Harry Potter stood alone atop the Astronomy Tower, a solitary figure against the bitter wind that howled through the night. The gusts, cold and sharp as a blade, whipped across his face, cutting through his cloak and sending a biting chill deep into his bones. But the chill in the air was nothing compared to the deeper, gnawing sense of inevitability settling inside him—a cold as old as time itself. He could feel it pressing down, as if the weight of the years, of all his battles, had finally found him. Time was slipping away, like sand through his fingers, and with it, the faintest hope.
From this height, Hogwarts still appeared timeless, its ancient stone walls standing tall and resilient against the dark canvas of the velvet night sky. The castle was bathed in a pale, ghostly light from the crescent moon that hung above, casting long, wavering shadows across the grounds. For a fleeting moment, the sight stirred a sense of calm within him—a desperate illusion that perhaps this place, the only real home he had ever known, could somehow remain untouched by the chaos devouring the world beyond. But he knew it was just that—an illusion, frail and fragile. He could feel the truth beneath the stone, like a steady, weakening heartbeat, the magic woven into these walls stretching thin, unraveling thread by thread. Hogwarts was dying, and no amount of magic could hold it together.
On the distant horizon, the night was broken by a ghastly glow—a hellish, red-orange light that flickered like a dying sun. Flames licked at the sky, turning the clouds into a molten tapestry, and thick, black plumes of smoke rose, veiling the stars in a shroud of darkness. Where once there had been rolling hills and vibrant forests around Hogwarts, there was now a wasteland, a charred and desolate graveyard. Villages and towns, places he had once visited with friends, were nothing but scattered ashes, smothered by an unrelenting inferno.
But it wasn't just the sight. He could feel them—something else, something crawling in the darkness beyond the flames. A malevolent force throbbed in the distance, pulsing through the air like a heartbeat, steady and ominous, growing stronger with each passing moment. The earth beneath him seemed to tense and tremble, as if recoiling from the sheer weight of their presence. They were out there—the demons—swarming over the broken remnants of the world like locusts, filling the night with guttural screeches that carried on the wind, each cry a knife twisting in his chest. The sounds—inhuman, ravenous—seemed to reverberate off the walls of Hogwarts, as if even the castle itself was preparing for the end.
In the silence that followed each scream, Hogwarts felt emptier, colder. This place had always been loud, alive, but now it was as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for the final note to ring.
Hogwarts was their last sanctuary, the final refuge of a magical world driven to the edge. The ancient wards, meticulously woven by generations of wizards and witches, still held, but Harry could feel the cracks splintering through them like fissures in glass, each one an ominous warning. His magic reached out, brushing the lattice of protections, feeling every fracture and frayed edge. The wards, once an impenetrable wall of strength, now felt thin and trembling under the strain. They groaned, creaked like old bones, struggling to hold back the inevitable. Soon, they would shatter, and the nightmare would sweep in.
Harry opened his eyes, the grim reality settling over him like a shroud. Six years had passed since Voldemort's fall—six years since he had believed, if only briefly, that they had won. He had dared to think that peace had been restored, that the darkness was finally gone. But Voldemort's death had not been the end. It was never the end.
The Death Eaters, scattered like rats after their master's fall, had regrouped, hidden in the shadows, waiting. And in their desperation, they had found a way to resurrect him—this time not as a man, but as something far darker. The wizarding world had been too slow, lulled by complacency. They hadn't seen the storm until it was too late.
And then, the Muggles found out. Paris, London, Tokyo—each city bore scars from Voldemort's wrath. The wizarding world was exposed. The Muggles learned of centuries of Obliviations, cover-ups, the hidden histories. Hatred flared, uniting their governments against wizardkind. Harry could still remember the betrayal, the open warfare. Wizards became hunted, not only by the Death Eaters but by Muggle forces too, like prey with no sanctuary left.
It had been chaos. Bloodshed. Betrayal.
Harry and Voldemort had clashed many times in those years, battling across Europe and beyond as Harry and his allies hunted him and his Death Eaters. Each time, Voldemort had grown more powerful, less human. And in their final duel, Voldemort had unleashed his darkest weapon.
