The dream began with firelight.
Harry blinked awake on a hard cot. The room smelled of medicine, herbs, and old blood. Cabinets lined the walls, stuffed with jars that glistened with strange organs. Lanterns burned low, casting shadows that seemed too deep for their size.
A man sat beside him ragged, bandages over his eyes, a crooked hat shading most of his face. His voice rasped like rusted hinges.
"Ah… a new one. You've come for blood, yes? Paleblood…" He chuckled, the sound like broken glass. "Well, you've come to the right place."
Harry tried to sit up, but weakness crushed him back into the cot. His wand was gone. Panic surged. "Where am I? I didn't..."
"Easy, easy. Just a little contract." The man shuffled papers that Harry couldn't read. "No need to worry about details. We'll sign it in blood."
Before Harry could protest, the man pricked his finger, smearing his blood across the parchment. The mark glowed faintly, and something heavy settled into Harry's chest.
"Now then. Just a transfusion. A bit of Yharnam blood."
The man held up a needle attached to a glass vial full of scarlet liquid. Without ceremony, he jabbed it into Harry's arm. Heat surged through his veins, searing, burning, setting his insides alight. Harry screamed as the blood raced through him like fire.
"Don't you worry," the man said, voice distant as the room swam. "Whatever happens, you may think it a mere bad dream…"
Harry's vision blurred. Shapes crawled across the ceiling, shadows twisting into claws. The lanterns guttered. Something massive stirred in the corner of the room, furred and hulking.
A beast.
Its head brushed the rafters, jaws gaping wide enough to swallow him whole. It smelled of carrion and ash.
Harry fumbled at the cot, desperate for his wand but his hand met nothing. The beast lunged. Claws raked his chest, tearing flesh, spilling warmth. Pain exploded white-hot. He screamed once, then darkness consumed him.
Harry gasped awake.
Not in the clinic. Not in Hogwarts.
He lay in a garden of pale flowers beneath a vast tree. Beyond the fence, nothing but endless fog and towering stone obelisks that reached toward a swollen moon. A dreamlike stillness clung to the air.
From a nearby porch came the squeak of wheels. An old man in a wheelchair rolled forward, his hair stringy, his coat frayed. His smile was tired, but his eyes gleamed sharp.
"Ah… another hunter," he said. "Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. I am Gehrman, friend to you hunters. This will be your refuge, so long as the Hunt continues."
Harry staggered upright, clutching his chest unscarred now, though he swore he still felt phantom claws tearing. "I—I don't understand. Where am I? What is this place?"
Gehrman's smile thinned. "A place between. The waking world lies beyond. Here you will find strength, should you seek it."
A soft voice followed, gentle as wind through leaves. "Good hunter…"
Harry turned. A woman stood among the flowers. Her skin was porcelain, her eyes a glassy blue, her hair pale as snow. She moved with careful grace, bowing her head.
"I am the Doll. I am here to look after you, to channel blood echoes into strength. Should you wish it."
Harry stared, heart pounding. Gehrman in his chair, the Doll among the flowers, the moon looming overhead.
"This can't be real," he whispered.
But when the Doll's hand touched his, warm despite its porcelain sheen, the world felt far too solid for a dream