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Harry Potter and the Shattered Ring Chapter 28 (Voices of the Forgotten)
🕑 Added 2025-09-01 21:30:46 +0000 UTCThe sting came without warning, sharp and sudden as a dagger between his ribs. Harry gasped, his hand flying to his chest where the Cursemark of Death pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. The hospital room around him began to blur and fade, colors bleeding together like watercolors in rain.
Not again, Harry thought desperately, trying to grab onto something, anything solid. But his fingers passed through the bed rail as if it were mist. The world tilted, spun, and then he was falling through darkness so complete it seemed to have weight.
His eyes were closed—when had he closed them? Harry forced them open, expecting to see the sterile white ceiling of St. Bartholomew's. Instead, he found himself staring up at something that made his breath catch in his throat.
Roots. Massive, twisted roots that spread across what should have been sky, each one as thick as a house, weaving together in patterns that hurt to follow with his eyes. Where was he? Those roots belonged to a huge tree, were these the Roots of the Erdtree? Was he beneath the Erdtree itself? They weren't golden like he'd expected—not like the Erdtree he'd seen in all its radiant glory. These were dark, ancient things, the color of old bone and dried earth.
"Where the bloody hell am I now?" Harry muttered, pushing himself to his feet. The ground beneath him was stone, cracked and weathered by ages he couldn't begin to fathom. All around him lay ruins—broken pillars, shattered arches, the skeletal remains of what might once have been a great city.
The air itself felt heavy here, thick with age and sorrow. Harry noticed strange symbols carved into the broken stones. The temperature was neither warm nor cold, but something in between that made his skin prickle uncomfortably.
And there were people. Or things that had once been people. They shuffled through the ruins with the purposeless gait of the lost, their bodies withered and grey, clothes hanging in tatters from limbs that seemed more bone than flesh. None of them looked at him. None of them looked at anything, really. They just... existed, moving through the shadows cast by those enormous roots above.
One passed close enough for Harry to see its face clearly—or what remained of it. The features were sunken, eyes milky white and unseeing, mouth hanging slightly open as if frozen mid-moan. Yet it walked with purpose, following some path only it could see.
Am I beneath the Erdtree? Harry wondered, turning in a slow circle to take in his surroundings. But this doesn't feel right. The Erdtree was warm, alive. This place feels...
"Dead," he whispered aloud, and immediately wished he hadn't. The word seemed to echo strangely in the vast space, coming back to him changed, twisted.
"And who might you be, to speak of death in this place?"
Harry spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. On a fallen branch—one of the smaller roots that had broken away from the greater mass above—sat a woman. Her dark cloak concealed most of her form, but he could see golden hair spilling from beneath her hood, and eyes that were the pale, crystalline blue of winter ice.
She was beautiful in a way that made Harry deeply uncomfortable. Her skin was too pale, almost translucent, and she sat with an unnatural stillness that reminded him of the corpses he'd seen in the Lands Between. Yet there was life in those ice-blue eyes, a sharp intelligence that studied him with interest.
"I'm Harry," he said carefully, noting how she hadn't moved at all when he'd reached for his weapon. Either she didn't see him as a threat, or she simply didn't care. "Harry Potter. I'm... I'm from a different world."
Those ice-blue eyes widened slightly, the first real emotion he'd seen from her. "Ah," she said, her voice soft and strangely melodious, like a funeral hymn. "The Tarnished from the other world. I have heard tell of thee. Why hast thou come to this place of endings?"
Harry spread his hands helplessly. "I was sleeping. In a hospital, actually. Then my chest started hurting, and suddenly I was here." He gestured at the roots above them. "Where exactly is 'here'?"
The woman tilted her head, studying him like he was something interesting. "This is where Lord Godwyn remains," she said simply.
Harry's blood ran cold. "Godwyn? The Golden Prince?" Memories flooded back. The Deathbed Dream, the corrupted soul, the half of the Cursemark branded into his chest. "But he's dead. He was killed during the Night of the Black Knives."
