw spears not to kill but to test, to see how it reacted.
The creature deflected one with its blade. Dodged another. Caught a third on its shoulder and barely flinched.
Harry threw more. Made the Misbegotten work for it. Forced it to commit to blocks and dodges. All while watching. Learning.
The mane definitely seemed protective. Maybe magical. The few strikes Harry had landed near it had been deflected or absorbed somehow. The creature's legs were heavily muscled, all power, but the joints looked vulnerable. Reptilian joints, scaled but exposed. And when it roared, there was always a moment after where it stood still, like it needed to catch its breath.
A pattern emerged. Heavy strike. Then a feint to draw Harry's guard. Then the tail sweep to catch him while he was focused on the feint.
Harry tested it. The heavy strike came. Harry blocked, arms screaming. The feint followed, aimed at his left. Harry moved his sword to intercept. The tail came around low and fast.
Harry jumped.
The tail passed under his feet, and while he was airborne, Harry channeled lightning down through his boots, through his legs, building it. Landed hard, nearly collapsed, but thrust both palms forward. The lightning spear was bigger this time, brighter, and it caught the Misbegotten square in the chest.
The creature stumbled backward, smoke rising from burned scales and fur. Roared in pain and fury. But it didn't fall. Didn't even look particularly worried. Just angry.
Harry's arms trembled. Blood ran from his shoulder down to his fingertips, making his grip slippery. His ribs felt like someone had replaced them with hot coals. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Existing hurt.
He couldn't win like this. Couldn't whittle it down. The Misbegotten was too strong, too durable, too skilled. Harry needed something else. Needed a plan that didn't involve gradually getting beaten to death while hoping he got lucky.
Needed to be smart about this.
The Misbegotten charged again. Harry moved, but slower now. He didn't have to fake the exhaustion. It was real. His legs wobbled. When he raised his sword to block the next strike, his arms barely responded. The impact drove him to one knee again, and this time getting back up took real effort.
The creature saw the weakness. Its eyes gleamed. It pressed harder.
Good.
Harry let himself stumble left. Did it again twenty seconds later. And again after that. Teaching the Misbegotten that when Harry was tired, he favored moving left.
It started positioning for his leftward movement, started angling its strikes to account for where Harry would be rather than where he was.
Perfect.
Harry's heart hammered against his aching ribs. He gathered lightning in his right hand, but this time he only put a trickle of power into it. Made it weak. Made it obvious.
The Misbegotten saw it coming. Deflected it casually with its blade.
For half a second, its vision was blocked by the flash.
Harry whispered, "Dancer of Decay."
The Rot surged through him like hot water in his veins. His vision sharpened, colors becoming more vivid. The red sky turned crimson. The Misbegotten's golden mane blazed like fire. Every sound became clearer. Every sensation more intense.
And Harry moved faster.
The world seemed to slow down around him while his body sped up. Crimson mist trailed behind him as he darted forward, and the ground where his feet touched sprouted tiny scarlet blooms that died immediately. The Rot whispered in his mind, seductive and cold.
Kill it. Rend its flesh. Consume.
Harry gritted his teeth. Thought of Millicent's laugh. Hermione's exasperation. Ron's stupid jokes. Sirius offering him a home. Anchored himself to those memories, used them like a shield against the whispers.
The Misbegotten turned toward him, but Harry was already inside its guard. His blade flashed out, caught the creature's left arm. Blood welled. He spun, struck again, opened a cut along its ribs. Moved before it could counter, came at it from a different angle.
The Misbegotten roared and adapted. Started timing its blocks to Harry's new speed. Caught his sword on its blade, nearly ripped it from his grip. Lashed out with its tail, and Harry barely got clear, felt the scaled appendage brush his back hard enough to bruise.
The Rot whispered louder. More. Take more. Become more.
"Shut up," Harry hissed through clenched teeth.
