Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be trapped inside a metal capsule, thrown down a roller-coaster track at 300 mph, with the feeling of your skin peeling and your soul trying to escape your body?
Harry didn't have to wonder.
He was living it.
The void was agony, pure, undiluted agony. It wasn't just physical pain, it was the entirety of his existence being violently stretched and warped across the dimensional boundaries.
Imagine the most horrific side-effects of instantaneous telepotation magnified by a thousand, compounded by the sensation of his inner structure being rearranged by chaos itself.
His skin felt less like flesh and more like burning paper scoured by cosmic sand, his vision twisted into impossible, complex strips of color and shadow, and every part of him felt like it was being ripped apart and reassembled in the wrong order, frame by agonizing frame.
The only thing keeping him cohesive was the Authority of the Unyielding Will of his Campione soul. He wanted to scream, to unleash a wave of his Authority just to stop the sensation, but he shoved the instinct down and focused.
The string.
The Weave- string was faint, barely visible, a silver line of shimmering amidst the chaos, but it was the only point of stability here in the void, it was his guide here and now.
He reached for it, but with pure, focused will, wrapping his consciousness around the thread. Good thing it wasn't a tangible string, or this might have never worked.
He didn't know how long he drifted. Minutes? Hours? Days? In the void, time was meaningless, a concept dissolved into reference points. Pain was the only thing, and that threatened to drive him mad.
Just as his mental grip began to slip after what felt like ages, but he was almost at the end, he could feel it.
Almost. Almost… Almost there—
The string seemed to have vanished a little bit from the front, it seemed that's the position of the world the dagger had landed in.
"This must be the world's boundary," he realized, forcing the thought into his fractured consciousness. "This must be the location of the world." He had reached the edge of the dimensional membrane.
He slashed.
He channeled the last dregs of his focused divine power into his claws, and space tore open, a violent, pressurized tear that snapped open like a burst dam. Before he could reorient his rapidly coalescing body, the tear sucked him in with a powerful, uncontrollable pull. He barely had time to organize himself before the tear spat him out like a missile.
Harry flew. Like a cannonball landing badly.
He literally shot out of the rift and, lacking any remaining control or energy to stabilize his landing, launched himself into a wall.
Harry crashed.
Harry created a Harry-shaped dent in the nearest brick wall as he was sent into it.
"...fuck… definitely need to work on landings…" he groaned, tasting dust and copper, his body vibrating with the impact. His Campione physiology immediately began knitting together the damage, but the sheer force of the void had rattled his soul.
He stayed there for a moment while the world spun, and he heard hushed voices whispering nearby, skulking figures in the shadows startled by the noise. With a low grunt, he got up, brushing chunks of brick dust from his robes, and gave his surroundings a 360-degree glance. His brow furrowed.
And froze.
"No way," he muttered. "This… can't be…"
His eyes widened as he recognized the filthy, narrow street, the shadowed storefronts, the dilapidated buildings, and the pervasive scent of dark, illegal magic that clung to the air like smoke.
Knockturn Alley.
Back on Harry's Original Earth
The girls stood there just staring at the air long after the tear had snapped shut. The air where the tear had been still shimmered faintly for a few moments after Harry had jumped in.
He was gone.
"Sooooo…" Tonks started weakly, her hair a mix of confused lavender and anxious lilac, unable to formulate a complete sentence. The worry was crushing.
But Daphne had already turned and walked away, her steps stiff and silent, her expression carved from glass. She didn't trust her voice not to break, she needed solitude at this time.
Tonks and Anya exchanged a helpless look before silently parting to their own rooms. It's not a lie to say that out of all of them, Daphne was the closest to Harry, and while he loved them, Daphne was the soft spot, so they could understand why she was like this.
Right now, all three needed space, and each other, so Tonks decided to give them some time, then he'd come and get them together.
Daphne collapsed onto her bed, not bothering to change.
Her heart ached. Her chest hurt from the tightness of her suppressed sadness, anger, and grief. With Harry gone, she felt an unbearable emptiness, a hole in her heart.
She was still very angry about his departure, but she knew she could never stop him from pursuing his destiny.
Harry loved adventure. He loved discovery. He loved pushing limits. She knew all this already.
And she loved him for all that he is.
With a slow breath, she reached for the dagger on her bedside table, one of the nine rune-bound anchors he had made for her. It was etched with the same intricate Trace Runes that allowed his return, and a way to call him back when needed.
She hugged it to her chest like a lifeline, feeling the cool, smooth metal against her skin. It was his guarantee. He would return, or they could try to call him back with the daggers should things go terribly wrong.
"Come back to me soon," she whispered, closing her eyes, a silent plea carried by the metal.