A smile touched the woman's lips, sad and knowing. "My lord still lives," she said, though she offered no further explanation. She rose from her perch with fluid grace, her cloak shifting to reveal glimpses of a form that was both alluring and somehow wrong. "In body, if not in soul. The Prince of Death lies dreaming beneath the capital, his roots spreading through all the Lands Between."
"The roots," Harry said, looking up at the massive tendrils above them with new understanding. "These are his?"
"Indeed. What thou seest above is but a fraction of his reach. He grows still, spreading through stone and soil, neither truly alive nor properly dead." She moved closer, and Harry caught a scent like funeral flowers and old graves. "A demigod cannot simply die, young Tarnished. They linger, they transform, they become something else."
Before Harry could press for more information, pain lanced through his chest again, sharp enough to make him gasp and clutch at the mark. The woman's eyes immediately dropped to where his hand pressed against his shirt.
"What is that thou bearest in thy chest?" she asked, moving toward him with sudden urgency.
"The Cursemark of Death," Harry managed through gritted teeth. "Or half of it, anyway."
She moved toward him with sudden urgency, her pale eyes wide with something between shock and wonder. "The Cursemark? How came you by such a thing?"
"I had a dream," Harry explained, backing up slightly as she approached. "I met Prince Godwyn—or what was left of him. He gave me the mark."
The woman stopped mere inches from him, close enough that he could see she was quite beautiful. "Thou hast met my lord? Spoken with him?" Her voice trembled with emotion. "Tell me, what did he say? What did he desire?"
"He wasn't exactly coherent," Harry said carefully. "He was... corrupted. In pain. He wanted it to end."
"No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "No, my lord desires to live. To return. And thou..." Her eyes blazed with fervor as she studied him. "Thou art the key. With the Cursemark thou bearest, I could help thee bring him back. Truly back, not this half-life he endures."
Harry took another step backward. "Bring him back? You mean resurrect him? That's not possible."
"All things are possible in the Lands Between," she said, following his retreat. "Death is but a transition, not an ending. With thy mark and my knowledge of the sacred rites, we could restore the Golden Prince to his former glory."
"Even if that were possible," Harry said, his skepticism clear in his voice, "why would I want to? From what I understand, his death was part of something larger. The Shattering, the chaos that followed. When I met...I don't know what happened to him, but I'm not sure about bringing back a Demigod that no longer bears a soul. He could come back worse."
The woman—she still hadn't given him her name—regarded him with those unsettling eyes. "Worse? Look around thee, champion. See what has become of those who followed the Golden Order. They wander without purpose, without hope. My lord could give them peace."
"Or he could become another tyrant," Harry countered. "A soul is needed to understand other people, to understand compassion and be humble without one, you are just a husk."
She smiled then, a expression both sad and knowing. "Thou art wise to be cautious. But consider—the mark thou bearest connects thee to him. It will call to thee, again and again, drawing thee back to these depths. Would it not be better to act with purpose than to be pulled along by fate?"
"Look, that's all very interesting," Harry said, "but right now I just need to get out of here. How do I leave this place?"
The woman regarded him with that tilted head again. "I can help thee," she said. "But first... Great champion, would you allow me to hold you, but briefly?"
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Perhaps you might share with me some of your lifely vigor, and your stout-heartedness." She extended her arms toward him, and her cloak fell open slightly, revealing more of her form beneath—pale skin over curves that seemed designed to entice, she had a beautiful deadly body. "Doing so will grant me the warmth of a champion. And you, I am sure, will bear a baldachin's blessing."
"A what now?" Harry's hand moved instinctively to where his wand would be, finding only empty air. "Listen, lady, I don't know what you're playing at—"
"Do you think it vulgar, perhaps?" she continued, seemingly unbothered by his suspicion. "Where I come from, it is a sacred act. Those who live in death crave the warmth of life, just as those who live crave the peace of death. It is a fair exchange."
Harry studied her carefully. She didn't seem hostile, exactly, but there was something deeply unnatural about her presence. The way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she breathed—all of it was slightly off, like someone performing an approximation of life.