He landed another strike, this one on the creature's thigh, right where he'd hit it with lightning before. The Misbegotten bellowed, swiped at him with its free hand. Claws raked across Harry's ribs, caught the cut the Deathbird had given him, reopened it. Fresh blood soaked his shirt. Pain whited out his vision for a second.
Harry stumbled away, the Rot-enhanced speed fading, leaving him feeling hollow and sick. His legs shook. Blood loss was catching up to him now. Couldn't use the Dancer again. Didn't have the strength. Could barely stand.
But he'd done damage. The Misbegotten was bleeding from multiple cuts now, favoring its left leg. They were both hurt, both exhausted, both running on fumes.
One more exchange. That's all either of them had left.
Harry's mind worked through the haze of pain and blood loss. He had one shot. One chance. If he missed, he died. Simple as that.
The Misbegotten circled him. Harry turned with it, keeping his sword up through sheer force of will. His hands were numb. Couldn't feel his fingers anymore, had to trust they were still gripping the hilt.
Harry stumbled left.
The Misbegotten's eyes tracked the movement. Its tail went rigid. Here it came. The overhead strike. The big one. The creature committed its full weight, bringing the greatsword down in an arc meant to split Harry from crown to groin.
Harry threw himself right.
Not left like he'd conditioned it to expect. Right. Breaking the pattern.
The greatsword smashed into stone where Harry had been, hit so hard the blade embedded a full inch into the courtyard floor. The Misbegotten pulled, muscles straining.
Harry didn't waste the opening.
He lunged forward, aimed low, and his blade found the creature's knee joint. Lightning crackled along his sword. The blade cut deep.
The Misbegotten's leg buckled.
It caught itself, didn't fall, but for precious seconds it was off-balance, weight shifted wrong, vulnerable.
Harry channeled everything he had left into his sword. Vyke's Dragonbolt. The technique Gowry had taught him. Lightning gathered along the blade, white-gold and unstable. His right arm burned. Skin blistered. The smell of his own cooking flesh made him gag.
The Misbegotten recovered. Faster than Harry expected. Ripped its greatsword free from the stone and swung in a horizontal arc meant to cut Harry in half.
Harry had a choice. Dodge and lose his opening. Stay and commit to the attack and probably die.
He thought of Hogwarts. Of the Astronomy Tower. Of Hermione's disappointed face when he'd gotten caught breaking curfew. Of Ron's awe when Harry had caught the Remembrall. Of Sirius's eyes when he'd said, "You can come live with me."
Harry didn't dodge.
He dropped to his knees and slid. Felt the greatsword pass overhead, so close it cut strands of his hair. The stone scraped his shins through his trousers, burned the skin, but he kept sliding, kept moving forward on sheer momentum.
Came up inside the Misbegotten's guard.
The creature couldn't bring its massive sword around in time. Too close. Wrong angle. Its amber eyes went wide.
Harry surged upward with everything he had left. Not aiming for the chest. Not for the head. For the extended sword arm.
His lightning-infused blade came around in an uppercut that caught the Misbegotten's elbow joint. The unstable energy exploded on contact. Lightning, steel, and desperate strength combined.
The arm separated.
Blood sprayed. The severed limb fell, still gripping the greatsword, and hit the ground with a crash that echoed off the castle walls.
The Misbegotten screamed. Not a roar this time. An actual scream of agony that made Harry's heart twist despite everything. It staggered backward, its remaining hand clutching the stump, blood pumping between its fingers.
Harry tried to stand. His legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees, his sword clattering from nerveless fingers. The Rot was gone. The lightning was gone. Everything was gone except pain and exhaustion/
The Misbegotten looked at its severed arm. Looked at Harry.
It roared again and charged.
One-armed. Bleeding out. Still coming.
Harry couldn't even be surprised. In this world, nothing stayed down easy.
The creature's remaining hand, clawed and deadly, lashed out. Caught Harry across the chest. Four lines of fire opened from his left shoulder to his right hip. Deep. So deep Harry could see white beneath the red for a second before blood filled the wounds.
