Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Tarnished Potter.
If you want to Read 5 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK
Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, and Chapter 10 are already available for Patrons.
"There are swords that can channel magic?" Harry stared at Melina, trying to picture something like his phoenix feather wand, only bigger and sharper. The thought of Ollivander selling broadswords instead of wands almost made him smile.
Melina materialized fully beside him, her one visible eye gleaming in the firelight of their camp. "Indeed. Much like your wand serves as a focus for your magic, certain weapons in the Lands Between can channel both sorceries and incantations. Staffs are more common, but swords..." She gestured expressively, "They offer versatility that staffs cannot match."
"So I could use one like my wand?" Harry turned his own wand over in his hands, remembering how natural it had felt the first time he'd held it. "Without having to split my attention between casting and sword fighting?"
"The Sword of Night and Flame is perhaps the finest example," Melina said. "It channels both sorceries and the sacred flame with remarkable efficiency. Though..." She hesitated.
"Though what?"
"It lies beyond Stormveil Castle, in an area infested with Finger Spiders."
Harry's imagination conjured something unpleasant. "Do I want to know what a Finger Spider is?"
"Picture a human hand," Melina said, wiggling her fingers. "Now imagine dozens of them fused together, scuttling across walls and ceilings, dropping down to wrap their fingers around your throat..."
"Right," Harry cut her off, feeling slightly ill. "Let's put that one in the 'maybe later' category." He'd had enough experience with giant spiders in the Forbidden Forest to last a lifetime. "Are there any others? Preferably somewhere with fewer... hands?"
Melina's ethereal form shifted thoughtfully. "The Lordsworn's Greatsword might suit you. It's said to rest within the Gatefront Ruins, not far from here. Though..." She glanced toward the north, where torchlight flickered in the distance. "The ruins are heavily guarded by Godrick's soldiers."
Harry followed her gaze, remembering his training sessions with Yura. The hunter's words echoed in his mind: "Steel against steel, young Tarnished. That's how we learn our limits—and how to surpass them."
"How many soldiers?"
"Harry..." Melina's tone carried a note of concern.
"I can't keep avoiding fights," Harry said, standing up and brushing grass from his robes. "If I want to get stronger—if I want to get home—I need to start taking risks." His hand tightened around his wand. "Besides, I've faced worse than a few soldiers."
"Have you?" Melina's eye studied him intently. "These aren't schoolyard duels, Harry. Godrick's men won't disarm you and call it a day. They'll kill you without hesitation."
"So did the basilisk," Harry muttered. "And the dementors. And Pettigrew." He checked his sword belt, making sure it was secure. "At least soldiers are straightforward about wanting to kill me."
"Your determination is admirable," Melina said softly. "But are you certain about this? There's no shame in waiting until you're better prepared."
Harry thought of Sirius, probably worried sick about him. Of Ron and Hermione, who might still be in danger from Pettigrew. Of all the time he was losing while he struggled to master this world's strange magic.
"I'm sure." He didn't notice Melina's expression fall at his next words: "The sooner I get stronger, the sooner I can find a way home."
"Very well." Melina's form began to fade. "I'll guide you to the ruins. But Harry?"
"Yes?"
"Remember what Yura taught you about patience. Sometimes the quickest path home requires careful steps."
Harry nodded, though his mind was already racing ahead to the challenge before him. As they set out toward the ruins, the twin moons of the Lands Between cast strange shadows across the battlefield ahead. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—or perhaps it was something worse than a wolf.
"Tell me about these soldiers," Harry said as they walked. "What should I expect?"
"They work in pairs or groups," Melina explained. "Some carry shields, others use crossbows. Their captain wields a halberd—a pole weapon," she added, seeing Harry's confused look. "Think of a spear combined with an axe."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "Any other surprises I should know about?"
"They patrol in patterns. Watch them long enough, and you'll see the gaps in their coverage." Melina's form flickered. "And Harry? They're stronger at night. The dark brings out something... desperate in Godrick's men."
