Ron Weasley hung upside down on one hand.
His palm was planted flat against the stone floor of the Room of Requirement, fingers spread wide, tendons standing out like drawn wires as they bit into the ground. His other arm was folded behind his back, not for balance, but out of habit, a quiet challenge to himself.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his body.
His head drifted toward the floor, red hair damp with sweat brushing close to the stone, shoulders and triceps flexing as they bore his full weight. There was no tremor. No strain he couldn't control. When his nose hovered an inch from the ground, he paused, held the position, felt every muscle engaged down to the smallest stabilizer in his forearm—
—and then pushed.
His body rose as one solid line, smooth and controlled, until he was vertical again. Perfectly still. Perfectly balanced.
Ron exhaled through his nose and dropped his feet back to the floor in a single fluid motion.
He didn't know when it had started.
This need to move. This need to push his body until it responded exactly the way he demanded. Somewhere, seven or eight months ago, he'd woken up with the quiet realization that he was tired of feeling awkward inside his own skin. Maybe it was the time when he got his other wand at Ollivanders. Tired of measuring himself against ghosts—brothers, legends, expectations he'd never asked for.
So he'd started small.
Push-ups. Squats. Pull-ups on broom rafters and castle ledges. Nothing fancy. No spells. No shortcuts.
And then he'd discovered something unexpected.
He was strong.
Not just strong in the way someone swung harder or lifted heavier—but strong in control. He could feel every muscle fiber respond when he focused on it. Adjust posture by instinct. Correct imbalance before it became strain. His body listened to him now, and in that obedience there was a strange, grounding calm.
Ron wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and glanced around the Room.
It was set as a simple stone chamber, wide and bare, the air cool and clean. Dawn light filtered faintly through high, illusionary windows, painting pale gold across the floor. The clock he'd asked for ticked softly on the wall.
Six a.m.
He'd been at it for two hours.
His chest rose and fell steadily as he finished the last of his breathing drills, then he straightened and rolled his shoulders, stretching slowly. Muscles shifted beneath his skin, defined lines across his chest and arms, shoulders broad and carved from months of relentless bodyweight work. Sweat traced clean paths down his torso, catching briefly in the deep grooves of his abdomen before slipping lower.
His abs were the most striking, clearly defined, each movement making them tighten and release with quiet precision. Not bulky. Not exaggerated. Just… right.
Ron stretched his arms overhead, spine arching slightly as he loosened his back. His ribs flared, skin flushed from exertion, freckles standing out faintly against the sheen of sweat. He rotated his torso, feeling the pull along his obliques, then bent forward, palms to the floor, holding the stretch until the tension eased.
He wasn't wearing a shirt.
No one ever saw him like this.
And that was fine.
This wasn't for anyone else.
He straightened again, breathing slow and even, heart steady. There was no frantic energy in him anymore, no buzzing comparison running in the back of his mind. He wasn't thinking about being the least impressive Weasley. He wasn't thinking about being overlooked.
He wasn't even thinking about being special.
He just wanted to be better than he'd been yesterday.
Well.
Better than everyone except Harry.
That part, at least, still mattered a little. Cause there was no way anyone could not compete with Harry when he shattered magical history daily.
Ron flicked his wrist absently, the motion so casual it bordered on thoughtless.
A soft pulse rolled over his skin, warm and precise, and the sweat vanished in an instant—wicked away, neutralized, leaving him clean and dry as if he'd never trained at all. No wand. No incantation. Just intent, shaped and released. He barely noticed it anymore. Somewhere along the line, wandless magic had stopped feeling impressive and started feeling… normal. At least, for their group.
He grabbed his shirt, pulled it over his head, and dressed quickly. By the time he put on his watch, the Patek pieces that Harry had gotten all of Nexus. Customized for each family and person, he was already shifting mentally toward the day ahead.
Or he would have.
His hand paused mid-reach.
Something sat on the stone table beside the watch.
A scroll.'
He picked it up.
The parchment shifted beneath his grip.
Then—pain.
"Ah—!"
Ron jerked his hand back on instinct. A thin line of red welled across his index finger, too clean to be a tear, too precise to be accidental. The scroll slipped from his grasp and thudded softly against the table.
He stared at his finger, heart kicking once in his chest.
"…What the hell?"
The cut wasn't deep, but it had been deliberate. Ron could feel that much. He shook his hand once, annoyed, and reached for the scroll again—more cautiously this time.
The moment his blood touched the parchment—
The scroll pulsed.
