Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Tarnished Potter.
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"Bloody hell," Harry thought, his head pounding like a troll had used it as a drum. Pain throbbed through every inch of him, a dull ache that felt like it had settled into his bones and decided to stay. His mouth tasted like ash and copper, and when he tried to move, his shoulder screamed in protest, a sharp reminder of the spear that had nearly turned him into a human kebab. He blinked against the murky red light filtering through the church's shattered windows, his vision swimming as the world slowly came into focus.
The first thing he saw was her—a woman with hair like a dying sunset, all fiery red tangled with streaks of ashen gray. She sat slumped against the far wall, one golden eye glinting like a Knut in the gloom, the other hidden behind a curtain of that wild hair. Her tattered gown clung to her like it was rotting right off her frame, and her missing right arm made her look like a statue some mad artist had left half-finished. She was staring at him, unblinking, and it sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the feverish heat still clinging to his skin.
The second thing he saw was the spear. It hovered inches from his nose, its bronze tip gleaming with that same sick, organic sheen he'd noticed before. Behind it stood the knight—his armor scorched and dented but still imposing, the cage-like visor hiding whatever face might lurk beneath. The spear didn't waver, and Harry could feel the heat radiating off it, like standing too close to a fire that hated him personally.
He swallowed hard, throat dry as parchment, and rasped, "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I swear it. I just want to get back to Limgrave—to Melina."
His voice sounded pathetic even to him, rough as sandpaper and wobbling like a first-year facing Snape. The knight didn't move, didn't so much as twitch, but the woman—Millicent—tilted her head, her golden eye narrowing slightly. "Limgrave?" she said, her voice soft but carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier. "You're a long way from there, stranger. Too far."
"What do you mean, too far?" Harry asked, forcing himself to sit up despite the way his shoulder shrieked and his head spun. He glanced at the Site of Grace glowing nearby, its golden light flickering like a candle about to gutter out. Melina had said they were all connected, a network he could use to find her. He stretched a trembling hand toward it, ignoring the spear still poised to skewer him, and closed his eyes, reaching for that familiar warmth he'd felt at the Gatefront Ruins.
Nothing. Just a cold, empty void where Limgrave's Site should've been. His brow furrowed, and he tried again, picturing Melina's calm face, the golden tree looming over the rolling hills. Still nothing. Panic clawed at his chest as he pushed harder, his fingers twitching against the stone floor. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, willing that connection to spark.
"It won't work," Millicent said, her tone almost gentle, like she was breaking bad news to a child. "The Sites of Grace in Caelid... they're severed. Broken off from the rest of the Lands Between. You can't reach Limgrave from here."
Harry's eyes snapped open, and he stared at her, then at the Site, then back at her. "Severed?" he echoed, his voice cracking. He tried one more time, desperation fueling him, but it was like shouting into a void—no echo, no answer. "No, no, no—bloody hell!" He slammed his fist against the floor, the jolt sending a fresh wave of pain through his arm. "Damn it all to Merlin's soggy socks! I'm stuck here?"
The outburst echoed off the crumbling walls, and the soldier shifted, the spear inching closer until Harry could feel its heat prickling his skin. "Mind your tongue, filth," the knight growled, his voice like rusted gears grinding together. "Or I'll carve it out and feed it to the crows."
"Roddard, enough," Millicent said sharply, and to Harry's surprise, the knight actually hesitated, though the spear didn't budge. She turned that golden eye back to Harry, studying him like he was some potion ingredient she couldn't quite place. "You're not like the others who stumble into Caelid. Who are you?"
Harry glared at the spear, then at her, his frustration boiling over. "Harry Potter," he snapped, wincing as he dragged himself to his knees. "And I'm not here because I want to be, alright? I just want out of this nightmare."
Millicent's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Harry Potter," she repeated, rolling the name around like it was some foreign delicacy. "A strange name for a Tarnished."
"I'm not a bloody Tarnished!" Harry shouted, his voice bouncing off the cracked stone. Roddard tensed, the spear jerking forward until it was a hair's breadth from his throat, but Millicent raised her remaining hand, a silent command that made the knight freeze.
