The Great Game: Blackest Dawn

As the first light of dawn began to paint the cobblestones of Diagon Alley with soft golden hues, Harry stirred within the cramped confines of an old wooden crate tucked away in an alley behind a bustling bakery. The discomfort of his makeshift shelter brought a stiff ache to his limbs, a testament to the night spent in fitful rest. Yet, as he gingerly stepped out into the cool morning air, the familiar pangs of hunger gripping his stomach, his mind wandered back to a time when such hardships were not merely the result of his current plight but a chosen way of life.

He remembered vividly the dense, unforgiving underbrush of the Amazon, where the humid air clung to his skin like a second layer, and every step forward was a battle against nature itself. In those days, waiting for discarded bread behind a bakery would have seemed a luxury. Back then, he had been the hunter, not the scavenger—tracking the Dark Lords who had fled into the jungle's heart, hoping to evade justice. The jungle had been unforgiving, forcing him to rely on his wits and skills to survive. Catching and killing his meal was often the only way to sustain himself, a reality far removed from the simplicity of waiting for the day's unsold bread to be tossed out.

Those years had honed his survival instincts to a fine edge, teaching him lessons that the comfortable walls of Hogwarts could never impart. He had learned to move silently, to listen to the whispers of the earth, and to strike with precision. Each successful hunt had been a grim reminder of the stakes at play, a life-or-death dance that left no room for error.

As he stood there, a shadow amongst the waking world of Diagon Alley, he couldn't help but draw parallels between his past and present. The wilderness had been a harsh teacher, yet it had also been straightforward in its brutality. Here, in the heart of the wizarding world he once called home, the challenges were no less daunting, but they were cloaked in the familiarity of cobbled streets and whispered spells. The irony was not lost on him; once a hunter of Dark Lords, he now waited for the charity of a bakery's refuse.

With a handful of stale bread clutched tightly, Harry made his way through the gradually waking streets of Diagon Alley, heading towards Gringotts. The bread, though hard and far from fresh, was a welcome respite from the gnawing hunger that had been his constant companion since his unceremonious arrival into this version of his world. As he moved, his thoughts were consumed not just by the immediate relief the food provided but by the anticipation and uncertainty of what awaited him at the wizarding bank. The wealth his parents had left him had been a crucial part of his survival and ability to fight in his previous life. He couldn't help but wonder if, in this new timeline, that security would still be there for him.

As Harry navigated the streets, he couldn't shake off a distinct sense of unease. It wasn't just the unfamiliarity of the world around him, but the palpable tension that seemed to hang in the air. Diagon Alley was bustling with activity, witches and wizards of all ages going about their business, yet there was an undercurrent of anxiety that Harry had not felt so acutely before. Shops were more heavily warded, their windows barred and spells of protection shimmering faintly in the early morning light. Even the passersby seemed more guarded, their eyes darting suspiciously, as if expecting trouble at every corner.

The heightened focus on security was unmistakable. Harry noticed groups of Aurors patrolling in pairs, their movements deliberate and watchful. Few possessed the sword Oliver had, but they all had the same curious armor with reef and eagle. Every so often, one of them would cast a glance his way, their gaze lingering just a bit too long, as if trying to pierce through his nondescript appearance to the fugitive he had been branded as in this timeline. It was strange, how the wizarding world had seemingly turned inwards, its paranoia manifesting in the very fabric of Diagon Alley.

Despite the discomfort these observations brought, Harry pressed on, his resolve to reach Gringotts undiminished. The bank's gleaming white marble facade came into view, standing as imposing and unyielding as ever. The sight of it, with its towering columns and the stern faces of the goblin guards stationed at its entrance, offered a mix of reassurance and intimidation. Here, at the heart of the wizarding world's financial empire, Harry would find the answers he sought—or confront a new set of challenges.

As he approached the steps leading up to the grand entrance, the whispers and wary glances of the crowd behind him faded into a distant murmur. His past experiences with the goblins, a race known for their fierce neutrality and stringent adherence to their own codes, weighed heavily on his mind. They would not care for the intricacies of his situation, only the letter of their laws and the contents of their vaults. With a final glance at the bustling street behind him, he crossed the threshold into Gringotts.