They crested a hill, and Harry got his first clear view of the Gatefront Ruins. Broken stone walls rose like broken teeth from the landscape, torch-bearing soldiers moving between them like blood through veins.
"I count eight visible guards," Melina observed. "There will be more in the shadows."
Harry drew his wand, feeling the familiar warmth of phoenix feather and wood. It seemed almost delicate compared to the weapons the soldiers carried, but it had never let him down before.
"If I get the sword," he asked, "how will I know if it can channel magic?"
"You'll feel it," Melina said. "Like your wand, but... different. More primal. The Lordsworn's Greatsword was forged to channel battle sorceries—perfect for a warrior-mage like yourself."
Harry almost laughed at that description. "A few weeks ago, I was just trying to pass my Transfiguration exam. Now I'm a warrior-mage?"
"You were never 'just' anything, Harry Potter." Melina's voice carried an odd weight. "But yes, now you must be more. The Lands Between demand it."
A guard passed below their position, torch casting long shadows. Harry could see the sword strapped to the man's hip, could imagine how quickly it could end a fight—or a life.
"Stay close," Melina whispered, though they both knew she couldn't physically help him. "And Harry? Remember—dying here isn't like dying in your world. Grace will bring you back, but each death leaves a mark on your soul."
"Then I'll just have to not die," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. He thought of the basilisk again, of facing it with nothing but Gryffindor's sword and Fawkes's help. At least this time he had some training.
As he began his careful descent toward the ruins, Harry missed the way Melina watched him go—with pride, yes, but also with a deep sadness. For she knew, better than most, that leaving the Lands Between was never as simple as finding the right weapon or winning the right fight.
But those were lessons for another time. For now, there was only the morning, the ruins, and a young wizard about to learn just how far he'd come from that cupboard under the stairs.
⚯ ͛
"Why would anyone serve someone like Godrick?" Harry asked, watching the soldiers from their vantage point in the trees. The question had been nagging at him since Melina first described the grafted lord's atrocities.
Melina sat beside him on a fallen log, her physical form as solid and real as his own. The firelight from the soldiers' camps below cast shadows across her face, making her closed eye seem darker than usual.
"The Shattering changed everything," she said, her voice heavy with history. "When Queen Marika shattered the Elden Ring and the demigods went to war, people lost more than just their rulers. They lost their purpose, their sense of meaning in the world."
She gestured toward the soldiers below. Some were gathered around a campfire, tearing into what looked like dogmeat. Harry's stomach turned at the sight of a dog's carcass nearby, next to what remained of a horse.
"That's why Grace has called the Tarnished back," Melina continued. "The Lands Between needs someone to claim the Elden Ring, to become Elden Lord and restore order to this broken world."
Harry looked up at the Erdtree, its golden branches stretching impossibly high into the night sky. Even after days in this strange land, the sight still took his breath away. It reminded him somewhat of the Whomping Willow, if the Whomping Willow had been crafted from pure light and stretched up to the heavens.
"But how can they not see?" Harry's voice was barely above a whisper. "I mean, I haven't even met Godrick, but anyone who... who grafts other people's body parts onto themselves..." He shuddered, remembering Melina's descriptions. "They have to know he's mad."
"Oh, they know." Melina's tone was bitter. "Most are perfectly aware of what kind of monster they serve. But you have to understand, Harry – some of these people have been without purpose for so long that they'll cling to any cause, no matter how twisted. Having a terrible purpose feels better to them than having no purpose at all."
Harry watched as one of the soldiers tossed a bone to what looked like a half-starved war dog. "And the others?"
"Fear," Melina said simply. "Fear of Godrick, fear of what might happen if they refuse to serve, fear of the chaos beyond these walls." She nodded toward a group of soldiers huddled around their fire. "Look at them – they're not proud warriors anymore. They're scared men playing at being soldiers, telling themselves they made the right choice."
