Harry Potter didn’t expect to find anything new inside Grimmauld Place, but the house still had one last secret tucked away in its dusty attic. Under a collapsed wardrobe and a faded tarp, he uncovered a painting that immediately made his magic prickle. It wasn’t an ordinary painting. It showed a girl—you—standing in a wild forest he didn’t recognize. You looked young, happy, throwing your arms into the air like the whole world belonged to you. But behind you stood a massive metal drop-ship, smoking, battered, and not from any world Harry had ever seen. The painting pulsed when he touched it. For a moment he felt like something reached back. Harry didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the painting and went straight to Oliver Wood—the only wizard he knew who dived into weird magic research for fun.
“Ah—Harry? You’re early. And sweaty. And holding a large… whatever that is.”
“It’s a painting,” Harry said breathlessly. “And it—you just need to see it.” Oliver blinked. “If this is a prank—”
“It’s not.”Harry shoved the painting into his hands. Oliver went still. He stared at it long enough that Harry started shifting nervously. Oliver wasn’t expressive. Not really. But something flickered across his face—recognition. Soft, fragile shock. “Oliver?” Harry pressed. “Do you know her?” Oliver didn’t speak for a full five seconds.“I do.”
Harry gaped. “You—you do?! How? Who is she?” Oliver swallowed. “Come inside.”Harry followed him, watching Oliver set the painting on his table as if it were a relic that might disintegrate if handled too roughly. Oliver rubbed his face. “This is going to sound insane. Even for wizards.”
Harry raised a brow. “Try me.”
Oliver let out a deep breath. “I’ve been to her world.” Harry blinked. “What.”
Oliver turned toward him. “Her reality. Not ours. Not anywhere on Earth. Somewhere else entirely.”
Harry stared. “You expect me to believe—”
“I didn’t either,” Oliver said quickly. “I was working on a creativity-expansion spell—don’t ask why, long story—and it backfired. Not exploded backfired. More like… cracked reality backfired.”
Harry’s mouth fell open. “You opened a portal.”
“I opened something,” Oliver muttered. “Enough to fall through it, at least.”
Harry tried to imagine it. Oliver Wood, practical, grounded, accidentally tripping dimensions. It sounded impossible, but something about Oliver’s face made it clear—he wasn’t joking.
“What was it like?” Harry asked quietly.
Oliver looked at the painting again. “Harsh. Beautiful. Dangerous. A world built from ashes—literally. No magic. No wands. Only survival.”
Harry leaned closer to the painting. “Was she… nice?”
Oliver’s jaw tensed. “She saved my life.”
Harry frowned. “From what?”
“Angry people with spears,” Oliver said simply. “And plants that wanted to eat me. And a—never mind. Hard to explain.”
“So why would this prophecy appear to me?” he asked.
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t know. But she’s important, Harry. That moment—look at her face. That was the day her people landed. The start of something massive.”
Harry studied the painting again. The girl looked young. Joyful. Free. Before something terrible. Before a war.
Harry felt it—this wasn’t just a picture.
It felt like a call.
He took a deep breath. “Oliver…I want to go there.”
Oliver nearly choked on his tea. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because you would die in five minutes.”
“I have a wand.”
“And they have entire populations raised to kill,” Oliver snapped. “Harry, I am not kidding. Their world is chaos. You are a stubborn, reckless teenager—I am not dragging you into apocalyptic hell.”
Harry crossed his arms. “Oliver, if this painting chose to appear in Grimmauld Place, if it showed me this girl, it means something. It wants me there.”
Oliver stared. “Harry, this isn’t destiny.”
“It feels like it,” Harry said softly.
Oliver rubbed his temples. “Merlin help me.”
“Oliver,” Harry insisted. “I am going.”
Oliver glared. “You don’t even know the spell to travel between worlds.”
“But you do.”
Oliver dropped his head onto the table. “I hate you.”
Harry grinned. “No you don’t.