Harry knew, deep down, that he didn’t need Hermione’s help to decipher the alien runes or the ancient languages they had stumbled upon. He had long mastered more forms of magic, runes, and obscure languages than he cared to admit. Decades of traveling, of learning from the most secretive magical and non-magical societies, had honed his skills beyond what anyone—wizard or otherwise—could comprehend. But this was not about needing help. This was about Hermione.
Hermione, who had grown old, who had watched her family and friends fade away one by one. Hermione, who had lived a full life, but now found herself staring into the abyss of her final years, alone. Harry couldn’t bear to let her fade into isolation. He wanted her to feel needed, to feel like she mattered in a world that had moved on from the Hermione Granger it once knew.
It was good for her, he thought. It would keep her engaged, active. Maybe even a little happy, or at least distracted from the reality of her old age.
So, they began traveling together. The story they told people—crafted more for the comfort of others than themselves—was that Harry was Hermione’s great-grandson. It was simple enough. Hermione was well-known in some circles, though not as widely as she had been in her youth. Time had allowed Harry to slip into the shadows, and the illusion that he was her young and caring descendant worked seamlessly. He was the great-grandson who, out of the goodness of his heart, was showing his beloved great-grandmother the world in her twilight years.
The story gave Harry an unexpected advantage. Many people admired his supposed devotion to his elderly relative, and he quickly found that it garnered him a certain type of attention—especially from women. Their sympathetic smiles and fond looks always turned into something more when they saw the way Harry doted on Hermione.
Hermione, for her part, saw right through it and found Harry’s antics amusing. She often chuckled as she watched him charm his way into a woman’s good graces, using her as part of his act. “You know, Harry, I’ve never seen someone use their ‘great-grandmother’ to pick up women before,” she teased him more than once.
Harry would only smile back, that mischievous glint in his eyes that had never quite faded with age. “It’s a great excuse, don’t you think? Who can resist a guy who takes care of his family?”
But beneath the lighthearted moments, their work continued in earnest. Harry had copied the runes from the Veil of Death meticulously, capturing every detail of the ancient symbols that decorated the stone archway. The language of the alien race, the one that had crafted the veil, was unlike anything he or Hermione had ever seen before. Their symbols were intertwined with magic, science, and something even beyond either of those concepts—a force that felt ancient and powerful.
Together, they spent days poring over texts and inscriptions, comparing notes, and testing theories. Hermione, despite her years, had lost none of her sharpness when it came to unraveling puzzles. Her academic brilliance was still intact, and Harry encouraged her every step of the way. She would comment on how certain symbols reminded her of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs or how others bore a resemblance to lost languages from the ruins of Atlantis. She dove into the challenge with the same passion she had always shown, while Harry silently watched with satisfaction, knowing she was feeling useful again.
In truth, Harry had already started to decode parts of the alien language long before they sat down to work. His intuition, guided by years of experience, told him he was on the verge of understanding the deeper purpose of the Veil. But he never let on. This wasn’t about solving the mystery quickly; it was about giving Hermione a reason to keep going.
As they worked, Hermione’s eyes would light up whenever they made a breakthrough, and Harry would smile as if the discoveries were new to him as well. She seemed younger in those moments, the weight of her years momentarily lifted as they delved deeper into the mysteries of the Veil. The ancient symbols began to yield their secrets, and slowly, a clearer picture of the alien race that had built the Veil emerged. Their magic was not like anything the wizarding world had ever known—it was something far more advanced, blending seamlessly with technology in ways that both baffled and fascinated Harry and Hermione.
Day by day, they pieced together the story of the Veil. It was not just a portal to the underworld or a gateway to death, as the wizards of old had believed. Instead, it seemed to be a doorway to something much larger, something far beyond the understanding of any wizard or magical being. The Veil was a bridge between worlds, a link between realms of existence that no one had dared to explore.
And Harry, more determined than ever, knew that he would one day step through that portal. He didn’t say it aloud, not yet. He knew Hermione wouldn’t try to stop him—she had accepted long ago that Harry was, in many ways, beyond the grasp of life and death. But for now, they would focus on the work. Together, they would continue unraveling the mystery, just as they had done so many times before.
It was like the old days, and for Hermione, that was more than enough.
As they traveled the world together, deciphering ancient runes and solving the mysteries of long-lost civilizations, Harry was secretly preparing for something far more daunting. He had no idea what awaited him on the other side of the Veil of Death, the portal built by an alien race whose technology and magic were so advanced that even the most learned wizards couldn’t fully comprehend it. But Harry, in his meticulous way, wasn’t one to take chances.
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He spent years quietly preparing, filling his time not only with Hermione’s company and their joint research but with something far more practical—stockpiling supplies. Harry had decided that if he was going to step through that portal, he would do so fully equipped, ready for any world he might find himself in. He had no way of knowing if this alien realm had food, water, or even breathable air, so he made sure to cover every possible contingency.
Over the course of nearly ten years, Harry went on what could only be described as a shopping spree of epic proportions. He purchased hundreds of magical trunks, each enchanted with an undetectable extension charm, allowing them to hold far more than their exterior size would suggest. Inside these trunks, Harry began to amass a staggering inventory of supplies.
He started with the basics: food. Every type of grain, every non-perishable item he could get his hands on, crates of preserved meats, fruits, and vegetables, even barrels of fresh water. He stocked up on cooking ingredients—salt, spices, oils, anything that could make a meal in an unknown world more bearable. Kitchenware followed: pots, pans, knives, and utensils. If he had to cook for himself in the alien world, he wasn’t going to be unprepared.