As Harry stepped into Gringotts, the immediate shift from the wary atmosphere of Diagon Alley to the ostentatious grandeur of the wizarding bank was almost jarring. The interior of Gringotts was a dazzling display of wealth and power, with the familiar insignia of the Goblin Nation emblazoned everywhere in intricate patterns of gold and silver. Vaulted ceilings soared high above, supported by columns that glittered with embedded gems, reflecting the light in a thousand hues across the polished marble floor.

Goblin guards, more numerous and imposing than Harry remembered, stood at strategic points throughout the lobby. Each was equipped with weapons that seemed almost exaggerated in their menace: massive swords, halberds, maces, and axes, each gleaming with a lethal sharpness. The guards' armor was no less impressive, crafted from goblin silver that shimmered with a light of its own. Every set was a masterpiece, intricately designed and fitting each goblin warrior like a second skin, turning them into living statues of war.

He joined the queue, noting the efficiency with which the goblins conducted their business. Transactions were carried out with a brisk, no-nonsense attitude that bordered on curt. When it was finally his turn, Harry stepped forward to the counter, facing the goblin teller with a quiet determination.

"I need to verify my identity so I may access my vault," Harry said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty that gnawed at him. He was keenly aware of the goblin's sharp gaze, assessing him with an inscrutable expression.

The goblin nodded, a gesture that conveyed neither approval nor disapproval. "Identification through blood is required for those without a key. Follow me," the teller instructed, before leading Harry away from the main hall and into a more secluded area of the bank. 

The chamber they entered was less opulent than the lobby but no less imposing, with walls lined with ancient carvings that spoke of goblin history and their unyielding dominion over their realm. Several other goblins were present in this room, each watching Harry with a predatory gaze. At the center stood a pedestal with a golden basin atop it, a series of goblin runes carved on its surface. The runes described the basin as a truthseeker, capable of banishing impurities and elucidating the true power of one’s blood.

Goblin runes are always strange and poetic.

Harry watched as the goblin teller gestured for him to approach. He was passed a small, silver blade. “Cut,” he was instructed. With a deep breath, he pricked the tip of his thumb on the blade, a drop of blood welling up from the small wound. He pressed his thumb over the basin, letting the blood fall into it.

The moment Harry's blood touched the golden surface, it swirled and disappeared, replaced by a series of flashes of light that danced within the basin. The light formed strange goblin runes that Harry had never seen before. The goblins in the room, including the teller, watched with an intensity that bordered on shock, their usual impassive demeanors momentarily slipping.

Instantly the room burst into activity, with shouts of Gobbledegook filling the room. Harry only slightly understood the strange rasping language and managed to pick out only vague generalities. 

This is quite strange, Harry thought as he shifted where he stood. Goblins are always hard to read but these ones seem positively outraged.

A hiss rattled from the most well dressed amongst the goblins.

“Mr. Potter,” he began, his voice nearly a hiss, “I am Manager Ripguff. There have been some difficulties using your blood to verify with certainty who you are. We require a vial of it to confirm.”

Harry cocked his head. “I don’t recall introducing myself. Did my blood tell you my name?”

“Our wards tell us who you believe you are, but anyone can claim to be anyone, even under our powerful wards.”

“And so you need my blood to verify my identity? Why was the drop not enough?”

Ripguff’s face fell slightly and he shifted his weight forward. “Your blood is providing… very strange readings. Things that shouldn’t be possible. As wizards are known to lie, we require a few more drops of your blood to fully verify the information here to ensure your blood has not been tampered with.”

Could it be from my time traveling? But how would my blood change as a result of that? No, it must be something else.

Harry frowned. It was always dangerous to willingly give your blood to other magicals, but the goblins were more trustworthy than most. It was unlikely he would access his vault without acquiescing. “Very well. You may take a vial. In exchange, you must promise that you will not use my blood for anything beyond the verification procedures you have described, and that you will destroy any excess or unnecessary blood.”

Ripguff nodded. “Agreed Mr. Potter. We will contact you within the next day or so with our results. I apologize for the delay in accessing your vault. If your blood confirms your identity, Gringotts will compensate you for this delay.”