"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
"I am called Fia," she replied, inclining her head slightly. "Deathbed Companion. I serve those who walk the path between life and death."
"And if I refuse your... embrace?"
"Then thou wilt remain here," Fia said simply. "The Cursemark brought thee to this place, but without my blessing, it cannot release thee. Thou could wander these ruins until thy body in the waking world wastes away."
Harry weighed his options. Trust this strange woman who spoke of resurrection and death like casual topics, or remain trapped in this nightmare realm indefinitely.
"If you try anything," he warned, "anything at all, I will find a way to kill you."
A soft laugh escaped her, like wind through a mausoleum. "Death is not a fear to my kind, young champion. But I mean thee no harm. I will help thee find thy way home. This I swear on my lord's eternal slumber."
This is probably a terrible idea, Harry thought as he stepped forward. But when has that ever stopped me?
He moved into her embrace awkwardly, unsure what to expect. Her arms came around him, and he was surprised to find that despite her corpse-like pallor, her body was warm—curved and soft beneath the cloak. She pulled him close, and he felt her smile against his shoulder.
"Ah, my thanks, great champion. You are... very warm..."
Suddenly, heat bloomed in Harry's chest, not painful this time but soothing, spreading through him like honey through his veins. He could feel something settling into his bones, a strange protection he didn't understand. But with it came something else—whispers at the edge of his consciousness, promises of power, of transformation, of transcending the boundary between life and death.
"What you felt light up inside you was a baldachin's blessing," she explained, still holding him. "Though it is but a fleeting thing, I am afraid. Come back to me, should you require another. I will take you in my arms as often as you need."
She pulled back slightly, her ice-blue eyes meeting his. "And when thou art ready to fulfill thy destiny, to bring back the Golden Prince, I will be here. The Cursemark will guide thee."
Harry pulled away fully, feeling oddly lightheaded. The world around him was starting to blur at the edges, the roots above beginning to fade.
"Think on what I have offered," Fia called as darkness rushed in. "The Prince of Death awaits thy decision. And remember—those who live in death are not thy enemies. We are simply... different."
"Wait," Harry called out as the ruins dissolved around him. "Will I see you again?"
"We will meet again," she said, and for the first time, she smiled fully—an expression both beautiful and terrible. "You Who Lives in Death and Life. The mark ensures it."
The darkness swallowed him whole.
But he didn't wake in the hospital.
The darkness was absolute, pressing against Harry's eyes. He stretched out his hands, feeling his way through the nightmare landscape, trying to make sense of where he was. His fingers found stone—rough, wet with something that made his stomach turn. The smell hit him then: decay, human waste, and something else—despair made tangible.
The moaning grew louder as his senses adjusted. It wasn't just one voice, or even a dozen. It was hundreds, maybe thousands, all crying out in a symphony of anguish that made his soul ache.
"Please... please... mercy..."
"Hungry... so hungry... but cannot die..."
"We called nothing... we summoned nothing... lies, all lies..."
Harry stumbled forward, his foot catching on something soft. Fabric? No—flesh. Someone grabbed his ankle with fingers like twigs.
"Food?" a voice croaked. "No... no... not food... never food... cannot eat... cannot die... cannot cannot cannot..."
Harry jerked away, his heart pounding. The voice dissolved into mindless babbling, words in languages he didn't recognize mixed with broken sobs.
"The golden ones... they promised..." another voice whispered from somewhere to his left. "They promised order... they promised... but we are forgotten... forgotten in the dark..."
"Mother... mother, where are you?" This voice sounded young, terrifyingly young. "They said mother would come... they said... but the dark came instead... the dark and the hunger..."
Harry's hands shook as he continued forward, each step revealing new horrors. Bodies packed so tightly they'd become a carpet of suffering flesh. Some still moved, writhing weakly. Others had gone still, but Harry could hear them breathing—always breathing, never dying.
"Burn it all," someone laughed, high and broken. "Burn the tree, burn the order, burn burn burn... let the flame take everything... chaos is kindness... chaos is mercy..."
