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Harry Potter and the Shattered Ring Chapter 1 (Not of This World)
🕑 Added 2024-10-25 13:45:30 +0000 UTCSummary: After missing the chance to live with his godfather, Harry has to spend another summer with the Dursley. Waiting until the fourth year starts, Harry wishes he could go be somewhere else, so what happens when a girl appears before him during the night, introducing herself as Melina? And what's up with her talking about an Elden Ring?
The car ride from King's Cross Station to Number Four, Privet Drive, was as silent and tense as ever. Harry Potter sat in the backseat, his trunk and Hedwig's empty cage squeezed in beside him, while his Uncle Vernon's meaty hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Aunt Petunia's pinched face was fixed straight ahead, her lips pursed as if she'd just bitten into a particularly sour lemon.
As they pulled into the driveway, Harry couldn't help but sigh. Another summer trapped in this suburban prison. Another summer of being treated like a particularly stubborn stain on the Dursleys' otherwise spotless life.
"Well, boy," Uncle Vernon growled as he heaved himself out of the driver's seat, "don't just sit there. Get your ruddy trunk inside. And be quiet about it! The neighbors don't need to know you're back."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, because a scrawny teenager lugging a massive trunk is the height of suspicious activity in Little Whinging. I'm sure the neighborhood watch will be all over it."
Vernon's face turned a shade of puce. "Don't you take that tone with me, boy! You're lucky we even let you back in the house after what happened last summer!"
"Lucky?" Harry scoffed, dragging his trunk towards the front door. "Yes, I feel absolutely blessed to be back in this bastion of familial warmth and affection. Tell me, Uncle Vernon, did you miss me, or just the free labor?"
Before Vernon could explode, Petunia hissed, "Just get inside before the neighbors see you!"
As Harry struggled with his trunk up the stairs to his small bedroom, he heard the distinct sounds of Dudley's latest video game blaring from the living room. Great. His cousin was home.
The next morning, Harry was awoken at an ungodly hour by Aunt Petunia's shrill voice. "Up! Get up! The garden needs weeding!"
Groaning, Harry fumbled for his glasses. "Good morning to you too, Aunt Petunia. Lovely to see your smiling face first thing in the morning. Oh wait, my mistake – that's just your usual expression."
Petunia's nostrils flared. "None of your cheek! Breakfast is in ten minutes, and then you're to start on the garden. And don't you dare use any of your... your funny business!"
"Funny business?" Harry muttered as he got dressed. "Oh yes, because I'm just dying to risk expulsion from Hogwarts for the sake of your precious petunias."
Breakfast was the usual affair. Dudley took up half the table, shoveling bacon into his mouth, while Vernon hid behind his newspaper, occasionally grunting in disapproval at whatever he was reading.
"Pass the salt," Dudley demanded, spraying bits of food across the table.
Harry slid the salt shaker over. "Here you go, Dudders. Although I'm not sure your arteries need the extra strain. Might want to ease up on the bacon too, unless you're aiming to set a new record for 'World's Largest Human Beanbag'."
Dudley's piggy eyes narrowed, but his mouth was too full to retort. Vernon, however, slammed down his paper.
"Now see here, boy! You will not speak to Dudley that way! He's a growing boy!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Growing? Yes, I suppose that's one word for it. 'Inflating' might be more accurate, though."
"That's it!" Vernon roared, his mustache quivering with rage. "Out! Get out and start on that garden!"
"With pleasure," Harry replied, standing up. "The company out there is bound to be more stimulating. At least the gnomes can string together a coherent sentence."
Later
The summer heat was already oppressive as Harry knelt in the flower beds, yanking out weeds with perhaps more force than necessary. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, and his knees ached from the hard ground. As he worked, his mind wandered to Sirius, to the brief, shining moment when he thought he might have a real home, a real family...
"Oi, Potter!"
Harry looked up to see Dudley waddling down the garden path, an ice lolly clutched in his meaty fist.