He screamed. Couldn't help it. The pain was beyond anything he'd experienced. Made Basilisk's venom feel like a tickle. His legs stopped working entirely. He crumpled, sprawled on his back, staring up at the red sky through a haze of agony.
The Misbegotten loomed over him. Raised its remaining hand, claws extended, preparing for the killing blow.
Harry's vision tunneled. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the pain. But some distant part of his mind noticed the tail. Saw it twitch right.
Old habits.
Harry threw himself left.
The Misbegotten lunged right, its momentum carrying it past Harry's prone form. It stumbled, off-balance, turned to face him again.
Harry saw his sword. Three feet away. Might as well have been three miles. Crawled toward it anyway. Fingers slipped in his own blood. Grabbed the hilt. Pulled it close.
The Misbegotten charged one last time.
Harry didn't have strength for anything fancy. Could barely lift the sword. His hands were slick with blood and sweat and tears he didn't remember shedding. Everything hurt. Everything was too heavy. But he got the blade up, pointed forward, braced the pommel against the ground behind him.
Channeled the last drops of lightning in his body down through the steel.
The Misbegotten impaled itself on Harry's sword. Its momentum drove the blade deep, punching through scales and muscle and into its heart. Harry's lightning coursed along the metal, into the creature's chest, stopped its heart mid-beat.
They were face to face. Harry looking up. The Misbegotten looking down. Those amber eyes met his green ones.
For a moment, neither moved.
The creature's remaining hand found Harry's shoulder. Not to attack. Just resting there. Steadying itself.
The Misbegotten made a sound. Low. Rumbling. Not a roar. Something softer.
Its eyes lost focus. Life drained away like water from a broken cup. The hand on Harry's shoulder went slack.
The creature fell backward, pulling Harry's embedded sword with it. Hit the ground with an impact that cracked stone. Lay still.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
Then, golden light erupted from the corpse.
Runes. So many runes. They poured into Harry like fire, burning through his veins, filling him up until he thought he might burst. The sensation was overwhelming. Every rune from every Misbegotten felt like copper pennies. These felt like galleons. Heavy. Significant. Carrying the weight of a true warrior's death.
Harry gasped, dropped to his knees from the intensity of it. Could feel himself getting stronger even as he was bleeding out. The runes knitting bone, sealing wounds, trying to keep him alive. But there was too much damage. Too much blood loss. The runes were fighting a losing battle.
He tried to stand. Couldn't. His legs were done. Everything was done.
"Harry!"
Millicent's voice. Distant. Getting closer.
He wanted to turn toward it. Wanted to tell her he was alright. Wanted to say something reassuring. But words required thought, and thinking required energy he didn't have.
The world tilted. Took Harry a second to realize he was falling. Hit the ground on his side. The impact should've hurt but he couldn't feel it anymore. Couldn't feel anything except a spreading coldness.
Footsteps. Running. Multiple people.
"Harry, stay with me!" Millicent again. Closer now. Her hands on his face, warm despite the fever he knew she carried. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare die."
He wanted to tell her he wasn't dying. Just resting. Just needed a minute.
Roddard's voice, bellowing orders. "Pressure on those wounds! Now! Someone get me bandages!"
Blaidd rumbling something. Couldn't make out the words.
Harry's vision was going dark at the edges, tunneling down to a pinpoint. He could see Millicent's face above him, her golden eye wide with fear, her red hair falling around them like a curtain. She was saying something. Her lips were moving. Couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears.
Did I prove it? Harry thought. The question felt important. Am I strong enough now?
The darkness spread. Millicent's face faded. Everything faded.
Harry's last conscious thought was that he'd never gotten his sword back. Seemed rude to leave it embedded in the Misbegotten. Someone should probably get that.
Then nothing.
Just black.
And silence.
And the feeling of falling into somewhere deep and dark and far away.
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