The sky had already died once.
Now it was dying again.
Harry Potter floated at the center of a collapsing reality, his body suspended between shards of broken dimensions.
Above him, the heavens split like cracked glass.
Below him, time folded inward, devouring entire worlds in silent spirals of purple and black. Magic screamed.
His wand—ancient, loyal, once unstoppable—shuddered violently in his hand, its core burning hot as if it knew something Harry didn’t. Across from him stood Oblivion.
It was not merely large.
It was old.
Its body looked as though it had been carved from the remains of dead universes—skin like dark stone streaked with glowing veins of cosmic energy.
Its eyes were not eyes at all, but endless voids, swallowing light itself.
When it breathed, entire realities trembled.
This was not a villain.
This was an ending.
Harry steadied himself, blood dripping down his temple, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
He raised his wand.
“EXPECTO—”
The spell shattered before the word could leave his mouth.
The magic imploded, folding backward into itself, ripping a hole in space where it had once existed.
Harry cried out as the backlash hurled him backward, his body slamming into an invisible wall of compressed time.
Oblivion tilted its head.
And lifted one finger.
Entire dimensions screamed as they collapsed into dust.
Harry knew then—deep in his bones—that this was not a fight he could win.
So he did the one thing he had sworn never to do again.
He begged.
With the last of his strength, Harry tore open a summoning seal—not one taught at Hogwarts, not one written in any spellbook.
This was desperate magic.
Raw magic. Magic fueled by fear.
“Stephen… please.” The air folded.
A golden ring of sparks ignited behind him, spinning violently as a portal ripped open reality itself.
Doctor Strange stepped through. His crimson cloak billowed unnaturally as he took in the scene—the broken sky, the dying timelines, Oblivion standing like a god at the center of ruin.
For the first time in a long time… Doctor Strange did not smile.
“This,” he said quietly, “is not your battle.” Harry turned to him, relief and desperation crashing together.
“You have to help me.
If I fall—” “I know,” Strange interrupted.
“If you die here, everything tied to you dies with you.
Hogwarts. Your friends. Your world.” Harry’s voice shook.
“Then fight with me.” Strange looked at Oblivion again.
His jaw tightened.
“If I interfere,” he said slowly, “I fracture the Multiverse beyond repair.”
Oblivion’s voice finally echoed—deep, layered, ancient.
“Sorcerer Supreme…”
“You understand what must happen.”
Strange closed his eyes.
Then he spoke words Harry would never forget.
“This is not your day to win.” Harry froze.
“What?”
Strange turned back to him.
His eyes burned with forbidden knowledge.
“You are not the one destined to kill it.” Harry’s heart pounded.
“Then who is?” A pause.
Then— “Your son.”
The world seemed to stop.
“My… son?” Harry whispered.
“You have not met him yet,” Strange said.
“But he exists in the future. And Oblivion ends by his hand.” Harry’s breath hitched.
“No. I won’t let my child be born just to inherit my war.”
Before Strange could answer, Oblivion moved. Reality screamed.
The titan slammed its hand into space itself, crushing dimensions together.
Harry felt time twist around his spine, his vision fracturing into a thousand possible deaths.
Instinct took over.
Harry screamed as phoenix fire erupted around him —golden, blazing, alive.
Feathers of flame spiraled outward as he cast the most dangerous spell he had ever attempted.
A spell meant to escape destiny itself.
The phoenix answered.
But Oblivion smiled. With a gesture older than magic, it countered.
The spell inverted. The fire collapsed inward.
Harry felt himself ripped from reality, his body pulled through a screaming tunnel of time and forgotten worlds.
Doctor Strange shouted his name.
Then— Nothing.
Harry was floating.
No sky. No ground. No stars. Just endless gray.
He drifted, weightless, timeless, his consciousness barely holding together.
Memories flickered—Hogwarts, laughter, war, fire, loss.
Then suddenly— He was falling.
Fast.
The wind roared as darkness gave way to blue sky.
Clouds rushed past him.
The air grew thick, heavy, alive.
He hit the ground like a falling star.
The earth cracked.
Silence followed.
When Harry opened his eyes, pain exploded through his body.
He rolled onto his side, coughing, his wand lying uselessly beside him.
He pushed himself up.
And froze.
Surrounding him were people—dark-skinned men and women, their eyes wide with fear and awe.
Spears and crude weapons trembled in their hands.
They wore animal skins, beads, markings carved into their skin.
They were staring at him like he had fallen from heaven.
Harry opened his mouth.
“H-help me—” No English came out.
Instead, the land whispered.
The wind carried voices.
Something ancient slid into his mind.
And suddenly… he understood them.
“He fell from Orun…”
“The sky opened for him.”
“Is he a god?”
Harry’s heart raced.
He spoke again—slowly, carefully.
“Èmi kì í ṣe Ọlọ́run.” I am not a god.
The people gasped.
They understood him.
The ground beneath his feet hummed, responding to his presence.
Far away, deep within a sacred grove, an old man dressed in white dropped his divination cowries.
The patterns were wrong.
Impossible. He whispered to himself, fear creeping into his voice.
“This one was not written into destiny.”
“He has wounded time.” Harry looked around, dread settling in his chest as realization hit him like thunder.
The magic here felt different. Alive. Hungry.
He raised his wand and attempted a simple spell.
Nothing happened.
No spark.
No light.
The people stepped back in fear.
Harry swallowed hard.
Then the truth landed on him with crushing weight.
He was trapped.
Not just in another land— But in another age.
Long before history remembered names.
Long before empires rose.
Harry Potter had fallen into ancient Nigeria.
And magic, as he knew it…
Had no power here.