Not brightly. Not dramatically. Just a subtle, unmistakable response, like a living thing recognizing a heartbeat. The blood sank into the parchment without a trace, absorbed so completely it might never have existed.
Ron froze.
Slowly, he unrolled it.
The words were still there—but not there.
Lines twisted in on themselves, symbols half-formed, diagrams blurred as though viewed through water. The ink shifted when he tried to focus, refusing to settle into meaning. He could see structure, intent, complexity—but no comprehension.
It was like looking at a language he almost remembered.
Ron exhaled through his nose, something between irritation and awe tightening his chest.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He tried again. Slower. Careful.
Nothing.
The scroll remained stubbornly unreadable, its secrets locked behind something far more personal than intelligence or effort. Whatever it contained, it wasn't meant for him yet.
"Maybe Harry can break this enchantment?" Ron muttered to himself as he tucked the scroll into his pocket and walked out of the room. But whatever it maybe, there was one certainty settled firmly in his mind.
Whatever the scroll contained.... It wasn't trivial.
Harry on the other hand, stood barefoot against on the balcony, the cool stone steady beneath him, a glass of whiskey resting loosely in his hand and a cigar burning slow between his fingers. The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, dissolving into the early morning air as if it had never existed at all.
He took another measured sip as he remembered the uncanny encounter with Nozdrega. The whiskey was good. Smooth and elegantly tasteful. It did help clear his mind but not much.
Today was Sunday. 6:03 AM.
And Harry was thankful for that, it meant that he didn't need to be at Hogwarts. No classes. No students asking him questions that would make him doubt humanities thinking capacity as a whole. His gaze drifted downward toward the swimming pool below. The water was perfectly still reflecting the early morning sky like a second sky trapped in stone. Moonstone Dunvegan slept around him, quiet but not empty. Everyone should have been awake by now considering that today was a big day for Nexus.
Today was the launch.
Nexus Icon.
They had moved the ship from Dursley Mansion to a harbor nearby.
Harry finished his drink and the glass flew out of his hand towards the table in his room and cleaned itself before settling down next to other glasses. The cigar followed, it just evaporated into thin air.
He walked back into his room, preparing to take a shower and change so that he could get to Hogwarts and bring the others back for the launch today.
The balcony doors shut soundlessly behind him as the morning air was sealed away, the world outside reduced to a distant hush. He did not linger. A thought carried him forward, and the bedroom yielded to his intent, lights dimming, curtains shifting as he crossed into the bathroom.
The shower came alive before he reached it.
Ice-cold water crashed down in a merciless torrent, striking his shoulders and back like needles. Harry stood under it without flinching, head bowed, hands braced against the tiled wall as the chill bit deep and sharp, grounding him far more effectively than the whiskey ever could.
The cold burned away the remnants of dreams, gods, and unanswered questions. His breathing slowed. His magic settled, folding inward like a beast finally caged. By the time he shut the water off, droplets slid down skin that no longer trembled.
He dressed simply. Dark trousers. A fitted shirt. Boots. No excess. No indulgence.
Then he was gone. Silently as ever.
Harry reappeared in the same empty classroom he always used within the Gryffindor Tower, boots settling lightly on stone worn smooth by centuries of inattentive footsteps. The room smelled faintly of chalk and old parchment. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, dust motes hanging suspended in the air like frozen stars.
He stepped out into the corridor and made his way toward the common room.
He was halfway there when he sensed it.
A sharp turn of motion. A familiar magical signature rushing toward him, tight and anxious.
"Mr. Potter."
Professor McGonagall rounded the corner with uncharacteristic haste, her expression pulled taut with urgency she did not bother masking. She stopped short when she saw him, shoulders easing by a fraction.
"Professor," Harry greeted calmly. "You look like you were looking for me."
"I was," she said at once. "Thank Merlin. You need to come with me. Immediately."
Harry studied her face for half a second. The tight mouth. The worry pressed behind her eyes. He nodded.
"Something to do with the gateway?" he asked.
She stiffened. "Yes."
That was all the confirmation he needed.
They moved quickly, corridors parting before them as McGonagall led the way toward the headmaster's office. The gargoyle barely finished its rotation before they were ascending the spiral staircase, steps unfolding beneath their feet.
Dumbledore's office was already crowded.
Every professor of note was present. McGonagall guided Harry inside and the room's attention snapped to him all at once. Relief crossed more than one face.
Dumbledore stood from behind his desk the moment Harry entered.
"My boy," he said warmly, though there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. "Thank you for coming so promptly."
Every single professor was present in the room and in addition to the professors, Corvus was present as well.
