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Harry Potter stood on the strange, shadowed surface, his boots scuffing against what looked like a massive alien face. The air was thick and cold, pressing against his skin like a damp shroud. His green eyes flicked toward the figure leaning against the wall. Ranni, the Witch. Her four arms were crossed casually, her porcelain-like face tilted slightly, those eerie blue eyes glinting under the brim of her wide hat. It'd been nearly six days since he'd last seen her—six days since she'd appeared to him during the night, her voice soft and cryptic as she'd handed him that silver ring. Now, here she was again, in this forsaken pit beneath Stormveil Castle, and Harry's stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and unease.
"Ranni," he said, his voice rough from disuse, cutting through the stillness. "What are you doing here?"
She didn't move at first, just watched him with that unreadable gaze. Then her lips curved into a faint, almost amused smile. "I might ask thee the same, Harry Potter," she replied, her tone lilting and old-fashioned, like something out of a dusty book Hermione would love. "Yet I find myself more surprised thou hast returned from the Deathbed Dream." Her eyes dipped briefly to his chest, and Harry felt a sudden, sharp burn flare beneath his armor.
He glanced down, tugging aside the battered breastplate he'd bought from that shifty merchant back in Limgrave. There it was—half of the Cursemark of Death, etched into his skin like a brand. The dark, twisted ring pulsed faintly, its branching lines stark against his pale flesh. His breath hitched. That hadn't been a dream—not just a dream, anyway. Godwyn's golden-tipped sword, the agony of the mark searing into him, the prince's gentle smile as he faded—it had all been real. Harry's fingers brushed the mark, wincing at the heat, and his mind raced back to that endless void. What had Godwyn said? Something about my soul being anchored to my body? He shook his head, shoving the thought aside for now, and fixed Ranni with a hard stare.
"What is this thing?" he asked, tapping the mark. "The Cursemark of Death—Godwyn had one too. Why?"
Ranni tilted her head, her hat casting a shadow over half her face. "A question steeped in shadow and sorrow," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "In the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was not the lone Demigod to fall. Another met death's embrace that same eve, and thus the Cursemark was sundered—split twixt two souls."
Harry frowned, his brow furrowing. "Another Demigod? Who?"
But Ranni's expression didn't shift. She just watched him, silent, her lips pressed into that maddening little smirk. Harry's patience—already worn thin by days of fighting, falling, and cryptic nonsense—snapped. "Don't just stand there looking smug," he snapped. "Who was it?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she pushed off the wall with a grace that made her seem more like a doll than a woman and stepped closer. "Thou shouldst not linger here, Harry Potter," she said, ignoring his question entirely. "Thy companions—thy friends—await thee above. Seek them out. Free them from the clutches of that wretched Godrick."
Harry's heart lurched. Melina's warm eyes flashed in his mind, Roderika's beautiful smile, Captain Artan's gruff encouragement. Were they still alive? Had Godrick's soldiers dragged them off to those horrible grafting dungeons? His stomach churned at the thought of those twisted, stitched-together monstrosities he'd glimpsed in the castle's depths. Could he even take on Godrick? The man was powerful, and Melina and everyone had told him the same quite many times. Harry was just... him. A skinny kid with a sword he barely knew how to swing and some golden magic he was still figuring out. But then he remembered Godwyn's words: True strength lies in choosing to fight despite knowing you might fail. His jaw tightened. He didn't care if he could win—he had to try.
He glared at Ranni, crossing his arms. "So that's it? You popped down here just for a little chat? Bit of a long trip for that, don't you think?"
Her giggle was soft, like the chime of tiny bells, and it made Harry's cheeks flush despite himself. "Thou art a sharp one, Tarnished," she said, her eyes glinting with mischief. She nodded toward his hand. "Hast thou forgotten the silver ring I bestowed upon thee?"
Harry glanced at the thin band on his finger. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, cool against his skin. "Yeah, about that," he said, holding it up. "What's it even do? I've been wearing it for days, and so far, it's about as useful as a chocolate frog with no legs."