Harry could still see it, clear as yesterday. In the ruins of a French chateau, he had cornered Voldemort—or so he'd thought. But in that moment of triumph, Voldemort had called upon ancient powers, tearing open a rift to a realm of pure chaos. From it, demons poured forth—ancient, primal entities with a hunger that would consume worlds. They weren't creatures but chaos itself, beings of annihilation. They killed Voldemort and his followers, but their hunger wasn't sated. They devoured the world's magic, tearing apart everything in their path, leaving only ruin.
Flashback:
The wind howled through the crumbling ruins of the French chateau, carrying the acrid smell of burning wood and the dark tang of magic. Shattered stone littered the floor, remnants of grand walls that had once stood proud. Now, the once-beautiful estate was reduced to debris and shadow. Moonlight, cold and pale, filtered through the broken roof, casting jagged shadows across the rubble-strewn ground. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously, as if even the storm was waiting for the catastrophe about to unfold.
In the heart of the destruction, two figures stood locked in combat—Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.
Their magic clashed violently in the air, sending shockwaves that rattled what remained of the ruined walls. The earth trembled beneath their feet, as if it, too, recoiled from the sheer force of the spells. This wasn't just a duel; it was a war of titans—two wills pitted against each other with magic powerful enough to rip apart the fabric of reality itself.
Harry moved with purpose, the Elder Wand in his grip as if it had become a natural extension of him. Every flick of his wrist was deliberate, and the air around him pulsed with raw, untamed energy. He called upon the elements—the wind, the earth, the storm above, all of them bending to his will.
Voldemort, his red eyes gleaming with malevolence, responded with dark curses—twisted, ancient magic that sought to destroy, maim, and corrupt. His magic was a force of pure domination, aimed not just to win but to break and to desecrate.
"Incendio Maximus!" Harry cried, sweeping his wand forward.
From his wand, a torrent of fire surged forward, but this was no ordinary flame. The fire twisted and turned as if alive, writhing like a snake, its heat so intense that the stone floor beneath it melted into molten slag. The air shimmered with the scorching heat as the fire roared toward Voldemort.
Voldemort moved with inhuman speed, vanishing into a swirl of black smoke before the flames could touch him. He reappeared atop a pile of rubble a few feet away, his thin lips curling into a sneer.
"Carno Viscus!" Voldemort hissed, thrusting his wand toward Harry.
A sickly green light shot out from his wand, striking Harry's hastily erected shield. The spell carried with it a grotesque, pulsing energy that Harry could feel pushing against him, trying to twist his very insides. He could feel the magic's intent—to tear at his flesh, liquefy his organs from within. The shield held, but barely, crackling under the intensity of the curse.
Harry's eyes narrowed. He knew he had to stay on the move, keep Voldemort from gaining the upper hand. He gathered the air around him, his connection to the storm deepening.
"Ventus Exuro!" Harry bellowed, spinning the wand in a tight arc.
A violent gust of wind swept across the battlefield, carrying shards of ice and debris with it, swirling like a cyclone. The air itself crackled as if charged with electricity. Voldemort raised his wand to counter, but the storm was too fast. Ice and stone pelted him, tearing at his robes and skin, while the raw force of the wind drove him back.
But Voldemort would not be outdone. With a flick of his wand, his form dissolved into smoke once again, slipping through the wind and reappearing just behind Harry, his eyes alight with malice.
"Corpus Expello!" he shrieked.
A surge of dark magic hit Harry, throwing him off his feet and sending him crashing into a nearby wall. Pain lanced through his chest, as if his very bones were being forced from his body. He gasped, barely able to focus through the agony. Blood trickled from his nose, the sheer force of the magic threatening to tear him apart.
But Harry grit his teeth, forcing himself to stand. He could feel the storm's power in the sky above him, and he reached for it, calling on every ounce of strength left.
"Fulgaris!" he roared.
The sky answered. Lightning, bright as the sun, split the heavens and struck down with blinding speed. The bolt of energy blasted into the ground in front of Voldemort, the earth exploding from the sheer force of the strike. Debris and rubble flew in all directions, and for a moment, Voldemort disappeared in the chaos.
"Tom," Harry shouted over the roar of the storm, his voice hoarse but determined. "It's over. You've lost. Surrender."
Voldemort stepped out of the dust and smoke, his snake-like features twisted in fury. Blood trickled down his arm from a gash caused by the lightning strike, but he did not seem to care.
"Surrender?" he sneered. "Still so naive, Potter. You think you can win? After everything I've taken from you? After everything I've destroyed?"
