A/N: The poem written below is not original. I adapted it a little, but I found it in its entirety online.

Chapter 3: The Empress

Though the skeleton trees of the forest were so white that they glowed, the sky was shadowed in a crimson dusk. Stars studded the hazy sky, but a full moon and a dull midnight sun were present too, lending a little light to illuminate the dark forest.

Harry found that his path forwards in the forest was shrouded in thick mist. So it seemed that he would have to blindly feel his way out.

"I can't make sense of where I am at all," Harry muttered to himself, "Or where I am supposed to go."

"Man is born unknowing, and returns to dust, unknowing," the priestess materialised before him, her spotless white robes billowing behind her lending her a divine aura, "Few have ever pierced the veil. Perhaps if you find a path leading out of here, you will have the dubious honour of joining those hapless few."

"You're back," Harry observed dully.

"This place too is my domain," the priestess replied with a smile, "If I considered any place as home, perhaps it would be here in the Forest of Arcana."

Forest of Arcana. The name sounded strange and foreign on the tip of Harry's tongue. He wondered what sort of creature the High Priestess was, to consider this wasteland, devoid of any signs of life, as her home. On second thought, Harry wondered about his own home. Hadn't Sirius called it a mausoleum after all? Perhaps it was a little too much for him to judge her harshly.

"It's a... Interesting home. Are you the only one who lives here?" Harry asked, in an effort to be polite. The forest was soaked in an atmosphere of desolation. Dimly in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was why he felt strangely at home here.

"Others call this place home as well. Shall I sing a song for you, while you walk? If you tarry here any longer, it'll get more and more difficult to take the first step."

The priestess began to walk ahead by herself, and as she walked she began to sing to herself softly.

"The Magus Wills with bolts of fire,
The Priestess Shapes her inner desire.

The Empress Births beneath the Sun,
The Emperor Rules the four as one.

The Pope Blesses the narrow way,
The Lovers Tempt by night and day.

The Chariot Conquers with iron mind,
The Balance Weighs and pays in kind.

The Hermit Lights the right-hand path,
The Wheel Turns, the gods laugh.

The Strength of Faith shuts savage jaws,
The Martyr Bows to heaven's laws.

The Reaper Releases souls from earth,
The Alchemist Blends and finds true worth.

The Devil Tests with earthly blow,
The Tower Falls if built for show.

The Star gives Hope of things to come,
The Moon Warns of dreams undone.

The Sun Warms the world with joy,
Ths Trumpet Wakes the sleeping boy.

The World Combines the All in One,
The Fool's Road ends where it's begun."

Harry was lost. He stretched out his hand and watched as his fingers were swallowed up completely by the thick mist which enveloped everything around him. It almost felt as if he was walking through a cloud. His clothes were wet and clinging to his skin and he had long given up on flicking away the droplets which ran down his hair in rivulets. He blinked as a drop of water ran across his eye and down his face, almost as if he was crying. The priestess' song had long faded from his ears, but he couldn't make any sense out of it anyway. He had long lost her in the mist.

Harry did not know how long he had walked. There were no markers for him to remember his way, only more skeletons of dead trees. The ground beneath him was cracked, jagged rock. He had slipped on it several times as the mist condensed on the stone. His shoes were not suitable for this terrain and he had long kicked them off in frustration. His palms had been slashed open the last time he fell down and he let them bleed freely. The mist water mixed with his blood, washing him clean.

His whole body hurt, but he had promised himself. As long as he was still alive, he would keep on walking and find a place out of here. There were too many things he had to do. If this was the end, Harry thought, then he would use his last breath to keep on searching for a way out. He did not feel thirsty or hungry, just a dull ache where his feet should be and the sharp pain in his palms.

Deeper into the forest he went, his mind empty of all thoughts except for putting one foot in front of the other.

He couldn't even summon enough energy to be surprised when the mist began to lift, revealing immensely tall pillars ahead in his path. He lifted his head up to see that the pillars actually ended a full foot away from the ground. Of course, Harry thought to himself, Nothing makes sense here at all.

Up ahead, there was a figure in a distance. Harry's eyes narrowed, but he did not outwardly react. He had not seen another living creature since the priestess, which suggested that this person could be someone like her. As he drew closer, he realised that it was a man hung upside down from a living tree with leafy boughs. Harry looked at the man's serene expression with deep suspicion. The man's blue eyes were clear as he looked up at the sky. This was not a man who needed help, Harry decided.

"You are weary," the Hanged Man said, "Have you thought of standing still?"

"No, I have to find the exit," Harry replied, walking past the man without looking back. If he stopped, he didn't think he would have the strength to carry on walking again.

"You could wait for the exit to come to you," the Hanged Man suggested, "Or maybe try seeing things from a different perspective. Have you considered seeing things from another angle?"