"What happened?" Harry asked, dispensing with pleasantries.
Dumbledore's expression sobered. "The portal closed."
Harry blinked.
For the first time in a long while, genuine surprise flickered across his face.
"…Closed?" he repeated.
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Not collapsed. Not destabilized. It simply… closed."
Harry was confused. "That shouldn't happen..."
"We thought the same," McGonagall said quietly.
Harry's eyes sharpened. "Was anyone inside when it happened?"
"No," Dumbledore replied. "We were fortunate in that regard. Every researcher had exited moments prior."
"And the materials?"
"Ejected," Corvus spoke for the first time. His voice was low, steady. "All research artifacts, notes, instruments—everything was expelled from the space before the closure finalized."
Harry frowned.
"That makes even less sense."
He paced once, fingers brushing unconsciously against his wrist. "The gateway was stable. Self-sustaining. There was no decay, no feedback loop, no collapse threshold. It should have remained open indefinitely."
"We do not dispute your theory," Dumbledore said gently. "However—"
"—reality disagreed," Harry finished flatly.
Corvus inclined his head. "We have several working hypotheses. The most plausible is that while the portal itself was stable, the environment sustaining it was not. The hall's ambient magical field was drained during the initial opening."
Harry turned sharply. "That shouldn't happen... Unless.."
"Unless the portal was constantly taking magical energy from the hall to stay open and once the ambient magical energy dried up, it closed as well." Corvus finished his sentence.
Harry went still.
They all made their way to the hall in the back where the portal was, and Harry tried to make a new portal again. His magic responded instantly, surging forward—
And was cut off.
Not resisted.
Not repelled.
Severed.
The flow snapped shut as if an invisible blade had sliced through it.
Harry's hand lowered inch by inch. Elythral disappearing from his grip again.
"So it seems I cannot open the portal again for some reason... My magic is being cut off!" Harry said, voice quiet but tight. "This shouldn't be happening though. My theory... "
"Maybe my theory itself was flawed?" Harry muttered to himself. Well it was possible that his theory was flawed but somehow he didn't want to believe that.
Corvus watched Harry in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"I may have a theory."
The room stilled—not abruptly, but with the quiet attentiveness of people who understood that whatever came next would matter. Corvus stepped closer to the empty space where the portal had once been anchored, his gaze lingering on the faint residue only Unspeakables were trained to notice.
"You created the gateway," he continued, voice measured. "It functioned. It remained stable. By every observable metric, it behaved exactly as intended."
Harry's jaw tightened but he didn't interrupt.
"Then it closed," Corvus said. "Not violently. Not catastrophically. Cleanly. And now—" his eyes flicked briefly to Harry, "—you cannot recreate it. Not because you lack the power, but because something is actively preventing you from doing so."
"That implies interference," McGonagall said quietly.
"Yes," Corvus agreed. "External interference."
Harry looked up sharply. "From where?"
Corvus exhaled slowly. "That is the question."
He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing once as his thoughts aligned. "If this interference were hostile in nature—truly hostile—then the most logical outcome would have been containment or annihilation. The research would not have been allowed to exit. The artifacts would not have been returned. The dimension itself might have collapsed inward."
"But it didn't," Dumbledore murmured.
"No," Corvus said. "Instead, everything inside was expelled. Safely. Almost… deliberately."
Harry frowned deeper, unease threading through his magic.
"Which leads me to two possibilities."
He turned, meeting Harry's gaze directly now.
"The first is that humanity is not meant to create this kind of magic at all. That dimensional gateways of this class violate some higher-order boundary—one that corrects itself when crossed, regardless of intent."
Harry's fingers curled slightly. He did not like that answer. Because it implied that a god was interfering in some way. His growing irritation towards the divine was increasing day by day.
The words hung heavy in the air.
"Not ready?" Flitwick asked softly.
"Not prepared," Corvus corrected. "To face whatever resides beyond that threshold. Or to deal with the consequences of sustained interaction with such a dimension."
Harry stared at the empty space again.
"No warnings," he said quietly. "No backlash. No damage. Just… denial."
"Which is often how systems far older and more advanced than us enforce limits," Corvus replied.
Silence followed.
Harry's expression was unreadable now—calm on the surface, but tightly coiled beneath. "You're suggesting," he said slowly, "that something evaluated what we were doing… and decided we weren't allowed to continue."
"Yes."
"That it shut the door," Harry continued, "and took away my ability to open it again."
Corvus nodded once. "That is my belief."
Harry let out a short, humorless breath. "That's… new."