"Sorry," she said, sounding genuine. "I didn't mean to offend. Where are you from, then?"
Harry hesitated, his anger simmering down to a dull ache. How was he supposed to explain Hogwarts to people who thought magic came from some place called Raya Lucaria? "I'm from Hogwarts," he said finally, rubbing his temple with his good hand. "It's a school. For wizards and witches."
Millicent's brow furrowed, and Roddard made a sound that might've been a snort if it weren't so metallic. "Hogwarts?" she asked, puzzled. "I thought Raya Lucaria was the only academy for spellcraft and incantations."
"It's not here," Harry said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "It's... somewhere else. Not in these Lands Between. A different world, maybe." He wasn't even sure himself anymore—everything since the Whomping Willow felt like a fever dream gone wrong.
"Beyond the Fog," Roddard muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Another mad wanderer from the mists, then. Figures."
Harry's jaw clenched. "Oi, why don't you clank back to whatever forge spat you out, you overgrown kettle? I've seen more wit in a blast-ended skrewt, and at least those don't need a princess to wipe their shiny arses for them!" he shot back, glaring up at the knight. The spear twitched, and for a second, Harry thought he'd finally pushed too far—visions of skewered Potter flashing through his mind—but Millicent's sharp "Roddard!" cut through the tension like a whip. The knight stepped back, just an inch, but it was enough.
"Overgrown kettle?" Roddard growled, low and dangerous. "You've got a mouth on you, boy. Lucky she's here, or I'd—"
"Enough," Millicent said, her voice firm despite the weariness in it. She looked at Harry again, her golden eye softening. "You're lost, Harry Potter. And you're hurt. But you're still alive, which is more than most can say in Caelid. Why?"
Harry slumped against the floor, the fight draining out of him as despair settled in like a heavy cloak. "I don't know," he muttered, staring at the Site of Grace. "I just want to go back. To Melina. To my friends. But if this thing's broken..." He trailed off, its weight crashing down. He was trapped, alone, in a rotting hellhole with no way out.
And for the first time since he'd landed in this cursed place, Harry felt truly, utterly hopeless.
Harry's arm itched like mad, the skin still an angry red where the Rot had sunk its claws into him. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to twist into something monstrous again, and caught Millicent watching him with that unnerving golden eye of hers. It glinted in the dim, reddish light of the church, sharp and curious, like she was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't even know he was part of. The air in here was thick, sour with decay, and every breath made his chest ache like he'd swallowed a handful of ash.
"How do you withstand it?" Millicent asked, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence. She leaned forward slightly, her tattered gown rustling against the broken altar she perched on. "The Scarlet Rot, I mean. It should've eaten you alive by now."
Harry blinked at her, then down at his arm, which still throbbed but hadn't turned him into one of those shambling wrecks he'd seen outside. "What even is Scarlet Rot?" he asked, shuddering as he traced the faint crimson veins snaking under his skin. "Feels like I've been dunked in a vat of Snape's worst potion and left to fester."
Roddard, still looming nearby with that blasted spear, jerked his helmeted head toward the church's cracked window. Beyond it stretched the nightmare landscape Harry had stumbled through—blood-red grass swaying like it was alive, smoldering patches of earth glowing like dying embers, and a sky that looked like it was bleeding out. "That's what it is," the knight growled, his voice scraping like metal on stone. "A sickness that eats everything—flesh, bone, even the bloody ground. You're breathing it right now, fool."
Harry's stomach twisted, and he pressed a hand to his chest, half-convinced he could feel the Rot gnawing at his lungs. "Brilliant," he muttered, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "So I'm stuck in a place that's trying to turn me into compost. What happened to it? This... Caelid?"
Millicent's golden eye dimmed, her gaze dropping to the moss-covered floor as if she could see something in the cracks. "It wasn't always like this," she said, her tone soft but heavy, like she was reciting a story she wished she could forget. "Centuries ago, during the Shattering—Princess Malenia—clashed with General Radahn here. A battle of demigods. No one knows exactly what happened, not fully. But the Scarlet Rot... it was her curse. Willing or not, she unleashed it, and it swallowed Caelid whole."
