The end does not arrive with sirens.
It comes with empty shelves, locked doors, and the look of a shopkeeper who no longer asks "How can I help you?"—only silently counts whether there's enough time to close before dark.
Harry felt it.
Not by intuition.
By experience.
The world was no longer swaying—it was losing tempo. Money still worked, but people accepted it with growing reluctance. Supply chains fractured without explanation. What had been ordinary yesterday became "temporarily unavailable" today.
Temporary was a word for those who still believed.
He chose not to wait.
If a system still functions, it should be used. Not cleverly. Not desperately. Just faster than everyone else.
He started with the mundane world.
The rifle required no hesitation.
A Winchester Model 70—bolt-action, mechanical, free of unnecessary electronics. Reliable in the way that mattered: it could be repaired where other rifles were abandoned.
Mounted on it was a Leupold VX-3i 3.5–10×40. No digital overlays. No batteries. Glass that would still work years from now.
"It'll do the job," the clerk said.
"That's the point," Harry replied.
He bought ammunition.
A lot of it.
Not for war—
for years.
Purchased in batches. From different places. Without greed, but without doubt. What sat in storage today could vanish tomorrow without explanation.
The pistol was familiar.
A Glock 19.
Compact. Common. Reliable. A handgun whose parts would still exist when civilization became a memory.
He took extra magazines—more than he needed now, fewer than he would want in an ideal world.
The holster went on his leg. Not for flair, but for balance and movement. Concealed beneath clothing, unobtrusive.
"You're not a soldier," one of the portraits noted.
"Exactly," Harry answered.
The knife came next.
Military-grade. Fixed blade. No ornamentation. No story.
Just a tool.
He wasn't looking for the best.
He was looking for the predictable.
The load-bearing vest was simple. No dangling pouches. No noise. Only what would actually be used.
"Less means faster," Sirius said.
"And faster means alive," a Potter added.
At a regular pharmacy, Harry spoke little.
Antiseptics.
Painkillers.
Broad-spectrum antibiotics.
Antipyretics.
Bandages. Tourniquets.
Things that didn't heal—
but bought time.
Food came next.
Gradually.
Quietly.
Canned goods. Grains. Salt. Sugar. Water.
Food as function.
Not comfort.
Only then did he return to the magical world.
Magical America.
It looked calmer. Cleaner. Less rushed. But it was an illusion—panic was simply late.
The apothecary had no sign.
Old shelves. Stabilizing potions. Dried herbs.
"Can I help you?" a steady voice asked.
Behind the counter stood Daphne Greengrass.
No robes. No family colors. Plain work clothes. Hair tied back. Control in every movement.
"Potter," she said, without surprise.
"Greengrass."
"You're preparing," she noted, scanning his list.
"I don't like surprises."
"Reasonable."
She retrieved ingredients that would last years. No questions.
"If the world is breaking," she said quietly, "magic won't grow stronger. It'll become selective."
"I've accounted for that."
"Then good luck."
"Take care."
"If we meet again," she added, "someone was right."
Afterward, he visited a workshop.
Several pairs of dragonhide boots.
For cold.
For heat.
For rain.
Softened, treated, reinforced. Built for distance.
"You can walk a long way in these," the craftsman said.
"That's the idea," Harry replied.
Only then did he commission the holster.
One piece.
Slim. Discreet.
Designed to hold two wands, secured on his left arm, without altering his silhouette.
Inside it rested:
the Elder Wand
a blackwood wand, custom-made for him in Gringotts
Between them lay a thin dagger, flat and silent, meant for very close distances.
"You can't see it," the maker noted.
"That's why it works," Harry said.
He had trained his left hand long ago.
Not from injury.
From calculation.
A breaking world does not guarantee a dominant hand. Or position. Or time.
Slow spells.
Repetition.
Automation.
Magic stopped choosing sides.
It answered intent.
When he returned to the house on wheels, the space filled precisely as intended.
"You're not panicking," Sirius observed.
"Panic is buying excess," Harry replied.
The world was still breathing.
But Harry already knew:
these were the last days when money meant anything.
And he had used them well.
End of Chapter 7