Harry's face remained impassive. He raised his wand again, his movements steady, determined.
"Diffindo!" Harry slashed his wand through the air, sending a razor-sharp wave of energy hurtling toward Voldemort.
Voldemort deflected the spell effortlessly, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Look at you. Is this what you've become, Potter? A killer? An executioner? You're no better than me."
"I'm nothing like you," Harry growled.
Lightning arced from Harry's wand again, crashing down to where Voldemort stood. The Dark Lord leaped to the side, his form shifting into a cloud of black smoke, before reforming a few feet away. His laughter echoed in the wind—cold, high-pitched, inhuman.
"Still playing the hero, are we?" Voldemort taunted. "Your parents thought they could stop me too. They died for their stupidity, just like you will."
"Merlin, do you ever shut the fuck up?!" Harry roared.
With a surge of rage, Harry thrust his wand forward. "Terra Aestuo!"
The earth itself answered his call. The ground beneath Voldemort's feet erupted in a fiery explosion as molten rock and flame spewed from the chasm, turning the stone floor to lava. Voldemort vanished in a swirl of smoke, narrowly avoiding the magma as it splashed and hissed around the ruins.
Harry's eyes scanned the battlefield. He knew he had to end this. His magic was powerful, but Voldemort's cunning and dark arts made him unpredictable. He needed to break through the Dark Lord's defenses, and fast.
Suddenly, Voldemort reappeared, his face twisted in fury. "Avada Kedavra!" he screamed.
The green light of the Killing Curse streaked toward Harry. He sidestepped just in time, the spell blasting into a column behind him, turning it to dust.
"You will die, Potter!" Voldemort shrieked, desperation seeping into his voice. "You will die like everyone you've failed!"
Harry's breathing was heavy, his body bruised and battered, but his eyes never wavered. He leveled his wand at Voldemort, his voice a cold promise. "I've already lived through worse, Tom. You won't break me."
The ground between them cracked as both unleashed their next spells. The colors of their magic swirled and danced in the air—a chaotic blend of light and darkness. Harry could feel the power surging through him, flowing from the earth, the sky, and the storm above. His connection to the elements was unbreakable, his magic raw and untamed.
Voldemort's magic, however, was different. It was dark, suffocating, twisted by years of hate and fear. His curses came faster now, more desperate, each one filled with more malice than the last.
In a moment of madness, Voldemort raised his wand to the sky, his voice a guttural chant of ancient, twisted magic. The sky itself seemed to ripple in response, reality warping under the weight of his spell.
"No!" Harry shouted, sending spell after spell toward Voldemort, but they were absorbed into the growing vortex above.
The clouds turned an unnatural black, swirling with fire and shadow as a tear formed in the fabric of the world. The air around them vibrated with energy—dark, malevolent, and ancient. From the rift, demons poured into the world, wreathed in fire and brimstone.
Voldemort's laughter echoed through the night. "There are powers older than time itself, Potter! If I cannot rule, I will see this world destroyed!"
But as the first demon lunged at Voldemort drawn to the magic that summoned them, the Dark Lord's face twisted in fear. The creature wrapped its tendrils of flame around him, suffocating and consuming him. Voldemort's screams echoed in the night as the demon tore him apart, piece by piece, devouring his soul.
Harry watched in horror as Voldemort was consumed by the very forces he had tried to summon. The once-mighty Dark Lord, who had sought immortality and domination over the world, was now reduced to nothing but screams and smoke, his twisted soul ripped apart by the demons he had unleashed. The sound of Voldemort's agony pierced the air, high-pitched and inhuman, reverberating through the ruins like a death knell. The demons swarmed around him, their forms constantly shifting—fire and shadow, claws and smoke, primal forces of destruction.
For a brief moment, Harry stood frozen, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his mind reeling from the battle and the overwhelming spectacle unfolding before him. The ground beneath him trembled, fissures cracking open as the demons began to spread out, devouring everything in their path.
But Harry didn't have time to watch Voldemort's demise—he could feel the impending doom, the rift that Voldemort had torn in the sky growing larger, allowing more demons to pour through. The air around him crackled with dark magic, heavy and oppressive, suffocating. His heart raced as he realized that this was no longer about defeating Voldemort. The fate of the entire world now hung in the balance.