Harry's jaw dropped, his mind racing to keep up. "A demigod did this?" he said, incredulous. He glanced out at the blighted wasteland again, the twisted trees clawing at the sky like skeletal hands, the air shimmering with that metallic tang of blood and rot, the animals, all suffering, all looking...wrong. "What kind of person—god or not—lets loose something that turns a whole place into this?"
"She didn't mean it," Roddard snapped, stepping forward so fast Harry flinched. The knight's spear clanged against the stone floor, a warning note that echoed through the church. "Princess Malenia was a warrior, not some butcher. The Rot was her burden, not her will. You'd do well to watch your tongue, boy, lest I rip it out and hang it from the rafters."
Harry's temper flared, hot and reckless, drowning out the ache in his bones. "Oh, shove off, you overgrown tin can," he shot back, glaring up at the knight. "Meant it or not, this place is a bloody graveyard because of her! Look outside—those hollows, the crows, the everything—it's suffering, and you're telling me it's fine because she didn't mean it? That's rubbish!"
Roddard's spear twitched, the tip glowing faintly red, and Harry braced himself, half-expecting to feel it punch through his chest this time. But, Millicent's voice sliced through the tension like a whip. "Roddard, stand down," she said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. The knight froze, his helmet tilting toward her, and after a long, tense moment, he stepped back, though the spear stayed poised like a coiled snake.
Harry let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding, and turned to Millicent. Her golden eye was fixed on him now, but there was something new in it—sadness, maybe, or shame. "He's right to defend her," she said quietly, her voice trembling just enough to make Harry pause. "She's my mother."
The words hit him like a Bludger to the gut. "Your... mother?" he echoed, staring at her. The red hair, the frail frame, that single piercing eye. "You're Malenia's daughter?"
Millicent nodded, a small, weary gesture. "Millicent, daughter of Malenia, Blade of Miquella," she said, like it was a title she'd carried too long. "I wasn't born when it happened, but I've lived with the Rot all my life. It's part of me, just as it was part of her."
Harry's mouth opened, then closed, his anger fizzling out into a tangle of guilt and confusion. "I... I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I didn't mean to—look, I shouldn't even be here. This whole place, your mother, this Rot business—it's not my fight. I just want to get back to where I belong."
Millicent's eye softened, just a flicker, and she tilted her head. "You're not the first to say that," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "But you're here now, and the Rot doesn't care what you want. It's a miracle you're still standing. Most would've crumbled by now—flesh rotting, mind gone. Yet you... you resist it."
"Resist it?" Harry snorted, glancing at his arm again. The red veins pulsed faintly, and he could still feel that strange heat simmering under his skin, like a fire he couldn't put out. "Feels more like it's biding its time before it turns me into one of those things out there. What even is this stuff? You said it's a curse, but how does it work?"
"It's older than the Shattering," Millicent said, her voice taking on a lecturing tone that reminded him uncomfortably of Hermione. "A sickness born from something ancient, something even the demigods couldn't control. It festers in flesh, in earth, in water—eats away at life until there's nothing left but husks. When Malenia fought Radahn, it bloomed from her, whether she wanted it to or not. Some say she held it back her whole life, until that battle broke her restraint."
"Bloody brilliant," Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. "So she's a walking plague, and this is her legacy? No offense," he added quickly, catching Millicent's wince. "It's just... I've seen dark magic—curses that twist people, kill them slow—but this? This is something else."
"It is," Millicent agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it's why Caelid's a tomb now. Radahn was a giant, they say—strong enough to hold the stars in place. But even he couldn't stop the Rot once it took root. It's been rotting here ever since, a wound that never heals."
Harry shuddered, picturing it—a clash of titans, a flood of red death spilling across the land. It sounded like something out of a nightmare, worse than anything Voldemort had ever cooked up. "And you're stuck here because of it," he said, more to himself than her. "That's... I'm sorry, Millicent. Really."