A patrol passed below their position, torchlight glinting off rusted armor. Their movements were mechanical, rehearsed – soldiers going through motions they'd repeated countless times.
"Reminds me a bit of the Ministry," Harry muttered, thinking of Fudge and his bureaucrats. "People following orders they know are wrong because it's easier than standing up to it."
"The comparison is apt," Melina agreed. "Though I doubt your Ministry officials graft extra limbs onto themselves."
"No, they just let dementors guard innocent people," Harry said darkly, thoughts turning to Sirius.
Melina gave him a searching look. "You're thinking of your godfather?"
"I need to get back," Harry said, checking his wand for what felt like the hundredth time. "He's probably worried sick, and if Pettigrew's found other Death Eaters..."
"Focus on the present challenge," Melina advised, gesturing toward the ruins ahead. "That sword could be a key step in getting you home. But you'll need all your attention to claim it."
Harry nodded, studying the patrol patterns below. A group of soldiers had gathered around a larger fire, passing around what looked like a wineskin. Their laughter carried up the hill, hollow and forced.
"They're not all bad people," Melina said softly. "Most of them probably had families, dreams, hopes for a better future. The Shattering took that from them. Remember that when you face them."
"I will," Harry promised, though he couldn't help but think of his own lost family, of the future Voldemort had stolen from him. "But I can't let them stop me either."
"No," Melina agreed, her good eye reflecting the distant firelight. "You can't. Are you ready?"
Harry gripped his wand tighter, thinking of Yura's lessons. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Harry shifted uncertainly before asking, "Will you help me fight them?"
Melina considered him for a moment before responding, "I will help if you truly need me, but in my experience, this is something you should face alone. It will help you grow stronger." Her voice was gentle but firm.
"Thank you," Harry said, then added with genuine warmth, "You're a good friend, Melina."
The words seemed to catch her completely off guard. A slight blush colored her cheeks, and she quickly tried to maintain her composed demeanor. "It's... it's merely my duty to guide the Tarnished."
Harry frowned at that, turning to face her fully. "Remember what I said? You need to find your own reason to exist, beyond just helping someone else. You're more than just a guide, Melina. You're not just here to serve some purpose for me or anyone else. You matter."
She opened her mouth as if to say something more, then hesitated. Finally, a soft smile graced her features, gentler than any he'd seen from her before. "The other world is lucky to have you, Harry Potter."
This time it was Harry's turn to blush, suddenly very aware of her presence beside him. Her single visible eye seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, a shade of purple that reminded him of twilight. He had always known Melina was beautiful, but in this moment, she seemed almost ethereal – like a beautiful song given form. The comparison felt right somehow; there was a melody to her presence that he couldn't quite explain.
For a moment, neither spoke, the sounds of the soldiers below fading into background noise. Then Harry quickly looked away, his heart beating slightly faster than before. He had a sword to find, after all. Though somehow, the thought of impressing Melina made the challenge ahead seem a little less daunting.
The golden light of the Erdtree gleamed faintly through the forest canopy as Harry stepped closer to the clearing. His hand hovered near the hilt of his longsword, his mind calculating as he approached the camp. He could see them clearly now—soldiers scattered about, some eating, others sharpening weapons or chatting in low voices. A handful of mangy dogs wandered near the corpses of a horse and one of their own kin, picking at what little flesh remained.
At the far side of the camp, the Site of Grace shimmered faintly, unactivated—if he could claim it, he'd have a secure foothold here. But first, there was the matter of the eleven men standing between him and survival.
One soldier, a wiry man with patchy armor, noticed Harry first. His eyes widened, and without hesitation, he raised a horn to his lips, blowing a sharp, piercing call. The camp erupted into motion. Soldiers scrambled to their feet, drawing swords and axes, while one man stepped forward with measured precision. He was clad in heavier armor than the others, wielding a massive spear and carrying a great shield. His helmet obscured his face save for a narrow slit for his eyes.