"What do you want, Dudley? Come to supervise? Or did you just waddle out here by accident while following the ice cream truck?"
Dudley's face screwed up in confusion before settling on anger. "Shut it, Potter. Mum says you need to mow the lawn when you're done with the weeding."
Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving a smear of dirt. "Of course she does. Heaven forbid the neighbors see a blade of grass out of place. We wouldn't want to tarnish the Dursleys' reputation as the most mind-numbingly boring family on Privet Drive."
"We're not boring!" Dudley protested, his double chin wobbling indignantly.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're right. How could I forget about your thrilling hobbies? Watching telly, playing video games, and terrorizing children smaller than you. Absolutely riveting stuff, Dudley. They'll be writing biographies about you any day now."
Dudley's face turned red, whether from anger or the exertion of standing in the sun for more than thirty seconds, Harry couldn't tell. "Just wait 'til I tell Dad what you're saying!"
"Oh no," Harry gasped in mock horror. "Whatever shall I do? Uncle Vernon might forbid me from doing chores! The horror!"
As Dudley stomped away, Harry called after him, "Try not to trip on your way back to the house, Dudley. I'd hate for the fire department to have to come and roll you back inside again!"
The rest of the day passed in a blur of menial tasks. After finishing the garden and mowing the lawn, Aunt Petunia set him to cleaning the windows, scrubbing the kitchen floor, and dusting every surface in the living room.
By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was exhausted, sore, and in an even fouler mood than when he'd arrived. He slumped into his chair at the dinner table, eyeing the meager portion of shepherd's pie Aunt Petunia had deigned to give him.
"Sit up straight, boy," Uncle Vernon barked. "And comb that hair! You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."
Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I'm sorry my appearance offends you so deeply, Uncle Vernon. I'll try to remember that personal grooming is of utmost importance when one is elbow-deep in fertilizer and grass clippings."
Vernon's face began to purple again, a sight Harry was becoming all too familiar with. "Now you listen here-"
"No, you listen," Harry interrupted, his patience finally snapping. "I've spent the entire day doing your chores, in the blazing heat, while Dudley sat on his ever-expanding backside playing video games. I've been sneered at, ordered around, and treated like a particularly inconvenient house-elf. So forgive me if I'm not overly concerned with the state of my hair at the moment."
A ringing silence followed his outburst. Aunt Petunia looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon whole, while Dudley's eyes darted between Harry and his father, eagerly anticipating the coming explosion.
Uncle Vernon leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You ungrateful little whelp. After everything we've done for you-"
"Everything you've done for me?" Harry laughed incredulously. "Oh, you mean like locking me in a cupboard for ten years? Or perhaps you're referring to the bars on my window? The cat flap for pushing food through? Or maybe you mean the absolutely sterling example of familial love and affection you've shown me over the years?"
"We took you in!" Aunt Petunia shrieked, finding her voice at last. "We clothed you, fed you-"
"Oh yes," Harry nodded solemnly. "How could I forget the ill-fitting hand-me-downs and the bread and cheese you so generously allowed me when I was locked in my room? Truly, your kindness knows no bounds."
"That's it!" Uncle Vernon roared, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make the dishes rattle. "Go to your room! No meals for a week!"
Harry stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Fantastic. I was starting to worry that I might accidentally enjoy my summer vacation. Can't have that, can we?"
As he stormed up to his room, he heard Dudley's whiny voice float up the stairs. "But Dad, what if those freaky friends of his find out?"
"Don't worry, Duddikins," Aunt Petunia cooed. "We'll make sure he has enough to survive on. We're not monsters, after all."
Harry snorted as he flopped onto his bed. "No, not monsters," he muttered to himself. "Just the most spectacularly awful muggles to ever walk the earth."
He gazed out the window, watching as the sun began to set over Privet Drive. Somewhere out there, Sirius was on the run. Somewhere out there, his friends were enjoying their summer holidays with their families. And here he was, stuck in this suburban nightmare for another interminable summer.
