The Sorcerer’s War

The Department of Mysteries was silent. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by the soft crackling of lingering magic. Harry Potter stood before the Veil of Death, its ethereal whispers reaching out like ghostly fingers, calling to him.

Sirius had fallen through it months ago, lost to the unknown. Despite Hermione's research and Dumbledore's warnings, no one had ever returned from the Veil. But tonight, something felt… different. The Veil rippled unnaturally, as if something beyond was pushing back.

"Just one step," Harry murmured to himself, gripping his wand.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the chamber. The runes surrounding the Veil flared bright blue, their magic crackling like lightning. Before Harry could react, an invisible force yanked him forward. He barely had time to shout before he was pulled into the swirling abyss.

A New World

Harry hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. He rolled onto his back, groaning, and opened his eyes to an alien sky. The stars were unfamiliar, and the air smelled of cold iron and wood smoke.

The Veil was gone.

He sat up, trying to make sense of his surroundings. A dense forest stretched around him, tall pines swaying in the frigid wind. Snow dusted the ground, and in the distance, a massive wall of ice loomed like a frozen titan.

"Where the hell am I?" Harry whispered.

The sound of hooves on snow snapped him to attention. He spun, wand raised, just as a group of armored men on horseback emerged from the trees. They wore thick furs, their faces grim beneath steel helms. At the front rode a man with a thick beard and piercing eyes. His black cloak bore the sigil of a direwolf.

"Who goes there?" the bearded man demanded, his sword half-drawn.

Harry hesitated. These men looked medieval, like something out of a history book. He didn't recognize their accents, but their expressions told him they weren't in the mood for games.

"My name is Harry," he said cautiously, lowering his wand but keeping a firm grip on it.

The bearded man narrowed his eyes. "Harry of where?"

Harry swallowed. "London."

The riders exchanged uneasy glances. "Never heard of it," one muttered.

"I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell," the bearded man said. "And you, Harry of Nowhere, wear strange garb and wield an even stranger weapon. What business do you have near the Wall?"

The Wall.

Harry's mind spun. If this was some forgotten part of Earth, why had no wizard ever mentioned a wall of ice so massive? Something was very, very wrong.

"I… don't know how I got here," he admitted truthfully. "I just—"

A deep, inhuman growl cut him off.

The horses whinnied, backing away as something emerged from the trees. A hulking figure, pale as death, with eyes burning blue like ice.

Harry's breath caught. A wight.

He had fought many horrors in his life—Dementors, Basilisks, Dark Lords—but the sheer wrongness of this creature sent a chill down his spine. It moved like a puppet, its movements jerky, its rotting flesh barely clinging to its bones. And behind it, more figures staggered forward. A dozen. Then twenty.

"White Walkers," one of the men whispered in horror.

"Hold the line!" Ned Stark roared, drawing his sword.

The men readied themselves, but fear was evident in their eyes. They had steel and courage, but these creatures were something else entirely.

Harry knew they wouldn't stand a chance.

He raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

A brilliant silver stag erupted from the tip, charging forward with a blinding light. The wights shrieked, recoiling as the Patronus tore through their ranks. The Night's Watchmen stared in shock as the undead burned away beneath the magical radiance.

Harry turned to Ned, who was watching him with wide, calculating eyes.

"I think we need to talk," Harry said.

Ned Stark nodded slowly. "Aye. That we do."