Harry wasn't fast enough.
His fingers slipped across the fabric — he'd almost caught Sirius, almost held on... and in the next instant his own body was already falling forward.
The Veil.
Cold.
Not wind. Not air. Something alien, wrong.
Sound vanished.
Light vanished.
The world vanished.
Harry tried to breathe — and couldn't.
Panic struck instantly.
He reached for his magic.
Reflexively. Desperately.
But it... didn't respond.
Not the way it should.
It was somewhere inside him — he could feel that much — but it wouldn't obey. Too scattered. Too... distant.
"No..."
The word dissolved before it even reached him.
And then everything stopped.
Impact.
Air flooded his lungs so sharply that Harry choked, rolling onto his side.
Ground.
Hard. Real.
He lay there, breathing heavily, fingers clawing at the asphalt as if he were afraid of falling back into that void.
Alive.
That was... unexpected.
Harry slowly pushed himself up, leaning on his arms. His head was pounding, his thoughts tangled.
The Veil should have killed him.
He'd seen what it did to Sirius.
...Sirius.
The thought cut deep.
Harry straightened sharply.
"Sirius—"
Silence.
No hall. No battle.
He was standing on a narrow street, surrounded by tall buildings of glass and steel. Bright signs glowed in strange colours, and somewhere in the distance, cars hummed.
Harry went still.
"...right."
A pause.
"This is definitely not there."
People walked past, barely paying him any attention.
Someone was talking on a phone. Someone was laughing.
An ordinary street.
Too ordinary.
Harry frowned.
That was the worst part.
He looked down at his hands. No wounds. No marks.
No wand.
Of course.
"Brilliant," he muttered quietly.
He noticed the first strange thing almost immediately.
A man by a shop window lazily reached out his arm — and his fingers stretched suddenly, like rubber, letting him grab something from the shelf without moving a step.
Harry blinked.
...what.
He looked away.
A girl walking past — for just a moment, the skin on her arms looked like metal, before returning to normal.
No one reacted.
At all.
Harry exhaled slowly.
"Right..."
A pause.
"This is already well beyond 'not London'."
He tried his magic.
Very carefully.
He focused, trying to find that familiar feeling.
It was there.
But... different.
Before, magic had felt natural, almost intuitive.
Now it was like trying to catch water with bare hands.
Harry gritted his teeth and tried again.
A weak push.
Nothing.
He frowned, concentrated harder.
And in the next moment, the air in front of him shuddered — barely.
As if from a faint blow.
Harry dropped his hand quickly.
"...this is bad."
A shout rang out, sharp.
Harry spun around.
At the end of the street, a man was backing away, clutching a bag to his chest.
Someone was standing in front of him.
Or... not quite someone.
His skin was rough, almost stone-like, and his movements were sharp and heavy.
"Quickly!" he snapped. "The bag!"
The man shook his head.
Harry was already moving.
He wasn't thinking.
He stepped between them, not entirely sure why.
"Seriously?" it came out before he could stop it. "Right here in the middle of the street?"
The attacker turned his head.
"And who are you?"
Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Fair question.
"The person who's about to ruin your day," he replied.
Improvisation.
Always worked... sometimes.
The attacker's arm shot forward.
Fast.
Too fast.
Harry lurched sideways, barely getting out of the way.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Just brilliant."
He raised his hand.
Focused.
Nothing.
"Oh, come on..."
A second strike.
Harry stumbled back, nearly tripping.
Panic started creeping in again.
Magic. Come on.
He gritted his teeth and practically forced it out of himself.
This time it worked.
A sharp, rough shove.
Not a spell.
More like... a burst.
The air in front of him shuddered, and the attacker lost his balance for a moment, stepping back.
Harry was surprised himself.
"Alright... works then."
The attacker frowned.
"Bloody weird quirk..."
Harry didn't respond.
He wasn't even sure what that meant.
The attacker lunged again.
Harry dodged, stepped to the side, and shoved him with his shoulder.
Not graceful. Not clean.
But enough to throw off his rhythm.
"Not my day," Harry muttered.
He tried to use his magic again.
A weak burst.
Unstable.
But enough.
The attacker backed off, clearly not wanting to drag this out.
He shot Harry an irritated look — and, swearing under his breath, turned and ran.
Silence.
Harry stood there, breathing hard.
His heart was hammering.
The magic inside him felt... strange. As if he'd just been trying to use it the wrong way.
"...right."
He ran a hand through his hair.
"That was... not ideal."
"Th-thank you..." said an uncertain voice behind him.
Harry turned.
The man was still holding his bag, clearly not fully understanding what had just happened.
"You've got a strange quirk," he added, a little awkwardly.
A pause.
Harry blinked.
Quirk.
He looked down at his hands.
At the barely perceptible feeling of a power that now seemed foreign to him.
"...something like that," he replied.
It was simpler than explaining.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
Harry looked up.
Someone was already on their way here.
Too fast for ordinary police.
He frowned.
People with strange abilities. No one reacting. No one panicking.
As if this were all completely normal.
"This is definitely not magic," he said quietly.
A pause.
"And definitely not my world."
He curled his fingers.
The magic responded weakly. Reluctantly.
As if he were only just beginning to learn all over again.
"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "Just brilliant."
And, it seemed, this was only the beginning.