Ranni's smile widened, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Patience, Tarnished. Its power shall reveal itself when the time is right. Shouldst thou wish to stand victorious against Godrick the Grafted, thou wilt need it." Before he could press her further, she raised one of her four hands, and her form shimmered. In an instant, she dissolved into a swarm of blue lights—like fireflies or tiny stars—swirling upward and vanishing into the darkness.
Harry let out a long, frustrated sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Brilliant," he muttered. "More riddles. Just what I needed." He was tired—bone-deep tired. The fight with the Crucible Knight, the fall, the Deathbed Dream—it all weighed on him like a stack of Hagrid's rock cakes. But there was no time to rest. He tilted his head back, squinting up at the jagged ceiling far above. Faint torchlight flickered through cracks in the stone—he'd fallen deep below Stormveil Castle, probably into some forgotten undercroft. Something anchoring my soul, Godwyn had said. Harry's hand drifted to his scar, the old lightning bolt prickling faintly. He wondered if the scar Voldemort had given him had somehow helped him, which sounded wrong when he thought about it.
He trudged forward, his boots echoing against the strange face-like platform. A small drop-off loomed ahead, maybe ten feet down, leading to a wide, square chamber with a high ceiling. At the far end, he spotted a ladder—an old, rickety thing bolted into the wall, stretching up toward the castle proper. There's my way out, he thought, a flicker of relief cutting through his exhaustion. He hopped down, landing with a grunt as his knees protested the impact. The moment his feet hit the ground, a stench slammed into him—rotting meat and damp earth, so thick he could taste it. His stomach heaved, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, gagging. "Bloody hell," he rasped, blinking back tears. "What is that?"
The ground trembled beneath him, a low rumble that made his heart skip. He froze, one hand dropping to the hilt of the Lordsworn's Greatsword strapped to his back. "Oh, come on," he groaned. "Not now. I just need five minutes without something trying to kill me." The shaking intensified, dust raining from the ceiling, and then the floor exploded in a shower of dirt and stone. Harry stumbled back, yanking his sword free as a monstrous thing erupted into view.
It was a worm—an overgrown, nightmare of a worm, easily fifteen meters long, its slimy body glistening in the faint light. Yellowed, human arms jutted out along its sides, twitching and grasping at the air like they still remembered being attached to people. Its head reared up, a gaping maw lined with jagged, rotting teeth. Harry gagged again as he spotted half-dissolved bodies caught in those teeth—arms and legs dangling like grisly ornaments. The stench was unbearable now, a wall of death and decay that made his eyes water.
"What the hell are you?" Harry shouted, gripping his sword two-handed. The worm let out a wet, gurgling roar, its arms flailing as it lunged toward him. He dove to the side, rolling across the filthy stone as its bulk slammed into the spot where he'd been standing.
Harry stared at the monstrous worm, his heart hammering against his ribs like a Bludger gone rogue. The thing loomed over him, fifteen meters of slimy, scaled horror, its yellowed human arms twitching along its sides like some twisted puppet show gone wrong. Its gaping maw glistened with rotting teeth, and the stench—Merlin's beard, the stench—was like a Dungbomb mixed with Hagrid's old socks left to fester. He gripped the Lordsworn's Greatsword tighter, its weight familiar but still clumsy in his hands. Can I outrun it? he thought, glancing at the rickety ladder across the square chamber. His friends were up there—Melina, Roderika, Artan—trapped somewhere in Stormveil Castle. He didn't have time to muck about with this thing. But before he could bolt, the worm's tail whipped toward him, fast as a Snitch.
"Bloody hell!" Harry yelped, throwing himself into a roll. The tail slammed into the ground where he'd been, spraying dirt and stone chips. He popped up, adrenaline buzzing, and swung his sword at the tail with all he had. The blade clanged off the scales—dark, shimmering plates that covered the worm like armor—and didn't leave so much as a scratch. "Oh, come on!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "I don't have time for this rubbish!"