With a heavy sigh, Harry reached for a quill and parchment. Maybe writing to Ron and Hermione would help lift his spirits. At the very least, it would give him something to look forward to – their replies, and the promise that someday, somehow, he'd be free of the Dursleys for good.
As he began to write, a small, defiant smile played at the corners of his mouth. The summer had only just begun, and he had a whole arsenal of snarky comments saved up. The Dursleys might make his life miserable, but at least he could return the favor in his own small way.
"Dear Ron," he wrote, "You won't believe the welcome I got when I returned to Privet Drive. Imagine a troll with a mustache and anger management issues, and you'll have a pretty good idea of Uncle Vernon's greeting..."
Later
Harry sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment, as he finished his letter to Ron. With a sigh, he set it aside and reached for a fresh sheet. "Dear Hermione," he began, then paused, unsure how to continue.
His mind wandered back to that night at Hogwarts - the full moon, Professor Lupin's transformation, and the moment when the werewolf had lunged towards them. Towards Hermione.
A surge of anger coursed through him, but it wasn't directed at Lupin. No, Harry was angry with himself. He should have been faster, stronger, better prepared. What if Hermione had been bitten? Or worse?
"Some friend I am," he muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Can't even protect the people I care about."
A growl from his stomach interrupted his self-recrimination. With a glance at the clock - 2 AM - Harry realized he'd missed dinner again, thanks to Uncle Vernon's latest punishment for "looking at Dudley funny."
Quietly, he crept out of his room and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step third from the bottom. The kitchen was dark and silent as he eased open the refrigerator door.
"And just what do you think you're doing?"
Harry jumped, nearly dropping the cheese he'd grabbed. Aunt Petunia stood in the doorway, her bony arms crossed over her chest, lips pursed in disapproval.
"Oh, hello Aunt Petunia," Harry said, recovering quickly. "I was just admiring your impeccable refrigerator organization. Did you alphabetize the condiments? Very impressive."
Petunia's eyes narrowed. "Don't be smart with me, boy. You know you're not allowed to eat outside of mealtimes."
"Ah, yes," Harry nodded solemnly. "I forgot that basic nutrition was a privilege, not a right, in the Dursley household. My mistake."
"Put that back and go to your room!" Petunia hissed. "Before I wake Vernon!"
Harry replaced the cheese, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No need for that. We wouldn't want to disturb Uncle Vernon's beauty sleep. God knows he needs it."
As he climbed back up the stairs, stomach still growling, Harry made a decision. He was tired of feeling weak, tired of being pushed around. If he couldn't use magic outside of school, he'd have to find another way to get stronger.
The next morning, Harry woke before dawn. He changed into Dudley's old sweatpants (rolled up several times at the waist and ankles) and a faded t-shirt, then snuck out into the backyard.
For the next three hours, Harry pushed himself through a grueling workout routine. Push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, and sprints around the garden. By the time Aunt Petunia's shrill voice called him in for breakfast, Harry was drenched in sweat and aching all over, but feeling more invigorated than he had in weeks.
"What in blazes have you been doing, boy?" Uncle Vernon demanded as Harry entered the kitchen. "You look like you've been rolling in the mud with the other freaks!"
Harry, still catching his breath, couldn't resist. "Actually, Uncle Vernon, I've been exercising. You know, that thing people do when they want their bodies to be a shape other than 'spherical'?"
"Is that what you were doing out there?" Dudley interrupted, his piggy eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Looked more like you were having a fit."
"Ah, Dudley," Harry sighed, grabbing a piece of toast. "I'd try to explain the concept of physical fitness to you, but I'm afraid it would go right over your head and get lodged somewhere in your many chins."
Dudley's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, while Uncle Vernon looked ready to explode.
"That's enough!" Aunt Petunia snapped. "Harry, go clean yourself up. You're not sitting at my table in that state."