Harry steadied himself, the Elder Wand thrumming in his hand, still brimming with the raw energy of the storm above. His mind raced, trying to find a solution, a way to stop the rift from tearing reality apart. The sky was churning with fire and darkness, the vortex swirling above, growing larger by the second. The demons—each one more horrifying than the last—were already spreading out into the ruins, feeding on the magic that lingered in the air.
His eyes darted to the surrounding rubble, searching for anything he could use. But it was no use—the power of the rift was beyond anything he had encountered before. Harry knew he couldn't fight these creatures head-on. He needed to close the rift, to stop the flood of demons before it consumed everything.
With a surge of determination, Harry drew on every ounce of strength he had left. He focused on the storm above, the elements he could still control. The wind howled in response, the clouds roiling as he called on the power of the sky itself. Lightning crackled, striking the ground around him, and the earth trembled beneath his feet.
"Tempus Terminus!" Harry shouted, his voice raw as he invoked a spell of ancient elemental magic.
The storm answered, lightning arcing down in a massive, blinding strike, aimed directly at the rift in the sky. The ground quaked violently, the air charged with electricity. Harry could feel the pull of the rift, the dark energy that sought to unravel reality itself, but he pushed harder, focusing everything he had into the spell.
The bolt of lightning struck the rift, and for a moment, the sky blazed with light. The demons screeched, their forms flickering and twisting as the surge of energy rippled through them. The ground beneath them split open, and the very fabric of the rift began to tear apart under the force of Harry's magic. The air shimmered, and the unnatural vortex in the sky began to collapse in on itself.
But the rift wasn't closing fast enough. More demons spilled through, their wraith-like forms twisting and flickering in the hellish light. The storm raged out of control, the winds whipping violently around Harry. He felt his magic draining rapidly, every spell he cast pulling from a well of power that was running dry. His vision blurred as exhaustion weighed down on him, his muscles screaming in protest as he fought to maintain his hold on the elements.
His concentration wavered, the storm he had summoned slipping beyond his control, and he knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. The rift in the sky swirled, churning violently, as more demons clawed their way through, shrieking with fury. Voldemort's body was a mere husk now, barely recognizable, torn apart by the very forces he had tried to command.
Harry's breath came in ragged gasps. He had to stop this—he had to close the rift, but every moment the demons pushed further into the world. One of the larger demons turned its gaze on him, its eyes glowing with a malevolent hunger. Its form solidified as it began stalking toward him, its hulking body made of flame and shadow, leaving a trail of scorched earth in its wake.
Suddenly, the air crackled as another demon, wreathed in tendrils of smoke, lunged at Harry with terrifying speed. He barely had time to react. The creature slammed into him, knocking him off balance, sending him crashing into the rubble. The impact jarred the Elder Wand from his grasp, and it rolled across the debris-strewn ground.
Harry gasped in pain, his body bruised and aching. Before he could recover, more demons circled him, their screeches filling the air as they closed in on him. The largest one, its grotesque maw dripping with fire, let out a roar as it prepared to strike.
Harry reached out for the Elder Wand, his fingers brushing the wood, but a demon's tendril of smoke wrapped around his arm, yanking him backward with brutal force. He cried out in pain, feeling the searing heat of the demon's touch burning into his skin. His magic flared instinctively, and he sent a burst of raw energy toward the creature, forcing it back for a moment.
But they were relentless. More demons descended upon him, their forms shifting and pulsing with dark energy. He could feel their malevolent power washing over him, suffocating, as they clawed at his defenses.
His vision swam—he couldn't hold out much longer. The rift was still open, more of them coming, and his magic was faltering. The demons no longer cared about Voldemort; their attention was fixed entirely on him now.
He had no choice. He couldn't stop the rift—not like this.
With the last of his strength, Harry thrust out his hand, summoning the Elder Wand back to him. He felt its familiar warmth in his grip, and with a surge of desperation, he raised it high.
"Finite!" he bellowed, cutting off his spell.
The storm around him collapsed, the winds dying down, but the rift still churned in the sky, open and spewing more demons into the world.
Harry staggered to his feet, his heart pounding. There was no stopping it now—not alone.
He turned sharply, preparing to Apparate away, but the largest demon lunged at him again, its fiery claws slashing through the air. He narrowly dodged, feeling the heat singe his skin as he twisted out of the way. Another demon, made of smoke and shadow, lashed out at him from behind, and he barely managed to deflect it with a desperate shield charm.