But Harry didn’t stop there. He bought clothes by the dozens—shirts, trousers, jackets, shoes—everything in various sizes and styles. He had no idea what kind of environment he might step into, so he ensured he had garments suitable for every type of climate, from scorching deserts to freezing tundras. His trunks were filled with shoes, boots, and even sandals for every conceivable terrain.
Books became another obsession. Harry collected every book that caught his interest, from magical texts and advanced spell theory to Muggle literature, historical accounts, and science fiction. He wanted something to pass the time, and who knew how long he might be stranded in the alien world? Video games were next—consoles, handhelds, every game he could think of that might stave off boredom in an unfamiliar place. He bought batteries, portable generators, and even solar-powered devices, just in case.
Money, of course, was never a problem. Harry had access to a vast fortune, one that had only grown larger over the centuries. But he wasn’t about to rely on a bank in a world that might not even have banks. So, he withdrew every last coin from his vaults, converting galleons, sickles, and knuts into gold bars and various precious metals. All of it went into one of his trunks, ensuring he would have resources at his disposal wherever he ended up.
By the end of his shopping spree, Harry had amassed enough supplies to survive for years in an unknown realm. Each trunk was meticulously packed and organized, ready to be shrunk down and easily carried through the Veil when the time came. He was prepared for anything, or at least as much as one could be when stepping into a world completely unknown.
But despite all his preparations, Harry wasn’t in a rush to leave. Not yet. He had made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t cross through the Veil until Hermione was gone. As much as he yearned to explore the mysteries beyond the portal, he knew that his time with Hermione was precious. She was old now, frail, and death was creeping ever closer. He wanted to be with her for as long as possible, to give her the companionship and purpose she needed in her final years.
So, while his trunks stood ready, filled to the brim with supplies, Harry spent most of his time with Hermione. They traveled together, sharing memories and solving ancient mysteries, just like in the old days. And whenever Hermione’s sharp eyes caught sight of Harry buying yet another trunk or filling it with items, she would raise an eyebrow and chuckle.
"Stockpiling for the apocalypse, are we?" she teased him once, watching as he carefully arranged cans of preserved fruit in one of his trunks.
"Something like that," Harry replied with a grin. "You never know when you might need it."
But they both knew. Hermione understood that Harry was preparing for the day when she would no longer be there, the day when he would walk through that portal into the unknown. And though she tried not to dwell on it, she knew that once she was gone, Harry would be truly alone. The thought saddened her, but she was grateful for the time they still had together.
On a cold winter morning, Hermione Granger died. She passed away in her sleep, slipping quietly from the world she had lived in for so long, forgetting how to wake. It was a peaceful death, as she had always hoped for in her later years, but it cut deep into Harry's heart all the same. He had known this day was coming. For years, he had braced himself for the inevitable. But no amount of preparation could dull the pain of losing Hermione—the last of his friends, the last connection he had to the world they had shared.
To Harry, Hermione wasn’t just a brilliant mind or a companion from his youth. She was the thread that kept him tethered to the world of the living. Her passing left him adrift, lost in a sea of time that he could no longer feel connected to. And so, with her gone, Harry felt the full weight of his immortality.
The funeral was massive. People from every corner of the magical world came to pay their respects to the legendary Hermione Granger. Family members, friends, former students, colleagues—people whose lives she had touched in ways both large and small. Hermione had long been a beacon of wisdom, a role model, an influential figure not only in magical society but beyond it. Her passing left a gaping hole in the lives of many. But none felt it more keenly than Harry.
He stood at her graveside, watching as the earth covered the final resting place of his dearest friend. His face was calm, but inside, he felt utterly hollow. As the last shovelful of earth fell onto her grave, Harry knew his time in this world was over. Hermione had been his last anchor, and now she was gone. There was nothing left for him here.
That night, he made his decision.
Without waiting any longer, Harry slipped into the shadows of the Ministry of Magic. His form shifted as he passed through the corridors, transforming his appearance into that of an Unspeakable—a faceless, unremarkable figure who would draw no attention. The Ministry was quiet at this hour, the halls empty. It didn’t take him long to reach the Department of Mysteries.
He walked down the familiar, winding corridors until he arrived at the room containing the Veil of Death. The ancient archway stood silently before him, its black, fluttering curtain whispering softly in the still air. Harry approached it slowly, his mind focused on the task at hand.
For years, he had studied the runes etched into the portal. He had unraveled their mysteries, learning of the alien race that had constructed it and how their magic and science intertwined. Now, it was time to put that knowledge to use.
Harry pulled out his wand and began to tinker with the runes. Slowly, deliberately, he manipulated their arrangement, rewriting the ancient symbols to alter the function of the Veil. The dark, ominous veil that fluttered within the archway began to shift, its inky blackness turning pale, then white, as the portal changed. The room seemed to hum with energy, the air growing thick with magic.
And then, without hesitation, Harry stepped forward.
He passed through the portal, the white curtain of the Veil parting as he moved through it. For a brief moment, he felt the world shift around him, as though he were caught between dimensions. Then, just as quickly, the sensation was gone. Harry disappeared from the room, leaving no trace of his presence behind.
As soon as he passed through, the Veil reverted. Its color turned back to black, and the runes rearranged themselves into their original, indecipherable form. The magic of the room smoothed over any disruption, erasing all evidence that Harry had ever been there. To the Ministry, to the world, it was as though nothing had ever happened. No one would remember what took place in the Department of Mysteries that night.
Harry Potter was gone, stepping through the Veil of Death into the unknown, leaving behind the world that had once been his home.