"As you wish," Harry said with a mock bow. "I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities with the scent of actual effort."
The pattern continued for the next week. Harry would wake before dawn, workout until breakfast, then spend the day doing chores and dodging the Dursleys' ire. Slowly but surely, he could feel his body changing, growing stronger.
One afternoon, as Harry was mowing the lawn (shirtless, much to the neighbors' interest and Aunt Petunia's horror), Dudley waddled out to taunt him.
"Oi, Potter!" he called, ice cream cone in hand. "Still trying to be tough? You look like a scrawny little girl!"
Harry switched off the lawnmower and turned to his cousin, wiping sweat from his brow. "Dudley, Dudley, Dudley," he tsked. "I'd be offended, but coming from someone whose idea of exercise is lifting a TV remote, I'll take it as a compliment."
Dudley's face scrunched up in confusion before settling on anger. "Shut it, Potter! At least I'm not some freak who-"
"Who what?" Harry interrupted, his voice deceptively calm. "Who takes care of his body? Who doesn't need an industrial crane to get out of bed in the morning? You're right, how freakish of me."
"I'll tell Dad what you're saying!" Dudley threatened, bits of ice cream flying from his mouth.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead. I'm sure Uncle Vernon will be thrilled to waddle out here in this heat. Maybe you two can have a father-son heart attack together."
Dudley's face turned red, and for a moment, Harry thought he might actually try to hit him. But then, miraculously, Dudley turned and stormed back into the house, leaving a trail of melted ice cream in his wake.
"Well, that's new," Harry mused, returning to the lawnmower. "I didn't think Dudley knew how to walk away from a fight. Usually he just sits on his opponent."
Later that evening, as Harry was finishing up his push-ups in the backyard, Uncle Vernon came stomping out, his face already an impressive shade of puce.
"Boy!" he bellowed. "What's this Dudley tells me about you insulting him? And prancing around half-naked for all the neighbors to see?"
Harry stood up slowly, making a show of stretching his arms above his head. "Good evening to you too, Uncle Vernon. Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"
Vernon's mustache twitched dangerously. "Don't you try to change the subject! You will show some respect in this house!"
"Respect?" Harry repeated, as if tasting the word. "I'm not sure I'm familiar with that concept. Is it anything like locking a child in a cupboard for ten years? Or perhaps it's more along the lines of treating said child like a personal servant?"
"You little bit-" Vernon started, but Harry cut him off.
"I've spent years biting my tongue, trying not to rock the boat. But I'm done. I'm not a scared little kid anymore, and I'm not going to let you or anyone else push me around."
Vernon seemed to swell with rage, but before he could explode, Harry continued.
"And as for 'prancing around half-naked,' I hate to break it to you, but this," he gestured to his increasingly toned torso, "is what a healthy human body is supposed to look like. I know it's a foreign concept in this household, but perhaps you should take notes."
"Just... just keep your freakishness to yourself," Vernon muttered, turning back towards the house. "And put on a bloody shirt!"
As Vernon waddled away, Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. It wasn't much, but it felt like a victory nonetheless.
That night, as Harry lay in bed, muscles pleasantly sore from his workout, he found himself reaching for parchment and quill once more. The letter to Hermione he'd started a week ago still sat unfinished on his desk.
' "Dear Hermione," he wrote, his quill scratching softly in the quiet of his room.
"Sorry for the delay in writing. Things have been... interesting here at Privet Drive. How's your summer going so far? Have you started on next year's reading list yet? (That was a joke, by the way. I know you finished it on the train ride home.)
"Things here are about as pleasant as you'd expect, which is to say, not at all. But I've started a new routine that's helping me keep sane. You'd be proud - I'm actually being productive with my time. No, I haven't started my summer homework yet (don't give me that look), but I have been working on something else.