She met his gaze, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe, or just exhaustion. "It's not your burden," she said. "But thank you."
Roddard shifted, his armor clanking softly, and Harry shot him a wary glance. The knight said nothing, but the tension between them hung thick as the Rot-filled air. Harry's outrage still simmered—he couldn't just shrug off the suffering he'd seen—but Millicent's quiet sorrow tugged at him, stirring a sympathy he hadn't expected. This place was a mess, and he was caught in it, but maybe she was too, in her own way.
"Merlin help me," he thought, slumping back against the cold stone.
Harry slumped against the cold stone floor of the church, his shoulder throbbing like a Beater had taken a swing at it. The Site of Grace flickered nearby, its golden glow mocking him with its uselessness.
"How'd I even get here?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but Millicent's golden eye flicked toward him, expectant. He sighed, forcing the words out. "We were running from a dragon—Agheel, this massive beast with wings and a temper worse than Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts. Melina and I ducked into some ruins to dodge its fire, and down there, underground, we found this chest. Looked old, metal, nothing special. I opened it—stupid, I know—and next thing I'm coughing up red mist in a cave here, with no clue where Melina went."
His voice tightened as he spoke, the memory of that blinding white smoke and the gut-wrenching pull still fresh. He glanced at the Site of Grace again, its light steady but lifeless. "I thought this thing would get me back to Limgrave," he said, jabbing a finger at it. "Melina said they're all connected, like some magical Floo Network. But it's not working, is it?"
Millicent frowned, her red hair shifting as she shook her head. "I can't help you back to Limgrave," she said, her tone laced with regret. "Caelid's Sites are broken—cut off from the rest. You're stuck here unless you find another way."
"Another way?" Harry echoed, incredulous. He turned to Roddard, who stood like a statue of tarnished bronze, spear still in hand. "Any bright ideas, then?"
Roddard shrugged, the motion so casual it made Harry's blood boil. "Walk it," the knight said, his voice a low rumble through his helmet. "Or ride, if you've got a horse. Limgrave's west of here. Not my problem how you manage it."
Harry stared at him like he'd sprouted a second head, his jaw dropping. "Walk through that nightmare?" he said, gesturing wildly at the cracked window and the crimson hellscape beyond—twisted hollows shambling in the distance, crows with too many eyes circling overhead, and that ever-present stench of rot. "I'd be dead in an hour! Have you seen what's out there? I barely made it to this church, and that was with luck and a lot of running!"
"Perhaps you're not as tough as you think," Roddard said, a hint of smugness creeping into his metallic growl.
"Oh, sod off," Harry snapped, his temper flaring. "You try dodging bat-things and dragons with no wand and a sword I barely know how to use!"
Millicent raised her remaining hand, cutting off Roddard's retort before it could escalate. "What if Roddard escorted you?" she suggested, her voice calm but firm. "He's sworn to protect me, but he could see you safely to the border."
Roddard's helmet swiveled toward her so fast Harry thought it might fly off. "No," the knight said flatly, his spear clanking against the floor for emphasis. "I swore to Prince Miquella I'd guard you until he returns. I won't break that oath—not for some lost whelp who can't find his own way."
"Bloody hell," Harry cursed under his breath, his fists clenching. He glared at the knight, then at the useless Site, then at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. "I wish Hermione were here—she'd have this figured out in ten minutes. Or Ron, cracking some daft joke to make it bearable. Even Melina—she'd know what to do." His voice cracked on her name, and he slumped further, the loneliness hitting him like a punch to the gut. "I'm on my own, aren't I?"
The church fell silent, save for the faint creak of Roddard's armor and the distant cawing of those cursed crows.
Millicent tilted her head, her golden eye gleaming with a mix of curiosity and wonder. "You're really resistant to the Rot?" she asked, her voice tinged with awe. "And Roddard said that you can summon a dragon arm... how do you do it?"
Harry flexed his hand, still aching from the transformation, and winced as the memory of scales and talons flickered through his mind. "Dunno," he said, shrugging. "Happens when I'm in a pinch—arm turns all scaly and clawy for a bit. Can't control it much, though."