Back with Harry
He was seconds away from blasting everything in sight out of sheer annoyance. The intense psychic static left over from the jump was making his temper dangerously short.
He'd gone through hell, where his soul was nearly shredded, and somehow ended up in Knockturn Bloody Alley. Was this some sort of cosmic joke? Well, he wasn't laughing.
"What went wrong?" he muttered, grabbing his hair with both hands and nearly tearing it out. He ran the mental checklist. The Weave-string was stable. The dagger was anchored, and it was clearly not in my world. No, no, everything was correct, so why am I in Knockturn Alley?'
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Hey," someone barked, his voice rough and demanding.
Harry stared down at the offending hand.
Someone was touching him. When was the last time someone had the balls to lay a finger on him
In Knockturn Alley, now someone seemed to forget who I am.
After three years, his reputation had turned the entire wizarding world into a quivering puddle of fear. In his world, no one within a hundred miles of the alley would dare touch him.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" the man snapped, shaking him, clearly mistaking Harry's stunned silence for weakness.
Harry slowly turned his head. "What do you want."
"You're Harry Potter, aren'tcha?" The man grinned, showing far too many missing, gaping teeth. "The Lord'll be real happy when we bring you in—"
Harry blinked.
The Lord?.
He ignored the man again as he tried and looked around.
And that's when he noticed—
The monolith wasn't there.
His monolith. The one he carved into the world when he destroyed the Ministry's assault force three years ago, a monument to his victory. And proof of his power and never to touch what was His.
Now Gone.
No, not gone.
Never existed.
His blood went cold. At first, who dared to remove it before realizing this, His rage flared, not at the thugs, but at the situation.
His mind snapped into focus.
"HEY! Don't ignore me!" the man yelled, reaching for his wand.
Harry flicked his fingers.
A violent gust exploded outward. The man instantly hurled through three walls like a sack of wet laundry, crashing through a storefront, a backroom, and into the adjacent alley.
The other thugs, who had been stepping up, froze in terror, suddenly realizing their mistake, and swiftly stopped trying to step back.
Cowards.
He left them trembling and walked out of the alley, quickly stepping into Diagon Alley.
And froze again.
This wasn't HIS Diagon Alley. He had changed this one. It looked exactly like it had been when he first entered the wizarding world, vibrant and untouched by the calamities of the last four years.
Harry's suspicion turned into certainty.
He grabbed a discarded newspaper from a stand.
His heart stopped.
Daily Prophet July 1995
Four years in the past.
Harry Potter claming Voldemort had revived.
Harry Potter is still fifteen.
"...you've got to be kidding me," he whispered, the disbelief stark in his voice.
Not time travel.
Dimensional travel. Parallel Earth.
His least favorite type.
He didn't want other Harrys. He didn't want duplicates. He preferred knowing that he was the only Harry and there was no need for more.
"Time to leave."
He raised his hand and summoned the dagger. It flashed into his hand, cool and heavy, the golden hilt reassuring.
"Let's go home."
He slashed—
Nothing happened.
Harry froze, the dagger remaining solid in his hand, the air unstirred.
He tried again, channeling his will into the blade.
Nothing.
Panic clawed at him for a moment before he forced himself to breathe, slowing his heart rate down to a preternaturally calm rhythm.
He reached deep, to his core, his Authorities, and felt them.
Weak. Like they had used up a lot of power and were now recharging. Was that even possible. Guess it was.
Travel through the void had stripped him nearly bare of divine energy, leaving him with only the barest sliver of the power that defined him. His first jump was successful, but the cost was astronomical. he just needed rest.
He sighed in relief, the sound harsh in the busy street.
"Almost panicked there…" He was not stuck here forever, just temporarily.
He would recover. He was merely depleted and was already regaining his power. He would leave. Just… not today.
Or tomorrow.
Maybe in a few days.
His body, mind, and soul were all exhausted, paying the price for tearing through the Omniverse.
He needed rest. He needed to recover his power.
And he knew the perfect place, a safe house that was already safe in this timeline.
He walked through Muggle London, turned a corner onto a seemingly ordinary square, and focused on a memory of a hidden place.
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place shimmered into existence between its neighbors, looking as ugly and grim as ever, shrouded by the powerful Fidelius Charm. Yet he could see it clearly. Oh, how he loved being a campione.
The house, in this time, in this world, belonged to Sirius, but it didnt matter to him.
He didn't bother knocking.
—and found himself staring at Sirius Black, who froze mid-step with wide, disbelieving eyes, an expression of shock etched on his face.
"Oh, this is going to be awkward," he muttered, resigning himself to the inevitable explanation.
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