Dumbledore studied him carefully. "Does this trouble you, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. Did this trouble him? Of course it did. Some divine is interfering with his magic? Why wouldn't it trouble him? But there is also the possibility that it could be protecting humanity from whatever the consequences are from sustained interaction with magic like that.
"I'm not sure. In one way I'm irritated that the dimension it took so much for me to open is suddenly shut off like that and I'm unable to open a new one." Harry said. "On the other hand, if it's protecting us from some unforeseen consequences that I did not account for, then I'm thankful."
Harry fell silent again, gaze drifting to the place where the gateway should have been.
The stone floor looked ordinary. Too ordinary. As if nothing world-altering had ever existed there at all.
"But I don't like not knowing," he added quietly after a moment. "Especially when it involves my magic being… curtailed. I built that gateway. I understand its structure. Or I thought I did."
Corvus nodded once, unsurprised. "That reaction is reasonable."
Dumbledore's eyes softened. "Few would be so measured in your place."
Maybe there is a god of space and time as well. Harry thought. But there was one thing that was certain.
Something had drawn a line.
And Harry Potter had never been very good at accepting any limits when it comes to magic.
Half an hour later, the dungeons lay behind him.
Harry walked with unhurried steps, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, mind far from the echoing corridors of Hogwarts. The castle passed around him almost unnoticed, stone, torches, murmured voice blurring into irrelevance as his thoughts looped back to the same problem again and again.
The gateway.
Stable. Self-sustaining. Elegant.
And yet it still closed.
His magic hadn't failed him. That much he was sure of. It had answered instantly, surged forward exactly as commanded… and then been cut. Not resisted, not countered—severed. As if the universe itself had reached down and said no further.
Time dilation.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
One to one hundred had been ambitious. Excessive, even. A full day outside for every hundred days inside. If something—or someone—was monitoring thresholds, that imbalance might have been the trigger.
What if it wasn't the gateway itself that crossed the line?
What if it was the scale?
Hours instead of days.
Minutes instead of hours.
A gentler slope instead of a cliff.
Harry's pace slowed a fraction as he reached the staircase leading upward, his thoughts narrowing, refining. There was no reason to abandon the concept entirely. Magic didn't work that way. If a structure collapsed, you didn't discard the theory—you found the load-bearing point that failed.
Even if that meant pushing again.
Even if that meant pushing against a god.
Footsteps followed behind him.
Daphne and Pansy kept a respectful distance, walking in sync without quite meaning to. Both had noticed it. The distant look in his eyes, the way his awareness seemed half a step removed from the present. Harry was thinking in that way of his that meant the world had narrowed to a single, dangerous idea.
Neither of them spoke.
They had learned, over time, when words would only bounce off the walls he built around himself.
Pansy glanced sideways at Daphne, a silent exchange passing between them. Concern, tempered with familiarity. Harry always did this—shouldered the weight alone, as if leaning on anyone else might slow him down or, worse, put them in danger.
Daphne's fingers curled briefly at her side.
She wished—just once—that he would turn around and say something. Anything. That he would let them in the way they let him in, again and again, without hesitation.
But Harry didn't look back.
He reached the corridor leading toward Gryffindor Tower, his expression composed, steps steady, mind already sketching new equations of time and space over the familiar stone.
Behind him, Daphne and Pansy followed in silence.
Harry stopped in front of the portrait without really seeing it.
The Fat Lady opened her mouth, ready to demand the password—
—and the enchantment unraveled.
Not shattered. Not blasted apart. It simply… came undone, threads of warding slipping loose as Harry's magic brushed past them without intent. The portrait swung forward on its hinges with a soft creak, surprised more than damaged.
Harry stepped through.
Daphne and Pansy followed without comment.
It was eight in the morning. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Gryffindor common room, catching dust motes in lazy suspension. A few students lounged on couches or leaned over tables, nursing mugs of tea or half-finished breakfasts. No one looked twice.
Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson had become a familiar sight here.
That, in itself, would have been unthinkable a year ago.
"Fred. George," he said quietly as he approached.
The twins turned in perfect sync.
"We're heading back," Harry continued, lowering his voice just enough that it wouldn't carry. "Home."
The word was barely audible, but it didn't need to be louder.
Both twins straightened instantly, grins fading into something sharper, more focused.
"Got it," Fred said.
"We'll get everyone," George added.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't joke. They could see it on his face—something heavy, something unresolved. If Harry wasn't talking, it meant he couldn't yet.
And if he couldn't yet, then timing mattered.