"No!" another voice shrieked. "No flame! They said we called it but we didn't, we didn't! Merchants trade, merchants travel, merchants don't summon flames!"
Harry's foot splashed in something, water? No, thicker. He didn't want to know. The moaning intensified, becoming almost rhythmic, like a horrible prayer.
"Eyes gone... tongues gone... but still we speak... still we scream..."
"Count the days... one, two, three... thousand... million... how many days in forever?"
Then Harry's searching hands found another face, and this one grabbed him back with surprising strength.
"You," the voice said, clearer than the rest though still cracked with age and suffering. "You're not one of us. You're from above. I can smell it on you—sunlight, fresh air, life."
"Who are you?" Harry whispered, though his voice seemed too loud in the pressing darkness.
"Who? WHO?" The man laughed bitterly. "I was someone once. Had a name, had a family, had a wagon full of goods to trade. Now? Now I'm just another voice in the dark. But you... you still have eyes, don't you? Still have strength?"
"Yes," Harry said carefully. "What is this place?"
"Go beneath. Go beneath it all. Deeper than the sewers, deeper than the tombs. Find the door they sealed, the one they pretend doesn't exist. Come see us—see what they did to those they called guilty without trial."
"Guilty of what?" Harry asked.
"Of existing wrong," the man said. "Of traveling roads instead of settling. Of trading instead of serving. Of being different when sameness was demanded." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "They said we called it. Said we were trying to burn their perfect world. But we just wanted to trade our goods, feed our families, live our lives."
"Lies lies lies!" someone else screamed. "We're all guilty! Guilty of breathing! Guilty of being!"
"Forever here," someone moaned. "Forever hungry, forever dying, never dead. She took death away, took it away and left us with the hunger..."
"Burn it all! Save us! Kill us! Free us! Guilty! Innocent! Hungry! Forever! Mother! Please! PLEASE!"
Harry tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. Bodies pressed in from all sides, hands reaching, voices pleading. The man who'd spoken clearly was already lost in the mass, his moment of sanity passed.
A flash of light suddenly split the darkness, so bright it burned. Harry looked up and saw them—Three Giant Fingers, each one the size of a building, looking down at him with an intelligence that was vast and alien and terrifying.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" they asked, and the question reverberated through his very soul.
The moaning stopped. Every voice in the darkness fell silent, as if waiting for his answer. Harry could feel them all looking at him—eyeless, but seeing. Waiting. Hoping.
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the world shattered like glass, and—
He woke gasping in the hospital bed, sheets soaked with sweat, the taste of ash and ancient death still on his tongue.
The first thing Harry noticed when consciousness returned was the quiet. Not the oppressive, soul-crushing silence of that dark place beneath the earth, but the gentle quiet of a hospital at night—the soft breathing of sleeping patients, the distant footsteps of a night nurse, the faint hum of magical monitoring charms.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the moonlight streaming through the tall windows. Night. He'd been asleep for hours then, maybe longer. His body felt heavy but rested, the exhaustion from healing Charlie and his team finally catching up with him.
Speaking of Charlie. Harry turned his head to see the dragon handler sleeping peacefully in the bed beside him. The color had returned to his face, and his breathing was deep and even. Good. The healing had held.
Arthur and Molly Weasley were slumped in uncomfortable-looking chairs beside Charlie's bed, both fast asleep. Arthur's head had fallen back at an angle that would definitely give him a crick in his neck, while Molly had somehow curled herself into a position that defied the chair's intended design. Even in sleep, one of her hands rested protectively on Charlie's arm.
Harry's gaze swept the room, taking in the other survivors of Charlie's team. They were all sleeping too, their faces peaceful in a way that suggested the first real rest they'd had since their encounter with that impossible dragon. The Romanian healers had dimmed the lights to a soft glow that reminded Harry oddly of candlelight at Hogwarts.
He sat up carefully, not wanting to wake anyone, and moved to the window. The Romanian countryside stretched out before him, bathed in silver moonlight. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks lost in shadow. Somewhere out there, a four-winged dragon that shouldn't exist was probably terrifying some other poor soul.
