Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 1: The Fall of the Wizarding World
🕑 Added 2023-05-31 06:45:19 +0000 UTCIn the years following the Second Wizarding War, the peace that Harry and his friends fought so hard to achieve proved fragile. Voldemort's death had left behind more than just a broken Britain — it had destabilized the global magical balance in ways no one fully understood.
After Voldemort's defeat, magical nations around the world began uncovering the dark alliances and chaos his influence had caused, and not all of them wanted peace. Pockets of extremist factions, both magical and non-magical, began to rise. Some believed in blood purity, others in magical supremacy, and a few — like the American cult known as the "Children of Morgana" — believed that the Statute of Secrecy should be permanently shattered to establish magical dominance over the Muggle world.
At the same time, tensions in the non-magical world worsened. Resource shortages, climate disasters, and the collapse of multiple economies pushed global powers into brinkmanship. Treaties fell apart. Nuclear proliferation soared. International cooperation crumbled.
Then, it happened.
World War III.
A magical terrorist group, trying to "awaken" the Muggle world, sabotaged a nuclear launch system. It triggered a cascade. Multiple nuclear nations retaliated. Within hours, cities vanished from the map. Millions died. The magical world tried to contain the fallout, but they were few, and the destruction was global.
At first, magicals tried to intervene with shielding spells, protective charms, and even mass Portkeys. Some succeeded. Many didn't.
The real problem, however, wasn't just physical.
Magic is inherently tied to life, emotion, and the Earth itself. The death of so many — both magical and Muggle — created what the Unspeakables called "a Global Thaumic Collapse". The ley lines cracked. Magic itself became unstable in large parts of the world. Ancient enchantments failed. Magical creatures died or mutated. Potions brewed in these areas became toxic or inert.
Worse: in major magical centres like Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and parts of Hogwarts, the backlash from corrupted ambient magic caused explosions, enchanted storms, or spatial anomalies — some places simply vanished or twisted into pocket dimensions.
Survivors established isolated sanctuaries — magically shielded underground enclaves with artificial environments. These "domes" were powered by ancient magic, wandwork, and complex runic batteries.
But even this wasn't sustainable.
Magic in these areas began to "sour" — the rituals that once purified ambient energy were no longer enough. Magical children born in this era often had unstable cores or were squibs. The house-elves, so tied to place-based magic (like Hogwarts), began to fade — their connection to the Earth disrupted.
Through the Veil
Harry didn't know exactly how he had arrived here. The last thing he remembered was walking through the Veil—the mysterious archway that had claimed Sirius years ago. He had stepped through it as a last resort, after Voldemort and World War 3 had nearly destroyed his world.
What Voldemort couldn't finish, Muggles had. Nuclear war rained fire down upon the world, wiping cities off the map. Survivors—those few magicals who escaped the destruction—went into hiding, creating small, heavily-warded communities. These hidden sanctuaries had air and water purification, as well as magical constructs that mimicked sunlight, allowing them to hold onto a sliver of the old world.
But it wouldn't last.
The land's ambient magic had been corrupted, scorched by the fallout. Runes and rituals revealed that the land wouldn't recover for at least a hundred years. They had, at most, six or seven before everything collapsed.
During the war with Voldemort, Harry had studied Ancient Runes and Arithmancy out of necessity. In one forgotten tome, he had come across a theory about the Veil: it might be more than just a boundary between life and death. Some theorized it was a portal to another world entirely. At the time, he'd thought it mad speculation.
But desperation changed things.
Five years of careful research had followed. And in the ruins of the Department of Mysteries, Harry had modified the ancient runes surrounding the Veil. He was fifty per cent sure it would work. Maybe more. Maybe less.
But he had to try.
He hadn't told anyone what he was doing. Hermione would've killed him first to save him the trouble, he was sure. But this way, if he failed, no one else would be pulled into his madness. If it worked—if he survived—he could come back for them.
He'd packed everything he could. His charmed trunks were filled with magical plants, supplies, and animals. Even the Hogwarts house-elves—once bound to the castle's magic—were dying. Without Hogwarts to anchor them, they faded. He had bonded with as many as he could to keep them alive, and after much painful discussion, they had insisted on coming with him. They would rather pass quickly if it failed than suffer a slow death.
He prayed it wouldn't come to that.
As he prepared to leap, something landed on his shoulder.
He turned and met the sharp, intelligent eyes of Hedwig.
"Are you sure you want to come, girl?" Harry asked softly. "You can stay with Hermione until I'm back…"
Hedwig hooted indignantly and smacked him on the back of the head with her wing, as if to say, 'Don't be stupid.'
"Alright, alright. I get it," he said, chuckling weakly.
He opened the trunk, allowing her to nest inside. With everything shrunk, sealed, and secured, he took one last breath.
And ran into the Veil.
The pain was unimaginable—worse than the Cruciatus Curse, worse than anything he had ever felt. Time ceased to exist. His magic screamed. His body fractured under the pressure of crossing over to another world.
Then it stopped.
He landed hard, face-first on cold stone, every nerve alight with agony. His magic was drained to embers, but he was alive.
Barely.
He didn't have time to celebrate. His magic flared weakly in warning—hostiles.
Forcing his eyes open, Harry saw a dozen figures surrounding him, dressed in strange, foreign uniforms. They carried long staffs—weapons, he realized—and spoke in languages he didn't understand.
When the tips of their weapons began to glow, he instinctively raised a trembling hand.
"Protego..."
A weak shield shimmered to life. The soldiers reacted with alarm, then opened fire. Energy blasts slammed into his defence, each hit cracking it further. If he'd been at full strength, he could have held them off—but now?
Three more bolts struck, and the shield shattered. Two blasts slammed into his side. Darkness pulled at him.
He collapsed.
When he awoke—barely—he was being dragged. The floor scraped beneath him. Someone shouted, and he was thrown before a tall figure, dressed in ornate robes and golden armour. Egyptian-style, like the pharaohs he remembered from history books and old movies.
The man looked down at Harry with assessing eyes—calculating, hungry.
"Yes," the figure said in perfect English, his voice cold and inhuman. "This is a good host."
Harry's heart froze.
He tried to move, but his arms were grabbed and forced his mouth open.
No... please...
He watched in horror as a snake-like creature slithered out of the man's mouth, long, wet, and hissing. It crawled toward him.
He screamed as it forced its way down his throat.
Agony tore through his skull.
The last thing Harry thought before the darkness claimed him again was:
Merlin, help me... what have I done?
To be continued...