Harry nodded and followed the teller out of the room. 

What else could this be? The goblins never detected anything in my blood before and I’ve used this service all across the world.

Harry wracked his brain as he was led back to the opulent lobby. “If there is nothing else, we will contact you soon, sir.” The goblin did not wait for a response before returning to his previous seat. Harry scowled. Definitely as rude as before.

Exiting Gringotts, Harry felt a mix of frustration and confusion swirling within him. The odd reaction of the goblins to his blood, coupled with the delay in accessing his vault, left him feeling trapped in a world that seemed to have shifted on its axis since his last coherent memory. His primary concern now was finding a secluded spot in the city where he could meditate and work on repairing his magical core, which was still frayed and weakened.

As he meandered through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, trying to formulate a plan, the distinct sound of a familiar voice caught his attention. It was light and airy, unmistakable to anyone who knew her—Luna Lovegood. But that couldn't be right, he thought. Last he knew, Luna was much younger than him, and her voice shouldn't be so mature yet.

Curiosity piqued, Harry followed the sound until he saw her. His steps faltered as his gaze landed on a young girl, her blonde hair almost glowing under the sunlight that filtered through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. It was her—Luna Lovegood. But it couldn't be; the last time he had seen Luna, she had been lifeless, her once vibrant eyes dimmed by the cruel hands of a Dark Wizard. A Dark Wizard Harry had hunted down and destroyed in a blind rage for what they had taken from him. Seeing her now, alive and with that unmistakable dreamy look in her eyes, was like witnessing a ghost stepping out from the pages of his darkest memories.

For a moment, Harry couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The bustling noises of Diagon Alley faded into a distant hum as memories of Luna—brave, kind, relentlessly herself Luna—flooded his mind. She had stood by him when few others would, and in the end, she had paid the ultimate price for her loyalty. The pain of losing her had been a wound that never fully healed, a constant ache in his soul that he had learned to live with. But now, here she was, chatting animatedly with her father, Xenophilius, about some oddity they had found in a shop window, as if she had simply stepped out of the past.

Tears pricked at the corners of Harry's eyes, a mixture of grief, relief, and a profound sense of disorientation washing over him. This was a second chance, a gift he had never dared to hope for, and yet, the sight of her so alive and well was almost more than he could bear. He had to remind himself to breathe, to stay grounded in the reality that this was a different timeline, a different world where the horrors of his past had not yet come to pass.

It took several long moments for Harry to gather the shards of his composure, to push back the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He watched Luna from a distance, memorizing the scene before him as if afraid it might vanish at any moment. Then, with a deep breath that did little to steady his trembling hands, Harry stepped forward.

Approaching Luna and her father was like walking through a dream, each step lighter than the last until he was standing before them, the living embodiment of a memory he had cherished and mourned in equal measure. "Excuse me," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I am Cormac McLaggen. I couldn't help but notice the symbol you're wearing."

As Luna turned to face him, her eyes meeting his, Harry felt a rush of emotions he couldn't name. There was a recognition there, a sense of kinship that transcended time and circumstance, and for a fleeting moment, Harry allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, some bonds were too strong to be broken by death or destiny.

As Luna's gaze met Harry's, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps a curious spark of intuition—danced in her eyes. It was a fleeting moment, one that might have been missed by anyone not paying close attention, but Harry caught it. It was as if Luna, with her unique way of seeing the world, sensed something familiar about the stranger before her, despite his guise as Cormac McLaggen.

"Hello," Luna said, her voice carrying that distinct tone of wonder and acceptance Harry remembered so well. "You're interested in our symbol? It's quite an old one, isn't it, Daddy?"

Xenophilius Lovegood turned to Harry, his eyes brightening with interest. "Ah, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows," he said, his voice tinged with excitement. "It represents the unity of the most powerful magical artifacts in existence: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility. Together, they are said to make one the Master of Death."

Luna looked at Harry, her gaze piercing yet unfocused, as if she were looking through him rather than at him. "I like to think it reminds us of the adventure in seeking the unknown, and the courage it takes to face death," she added, her voice dreamy but sincere.