A familiar warmth touched the air behind him, like sunshine breaking through clouds.
Harry turned, and there she was...Melina, materializing from those blue motes of light he'd come to associate with safety and guidance. She looked exactly as he remembered: the closed right eye with its distinctive scar, the light brown/pink hair with hints of red, that slight smile that always made him feel like everything might actually turn out alright.
Before she could speak, before she could even fully solidify, Harry crossed the distance between them and pulled her into a tight embrace.
For a moment, Melina seemed surprised. Then her arms came around him, returning the hug with equal fervor. She felt solid and warm and real in a way that made the nightmares of death and darkness fade into memory.
"It's good to see you again," Harry murmured against her shoulder, not quite ready to let go. "Really, really good."
"And you as well," Melina replied softly, her hand coming up to rest gently on the back of his head. "I was... concerned when you disappeared so suddenly."
They separated slowly, and Harry found himself grinning despite everything. "How is everyone? Nepheli? Roderika? The soldiers who defected?"
Melina's expression grew solemn. "Godrick is dead. His head has been mounted on a spike at the castle gates for all to see. A warning to any who would follow his path. The soldiers who served him have surrendered, and most of the creatures he created have been destroyed." She paused. "A few still hide in the deeper parts of the castle, but they pose little threat now."
"And Artan?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"We gave him the Ceremony of the Erdtree," Melina said gently. "It is the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a fallen warrior. His ashes were scattered beneath the golden leaves, and his name will be remembered among the heroes of Limgrave."
Harry nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Captain Artan had died protecting people Harry cared about. The least they could do was honor his sacrifice properly.
"Nepheli and Roderika?" he pressed, needing to know his other companions were safe.
"Both are healed," Melina assured him. "Nepheli bears her injuries with the stoicism of a true warrior, though I suspect she grieves more than she shows. Roderika..." Melina's expression softened. "She is shaken. The battle affected her deeply. But she is stronger than she knows. They will both recover, in time."
"Good," Harry said, relief washing through him. "That's good."
Melina tilted her head, studying him with that penetrating gaze. "How does it feel? Being back in your own world?"
Harry chuckled, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Honestly? I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it. Talking with Ron and Hermione again, seeing normal magic—you know, the kind that requires wands and proper incantations—it felt like..." He searched for the right words. "Like getting my Hogwarts letter all over again. That sense of coming home to something magical and wonderful, even if it's also completely mental."
"Yet you are in a hospital," Melina observed, looking around the room with interest. "Are you injured? You seem well enough."
"Oh, I'm fine now," Harry said. "Bit of a rough landing when I came back—you know, bleeding everywhere, wounds that wouldn't heal, the usual—but you fixed that when you showed up at St. Mungo's." He paused. "Thanks for that, by the way. The healers were about ready to declare me a lost cause."
"You are welcome," Melina said simply. "But that does not explain why you remain here now."
Harry gestured toward Charlie's bed. "That's Charlie Weasley, Ron's older brother. He's a dragon handler—someone who works with dragons professionally. He and his team were attacked three days ago."
Melina's expression sharpened. "Attacked by what?"
"That's the problem," Harry said grimly. "According to the survivors, it was a dragon, but not like any dragon from our world. White scales, four wings instead of two, and it could shape crimson lightning into weapons."
Melina went very still. "Describe it more fully."
Harry repeated everything Dmitri had told them, watching as Melina's face grew increasingly troubled.
"This is deeply concerning," she said when he finished. "One of the ancient dragons has crossed into your world."
"Ancient dragons?" Harry asked.
"They served the Dragonlord Placidusax before the age of the Erdtree," Melina explained. "Unlike modern dragons, they could wield lightning as naturally as breathing. If it has four wings and commands red lightning..." She shook her head. "I cannot say which one specifically, but they are all extremely dangerous."
"Can you help?" Harry asked hopefully.