The worm didn't care. It reared back, then lunged, its mouth yawning wide to swallow him whole. Harry dove again, rolling across the grimy floor as the jaws snapped shut inches from his trainers. He scrambled to his feet, chest heaving, and caught sight of one of those grotesque human arms flailing along its side. Worth a shot, he thought, darting in. With a quick swing, he hacked the arm clean off. Blood—thick and black—spurted from the stump, and the worm let out a screech that made his ears ring. Its eyes, glowing a sickly yellow, flared brighter, and then—whoosh—a burst of flames roared toward him.
"Oi, that's cheating!" Harry yelled, sprinting away from the fire. Heat licked at his back as he ducked behind a jagged boulder sticking out of the floor. The flames roared past, singeing the air, and he pressed himself flat, panting. Think, Potter, think! His mind raced back to the basilisk—dodging fangs, stabbing blind. This wasn't so different, right? Except this thing had scales tougher than a troll's hide. He peeked out, spotting the worm slithering back, repositioning itself. Magic, then, he decided, flexing his fingers.
He gripped his sword, focusing hard. "Carian Greatsword," he muttered, picturing the spell Ranni had hinted at back when she gave him that silver ring. Blue magic flared around the blade, swirling up and out, doubling its size into a shimmering, ethereal version of itself. The weight felt strange, like holding a broomstick and a bat at the same time, but it'd do. The worm's tail swung again, smashing the boulder to rubble. Harry leapt clear, bits of rock pinging off his armor, and charged. He slashed at the worm's flank with the glowing blade, aiming for a gap in the scales. Nothing. The Carian Greatsword skittered off the armor like a butter knife on a dragon's back.
The worm's head twisted, its toothy maw splitting into what Harry swore was a laugh—a wet, gurgling chortle that made his skin crawl. "Laugh at this, you ugly sod!" he snapped, but before he could swing again, it lunged, jaws wide. Instinct kicked in. He jammed the sword up vertically, planting his feet. The worm's mouth clamped down, the upper jaw hitting the blade's tip, the lower slamming into the hilt. The force shoved him back, his trainers scraping grooves in the stone. His arms screamed, muscles burning as he fought to hold it. "Get—off—you—!" he grunted through gritted teeth.
Then, a sharp, searing pain stabbed his chest—right where the Cursemark of Death sat under his armor. He gasped, nearly dropping the sword, and a strange heat surged down his right arm. Grey-white flames erupted around his hand, flickering like ghostly candles. What the—? No time to think. The worm pressed harder, its rotten breath washing over him, and Harry reacted on pure gut. He thrust his flaming arm forward, and a blast of grey fire exploded from his fist. The worm shrieked, rearing back, and Harry stumbled free, shaking out his arm. The flames were gone, but the worm's mouth was a mess—scales near its jaws scorched black, blood dribbling out, corpses slipping from its teeth to splat on the ground.
Harry stared at his hand, wide-eyed. "Blimey... what was that?" His chest throbbed, the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat. Godwyn's gift? he wondered, remembering the prince's cryptic words in that void—the Cursemark, the sacrifice. Whatever it was, it worked. He focused again, willing the flames back. They flared up, grey and wild, and he grinned despite himself. "Right, let's see how you like this!" He punched the air, aiming at the worm's midsection. Another explosive burst rocked the chamber, and the worm wailed, scales peeling away from the blast zone like charred paper.
It wasn't done yet. Yellow eyes blazing, it spewed another torrent of flames. Harry dodged, rolling low as the fire roared overhead. Grace magic now! Golden light sparking above his head. Two shimmering swords formed—smaller than he'd hoped, his energy already fading—but they'd do. He flung them at the worm's eyes. They struck true, piercing the glowing orbs with a wet squelch, then burst in a flash of gold. The worm thrashed, blinded, its screams bouncing off the walls.