Roddard snorted, a harsh sound that echoed inside his helmet. "If he weren't resistant, the Rot would've melted him by now," he said, almost grudgingly. "He'd be another husk out there, claw or no claw."
"Cheers for the vote of confidence," Harry muttered, shooting the knight a glare. He turned back to Millicent, who was still staring at him like he was some rare creature Hagrid might've smuggled into Hogwarts. "What's so special about it?"
Her eye gleamed brighter, and she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a hushed, almost reverent tone. "That's Dragon Cult magic," she said. "Rare, even here. Only those taught by the old dragons can wield it—incantations that turn flesh to scale, breath to fire. You're... special, Harry Potter."
"Special?" Harry snorted, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Doesn't feel like it. Feels like I'm stumbling through this mess half-dead and twice as lost."
Millicent hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke again, reluctance clear in her voice. "There's a way to get stronger with it," she said. "To master those powers. You'd need to find a dragon—any dragon—kill it, and... eat its heart."
Harry's stomach twisted, a wave of nausea crashing over him. "Eat its heart?" he echoed, half-sick, half-curious. He pictured Agheel's massive jaws, the fire scorching the lake, and imagined sinking his teeth into something still beating and bloody. "You're joking, right? That's disgusting!"
"It's tradition," Millicent said, her tone steady despite its grimness. "The Dragon Cult believed consuming a dragon's heart binds its strength to yours. It's how they grew powerful—how they survived."
Harry could not believe his only remaining option was eating a dragon's heart. Melina had not mentioned that he needed to do something like that, so why not? Millicent didn't seem like the type to lie, or maybe Melina didn't tell him; maybe she had thought he could manage just fine without eating a dragon heart.
"Why are you here?" Harry asked, breaking the silence. "In this place, I mean. It's a tomb."
Millicent's eye flicked to him, and for a moment, she didn't answer. She traced a finger along the edge of the altar, where crimson moss had begun to creep over the stone like a living wound. "During the war—the Shattering—Prince Miquella promised to take me away," she said, her voice soft but resonant, like a melody played on a broken string. "To his new Haligtree, a sanctuary he was building. He said I'd live there with my mother, Malenia, and my siblings. A place free of this curse." She paused, her gaze dropping to her missing arm, the jagged stump hidden beneath her tattered gown. "But that never happened."
Harry frowned, leaning forward. "What went wrong?"
"He left," she said simply, her tone flat but laced with an ache that made Harry's chest tighten. "Miquella went to finish his work, to heal what the Shattering broke. He left me here with Roddard to guard me, to wait for his return. That was centuries ago. We've been waiting ever since, in this rotting husk of a church, and he hasn't come back."
"Centuries?" Harry echoed, his eyes widening. He glanced at Roddard, whose helmeted head tilted slightly, as if daring him to question it. "Why not leave, then? Limgrave's safer than this nightmare. You could've gone there, found help."
Millicent's lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head. "I carry the Scarlet Rot inside me," she said, her voice trembling with a quiet resignation. "It's in my blood, my flesh. Roddard's armor—it's enchanted, forged to absorb some of the Rot in the air. That's why he can stand here, why he's lasted this long. But if he tried to carry me out, to take me beyond these walls, it would seep into him. He'd wither and die, and I'd be left alone."
Harry's stomach sank as the weight of her words settled over him. He pictured Roddard crumbling under that armor, his spear falling into the red grass, and Millicent stranded in this forsaken place, her golden eye staring into nothingness. "That's... awful," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're trapped here because of something you can't even control."
"Oi, watch it," Roddard growled, his spear clanking as he shifted his stance. "She's not some damsel for you to pity, whelp. She's stronger than you'll ever be."
"Stronger?" Harry shot back, his temper flaring despite the ache in his bones. "She's stuck in a rotting church with you playing guard dog! Call that strength if you want, but it looks like a prison to me."
Roddard's grip tightened on his spear, the bronze tip glinting ominously. "Keep talking, boy. I'll show you what a prison feels like when I pin you to that wall."