Melina nodded firmly. "I cannot allow you to return to the Lands Between while such a creature roams free in your world. I will remain here and help you find this dragon. Together, we will force it back where it belongs."
Relief flooded through Harry. Having Melina's help made the impossible seem merely improbable.
"There's something else," Harry said, his voice dropping. "I had two... dreams, I think. Or maybe they weren't dreams."
He described his encounter with Fia, the Deathbed Companion who claimed she could resurrect Godwyn. Melina's expression grew dark as he spoke.
"Fia," she said the name like it tasted bitter. "A Deathbed Companion. Harry, you must be extremely careful. Those who serve death rarely have the best interests of the living at heart."
"She said she could bring Godwyn back," Harry said. "That with my Cursemark—"
"She lied," Melina interrupted sharply. "Or perhaps she believes her own delusion. Prince Godwyn's soul is gone, destroyed in the Night of the Black Knives. All that remains is his body, growing and spreading like a sickness beneath the capital. If they attempted to resurrect him..." She shuddered. "They would not bring back the Golden Prince. They would create something else—corruption and death given form and consciousness."
"I'll avoid her," Harry promised. "But the Cursemark keeps pulling me to these places. I need to find a way to deal with it before it happens again."
"Agreed," Melina said. "We will find a solution. What was your second dream?"
Harry described the dark place, the buried people who couldn't die, their accusations against the Golden Order.
"How horrible," she said when he finished, but there was something off about her tone. "What you describe sounds like echoes of the Shaman people from long ago."
"The Shaman people?" Harry asked. "Who were they?"
Melina looked away, toward the window where the first hints of dawn were beginning to lighten the eastern sky. "I am not certain of all the details. It was before my time. But it is said they were captured and made to suffer fates worse than death." She turned back to him, her expression earnest. "You should not concern yourself with that dream, Harry. Whatever happened to them occurred ages ago. There is nothing you can do for echoes of ancient suffering."
Harry studied her face, noting the slight tension around her eye, the way her hands had clasped together. But Melina had never led him astray before. If she said not to worry about it, there was probably a good reason.
"Alright," he said finally. "I trust you."
Something flickered across Melina's face—relief? Guilt? Before Harry could identify it, she had composed herself again.
"The sun rises," she observed, gesturing toward the window where golden light was beginning to spill across the mountains. "A new day begins."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. "Question is, what fresh horror will it bring?"
Melina placed a hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "Whatever comes, we will face it together."
Harry turned to face her fully, something in her tone making his chest tighten with emotion. The golden morning light caught in her hair, turning the red hints to copper fire, and her single visible eye held such certainty, such faith in their partnership, that it took his breath away.
"Melina," he said softly, reaching up to cup her face with his hand. She leaned into his touch, her eye fluttering closed for a moment.
"I thought I might not see you again," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "When you vanished after defeating Godrick, when the golden light took you away so suddenly and you were so injuried..."
"I'm here now," Harry said, drawing her closer. "I'm here."
Their lips met in a kiss that was nothing like their first—that desperate, uncertain press of lips before he'd faced Godrick, when neither knew if they'd survive. This was deeper, filled with the knowledge that they'd both survived impossible things and found their way back to each other.
Melina's hands came up to tangle in his perpetually messy hair, and Harry wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Harry rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
"I missed you," he admitted. "Even with everything happening here—Ron, Hermione, all of it—I missed you."
"And I you," Melina replied, her hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw. "The Lands Between felt emptier without your presence."
Harry turned his head to press a kiss to her palm, then trailed his lips down to her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his mouth. Melina's breath hitched slightly, and Harry felt emboldened. He moved closer, pressing gentle kisses along her jaw until he reached the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
"Harry," she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair as he kissed her neck softly. "The others might wake..."
"Let them," Harry murmured against her skin, though he did pull back to look at her face. Her eye was dark with emotion, and there was a faint blush across her pale cheeks that made his heart race.
Outside, the sun continued its climb, painting the hospital room in shades of gold and amber. The morning light seemed to wrap around them like a blessing, holding them in this perfect moment before the day's challenges began.