The wiry soldier shouted, "Surrender, you madman! You've no chance against us!"
Harry's grip tightened on his sword, his gaze sweeping over the group. He could feel the hum of Grace in his chest, the familiar energy coiling, ready to be unleashed.
"You're calling me the madman?" Harry called back, his voice sharp. His green eyes locked on the captain, who stood silent, spear ready but unmoving. "Why are you doing this? Why serve someone like Godrick the Grafted?"
The captain's helmet tilted slightly as he spoke, his voice low and hollow. "We serve the true Lord of the Lands Between. Godrick leads us to greatness."
At the name, Harry noticed several of the soldiers flinch. Their movements were small—a tightening of the jaw, a twitch of the hand—but unmistakable. It reminded Harry of the way his friends reacted to Voldemort's name. Fear wasn't just present; it was ingrained.
"And you believe that?" Harry asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. He turned his focus to the captain. "Do you really think he's leading you to greatness? Or are you just too afraid to admit he's a madman?"
One of the soldiers shouted, "You don't understand! Godrick's the only one strong enough to unite the Lands Between!"
Another soldier added, "You're just a fool! Godrick's our only hope!"
Harry raised his voice, cutting through their protests. "Your hope is a man who sews human limbs onto his own body? That's not strength; that's sickness." He pointed his sword at the captain. "What about you? Do you believe this?"
The captain's hollow brown eyes stared out from the slit of his helmet. It felt like looking through the windows of an abandoned house. For a moment, he said nothing, but when he finally spoke, his words were devoid of life. "Duty is duty. Good soldiers follow orders."
Harry's stomach churned at the phrase. He shook his head in disgust. "You're not soldiers," he spat. "You're butchers."
The words landed like a blow. The soldiers snarled, their anger boiling over as they moved to surround him.
"So be it," the captain said, leveling his spear.
The first soldier lunged with a clumsy swing of his axe. Harry sidestepped, drawing his sword in one fluid motion and slicing through the man's side. The soldier fell with a cry, clutching at the wound as blood pooled beneath him.
Another came at him, shield raised, sword swinging downward. Harry blocked with his blade, their weapons clashing with a deafening clang. He let the momentum carry him back, and as the soldier pressed forward, Harry extended his free hand, summoning one of his lightning bolts. A crackling arc of energy flew through the air, striking the soldier square in the chest. He screamed, convulsing as he fell to the ground, he was dead.
Harry whirled, spotting two more soldiers charging from opposite sides. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured another bolt, splitting it in half and sending the smaller arcs streaking toward each man. The lightning wasn't strong enough to kill them outright, but it stunned them long enough for Harry to close the gap. His sword flashed once, twice, and both soldiers died right away.
The captain finally stepped forward, spear raised as he barked an order. "Surround him! Overwhelm him!"
The remaining soldiers moved in, more coordinated now. Harry felt the air tighten around him as blades closed in from all sides. He raised his hand, summoning the power of the Spirit Ash within his sword. Grace flared, and with a sharp slash, a blade of wind shot out, slicing through one soldier's shield and throwing him off balance. The others hesitated, giving Harry enough time to reposition.
But the captain was relentless. He thrust his spear with expert precision, forcing Harry back. The tip grazed Harry's arm, leaving a shallow cut that stung sharply. Gritting his teeth, Harry fused together the remnants of his lightning bolts into one larger arc. The energy crackled and pulsed in his hand, and he hurled it at the captain with all his strength.
The captain raised his shield just in time. The lightning struck with a deafening crack, the force knocking him backward but leaving him standing. His shield was scorched, the metal blackened and smoking, but he didn't falter.
"You'll die for your insolence," the captain growled, advancing again.