The demons were everywhere, closing in on him, and he knew he couldn't fight them all.
With a fierce grunt of effort, Harry spun on the spot, Apparating away just as a demon's claws swiped through the space he had occupied.
The world blurred around him, and for a heart-stopping moment, Harry felt as though he was being pulled through the very fabric of reality itself. Darkness swirled and closed in on him, the air thick and choking, heavy with the remnants of magic and the stench of sulfur. The sensation was all wrong—Apparition wasn't supposed to feel like this. Something tugged at him, a force threatening to anchor him in the storm of chaos behind.
His heart pounded, panic clawing at his mind. For a split second, Harry feared he wouldn't make it—feared the magic would fail him, leaving him trapped in the swirling nightmare of demons and destruction. The pressure built, his magic flickering like a candle in a fierce wind, the world around him warping and resisting the escape.
And then, with a violent lurch, the sensation broke. The pull released him, and Harry stumbled forward into the world, gasping for air.
He had made it. Barely.
His chest heaved as he steadied himself, the weight of the situation crushing down on him. This wasn't just about Voldemort anymore—the world itself was at stake.
He had to warn the others. Prepare them for what was coming.
But deep inside, Harry knew with a chilling certainty—this was only the beginning.
Flashback End
Now, the world was burning.
Harry's mind flashed back to the countless battles, the cities they had fought to protect, each one eventually falling under the demon onslaught. Hogwarts was the last holdout, the last bastion of a crumbling world. He had been strong, stronger than he ever thought possible after years of traveling across the globe, mastering magics that few wizards even knew existed. In Greece, he had learned to command the elements, summoning storms and fire like the ancient wizards of legend. In Egypt, he had walked among the pyramids, learning the secrets of ancient curses and the power etched into runes millennia old. In Africa, he had explored the depths of soul magic, delving into the mysteries of life and death, finding ways to push beyond the veil of mortality. In India, he had deepened his connection to Parseltongue and the natural forces of the earth. And in China and Japan, he had learned the lost arts of enchanting and wandcraft, honing his skills to their peak.
Yet, even with all this power, it hadn't been enough. Not against the demons.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. Every time he had fought, every time he had given everything, it had felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands. And now, the tide was about to break over the last bit of land they had left.
A soft creak sounded behind him, and Harry turned, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. It was Ron, his silhouette barely visible in the shadowed doorway. The years had weighed heavily on his friend, his once-vibrant red hair dulled and streaked with gray, his face etched with the lines of war and loss. Ron's eyes, once bright with mischief, were now hardened, as though the boy who had once dreamed of Quidditch victories and adventures had been buried long ago under the weight of battle.
"I always thought we'd get a break after Voldemort," Ron said quietly as he walked over to join Harry at the tower's edge. His voice was rough, worn down like old parchment. He leaned on the stone parapet, looking out at the burning horizon. "You know? Thought we'd finally have some peace."
Harry didn't respond immediately. There was a weight in Ron's words, a weariness they both carried. He could feel the same tiredness gnawing at his own heart, the exhaustion of a war that never seemed to end. So many of their friends were gone. So much had been lost.
"Yeah," Harry finally said, his voice low and distant. "We were bloody naïve."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching as the fires in the distance flickered and roared, consuming what was left of the world. The weight of what they were about to do pressed down on both of them, unspoken but undeniable.
"So, this is it?" Ron asked, breaking the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Veil?"
Harry nodded. "It's the only way. The demons… they're going to break through. It's just a matter of time now. Once they do, there won't be anything left here worth saving."
Ron's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And we just…give up? Abandon everything? After all we've fought for?"
"There's nothing left, Ron," Harry said, the words bitter in his mouth. "Not anymore. It's not giving up. It's surviving."
The Veil. The last hope. Hermione had been the one to find it, hidden deep in the texts of ancient magic, a portal in the Department of Mysteries that they had once believed was a doorway to death. But through her tireless research, she had discovered the truth: the Veil was more than a gateway to the afterlife. It was a portal to another world, another universe. One where the demons couldn't follow, one where they could start again.
But the cost would be unimaginable. They would have to leave everything behind—this world, their history, their dead. Once they passed through the Veil, there would be no return. They would have to collapse the portal behind them, sealing themselves away from everything they had known forever.
