The world did not break all at once.
It began to lag.
News arrived late. Decisions arrived later. Systems that had run on inertia for decades suddenly required constant human intervention—and the more intervention they received, the worse they performed.
Harry saw it from a distance.
Not as a prophet.
As an observer.
The world does not collapse immediately.
It loses the ability to sustain itself.
The house on wheels did not appear overnight.
First, there was an idea.
Then a plan.
Then a long, careful process.
The portraits did not argue.
"If the world moves," one of the Potters said, "then home must move as well."
"But it must not depend on the world," a Slytherin added.
Harry chose the foundation deliberately.
A Toyota Land Cruiser 79 Series.
Not new.
Not impressive.
Built to return from places where roads simply stop existing.
Naturally aspirated diesel.
Minimal electronics.
A frame that forgives mistakes.
"A good choice," a Potter remarked. "Engineers argue about it. Survivors don't."
Fuel was the first thing Harry accepted as temporary.
Not immediately.
And not completely.
Magic did not replace the engine—it relieved it. Efficiency runes did not make the motor immortal; they reduced losses: friction, heat, wasted cycles.
"Let the machine believe things are slightly easier than they are," James said.
"But don't let it believe it's eternal," Lily added. "Deception always breaks eventually."
Fuel consumption dropped to the point where reserves would last years. Fuel stopped being a limitation.
The interior took the longest.
Not for comfort.
For order.
Spatial expansion was subtle and layered. From the outside, the Land Cruiser remained a working vehicle. Inside, it unfolded gradually—without distortion or disorientation.
The first level was living space.
A bed that folded into the wall. A shelf for books and a few portraits. Even, quiet lighting.
"A person should sleep where the body does not expect impact," Harry's grandmother observed.
Next came the work area. A desk secured against off-road movement. Runic tools, each in its own slot.
"If you search for a tool longer than a second," a Slytherin said, "you're already late."
The second level was storage.
Not a warehouse.
A system.
Weapons were separated by role:
melee — gladius, knife
ranged — bow, arrows
firearms — rifle, pistol
consumables — separate
Every item was secured. Nothing rattled. Nothing shifted.
"A weapon does not lie around," Sirius said. "It waits."
Ammunition and arrows rested in a dry, stable space. Light preservation runes worked continuously—not for eternity, but for reliability.
The broom had its own place.
Not on display.
Not ready at hand.
It rested in a narrow, reinforced compartment along the inner wall, secured so it would not move even on broken terrain.
"You no longer live in the sky," a Potter remarked.
"But that doesn't mean you should forget it," Lily added.
Harry flew rarely.
Flight was visible. It left traces. It required open space and clear skies. In a world losing stability, that was unnecessary risk.
The broom remained a reserve.
A path that existed without demanding use.
An exit that did not announce itself.
"Better to have the sky and not use it," Sirius said, "than to need it and lack it."
The third level was technical.
Beneath the floor. Accessible only from inside. Spare parts. Tools. Repair materials.
"In a breaking world," Harry's grandmother said, "repair is a form of magic."
Reinforcing the body took the longest.
Not with armor.
Not visibly.
Runes of durability and dispersion were woven into the frame itself. They did not deflect impact—they distributed it, reducing stress peaks.
"Force breaks what resists it," a Slytherin noted. "What bends correctly survives."
The vehicle did not look threatening.
But it endured:
stone
impact
overload
terrain
What stopped others merely slowed it.
Sometimes Harry caught himself remembering.
The house on Privet Drive.
Hogwarts.
Places that had been called home—but had always been temporary.
This home was different.
It did not hold him.
It allowed movement.
Meanwhile, the world grew strange.
Hospitals closed.
Flights vanished.
Cities sounded different—louder, sharper, restless.
The portraits fell silent more often.
That silence carried weight.
One evening, Harry sat inside the moving house, listening to rain.
The engine cooled.
Magic lay evenly.
Everything functioned.
"You're ready," Sirius said.
"I know."
"Not completely," Sirius corrected. "But enough."
Harry did not argue.
When he moved on, the world no longer felt stable.
But his home was.
And that was enough.
End of Chapter 6