With a mighty yank, Harry pulled the heavy steamer trunk from its place on the shelves. He couldn't quite place what the metal was- bronze or brass, he couldn't tell- but it appeared to be covered in dragonhide. At least, from what he remembered of Diagon, it seemed like dragonhide. Or maybe it was just a good imitation.

Well, that wasn't important. He worked at the latches for a couple of moments, before attempting to lift the lid, struggling and straining against the sheer weight of it. What was in there? Rocks? Finally, he got some results when he pushed with his legs, finally prying it open, letting him look down into the contents…

Grass. Looking down into the trunk, he could see grass. For a moment, he felt excitement, but quickly tamped that down. Verify. With a desperate, excited push, Harry threw the trunk's lid back, letting it crash into the ground as he leaped inside the trunk.

Looking around and seeing the roof and walls were just covered with blue cloth wasn't a surprise, not really. He had seen it quite a lot, and even found some sort of consolation in it the first few times. But now, the blue was mocking, the faux-sunlight grating. Harry kept on going.

He seemed to be in the corner of a fairly large room, big enough to run around in, perhaps even big enough to fly a broom in. There was grass, there were flowers, and in the distance, there was a white fence. Harry approached it, seeing a garden thick with potion ingredients. He leapt the fence.

There was an old-fashioned hand pump for water, and Harry recognized a few of the plants as edible. Not exactly delicious, but palatable enough, especially with cold water to wash it down. The water was still flowing down his chin when he stood up and looked for anything else; maybe it was a little optimistic, but it made a sort of sense for a greenhouse trunk to have some sort of Potions gear, even if it was just for preserving things.

Sure enough, there was a sort of open-air Potions lab at the far end of the garden, a counter with a cauldron on top, and a storage rack beneath filled with… trunks. Damnit.

Crouching down, Harry could see that there were three: cloth, plastic, and leather. Harry picked out plastic and tried opening it. Bigger on the inside, of course, but with some goodies on the inside: a few canned drinks, an empty sketchbook, and a folded newspaper, still slightly damp with condensation from the drinks.

For a moment, Harry tried to read it, but the text was illegible even before the ink began to bleed. Great.

Next trunk was a full-fledged wine cellar, complete with spider webs and vintages piled high on their shelves. He couldn't translate the labels, but most were labeled AUC 2609. What calendar was AUC? He had no damned clue. After a brief check for doors, staircases, or anything of the sort (nothing, unless there was a hidden passage installed). No spiders in the web, unfortunately, just like the total lack of any pests in the garden.

That left trunk number three, otherwise he'd have to backtrack. Cracking it open revealed a bedroom, painted in horrific, violent orange. It made his eyes water, but he looked through the room anyways. The bed was nice and cushy, probably the best he had encountered recently, but the idea of backtracking here to sleep made him sick.

Bright orange dressers holding bright orange clothes, a bright orange desk with a bright orange lamp, and, in a nice change of pace, a rust-colored bowl… filled with the fruit you'd expect. For a moment, he thought this was another dead end… but no, there was a bag tucked under the bed, which he unzipped to reveal…

A staircase, going down into a room filled with shelves, those shelves with crates… Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he went on down, looking at endless rows of heavy wooden crates, filled with… well, Harry could guess. In a space this big, there'd be a suitcase or bag somewhere. Hell, the crates might just be space-expanded themselves.

It was endless recursion, trunk in trunk in trunk in trunk.

He had lost count somewhere around fifty-seven, that stupid one filled wall to wall with more trunks, packed in like sardines, all the exact same on the outside! (He had long since given up trying to keep notes. Occasionally, you'd get one where you couldn't backtrack. Automatic locking, a landslide, a massive fall…)

Trunk after trunk, never ceasing, never faltering. Sure, there were dead ends and places where you were forced to double back, but you never ran out of trunks. Trunks that opened into entire trunk shops, warehouses filled to the brim with shelves, airplane bellies filled to bursting with luggage…

You'd think they'd think to warn someone what happened if you put too many trunks inside each other! Like, you had to put a warning label on seemingly infinite storage if it wasn't actually infinite or would backfire horribly!

Well, that assumed someone ever got out to give that warning…

If you open the right trunk, you end up in Jorge Luis Borge's "The Library of Babel", and if you search that library long enough, you will find a copy of this fanfiction. In fact, you'll find a better version. You'll find a better eighth book than Cursed Child, the next chapter of whatever fic you're waiting to update, etc. Anyways, this was a sort of response to ridiculous trunk fics- a thing I have dabbled in, to be fair- paired with my own experience reading Borge. The end result is basically a hell dimension of endless iteration, of space, if such a thing exists anymore, corkscrewing on itself like some horrifying luggage fractal.