"Now!" Harry leapt, adrenaline drowning out the ache in his ribs. He drove the Carian Greatsword into the burned patch on its midsection, the blue blade sinking deep where the scales were gone. The worm bucked, but he held on, grey flames licking up Harry's arm again. They spread to the sword, merging with the blue magic in a swirling, chaotic dance.
"Die Forgotten!" he roared, a battle cry he didn't know he had in him. Strength surged—wild, unfamiliar, like the rush of facing down Quirrell or the basilisk—and he ran forward, dragging the blade along the worm's body. It carved a jagged red line through flesh and muscle, blood spraying in his wake. He reached the head, leapt again, and plunged the sword into its skull. The blade punched through, bursting out the other side in a shower of gore.
The worm let out a final, ear-splitting shriek, then crashed down, its massive bulk shaking the ground. Harry yanked his sword free and staggered back, chest heaving, grey flames flickering out. It was dead. He'd done it.
He sank to his knees, the sword clattering beside him. His whole body felt like it'd been trampled by Hippogriffs—ribs aching, arms trembling, the Cursemark burning under his skin. "Bloody... hell," he rasped, wiping sweat and grime from his face. His glasses were smudged, one lens cracked, but he didn't care. He'd faced worse—Dementors, that ruddy snake in the Chamber—and he was still standing. Sort of.
The chamber was quiet now, save for the drip of water somewhere and the faint crackle of dying embers on the worm's corpse. Harry glanced at his right hand, flexing it. No flames now, just a faint tingle. Where'd that come from? he wondered. The mark on his chest pulsed again, and he pressed a hand to it through his armor. Godwyn said I'd need this power... but what is it? He didn't have answers—never did, really. Just more questions, piling up like homework from Snape.
He pushed himself up, wincing as his ribs twinged. The ladder loomed ahead, his ticket back to Stormveil and his friends. Melina's probably worried sick, he thought, picturing her calm face creasing with concern. Roderika's tougher than she looks, though—hope she's okay. And Artan—gruff old Artan—probably cursing him for falling in the first place. A small grin tugged at his lips. They were counting on him, and he wasn't about to let them down.
Harry sheathed his sword, the Carian magic fading, leaving just the plain steel. He limped toward the ladder, the worm's blood slick under his trainers. Godrick's next, he thought, jaw tightening. That grafted lunatic had hurt enough people—his friends included. Whatever this new fire was, whatever the ring or the mark did, he'd use it. He'd faced Quirrell with a madman's soul stuck to him, taken down a basilisk with a sword he barely knew how to hold. A worm was nothing. Godrick wouldn't be either.
Harry gripped the ladder's cold, rusted rung. He hauled himself up one step, then froze as a strange warmth pulsed through him. A rush of shimmering runes—golden and fleeting, like sparks from a fire—swirled around him, sinking into his skin. He stumbled back, dropping to the stone floor, his eyes wide behind his cracked glasses.
"What the—?" he muttered, patting his chest. Melina had explained how runes worked. Killing something big like that worm must've handed him its power. Not bad, he thought, flexing his fingers. Might actually stand a chance now.
A flicker of light caught his eye, pulling his gaze back to the worm's corpse sprawled across the chamber. Golden motes danced above it, faint at first, then brighter. Harry squinted, pushing his glasses up his nose. The worm's slimy bulk was decaying—fast. Flesh melted away like wax under a flame, scales crumbling to ash, those grotesque human arms dissolving into dust. In minutes, all that remained was a faint outline in the dirt—and something else. A small, glowing orb sat where its head had been, golden and intricate, its surface a tangle of curled branches forming a ball about the size of his palm. A Golden Seed.
Harry's breath hitched. He'd seen one before—after the Tree Avatar went down. Melina had told him: "Eat it. It'll make you stronger—strong enough to face what's coming." He'd chomped it down then, and it'd tasted oddly sweet, like Honeydukes' best toffee mixed with summer air.
