(A.N.) For any new readers: This story is a sequel to a previous Harry Potter/Doctor Who crossover I completed about a year ago. It's called 'That Which Holds The Image', and the link can be found in my profile.

For anyone else: Hi! Hope you enjoy. Here's chapter one...

The word was out, and the race was on.

The ships set sail. The skies grew crowded. Someone opened fire, and everyone else followed. Whole worlds burned if they happened to be caught in the middle, caught in the path, caught in the race. There were screams, and death, and giants of light streaking across the stars. And all of them; every voice, every army, were all telling each other the same thing. They had to be first. They had to find it before the others. They had to be the one to hold it.

The word was out. The race was on. The armies were coming, and whoever got to Harry Potter first would win the Universe.

THE ANGEL'S WAR

It was Ginny Weasley who first noticed the sky was falling.

The world they lived in after the fall of Voldemort and the end of the Wizarding War was in some ways just as mad as it had been before the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry, Ron and Hermione were still in hiding, and still lived in fear of being attacked should they dare enter any populated Wizarding area; only this time it wasn't the Death Eaters they were afraid of, but the paparazzi.

Since becomming the saviours of society, public interest in them had taken a bit of a spike. Everything they did now was accompanied by swarms of adoring admirers, along with a few dozen journalists eager to get a snap of what the great heroes did next.

The situation grew so dire that there came a day, a year or two after the war ended, that Harry reached his breaking point. He went out and bought himself the most reclusive cottage he could find, away from fans and stalkers and Rita Skeeter's growingly ridiculous stunts aimed at getting a picture and a puff piece out of him. It was a lovely stretch of land surrounded by fields of corn and wheat and other farm-y stuff that he didn't grow or tend, but that just happened to provide a nice fencing.

But they were sharp, the blades of grass on those corn stalks. Ginny Weasley could tell you that – they cut into her knees and calves and the bits of skin exposed by her shorts as she sprinted through them.

As the lights from the upstairs window of the Potter residence started to peek over the giant stalks, Ginny risked another glance behind her, just as scared by what she saw as she had been a minute ago when she'd seen it for the first time.

She'd been walking towards the spot she always used to apparated and disapparate when she came to visit Harry. They had spent the day together; she'd filled him in on Ron and Hermione's latest spat and reconcile, helped him clean those awkward spots around the house that only Molly Weasley's child knew how to get to, and then finally sat outside and watched the sun go down, relishing the chance to be together without fear of death or gossip-page pictures being taken.

They'd kissed goodbye, promised to do this again soon, and she'd set off home. Only she hadn't made it to her apparition spot. She'd turned and started running about two feet away from it.

Harry was in the kitchen washing their dinner plates when she burst through the back door, with cheeks as red as her head and a panting chest, gasping for air.

"Harry," she said. "You've got to come see this."

This was how Harry ended up being dragged by the hand through his own cornstalks, repeatedly trying to stop and ask his girlfriend to explain, and repeatedly being tugged into walking again.

"Ginny, just tell me," he was insisting, struggling to see her now that darkness was settling in.

"Can't," she replied, hair swishing as she shook her head vehemently. "Wouldn't even know how to, you'll just have to see if for yourself. Oh, god, I hope you can see it. I hope haven't just gone mental. That would be awful."

"Gin, you're not mental," Harry reassured her. "You're unruly at times, sure, but not mental."

She glared at him over her shoulder. "Shut up."

She pushed the last tall stalk of corn or wheat or whatever other farm-y thing it was aside, clearing the way for them to look up at the sky. Harry's jaw dropped. Ginny's stomach to twisted again.

"What," she asked, "the hell, is that?"

Above them, standing quite apart from the other littering of stars in the clear night sky, was a legion of enormous, shining lights, lined up in perfect formation, and getting bigger by the second.

"I really hope," said Harry quietly, with a squeeze of Ginny's hand, "that it's just Rita Skeeter."

But it wasn't. It was something much worse.

Because Harry, Ron and Hermione had done the impossible: they had made it through the Wizarding War with their lives. But this, approaching from the heavens, getting closer by the second, was an entirely different war.

It was the Angel's war.

End of Chapter One.