"I've been thinking a lot about that night with Professor Lupin. About how close we came to... well, you know. It made me realize how unprepared I am for the dangers we seem to face every year. So I've decided to do something about it.
"Don't worry, I'm not doing anything reckless (stop rolling your eyes, Hermione). I've just been working out, trying to get stronger. It's not much, but it's something I can do without magic, something to make me feel less helpless.
"Anyway, enough about me. How are things with you? I hope you're having a better summer than I am, though that's not exactly a high bar to clear.
"Write back soon, if you can. Letters from friends are about the only thing keeping me sane in this madhouse.
"Your friend,
Harry
"P.S. If you have any tips on dealing with people who have the emotional range of a teaspoon and the intelligence of a flobberworm, please send them my way. I have a feeling they might come in handy." '
With a small smile, Harry sealed the letter and set it aside for Hedwig to deliver in the morning. Then, switching off his lamp, he settled back into bed, already planning tomorrow's workout in his head.
For the first time since returning to Privet Drive, Harry fell asleep feeling not resigned or angry, but determined. The summer was far from over, and he had a lot of work to do.
One Week Later
Harry sat at his desk, surrounded by a small mountain of parchment, quills, and textbooks. He'd been corresponding with Hermione almost daily for the past week, their letters growing longer and more frequent with each exchange. As he penned his latest response, he couldn't help but smile, this summer wasn't as bad as he thought he would.
"Dear Hermione," he wrote, his quill scratching softly in the quiet of his room.
"Thanks for the study guide you sent. I'm pretty sure it's longer than some of our actual textbooks, but I appreciate the effort. I've been working through it bit by bit, in between avoiding Dudley and trying not to die of boredom.
"Speaking of which, I think I've finally mastered the art of studying while doing chores. You'd be impressed - I can recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood while weeding the garden. Though I did get some weird looks from Mrs. Next Door when I started muttering about 'oven cleaner' while trimming her hedges. I think she thinks I'm planning to poison Aunt Petunia's casserole or something.
"Anyway, I've attached my latest Potions essay. Fair warning: it might make Snape's head explode. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not, but I'm counting it as a win either way.
"How's your summer going? Have you driven your parents mad with magical trivia yet?"
Harry paused, glancing at the photo Hermione had sent him of her family trip to Paris. His eyes lingered on Hermione's smiling face, her hair windswept and her eyes bright with excitement. He felt a strange flutter in his stomach that he wasn't quite ready to examine too closely.
Shaking his head, he returned to his letter.
"That photo you sent was great. Paris looks amazing. Though I have to say, the Eiffel Tower has nothing on Hogwarts. But don't tell the French I said that - I hear they're quite protective of their pointy metal stick.
"Anyway, I should wrap this up before Hedwig starts giving me the evil eye for making her fly back and forth so much. She's been getting quite the workout lately - almost as much as me, in fact.
"Write back soon,
Harry
"P.S. Don't forget to have some fun between all that studying. I hear there's more to life than books. Not that I'd know anything about that, being stuck here in Privet Drive's very own reenactment of 1984."
As Harry sealed the letter, he couldn't help but notice the growing pile of correspondence on his desk. The majority were from Hermione, with only a handful from Ron. He frowned slightly, realizing he hadn't heard from his best mate in over a week.
"Probably too busy de-gnoming the garden," Harry muttered, though he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something had shifted in their trio's dynamic.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp tap at the window. Hedwig had returned, looking rather put out at being sent out again so soon.
"Sorry, girl," Harry said, stroking her feathers as he tied the letter to her leg. "I promise this is the last one for today. Maybe."
Hedwig gave him a look that clearly said she didn't believe him for a second before taking off into the evening sky.
Harry watched her go, his mind wandering back to Hermione's photo. He'd always known she was pretty. But something about seeing her so carefree and happy in Paris had stirred something in him. She looked... beautiful.
"Don't be daft," he chided himself, flopping back onto his bed. "She's Hermione. Your best friend. Who happens to be a girl. Who happens to be... really smart and kind and..."
He groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes. "Nope. Not going there. Absolutely not."
To distract himself, Harry reached for his Transfiguration textbook, determined to make headway on McGonagall's summer assignment. But as he flipped through the pages, his mind kept drifting back to Hermione's smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed...
"Right," Harry said abruptly, slamming the book shut. "That's enough studying for one night."
He glanced at his clock - just past midnight. The Dursleys would be asleep by now, which meant he could sneak down to the kitchen for a much-needed snack. As he crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step third from the bottom, Harry found himself pondering his summer so far.
Between his rigorous workout routine and the increasing amount of studying he'd been doing (Hermione would be so proud), he felt more focused and driven than he had in years. It was as if he was finally taking control of his life, preparing himself for whatever deathtrap Hogwarts had stored for him for his upcoming fourth year.
And yet, there was still this nagging feeling of restlessness, of wanting... something. Something more.
As Harry rummaged through the fridge, careful not to disturb anything lest Aunt Petunia notice, he made a decision. Starting tomorrow, he'd add an early morning run to his routine. Before the Dursleys woke up, before the neighbors could gossip, just him and the open road.
"And who knows," he muttered to himself as he snuck back upstairs with his meager spoils, "maybe all that running will help clear my head of these... totally platonic thoughts about my best friend."
Back in his room, Harry set his alarm for an hour before sunrise. As he drifted off to sleep, his dreams were a confused jumble of Parisian streets, bushy brown hair, and the sound of Hermione's laughter echoing through the halls of Hogwarts.
In the morning, as the first hints of dawn began to color the sky, Harry laced up his trainers (or rather, Dudley's old, oversized trainers). With one last glance at Hermione's photo on his desk, he slipped out of the house and into the quiet street.
As his feet hit the pavement, a small smile tugged at Harry's lips. He didn't know what this summer would bring, or how these new feelings might change things.
Later
Harry's feet pounded the pavement in a steady rhythm, the pre-dawn streets of Little Whinging silent save for his labored breathing. He'd been running for nearly an hour, pushing himself harder than ever before, but he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that he was being watched.
For the umpteenth time, Harry glanced over his shoulder, scanning the empty street behind him. Nothing. Just the same neat rows of identical houses, their windows dark and lifeless in the early morning gloom.
"Get a grip, Potter," he muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. "Constant vigilance is one thing, but this is getting ridiculous."
Still, he couldn't quite shake the prickle at the back of his neck, the sensation of unseen eyes following his every move. It reminded him uncomfortably of his second year at Hogwarts, when he'd been stalked by an overzealous house-elf.
"If Dobby pops out from behind a rubbish bin, I swear I'm going to lose it," Harry grumbled, picking up his pace.
For the next two hours, Harry pushed himself to his limits, running until his legs burned and his lungs felt ready to burst. By the time he turned back towards Privet Drive, the first rays of sunlight were beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds.
As he rounded the corner onto Wisteria Walk, a bead of sweat trickled into Harry's eye, momentarily blinding him. He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision, and in that split second of distraction, his foot caught on an uneven bit of pavement.
Harry went down hard, his knee scraping painfully against the rough concrete. He bit back a curse, more annoyed than hurt, and examined the damage. His knee was scraped and bleeding, nothing serious, but painful nonetheless.
"Brilliant," Harry sighed, gingerly prodding the injury. "If only I could use magic outside of school. A simple healing charm and this would be-"
"I can help with that."
Harry's head snapped up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Standing before him was a woman - or was it a girl? It was hard to tell. She was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes that looked like they belonged in a Renaissance fair, complete with a hooded cloak that obscured most of her face.
Instinctively, Harry's hand went to his wand, concealed in the waistband of his shorts. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice sharper than he'd intended.
The stranger held up her hands in a placating gesture. "Peace. I mean you no harm. I'm here to help."
Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean, you're here to help?"
The hooded figure took a step closer, and Harry tensed, ready to draw his wand at a moment's notice. But instead of attacking, she simply knelt beside him.
"I know many things," she said, her voice soft and melodious. "Including how to heal that wound of yours. Will you allow me?"
Harry hesitated. Every instinct he'd developed over the years screamed at him not to trust this strange woman. And yet... there was something about her presence that felt oddly comforting, almost familiar.
"I... suppose," Harry said cautiously. "But no funny business, alright? I've got my wand, and I'm not afraid to use it."
The woman - girl? - chuckled softly. "Your caution is admirable, but unnecessary. Now, hold still."
She raised her hands, palms facing Harry's injured knee, and began to murmur words in a language Harry didn't recognize. "Healing Erdtree," she intoned, her voice taking on an otherworldly quality.
To Harry's astonishment, a shimmering tree made of pure light began to materialize before his eyes. Its branches spread outward, tendrils of golden energy reaching towards his injured knee. As the light touched his skin, Harry felt a warm, tingling sensation spread through his leg.
Before his eyes, the scrape began to heal. The bleeding stopped, the torn skin knitted itself back together, and even the dull ache faded away. In a matter of seconds, his knee looked as good as new.
"Blimey," Harry breathed, gently prodding the newly healed skin. "That's... that's incredible. How did you-"
But when he looked up, the woman was gone. In her place was a swirling mass of ethereal blue lights. One by one, the lights began to disappear, fading away like mist in the morning sun.
"Wait!" Harry called out, scrambling to his feet. "Who are you? How did you do that?"
But it was too late. The last blue light vanished, leaving Harry alone on the quiet street.
For a long moment, Harry stood there, trying to process what had just happened. Part of him wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing - a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and dehydration, perhaps. But the healed skin on his knee was undeniable proof that something extraordinary had occurred.
"Right," Harry muttered, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Because my life wasn't weird enough already. Now I've got mysterious women popping up on my morning jog. Brilliant."
As he began the walk back to Privet Drive, Harry's mind raced with questions. Who was that woman? And what in Merlin's name was a "Healing Erdtree"?
He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't notice Mrs. Figg until he nearly ran into her. The elderly woman was out walking her cats, as usual, but she fixed Harry with an unusually sharp look as he approached.
"Everything alright, Harry dear?" she asked, her voice casual but her eyes keen. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Harry forced a smile. "I'm fine, Mrs. Figg. Just... thinking about my summer homework."
Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him for a second. But to Harry's relief, she didn't press the issue. "Well, don't work too hard," she said, patting his arm. "And do try to stay out of trouble, won't you?"
"Me? Trouble?" Harry grinned, some of his usual cheek returning. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Figg."
As he continued on his way, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Mrs. Figg knew more than she was letting on. But then again, that seemed to be a common theme in his life lately.
Back at number four, Harry snuck in through the back door, careful not to wake the still-slumbering Dursleys. As he climbed the stairs to his room, he found himself wondering what Hermione would make of his strange encounter.
"She'd probably have the whole thing figured out in five minutes flat," Harry mused, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Probably tell me it was some obscure magical creature from 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' or something."
Later
Harry sat at his desk, quill poised over a fresh sheet of parchment. He'd been staring at the blank page for nearly ten minutes, trying to figure out how to phrase his question without sounding completely mental.
"Dear Hermione," he finally began, his quill scratching softly in the quiet of his room.
"I hope this letter finds you well. I know I just wrote yesterday, but something strange happened this morning, and I can't stop thinking about it. I was wondering if you've ever come across a spell called 'Healing Erdtree'? It's not in any of our textbooks, at least not that I can find, but I thought if anyone would know about obscure magic, it'd be you.
"I know this probably sounds mad, but I swear I'm not making it up. Any information you have would be really helpful. And before you ask - no, I haven't been hit by any stray bludgers lately. At least, I don't think I have.