Harry's breaths came heavy now, his muscles straining under the weight of his sword and the toll of his magic. The soldiers rallied behind their leader, shouting jeers and insults as they pressed closer. One man lunged at him with a dagger, and Harry deflected the blow, slicing upward and catching the man in the chest.
But the pressure was mounting. A soldier's shield slammed into his side, knocking him off balance, and another's sword clipped his shoulder. Harry stumbled, pain lancing through him as blood seeped from the wounds.
And then he felt it—an anger so deep and primal it seemed to boil in his veins. The sight of the captain's lifeless eyes, the jeering soldiers, the memory of the innocents they'd butchered—it all collided in a single, overwhelming wave.
Harry's right arm began to glow, the skin rippling and shifting as it transformed. Scales as black as obsidian covered his hand, and his fingers extended into massive talons. His arm had become a dragon's claw, pulsing with raw power.
The soldiers hesitated, their confidence faltering as they took in the sight. The captain, however, charged forward, his spear aimed directly at Harry's chest.
With a roar, Harry swung the claw, catching the spear mid-thrust and snapping it in two. The captain stumbled back, and Harry followed, his draconic arm crashing down on the man's shield. The metal buckled under the force, and the captain fell to one knee, his helmeted head bowing as Harry towered over him.
The soldiers began to scatter, their courage broken. Harry turned his gaze on them, his green eyes blazing. "Run," he growled, his voice tinged with a guttural resonance. "Run before I finish this."
Most of them fled, their weapons discarded in their haste. Only the captain remained, kneeling in the dirt, his broken shield lying at his side.
Harry raised his claw, the rage still burning hot. For a moment, he considered ending it—ending him. But then he paused, the anger ebbing as a voice echoed in his mind. This isn't you, Harry. Don't let them turn you into what they are.
He exhaled sharply, the claw receding as his arm returned to normal. The captain looked up at him, his hollow eyes filled with something new—fear.
"Leave," Harry said, his voice firm but quieter now. "Go, and don't come back."
The captain hesitated, then scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, his armor clanking with each step.
Harry stood alone in the clearing, blood dripping from his wounds as the golden light of the Erdtree bathed the scene. He turned to the Site of Grace, its faint glow growing stronger as he approached. Reaching out, he activated it, and the warmth of Grace washed over him, soothing his pain and exhaustion.
He sat down beside it, staring into the distance. The camp was empty now, the fight won, but the cost lingered in his mind. He clenched his fists, the memory of his dragon claw still fresh.
The smell of blood and ozone hung heavy in the air. Looking at the bodies scattered across the battlefield, his stomach churned. He'd fought before – the basilisk, Quirrell – but this was different. This was the first time he'd deliberately taken lives.
"They gave me no choice," he whispered to himself, but the words felt hollow. There was always a choice, wasn't there? That's what he'd shouted at them. Yet here he was, their blood on his hands.
"Harry." Melina's voice was gentle as she materialized beside him. She knelt down, her purple eye studying his face with concern.
"I killed," Harry said, his voice cracking slightly. "I've never... I mean, I've fought before, but..." He looked at his hands, still crackling with faint traces of lightning magic. "I killed."
"Yes," Melina said simply. "And they would have killed you, or worse – sent you to Godrick's grafting chambers." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is the reality of the Lands Between, Harry. Sometimes mercy means a quick death rather than a fate worse than dying. You let many of them run away. You spared many of them."
"But they were people," Harry insisted, thinking of the terror in their eyes when his lightning struck. "They had families, lives... they were just scared and lost."
"That doesn't give them reason to hurt others." Melina's voice was firm but kind. "You gave them a chance to walk away. They chose to fight. That blood is on their hands, not yours."
"I keep thinking there must have been another way."
"The fact that you're thinking about it at all speaks to your character," Melina said softly. "Most Tarnished wouldn't waste a thought on fallen enemies. But Harry..." She waited until he looked at her. "This compassion of yours is a strength, not a weakness. Just don't let it paralyze you. Sometimes fighting – even killing – is necessary to protect others."