Harry paused, just for a moment. "I'm not so sure I would do as well as you are, hanging upside down like that. Don't you ever get dizzy?"

The Hanged Man considered this for a while. "Maybe in the beginning, but consider this- When a man must win at all costs, would it be wiser to sacrifice himself instead? When a man most wants to act, would it be wiser to wait a while instead? Before a man has sacrificed himself for a cause, does he truly know his worth? It's better to take one step back and reflect than rush two steps forward into mortal danger, my friend."

The man spoke in a whimsical sing-song tone. Everything about him was so utterly ridiculous Harry almost forgot about his exhaustion as he smiled. "Perhaps it's better to look up at the ground upside-down than it is to look down at the ground from the right way up," he offered.

The Hanged Man's eyes brightened. "Then, shall I give you a hand?"

Before Harry could even respond, the world violently blurred the mist and pillars together. He resisted the urge to be sick and pressed his eyes shut firmly as he felt his body forcibly revolve. This is what I get, Harry found the time to reflect, for talking to strangers.

It was a long time before the world righted itself. When Harry finally found the courage to open his eyes again, he was no longer in the Forest, and there was not a single pillar in sight. The Hanged Man had disappeared completely as well.

Harry found himself standing in a field, with golden wheat as far as the eye could see. He was not alone, however. A woman lay reclining against a luxurious array of silk pillows, red velvet streaming across the soft structure. The woman herself was incomparably radiant, with a crown of stars upon her brow. She was clothed in white silk robes like the priestess wore, but her hair was ever long, as red as fire itself.

"You are hurt," she said, a note of alarm in her beautiful voice, "If we do not do something soon, it will be the end."

She looked at Harry with eyes of such warmth and tenderness that his breathing hitched. To be hurt and weak in front of her was alright, she seemed to say. Wanting to be loved and cared for was natural- that was the aura of a mother. Harry had never known what it felt like to have a mother, but he supposed that this was what it would feel like. Like basking in the light of a hundred suns, he felt like with her support, he could do anything. Harry had to remind himself that this wasn't real, that this was some mad world dreamt up by a madman, where nothing made sense.

"I don't know what to do," Harry admitted, "I can't find the exit."

"Whatever could you possibly mean?" the Empress said gently, "The exit has been in front of you all this time."

Harry frowned, his mouth a firm slash across his face. Sometimes, he saw the image of it out of the corner of his eye. Reflected in the mist, there had been the shimmering shape of a door. Every time he had reached out, it had disappeared from sight. Now, it was solidly in front of him, made of the same wood as his mother's box. This time if he reached out, Harry knew that it would open, and he could step through to the other side.

"There is no reason to be afraid now," the Empress rose from her seat, scattering her silk cushions to the ground. She walked over to Harry and held his hand in hers. Despite her warm skin, her hand felt skeletal in his loose grip, and now Harry was afraid to look at her face. "You will not go alone."

"I won't?" Harry asked, his eyes widening slightly as he looked up at the Empress, "Will you come with me?"

Her face was half-skeleton and half-woman. Though she smiled elegantly, the skeletal half of her face did not so much as twitch. She did not speak, but her robes billowed outwards in an unexpected wind. When the wind had settled down again, there was the figure of a small boy hidden behind her voluminous white robes. He had bright emerald-green eyes that almost glowed like a cat's and untameable black hair. There was a small scar on his forehead, the same one that Harry had on his. The little boy did not say a word, but he tripped up to Harry through the field of wheat and held his hand confidently. This was clearly the person that the Empress meant to accompany him.

The little boy tugged at his hand, pointing towards the door. "We have to go, Harry," he said plaintively, in a high and childish voice, "Let's go."

Harry bit his lip and turned his head back towards the Empress. "I have one last question," he said, "Are you my mother?"

The Empress smiled sedately from her luxurious seat and tilted her head to one side, pondering the question. "I am the Mother of All Creation," she smiled, "but that is not the answer you seek. The truth you need is what we both already know. Lily Potter died 7 years ago, on the night of All Hallows Eve. You were the reason for her death, and you will bear the scars of her death forever. The little boy whose hand you hold is one such scar, but today he will serve as your saviour."

That was all the truth that Harry needed to hear. Still holding the little boy's hand, he flung the door open and stepped through.

Skyscrapers, grey high-rise buildings and cut telephone wires. All were collapsing, utterly broken. Harry wondered what it meant that even the structures in his mind were a completely foreign landscape to him. For he had accepted during his walk that it was his own mind that he was lost in, for there was no place on earth that such fantastic and bizarre scenes could occur. Perhaps, he was already going mad. It was a scene of such utter desolation and destruction that it would be a wonder if there was anything left to fix.

"You've made a right mess of things," the little boy chided him gently, "You coward."