Twenty minutes later, the entire group appeared in the living room of Moonstone Dunvegan where the adults were already waiting for them.
Harry plopped down beside Petunia and put his head in her lap. She smiled as she stroke his hair and understood that something was bothering her son.
"What happened, Harry?" She asked. "It seems something is bothering your mind heavily."
Harry replied absentmindedly. "The dimension gateway I opened at Hogwarts, closed by itself today. Out of nowhere!"
Petunia's hand stilled for just a heartbeat.
Then she resumed stroking his hair, slow and steady, fingers moving with the same instinctive gentleness she had used when he was small and woke from nightmares he refused to explain. She didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She didn't panic.
But her eyes lifted.
Everyone straightened at once. They were all focused on fully on Harry.
"It… closed?" Hermione asked carefully, disbelief threading her voice. "On its own?"
Harry nodded slightly against Petunia's lap, eyes half-lidded, gaze unfocused. "No instability. No backlash. No warning. It just… shut. And expelled everything inside first. All the research. Like it was done with us."
"That shouldn't be possible," Bill said immediately. "From what I was told..."
"It shouldn't," Harry cut in quietly. "Not according to my theory at least."
Petunia's fingers paused again, this time only for a breath. Her thumb brushed his temple, grounding him.
"And what do you think happened?" she asked, not as someone asking for reassurance—but as someone who wanted the truth.
Harry was silent for a few seconds.
Then, very softly, he said, "Something interfered."
The room chilled by degrees.
"Interfered how?" Molly asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
Harry shifted slightly, turning his face just enough that his cheek pressed more fully into Petunia's lap. It was an unguarded gesture. A tired one.
"My magic was cut off when I tried to open it again," he said. "Not resisted. Not blocked. Severed. Cleanly."
That earned a sharp inhale from several directions.
Percival, standing near the window with his arms folded, spoke evenly. "As if the permission had been revoked."
Harry's mouth twitched, humorless. "That's one way to put it."
"So… a god?" Ron asked bluntly.
Harry didn't answer immediately.
Petunia looked down at him, her expression calm but intent. "Harry."
He sighed.
"Possibly," he admitted. "Space. Time. Or something adjacent. Something that decided humanity either isn't allowed... or isn't ready."
"And you don't like that," Sirius said quietly.
Harry huffed, "I don't like not knowing."
Vernon leaned back slightly on his armchair. "Does this frighten you, son?"
Harry met his eyes.
"No," he said honestly. "It just annoys me."
"But..." He added with a smirk. "If a god truly interfered then..." His eyes gleamed with challenge.
Everyone knew what that gaze meant. It meant that Harry was excited. Excited to go against a god.
A hush settled over the room. Not the startled kind, but the wary stillness of people who knew exactly what sort of trouble that look invited.
Petunia felt it first. The shift. The subtle tightening beneath Harry's skin, like a blade being slowly unsheathed. Her hand stilled in his hair, not in fear, but in quiet caution.
"And what," she asked gently, "does that mean?"
Harry's smirk didn't widen. It sharpened.
"If a god truly interfered," he said, voice light but eyes burning with intent, "then it means the problem isn't that the gateway can't exist."
The adults leaned in despite themselves.
"It means," Harry continued, "that someone decided I wasn't allowed to finish it."
Bill's jaw tightened. "Harry..."
"And I don't accept vetoes," Harry finished calmly.
There it was.
That unmistakable, unsettling thirst for knowledge... the one that had propelled him to do things that no wizard was even able to imagine. The look that usually meant that Harry was excited beyond anything to face what was in front of him.
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, a half-smile tugging at his mouth that didn't quite mask his concern. "You realize most people hear god and think back off, right?"
Harry smirked, " Maybe... I don't know. I just know I look forward to defying them."
Harry finally sat up, lifting his head from Petunia's lap. The warmth lingered, grounding him, but his posture straightened—alert now, focused.
"I'm talking about curiosity," he corrected. "If something powerful enough to interfere exists, then it has rules. Boundaries. Logic. Nothing operates without structure. Not even gods."
"And if those rules exist," Hermione said slowly, eyes bright despite her worry, "then they can be… studied."
Harry glanced at her, approving. "Exactly."
Vernon watched him for a long moment, then gave a low chuckle. "You really are impossible."
Harry grinned, "You raised me."
Adorabella asked. "What will you do now?"
Harry thought about it for a while. "I'll make a dimension gateway again. I'll start with minutes instead of days and see where exactly is it that my magic gets cut off."
"But before that, we launch Nexus Icon."