Harry nodded, impressed by their depth of understanding and the poetic way Luna viewed the symbol. "That's a beautiful interpretation," he admitted, recalling the poetic beauty Luna always seemed to view the world with.

As they talked, Luna's gaze drifted to Harry's attire, which was worse for wear—tattered and patched in several places. "Your clothes," Luna observed, tilting her head slightly, "they look like they've been through quite the adventure themselves. Did you face a fearsome beast, or is it a fashion statement from where you come from?"

Caught off guard by the directness of the question, Harry scrambled for an explanation. "Ah, yes, well, you could say I had a bit of a mishap... with a, uh, particularly aggressive Kneazle," he stammered, hoping the absurdity of his response would be taken as humor.

Xenophilius raised an eyebrow at the explanation, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to sense there was more to the story but chose not to press further. "Ah, the battles we fight with the mundane often leave us with the most interesting stories," he said, tactfully steering the conversation away from Harry's clothing.

Harry, still marveling at the serendipity of the encounter, found himself studying Luna with a mix of curiosity and nostalgia. "If you don't mind me asking, Luna, how old are you?" he inquired, his tone gentle, not wanting to seem intrusive.

"I'm seven," Luna replied with her characteristic dreamy cadence, her eyes momentarily focusing on something in the distance before returning to Harry's gaze.

"Seven?" Harry echoed, a note of surprise in his voice. "You seem...older than seven."

Xenophilius, overhearing the exchange, chimed in with an explanation that carried his usual blend of pride and enthusiasm. "Ah, yes, that would be the growth potions. All pre-Hogwarts bound students in the Magical Imperium take them. It's standard practice these days—helps ensure they're physically prepared for the rigors of magical education."

Harry's brow furrowed slightly at this. Growth potions for pre-Hogwarts students? This was a new concept to him. His mind raced with questions about what other alterations might have taken place, but he decided it was best not to delve too deeply, at least not now. The last thing he wanted was to draw undue attention or reveal his ignorance of what appeared to be common knowledge.

"Interesting," was all Harry said, nodding as if he understood. He made a mental note to investigate this further when he had the chance.

As Luna approached the counter with a handful of items, a woman approached them with a gentle smile, her presence radiating warmth. "Luna, dear, who have we here?" she inquired, her eyes settling curiously on Harry.

Luna turned towards her mother with a bright smile. "This is Cormac McLaggen," she introduced, using the name Harry had provided. "We were just talking about Hogwarts and all sorts of interesting things."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. McLaggen," Luna's mother said, extending her hand towards Harry. "I'm Pandora Lovegood. It's always a pleasure to meet Luna's new friends."

Harry, taken aback by the sudden appearance of Luna's mother—whom he had not expected to see, considering his knowledge of the Lovegood family's future—shook her hand, feeling a mixture of surprise and warmth. "The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Lovegood. Your daughter is quite the remarkable young lady."

Selene's smile widened at the compliment. "Thank you. We're quite proud of her. Now, Luna, we must be going. Mr. McLaggen, it was lovely to meet you. Hopefully, our paths will cross again someday."

As they prepared to part ways, Luna turned to Harry with a thoughtful look in her eyes. "I remember you," she said softly, almost as if confiding a secret. "From my dreams. You were there, but not quite like this. I hope we see each other again soon."

Harry was momentarily speechless, caught off guard by Luna's unexpected revelation. The idea that he had appeared in her dreams, even in some altered form, stirred something deep within him. Longing… and loss.

"Me too, Luna. Take care," Harry finally managed to say, his voice carrying a mix of emotions. As he watched the Lovegoods depart, he felt a blend of sadness and hope. Luna's parting words echoed in his mind, a bittersweet reminder of the past and a curious hint of what the future might hold.

For a moment, Harry stood there, lost in thought, watching the Lovegood’s leave.

I don’t understand this. Things are new and different, but the same. How can Luna remember someone she has never met? I wish that Aspect had given more information. I have so many questions.

Harry stepped out of the store abode, the door closing softly behind him with a click that echoed more in his heart than in the air. The sun was high in the sky, marking midday. Much time left to focus. He took a deep breath, the air filled with the mingling scents of potion ingredients from nearby apothecaries and the faint sweetness of treats from distant cafes.