Now, staring at this second one, he frowned. "Why's it here?" he said aloud, his voice echoing in the damp stillness. "Did this ugly git eat one ages ago or something?" The worm's rotten teeth flashed in his mind—those corpses dangling like trophies. Maybe it'd swallowed a Seed along with some poor sod who'd carried it.
He shook his head, shoving the thought aside. "No time for that," he muttered, limping toward the Seed. The ladder—and Godrick—could wait a minute. He needed every edge he could get. The Crucible Knight, Ordovis, had nearly flattened him before that fall into the abyss—tough as a mountain and twice as mean. And Godrick? Harry's stomach twisted. I've got to be stronger, he thought, clenching his jaw.
He crouched by the Seed, its golden glow casting soft light across his grimy face. Up close, it looked delicate, almost alive—like a tiny tree curled into itself. He hesitated, fingers hovering over it. The first one had been easy to eat, but something about this felt off. Still, he'd faced worse—like choking down Aunt Petunia's rock-hard porridge when he was starving. "Right," he said, steeling himself. "Down the hatch." He snatched it up and took a bite.
The taste hit him like a punch. "Ugh!" he gagged, nearly dropping it. The first Seed had been sweet—this was rancid, bitter, and sour, like spoiled milk mixed with burnt toast. His stomach churned, and he spat a curse. "Merlin's pants, that's foul!" He glared at the half-eaten orb, its golden surface mocking him. Why's this one so disgusting? he wondered. Maybe the worm's rot had tainted it, soaked into it over the years. But he couldn't stop now. He needed the strength—needed it for Melina's quiet faith, for Roderika's shaky courage, for Artan's gruff trust. For Godwyn's last words echoing in his skull: Fight despite knowing you might fail.
"Fine," he growled, forcing another bite. The texture was worse—chewy and gritty, like biting into a lump of dirt. He gagged again, his throat burning, but kept going, tearing off chunks with grim determination. "Tastes like death," he rasped, swallowing hard. "Probably is death, knowing my luck." He thought of the Dementors, their cold sucking at his soul, and shoved the last piece in his mouth. He chewed fast, grimacing, and forced it down, his whole body shuddering as it hit his stomach.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then gold erupted. Light burst from his chest, his arms, his fingertips—harmless but blinding, rippling out in all directions like a shockwave. He staggered, eyes squeezed shut, and felt his body glitter, skin tingling as the glow sank in. When it faded, he blinked, catching his breath. The chamber looked the same—damp stone, worm dust, that rickety ladder—but he didn't. His ribs still ached, but the pain was duller, bearable. His arms felt steadier, his legs less wobbly. He flexed a hand, marveling at the new strength humming under his skin.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders. The Cursemark on his chest pulsed faintly, a warm reminder of Godwyn's sacrifice. Stronger now, he thought. But was it enough? Ordovis had tossed him like a rag doll, and Godrick—Harry pictured the grafted tyrant, all twisted limbs and mad laughter—would be worse. "Doesn't matter," he said aloud, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. "I've got to try. They're counting on me."
He turned back to the ladder, boots crunching on the worm's ashy remains. "Melina's probably pacing a hole in the floor up there," he murmured, picturing her calm face tightening with worry. "Roderika's tougher than she thinks—she'll hold on. And Artan..." He snorted. "Probably swearing my name to kingdom come for falling behind." The thought steadied him, like Ron's lopsided grin or Hermione's exasperated lectures back at Hogwarts. He'd faced Quirrell with nothing but dumb luck, taken down a basilisk with a sword he barely knew how to swing. This was no different. Well, maybe a bit different—grafted lunatics and worm runes weren't exactly Slytherin's monster—but close enough.
He grabbed the ladder again, the metal cold and rough under his palms. "Right," he said, his tone serious, almost a vow.
The rungs creaked under his weight, but he moved faster now, the new strength pushing him on.
"For them," he whispered. "For me." The light grew closer, and so did the fight. Harry Potter was ready—or as ready as he'd ever be.
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