Harry Potter: The Last Exodus

Whispers of the Unknown

The quiet of 12 Grimmauld Place felt heavier than usual. Dust clung to every surface, and the curtains—once drawn tightly to hide from the outside world—now hung loosely, letting in narrow beams of late afternoon sunlight. Harry Potter moved through the dim hallways, his footsteps barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. It had been a long time since he had returned here. Too many memories lingered in this place, some of them too painful to confront. But today, he was on a mission, and this house, with its deep magical history, might hold the answers he sought.

After the strange conversation with Ginny, and Hermione's ever-optimistic view on fixing magic's slow collapse, Harry knew he needed to dig deeper. He had spent countless hours researching in the Ministry's archives, searching for any clue about the decay of magic. But nothing seemed to hold the answers. That left him with 12 Grimmauld Place, with its dark corners, forgotten secrets, and, most importantly, its extensive—if sinister—library.

The library was tucked away on the top floor, a room Harry rarely visited during his time living here. Most of the books had belonged to Sirius' ancestors—grimoires and dark spell books passed down through the Black family for generations. He hadn't dared touch many of them before, fearing what ancient curses or twisted magic they might contain. But now, the slow decay of their world left him with no choice. If there was even a small chance that one of these old texts could help him, he had to take it.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Harry stepped into the library, greeted by the familiar scent of old parchment and leather-bound books. Dust hung in the air, swirling in the faint light from the high windows. He moved carefully between the towering shelves, his eyes scanning the titles.

Most of the books were thick volumes on dark magic, genealogy, and magical theory—none of which seemed relevant to the problem at hand. He felt a flicker of frustration. What am I even looking for? he thought. How can I possibly find a solution when I don't even know what the real problem is?

As he continued to browse the shelves, his eyes landed on a small, darkened corner of the room. The shelf there was lower, tucked almost out of sight, and covered in a thicker layer of dust than the others. Something about it called to him. Harry knelt down, reaching toward the back of the shelf. His hand brushed against something rough, and he pulled it forward—a worn, leather-bound book, its cover cracked with age.

It didn't have a title. The book looked ancient, the leather binding dark and weathered from years of neglect. Intrigued, Harry carried it to the nearest table and sat down, wiping away the dust with the edge of his sleeve. As he carefully opened the cover, the pages creaked, and a faint glow seemed to pulse from within the parchment, as if the book itself still held some kind of latent magic.

The first page was blank, but as Harry turned to the next, his heart skipped a beat. There, written in spidery handwriting, was a title that made his pulse quicken:
"The Lost Galaxy of Zenithara: The Last Hope of Magic."

He blinked, his mind racing. He had never heard of Zenithara before, not in any of his research, nor in any conversations with Hermione or the Ministry. And yet here it was, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Grimmauld Place. The words felt like a lifeline, something he hadn't realized he had been searching for all along.

Harry turned the page, his eyes scanning hungrily over the text. As he read, the outline of a galaxy began to form in his mind—a place far beyond the known stars, a system of planets infused with ancient, untouched magic.

The text detailed the twelve planets of Zenithara, each one described in vivid, almost dreamlike detail. As Harry flipped through the pages, he could almost see the shimmering worlds in his mind's eye, like long-lost memories surfacing from the depths.