He didn’t direct his feet so much as let them carry him away, meandering through the less crowded alleys, away from the noise and the people. The conversation with Luna and her father replayed in his mind, each word echoing with a surreal quality. Luna was alive. The weight of those words settled in his chest, heavy and light all at once.

As he walked, Harry found himself tracing the edges of Diagon Alley, where the magical met the mundane in a dance as old as time. The shops here were quieter, the goods displayed in the windows less flashy but imbued with a simple charm. He paused before a small shop, its windows filled with gently floating dandelion seeds, each one glowing softly with an inner light. The sight, so ordinary yet enchanted, tugged a smile from him, a reminder of the magic in the mundane, in the persistence of life and light even in the darkest times.

He thought of Luna, her unwavering faith in things unseen, her strength in believing in a world beyond the visible. Harry felt a kinship in that moment, a shared understanding of looking beyond the surface, of finding hope in the possibility of what could be.

The alley took a bend, leading Harry to a secluded nook where the bustle of the main street faded into a hushed whisper. Here, nestled between two towering buildings, was a small, tranquil garden. It wasn’t a place he had noticed before, hidden as it was, but now it seemed almost like it had waited for him. Wildflowers bloomed in profusion, their colors vivid against the cloudy sky, and a small bench, worn by time, invited a moment of rest.

Harry sat, the cool stone beneath him grounding his swirling thoughts. He closed his eyes, letting the tranquility wash over him, feeling the weight of his emotions—grief, joy, bewilderment—ebb and flow like the tide. He thought of his journey, of the losses and loves that had shaped him, of the path that lay ahead. The certainty of Luna’s survival, the possibility of change it represented, filled him with a cautious hope.

Perhaps a moment of meditation. I can repair my core a bit more.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the echo of Luna's voice still lingering in his mind, stirring a whirlwind of emotions within him. The sight of her, so alive and vibrant, had pierced through the veil of isolation and desolation that had cloaked his heart since his arrival in this unfamiliar reality. Luna, one of his dearest friends, who had stood by him through thick and thin, was here. In a world that seemed to be rewriting the rules he had known, her presence was a beacon of hope, a reminder of what truly mattered.

Harry sought solace in meditation, a practice that had become a sanctuary for his battered soul. Yet, as he sought to mend the frayed edges of his magical core, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to Luna. The memory of her, tortured and lifeless, at the hands of dark forces in his previous life, was a scar on his soul, a source of pain and rage that had driven him to exact vengeance on those who had harmed her.

But now, faced with the reality of Luna's bright, curious eyes and her gentle spirit, Harry felt a resurgence of purpose. The emotional turmoil of their reunion was a stark reminder that he had been given a second chance, not just to live but to protect those he held dear. The determination to safeguard Luna, to ensure that no harm would come to her or to any of his friends, became a burning resolve within him.

As he delved deeper into meditation, focusing on the restoration of his magical core, Harry's resolve crystallized into an unshakeable vow. The challenges of this new world, the mysteries that lay ahead, and the threats that lurked in the shadows would be faced head-on. With Luna's presence as a constant reminder of the bonds that defined him, Harry felt a renewed strength and a willingness to fight harder than ever before.

Beyond Luna and her dreams, there were many questions. How had things changed when he was sent back? Had he done something? Had he broken something? Did this Aspect of Death lie? What about this Magical Imperium? What was the connection with his blood and the goblins? Was this tied to the Great Game the Aspect had mentioned before? Harry opened his eyes and was surprised at the darkness.

A bit longer than I planned… In his focus and contemplation, Harry had lost track of time. The first stars were twinkling into existence. Harry made his way back to his shelter, head blurry after staying focused for so long. Another hunk of stale bread was found.

The night passed in a blur of contemplation and magical healing, but when Harry finally allowed sleep to claim him, it was with a heart lighter than it had been since his arrival. The emotional turmoil had given way to a sense of clarity and purpose. Luna, and the love he bore for all his friends, was a source of power in itself, a reason to push forward, to fight, and to protect.

I won’t fail her. I won’t fail any of them. Not this time. I will be enough this time.

“I hope anyway.”