"Looking forward to hearing from you,
Harry
"P.S. If you do know anything about this spell, could you maybe keep it between us for now? I'm not sure I want to explain to Ron why I'm suddenly interested in magical horticulture."
Harry read over the letter, cringing slightly at how vague and strange it sounded. But he couldn't bring himself to explain the full story - not yet, anyway. With a sigh, he folded the parchment and turned to Hedwig's cage.
"Hey, girl," he said softly, opening the cage door. "Fancy another trip to Hermione's?"
Hedwig fixed him with a look that could only be described as exasperated. She hooted softly, ruffling her feathers in what Harry had come to recognize as her "You're working me too hard" stance.
"I know, I know," Harry said apologetically, stroking her feathers. "I promise this is the last one for a few days. It's just... this is really important, Hedwig. I think something weird is going on, and Hermione might be the only one who can help figure it out."
He offered her an owl treat, which she accepted with as much dignity as an owl could muster while clearly being bribed. "Please, Hedwig? For me?"
Hedwig gave a soft hoot that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, but she held out her leg for the letter. As Harry tied it securely, he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile in her amber eyes.
"Thanks, girl," Harry said, carrying her to the window. "You're the best, you know that?"
With one last affectionate nip at his finger, Hedwig spread her wings and took off into the afternoon sky. Harry watched her go, a mixture of hope and anxiety swirling in his stomach.
"Right," he muttered to himself, turning back to his room. "Now what?"
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as Harry tried to keep his mind off the mysterious encounter and his anxious wait for Hermione's reply. He threw himself into his workout routine with newfound vigor, doing push-ups, sits-ups, and drinking plenty of juice.
When Uncle Vernon bellowed for him to "make yourself useful, boy!", Harry tackled the housework with an enthusiasm that left Aunt Petunia eyeing him suspiciously. He scrubbed floors, dusted shelves, and even managed to tame the disaster zone that was Dudley's second bedroom.
By the time evening rolled around, Harry was exhausted but still restless. As he stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the Dursleys (a task he usually resented but now welcomed as a distraction), his mind kept wandering back to the hooded figure and the shimmering tree of light.
"Boy! Where's our dinner?" Uncle Vernon's bellow snapped Harry out of his reverie.
"Coming, Uncle Vernon," Harry called back, hastily plating the roast and vegetables.
As he served the Dursleys their meal, pointedly ignoring Dudley's sneers and Aunt Petunia's sniffs of disapproval, Harry found himself almost grateful for their constant unpleasantness. At least it was familiar.
Later that night, as Harry lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his thoughts once again turned to the mysterious woman and her incredible magic. Who was she? Where had she come from? And why had she helped him?
"Healing Erdtree," Harry murmured, testing the words on his tongue. They felt strange, almost foreign, yet there was something oddly familiar about them too. As if he should know what they meant, even though he was certain he'd never heard them before.
He was so lost in thought that at first, he didn't notice the soft blue glow beginning to fill his room. It wasn't until a flicker of movement caught his eye that Harry sat bolt upright, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand.
Small particles of blue light were coalescing in the air at the foot of his bed, swirling and dancing like fireflies. Harry watched, transfixed, as they began to take shape, forming the outline of a human figure.
In a matter of seconds, the mysterious woman from that morning stood before him, still clad in her odd, medieval-style clothing and hooded cloak.
Harry's mouth went dry. "Who... who are you?" he managed to croak out, his voice barely above a whisper.
The woman stood silently for a moment, her face still hidden in the shadow of her hood. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached up and pushed the hood back.
Harry's breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, with cute features and light brown hair that shimmered with hints of red in the blue light. But what caught his attention most was her eyes - or rather, eye. Her right eye was a striking purple color, while her left eye remained firmly shut, and there was a claw mark across her left closed eye.
"Greetings, Chosen Tarnished," she said, her voice soft yet filled with power. "I am Melina."