"Enough," Millicent said, her voice cutting through their bickering like a blade. She looked at Harry, then at Roddard, her expression softening. "He's right, in a way. It is a prison. But it's one I've accepted—until now."
Harry hesitated, then stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. "What if I carried you?" he said, the idea spilling out before he could stop it. He stepped toward her, ignoring the way Roddard tensed. "I'm not dying from this Rot, right? Maybe I can get you out of here."
Millicent's eye widened, and Roddard's spear snapped up, its tip hovering an inch from Harry's throat. "What're you playing at?" the knight demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Touch her, and I'll gut you where you stand."
"Try me," Harry said, meeting the knight's hidden gaze with a defiant stare. He reached out, and slowly brushed his fingers against Millicent's hand. Her skin was cool, clammy, and faintly red where the Rot had marked her, but nothing happened—no searing pain, no sudden collapse. His right arm tingled, the veins flaring a brighter crimson for a moment, but he stayed upright, still himself.
Millicent gasped, pulling her hand back as if burned, though her eye was wide with astonishment. "How... how is that possible?" she breathed, staring at him like he'd just conjured a Patronus in the middle of the church.
"No clue," Harry admitted, flexing his hand as the tingling faded. "But it's my only play. I'm not strong enough to fight my way out there alone—those hollows, the crows, whatever else is lurking. If I carry you, and Roddard fights with me, we might stand a chance. We could get you somewhere safer, maybe find this Haligtree ourselves."
Roddard lowered his spear slightly, but his voice was iron. "I won't break Miquella's orders," he said. "My duty is here, guarding her. We wait for him."
Millicent's gaze drifted to the floor, her expression shadowed by thought. "How long has it been, Roddard?" she asked, her voice quiet but piercing. "Since he gave you that order?"
The knight straightened, his armor creaking. "Centuries," he said, unwavering. "And I'd wait another thousand years if it meant keeping you safe."
Her golden eye glistened, a faint sheen of tears catching the light. "You've done your duty admirably," she said, her tone tender but resolute. "More than anyone could ask. But we can't stay here forever. It's been so long, and no one has come—not Miquella, not my mother. No one."
Roddard's spear wavered, the tip dipping toward the ground. "We must wait a little longer," he argued, though his voice faltered, betraying a crack in his resolve. "He'll return. He swore it."
"Wait for what?" Millicent said softly, her words hanging in the air like a mournful echo. "Ghosts? Hollows? This place is death, Roddard. I won't let it claim us too."
The knight fell silent, his helmet bowing slightly as if the weight of her words pressed down on him.
Millicent turned to Harry, her eye searching his face. "You'd really do this?" she asked, her voice trembling with both hope and fear. "Carry me through that nightmare? The Scarlet Rot—it's not just a burden. It's a curse."
Harry nodded, his jaw set. "I've got no other choice," he said, meeting her gaze. "I'm not leaving you here, and I'm not dying out there alone. We do this together, or not at all."
She studied him for a long moment, then turned to Roddard. "I'm going with him," she said, her voice steady now, a decision made. "If I try to leave, will you strike me down?"
Roddard's spear clattered to the floor, the sound ringing through the church like a bell tolling the end of an era. "Never," he said, his voice breaking with emotion he couldn't hide. "I'd never harm you, my lady. You know that."
Millicent smiled, a small, fragile thing, and reached out with her remaining arm. "My brave knight," she said, her tone warm with affection. She slid her arm around Harry's shoulder from behind as he bent to lift her. He braced himself for pain, for weakness, but it didn't come. She was light—too light, like a bird with hollow bones—and he stood easily, her weight settling against him as if she belonged there.
Roddard stepped forward, retrieving his spear. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice low but firm, a soldier returning to duty. "If we're doing this, we do it right."
Harry nodded, adjusting his grip on Millicent as her warmth pressed against his back. The church loomed around them, its walls stained with rot and memory, but for the first time, it felt less like a tomb and more like a threshold. They were leaving—together—and whatever lay beyond, they'd face it as one.
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