Ron didn't argue further. There was nothing to say. They both knew the stakes, and they both knew what had to be done.
Together, they descended the tower, walking through the once-vibrant halls of Hogwarts. Now, they were cold, hollow, and echoing with the memories of what once was. The magic that had filled these walls for centuries had faded, drained to fuel the weakening wards. The portraits on the walls were eerily silent, their inhabitants long gone, as if the magic that once animated them had died as well. The castle felt like a tomb.
When they reached the Great Hall, it was a scene of quiet, grim efficiency. The survivors—what little remained of the magical world—were clustered together in small groups, packing the last of their belongings into shrunken trunks and crates. Harry scanned the numbers again, each one a blow that resonated with the quiet, somber reality of how much had been lost. The total magical population stood at just 7,500—a shocking figure, but not for Britain, where the wizarding community had been decimated by generations of conflict. Their own population of witches and wizards numbered just over 4,000, with more than half from Britain. Yet as hard as that was to swallow, Harry knew Britain had come off better than most other nations. Britain had been at the center of it all, a place repeatedly plunged into war. He remembered Hermione's research on the effects of Grindelwald's first dark uprising and Voldemort's two reigns of terror. It had left British wizards vulnerable, stripped of the generational safety nets that older families and stronger and larger communities enjoyed elsewhere.
Britain had been a leader not just in magical development, but also in resistance. The wizarding wars had tested them like no other, and as each wave of conflict settled, another rose to meet them. Despite that, or maybe because of it, Britain's wizards had been at the forefront when Muggles and the demonic forces became threats too great to ignore. British wizards had been among the first to rally, their community weary but undeterred. And now, what was left of that bravery, that relentless defense, was a fraction of what it should have been. Even in his own loss and exhaustion, Harry was unsurprised—he knew what sacrifice looked like. But the sheer scope of it was still staggering.
Around him, however, the sight of so many others—so few others—dug a different ache into his heart. Magical communities from around the world, once teeming with life, now stood represented only by a handful. France, Egypt, America, even the deeply rooted magical families of East Asia—once proud and thriving communities—now seemed almost spectral in their absence. He recalled the French and their strength of tradition, wizards in India with their unique spells, the resilient magical clans of Africa whose protections and enchantments had been among the oldest in the world. He remembered visiting wizarding schools in other nations, places where young witches and wizards were trained in rich, unique practices, where magical history was filled with moments of unity and resilience.
But the demons had known no boundary, and despite everything, those places and faces now lay fractured and broken. Only 900 goblins remained, their numbers dwindling despite a fierce resistance they had held for ages. Only 800 Veela, their magical beauty now dimmed by grief, stood among them. The Squibs—1,800 total—gathered in solidarity despite their lack of magical abilities, embodying an unexpected strength.
Harry felt a sorrow so deep it twisted inside him like a wound, guilt pressing on him for all those who hadn't been saved. It was one thing to have Britain's numbers so low, but he'd held onto hope that the world could protect itself, that more could be saved, that their unity could outlast any horror. The stark reality of how thoroughly the magical world had been decimated crashed over him. Looking out at those who had survived, he felt the heavy responsibility that had once driven him in battle, knowing that somehow, from here, they would need to rebuild.
This fragile unity, made up of the remnants of a thousand lost families and thousands more erased futures, had to be enough to reignite everything that had been lost. The weight of their world lay with him now.
At the head of the room stood Hermione, her face pale and drawn from weeks of sleepless nights spent deciphering the ancient runes that would open the Veil. Her hair, wild and untamed, was a dull brown, a testament to the burdens she had carried. Yet her eyes were sharp with determination, her voice steady as she addressed the survivors.
"We're ready," she said, her gaze turning to Harry and Ron as they approached. Her voice trembled slightly, but the strength behind it was unbreakable. "We can make it through. But it will be dangerous, and once we go, there's no coming back. The Veil will collapse behind us."
Harry looked around at the faces of the survivors—people he had fought beside, people who had lost everything. Some were hardened by years of battle, their faces scarred and weathered. Others, especially the children, looked small and terrified, clutching at their parents' hands, their eyes wide with fear of the unknown.
"We leave at dawn," Harry said, his voice firm, echoing through the hall. There was no room for hesitation. No time for second thoughts.
It was the end of all things. But perhaps, beyond the Veil, there was a beginning waiting for them.