"Like stopping Godrick?"
"Yes." Melina's eye flickered to the five bodies on the ground road that led to the opened gate. "How many more would these men have sent to the grafting chambers if you hadn't stopped them? Sometimes being kind to everyone means being cruel to those who deserve it."
Harry nodded slowly, remembering what Sirius had said about Peter Pettigrew – how mercy to one person could mean suffering for many others. "I just... I don't want to become numb to it. To killing."
"The fact that you're worried about becoming numb to it is precisely why you won't," Melina said, squeezing his shoulder. "Come on. Let's tend to that wound, and then we can look for the sword. Unless..." She hesitated. "Unless you want to rest first?"
Harry shook his head, pushing himself to his feet despite the pain. "No. I need to keep moving. If I stop now, I'll just keep thinking about..." He gestured at the battlefield.
Melina nodded, understanding in her eye. As she helped him clean and used a spell to heal his wounds, Harry noticed her glancing at him with an expression he couldn't quite read – something between pride and concern, with perhaps a hint of something else.
"You're not alone in this, you know," she said finally. "Whatever burden you carry, whatever weight these choices put on your soul – you don't have to bear it alone."
Harry managed a small smile, grateful for her presence. "Thank you, Melina."
She returned the smile, though Harry noticed a slight blush color her cheeks before she quickly turned away. "Well, we should get moving. That sword won't find itself."
Night
Harry
Harry blinked groggily at the sound of his name carried on the wind. At first, he dismissed it as a dream, but when it came again, softer than a whisper but somehow clearer than crystal, his eyes snapped open.
For a disorienting moment, he expected to see the underside of the stairs at Privet Drive. Instead, he found Melina sleeping peacefully beside him, her face serene in repose. But something was wrong – a thick, ethereal blue fog had crept in around their camp, turning the familiar ruins into something otherworldly. The Site of Grace's golden light seemed to push against the mist, creating a small sanctuary of clarity around them.
"Harry."
He turned toward the voice and felt his breath catch. Perched on a crumbling wall sat a figure that made him question whether he was truly awake.
She appeared to be a woman, but unlike any he'd ever seen. She had four arms and stood nearly eight feet tall, though it was hard to judge as she sat regally on her makeshift throne. Her face was like porcelain, literally – a beautiful doll's face with delicate features and a gentle expression that somehow managed to convey both wisdom and mischief. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, and she wore an elaborate witch's hat adorned with celestial patterns that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them, reminded him a little of his own hat back at Hogwarts.
But it was her eye that truly caught Harry's attention. Her left eye was a striking blue that seemed to hold entire galaxies within it, and when she blinked, he could have sworn he saw shooting stars streaking across her gaze. Then he looked at the ghost face to her right, an identical replica of her face, but like a ghost. Her real face had her right eye closed, while her ghost face had her left eye closed.
She wore flowing robes. It is primarily white, with subtle silver undertones. The fabric is layered and drapes gracefully, extending down to her feet and beyond, where intricate, lace-like patterns emerge, resembling delicate vines or arcane sigils.
The upper portion of the dress is modest yet regal, with a high neckline and an intricate design at the chest that resembles a faintly shimmering crest or knotwork. Her sleeves are long and fitted, extending to her hands.
Over the dress, she wears a voluminous cloak with a fur-lined texture, blending practicality with majesty. The cloak's edges are lined with a subtle gold trim. The fur collar frames her shoulders and neck, emphasizing her stature.
"Who... who are you?" Harry asked, instinctively reaching for his new sword while trying not to wake Melina.
The figure's mouth and the ghost's mouth curved into a smile that reminded him somewhat of Dumbledore – as if she knew everything about him and everything that would happen. "I am Ranni, the Witch," she said, her voice carrying that same ethereal quality he'd heard on the wind. "And you, Harry Potter, are quite far from home."
If you want to Read 5 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'Drinor Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK