The Great Game: Blackest Dawn

Harry's dreamscape was a battlefield, a memory soaked in fear and fury, replaying the horrors of a moonless night in Greece. The ruins around him, ancient and solemn, had turned into a chaotic arena of spellfire and shadows. The cries of the ICW hitwizards and the minions of the Dark Lord Demetrius filled the night. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and ash, a testament to the spells cast with lethal intent. The night sky, a canvas of stars, was intermittently lit by the flashes of spells, each burst illuminating the desperation of the fight.

He moved with a dancer's grace and a warrior's precision, his wand a blur in his hand as he deflected curses and sent his own slicing through the air. Around him, the fight raged on, a maelstrom of magic and mayhem. He could hear the shouts of his allies, the cries of the fallen, and the relentless crackle of spellfire. But it was Hermione's voice, fierce and unyielding, that anchored him to the moment.

Glancing over, Harry saw Hermione dueling with a ferocity that matched his own. She was a tempest, her wand movements sharp and decisive, holding back two dark wizards at once. Her determination was a beacon in the chaos, a testament to her strength and courage. But even beacons flicker in the storm.

She stumbled. A sudden flash of purple cut through the night, a curse aimed with deadly precision. Harry's heart stopped as it struck Hermione, her guttural scream piercing the cacophony of battle. Time seemed to slow as she crumpled to the ground, her fall a silent echo in the tumult.

NO!

Rage, raw and consuming, flooded Harry's veins. His vision tinged with crimson, he unleashed havoc upon his adversaries. Each curse he cast was a deadly whisper, maiming and killing with a ruthless efficiency that left no room for mercy. He fought with the brutality of a monster, tearing his opponents apart as his curses ripped through their forms. His enemies fell, their broken and bloody bodies strewn about, but the victory was ash in his mouth.

With the immediate threat dispatched, Harry's focus narrowed to a single point: Hermione. Dropping his guard, he ran through the smoky haze, his only thought to reach her side. The ground beneath his feet seemed to stretch into eternity, each step a race against time and fate.

As he ran, the world around him began to blur, the details of the battle fading into insignificance. All that mattered was Hermione, lying motionless on the ground, her fate uncertain. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of fear and desperation driving him forward.

You have to be alright. It was just a stunner. It has to only be a stunner…

Harry's strides faltered as he finally reached Hermione's side, his breaths ragged with exertion and dread. With trembling hands, he reached down to gently turn her over, his heart clinging to a sliver of hope that she might still be alive, that her vibrant spirit hadn't been extinguished on this cursed ground.

But the hope was cruelly snatched away as he was met with the lifeless gaze of her eyes, once full of fire and intellect, now dimmed to a haunting emptiness. A dark, gaping wound marred her throat, the curse having torn through her flesh with lethal precision, extinguishing her light in an instant. The sight of her, so still and silent, was a blow more devastating than any curse.

Her visage, twisted in the final throes of pain, was seared into Harry's memory, an image so stark and vivid it overshadowed all others. It was a memory he knew would haunt him, a ghostly reminder of the cost of this endless war against the darkness.

The world around him—the smoke, the ash, the distant sounds of battle—faded into insignificance. There was only Hermione, her life cut tragically short, and the overwhelming, suffocating weight of grief and guilt.

A scream tore from Harry's throat, raw and anguished, echoing through the ruins and the recesses of his mind. The sound was a release, a manifestation of the agony that wracked his soul, but it brought no relief, only the bitter taste of despair.

With a jolt, Harry woke, his scream still echoing in the silence of his room. He was gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat, as if he had been running through the smoke-filled ruins not in his nightmares but in reality. The release of his power arced around the room as items shattered, books levitated, and lightning arced through the empty air. The image of Hermione, lifeless and broken, haunted the fringes of his consciousness, a ghostly presence that refused to be banished by the light of day.

Harry sat up, his chest heaving, as he tried to anchor himself to the present, to remind himself that it was just a dream - that he saw Hermione just yesterday and would see her again today. But the relief that realization should have brought was tainted by the knowledge that he had failed in his original timeline. Hermione had died. Died because he wasn’t good enough. Died because he hadn’t been stronger. Died because he had been sloppy. 

The war against the darkness was ongoing, and the cost, as his dream had so cruelly reminded him, was often unbearably high.

With a shaking hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow, the afterimages of the dream lingering behind his closed eyelids. He breathed slowly, wresting control of his magic and slowly closing his core. No more destruction would come from his lack of control.

The memory of Hermione's dead eyes would haunt him, however, a specter of what could be, a reminder of what they were all fighting against—and what they were fighting for.

Sleep would not come easy again that night.

Harry was startled awake once more, not by the remnants of his nightmare, but by the persistent rapping on his window. He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as he recognized the familiar silhouette of a Daily Prophet delivery owl. With a flick of his hand, the window unlatched itself, allowing the bird to swoop in and drop the newspaper before taking off again. The room was still charged with the remnants of his earlier outburst, and Harry quickly downed a Wideye Potion, feeling its effects almost immediately.

He unfolded the newspaper, the black and white images moving and shifting within their frames. His eyes scanned the front page. The headline detailed some disturbance on the runic structure of Albion, but it was the side column that caught his attention. It detailed the attack on the inn in Diagon Alley, an event that felt both distant and uncomfortably close. The article read:

Chaos in Diagon Alley: Political Motives Behind the Attack?

In a shocking turn of events, Diagon Alley, the heart of our magical shopping district, became the scene of a terrifying attack last Tuesday evening. Witnesses describe a group of unidentified assailants launching a surprise offensive on the Quaking Dragon, causing havoc and fear among patrons and bystanders alike.

Lord Alton Nott, Lord of the Noble House of Nott, has come forward with a statement that suggests the attack may have had political motivations. "This was not a random act of violence," Lord Nott declared to our reporters. "The individuals behind this have a political agenda, one that threatens the very fabric of our society."

However, when pressed for details on the identity of these attackers, Lord Nott remained tight-lipped. "I am not at liberty to disclose specifics at this juncture," he explained. "The parties involved are members of an Ancient and Noble House, and such matters must be handled with the utmost discretion. Rest assured, I intend to pursue this case through my solicitor and ensure that justice is served."

The Ministry of Enforcement has yet to release an official statement regarding Lord Nott's claims, but sources inside the Ministry suggest that an investigation is underway.

As our community reels from this attack, questions about the security of Diagon Alley and the political undercurrents that may have motivated it remain. We will continue to provide updates as this story develops.

Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the article. Lord Nott's attempt to paint the incident in Diagon Alley as a politically motivated attack, while true to a certain extent, was clearly a maneuver to shift the narrative in his favor. The mention of his solicitor made Harry pause for a moment, considering whether he should invest in one as well.

Shaking his head, Harry tossed the newspaper aside. It was time to focus on the day ahead, not dwell on the spin of the Daily Prophet or the machinations of Lord Nott. Lessons with Madam Justine and Hermione were much more important than the bluster of an old blood supremacist fool. With a sense of purpose, he began to get ready, his mind already turning to the challenges and possibilities that awaited him.

As the morning light filtered through the windows of the Hog’s Head, Harry made his way to the appointed room for his lesson with Madam Justine. Hermione, ever the eager student, was already there, poring over a thick tome that looked older than Hogwarts itself.

The lesson began with a review of wizarding laws and their application in magical society, but it wasn't long before the conversation steered towards the privileges that Purebloods held within the wizarding world. Harry listened, his expression a mix of intrigue and disbelief, as Hermione delved into the subject with a fervor that only she could muster.

"It's not just about societal status," Hermione explained, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Purebloods have legal protections that others don't. They can own people as property, provided there's a contract in place. And then there's the right to vote for their local representative in the Wizengamot, something that's not universally granted."

Harry's mind reeled at the information. "Own people? Like, actually own them?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulity.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, her tone somber. "It's often practiced by the Noble Houses, but theoretically, any Pureblood could initiate a contract with any other witch or wizard to own them."

Madam Justine nodded, her expression grave. "It's a complex and often controversial aspect of our laws. Many have called for reform, but those responsible for changing laws are the same ones the laws benefit. You can understand why it hasn't changed in the nearly one thousand years since the law was introduced."

Harry was overwhelmed. So much has changed. “And how does this voting work? I don’t quite understand the Wizengamot.”

“Basically, there are two classes within the Wizengamot,” Hermione began again, a slight smile on her face. “There are the elected positions that any Pureblood can run or vote for. They make up about one-third of the voting bloc. The upper class are the Noble Houses. You can either be from a regular Noble House, which must be appointed by a majority vote by the Wizengamot, or you are a member of an Ancient and Noble House, which cannot be removed and has existed since Merlin set the Albion Magics during the Age of Myth. Those two classes of noble houses make up two-thirds of the voting bloc.”

“Seems like the Wizengamot is stacked heavily in favor of nobles.”

“Indeed it is,” Madam Justine said. “It has been this way for as long as we have recorded history within the Imperium. It is less about those of us with less refined blood, and more about the Noble Houses and the average Pureblood.”

Harry’s head spun with this new information. So much to keep up with. Too much new stuff.

The discussion continued, touching on the historical context and the modern implications of such laws, but Harry could see that Hermione was itching to dive deeper into the legal texts, her curiosity unsated.

Before long, Madam Justine glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. "As much as I enjoy our discussions, we have a schedule to keep. Hermione, we need to head to the Ministry of Registration. You need to complete your application for tutoring."

Hermione's eyes lit up at the reminder. "Of course, I almost forgot. Thank you, Madam Justine."

As they began to gather their things, Harry felt a sudden urge to join them. The Magical Imperium was new, and this was a good opportunity to see how things had changed from the Ministry of Magic, not to mention to support Hermione in her endeavors.

"Do you mind if I tag along?" Harry asked, looking from Hermione to Madam Justine. "I'd like to see the process, and I could use a bit of a walk."

Hermione smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Of course, Harry. It'd be nice to have you there."

Madam Justine gave a nod of approval before grabbing her pouch of Floo Powder. "Very well. Let's make a day of it, then. The Ministry awaits."

With a sense of anticipation, the trio made their way out of the room, and traveled the floo network to the Ministry of Registration.

The sights and sounds of the Ministry overwhelmed Harry. The Ministry of Registration opened into a large entrance hall, with an aura of imposing authority.

Dominating the space in front of him were statues of wizards, each meticulously carved from marble that appeared to gleam and shift colors under the enchanted ceiling, which mimicked a sky set in twilight. The statues stood with a wand pointed towards the sky in one hand and a sword in the other, with the symbol of the Magical Imperium of Albion - the eagle surrounded by a laurel wreath - apparently cast by the statue's wand.

Beyond those statues was a crowd of people listening to an unfortunately familiar face. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that silver hair and look of superiority anywhere. Lucius Malfoy.

As the trio approached the crowd, Madam Justine stopped them. Her voice was low and strict. “Be very careful here children. Lord Malfoy is the head of the Noble House of Malfoy. Keep your mouths shut and do not speak to anyone here.” She eyed Harry for a moment longer to ensure he got the message.

“And what is it you believe the French Ministry has done, Lord Malfoy?” a voice called from the crowd.

Lord Malfoy, with his effortless elegance and a demeaning aura that seemed almost tangible, glowered at the man.

“It is not my belief, but the faultless investigation of our Aurors that has confirmed the impure beast lovers have attacked the ward structure of Albion herself.”

The murmur of shock penetrated the crowd. Harry cocked his head. His glance at Madam Justine and Hermione provided no context.

The French Ministry attacked us? But why?

“It is, however, my belief that the reason they have done this lies in their reprehensible acts. Lying with centaurs and veela is a blatant affront to the purity of our kind, and aligns them closer with the basest of muggleborns than with true wizards.”

Fire instantly lit Harry’s blood. Does this fool ever learn?!

Just as he opened his mouth, Madam Justine grasped his wrist. His eyes met hers and for a moment Harry pressed towards action. Her stern gaze silently implored him to hold his tongue and his resolve faltered. Better to be strategic here.

Looking around, Harry expected to find allies in the crowd, others who shared his indignation. Instead, he was met with a sea of faces, some nodding in agreement with Malfoy, others indifferent. 

Of course. Bitterness built up in his chest, but Lord Malfoy continued.

“Regardless of their proclivities, we will find those responsible and they will suffer the might of Albion, be they creature-lover or Lord. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us.”

As Lord Malfoy's voice, imbued with a cold certainty, continued to fill the room, a sudden tension crackled through the air, a prelude to chaos. From the fringes of the gathered crowd, a spell, dark and lethal, hurtled towards the podium with deadly intent. The crowd's gasp was almost a single, collective breath, a moment frozen in time as the spell neared its target.

In a flash of golden light, an Auror sprang into action, intercepting the spell with a shield charm that shimmered like the surface of a sunlit lake. The Auror, clad in armor that glinted with the insignia of their order, moved with a grace and power that spoke of years of training. With a swift motion, the Auror not only shielded Lord Malfoy but also bound and levitated the perpetrator, a man whose voice was thick with a French accent, his words a passionate plea against the injustice he perceived.

"The French did nothing wrong!" the man cried out, his voice laced with desperation and fury. "You are going to condemn thousands of innocents to death and enslavement!"

Lord Malfoy, unruffled by the attempt on his life, dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, his gaze icy as he proclaimed, "All who oppose the might of Albion will fail, for they lack purity of body and so cannot have purity of purpose."

"Blood purity is nothing but a myth!" the French wizard shouted, struggling against his magical binds. "All magical lives matter equally, whether born to magical parents or not!"

Lord Malfoy, standing tall and unyielding, regarded the man with a look of disdain. "Blood purity is not a myth," he retorted, his voice carrying a weight of conviction that silenced the murmurs in the crowd. "It is a symbol of our right to rule, a testament to our heritage and our power. Ours is the blood of Merlin. Our society has thrived for over a thousand years, becoming the most powerful magical society in the world. And do you know why?" He paused, allowing his gaze to sweep over the assembled crowd before settling back on the captive wizard. "Because of our purity. Our purity of body, of blood, has yielded purity of purpose. We know what we must do because it is written in the essence of who we are."

The French wizard's eyes flashed with anger and frustration, but before he could respond, Malfoy continued, his tone dismissive. "The French Ministry, with its creature copulation policies and disregard for tradition, has existed for barely a hundred years. A mere blink in the history of magic, and yet you dare to challenge the foundations of our society?"

With a flick of his wand, Malfoy silenced the man, effectively cutting off any retort. "Take him away," he ordered the Auror, who nodded and began to move away with the still-struggling wizard in tow. Whispers filled the hall. 

Lord Malfoy, seizing the moment, continued, his voice rising above the whispers, "The truth will always win out, regardless of the feelings of lessers. Ours is a purpose built by Merlin himself with over a thousand years of history. We will not fail." His final words left a heavy silence in their wake as he turned and left through the chamber behind him. Questions called after him, but Harry heard none of them.

The calls for purity left no impression on anyone in the hall, save for the doomed man. It was as if everyone already agreed about the supposed purity of blood.

How do I operate in a world like this? If I speak out, I will suffer. The institutions themselves support this! Don’t they understand that Dark Lords thrive in this? How do I protect these people from themselves?

As Harry’s mood darkened, his ambient magic began to surge. Hair and paper were tossed around as if a breeze blew through the room. The twilight ceiling flickered as storm clouds appeared. Smaller bolts of lightning arced across the empty space.

People began to panic before Madam Justine once again grabbed his wrist, breaking his focus before guiding both of her charges to a side room.

“This is wrong!” Hermione cried out, barely containing her tears.

Harry did not respond and could not find a reason to lift his eyes from the floor.

“This is our reality, Ms. Granger,” Madam Justine replied gently. “We are not equals here. We Muggleborns are tolerated because if we weren’t the Statue of Secrecy would be broken.”

“So that’s it then? I study and do my best and prats like that Lord get to walk all over me and I have to take it?” Her voice cracked one final time as the tears broke free.

Madam Justine did not break eye contact with Hermione. “The harsh truth… is yes. You can find value in your life through your work or your family, but our society does not consider us equals with Purebloods.”

“Why would I ever want this? For some magic? To make some stuff float and to not be burned? In exchange I’m not even a person to these people! I don’t want to live in a world like that!”

Madam Justine stooped to Hermione’s level and hugged her. Harry lifted his head and hugged her from the side.

“The reason is because you are Hermione Granger,” he responded. “And while we haven’t known each other for long, you're not the type of person to give up because it’s hard. I know you will do your best to right these wrongs.”

Hermione sniffled again as she broke the hugs.

“It just hurts so much. I thought I finally found a place I belong and then this…”

“You do belong here,” Harry said emphatically. “We just have to show these fools that truth.”

Hermione was silent for a long moment before she nodded.

“Heir Potter is right, Ms. Granger,” Madam Justine said as she drew herself to her full height. “I have never seen anyone pick up this information as fast or as completely as you have. You have an opportunity here to better your own station and help those similar to you.”

“And you’ll have me with you the whole way. Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. I can help.”

That seemed to perk her up as her smile reached her eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Madam Justine started, smoothing her robes. “We must submit your tutor paperwork for approval. Let’s get that done before Lord Malfoy deigns to speak more.”

As they continued their travel through the Ministry of Registration, Harry was once again drawn into a bout of self-reflection.

In the past, the Malfoy’s were a family of snobs but they were never that elitist. Are all Lords like that? What do the laws actually say about Muggleborns and Half-bloods?

Before long they submitted the paperwork and were on their way, Harry lost in his thoughts the whole time. As they returned to the entrance hall, Harry said bye to Hermione and Madam Justine before taking the floo back to his room at the Hog’s Head Inn.

Why is the focus on blood purity so much more intense than before? What could have happened to make the Ministry change into this Imperium? It’s almost a caricature of itself.

Harry paced around his room. How do I fix this? How do I help society? What can I do aside from destroying Dark Wizards? I don’t have the knowledge or skills to change all of society. I failed before and with this more extreme society, I would certainly fail again.

Then it clicked. I don’t have to do it alone. Madam Justine could help me.

In an instant he Apparated to the room she was teaching in and found her packing the last of the books from before.

“Heir Potter?”

"Madam Justine," Harry began, his voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in his stomach, "I've been thinking a lot about our society, about the divisions and prejudices that tear us apart. I want to change that. I want to build a world where blood purity isn't the measure of a person's worth."

Madam Justine looked up at Harry with a mix of curiosity and concern. Her eyes, wise and discerning, seemed to see right through him. "Heir Potter," she said, her voice soft yet firm, "the ideals you're speaking of are noble, but you must understand that blood purity has been a cornerstone of Albion's culture for over a millennium. It's woven into the very fabric of our society. Changing such deeply ingrained beliefs would be a Herculean task, especially for one person, even if that person is the Heir to an Ancient and Noble House."

Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself for the revelation he was about to share. "I understand the magnitude of what I'm proposing," he admitted. "But I believe I have the means to make a difference, perhaps more than you realize."

Madam Justine raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation for him to continue.

"I'm not just the Heir to one Ancient and Noble House," Harry said, each word deliberate, "I am the Heir to four."

The declaration hung in the air between them, heavy with implications. Madam Justine's initial expression of skepticism faltered, giving way to shock and then, slowly, to contemplation. The revelation was unprecedented; never before in the history of their society had one individual held such potential power and influence.

For a moment, the room was enveloped in silence, both of them considering the weight of Harry's words. Then, Madam Justine leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on Harry with a new intensity.

"Four Ancient and Noble Houses," she repeated, the reality of the situation settling in. "That is... unprecedented, Heir Potter. I don’t think that has ever happened in the history of the Imperium. With such heritage, you wield considerable influence. Perhaps," she paused, choosing her words carefully, "perhaps you might indeed be able to initiate the change you wish to see."

Internally Harry cheered. I can do something to make the world a better place.

“But just because you might be able to start doesn’t mean you would be successful. Change requires much more than votes. It requires allies and infrastructure - neither of which House Potter has, especially in these tumultuous times.”

Madam Justine regarded Harry with a seriousness that matched the gravity of their conversation. "Heir Potter, to initiate the changes you wish to see, you'll require a robust network of allies and a solid infrastructure - gold and resources. Currently, your Houses lacks both," she explained, her gaze unyielding, underscoring the importance of her words.

Harry, feeling a mixture of determination and uncertainty, asked, "How do I acquire such things? Allies and infrastructure?"

“Correct me if I am wrong, Heir Potter, but you do not have a guardian for any of these Houses, do you?”

“No. I just found out about this yesterday.”

"I thought as much. In the circles you're aiming to influence, such support is often secured through marriage," Madam Justine explained, watching Harry closely for his reaction.

"Marriage?" Harry repeated, taken aback by the suggestion. The concept seemed so distant from the immediate concerns of strategy and social change he had in mind.

"Yes," Madam Justine continued, her voice steady. "As the Heir to four Ancient and Noble Houses, it's expected that you would unite each House with a powerful ally. Marriages, in this context, are not just personal unions but political strategies. Each wife from a significant House could dramatically enhance your political influence and the power of your alliances."

Harry absorbed her words, the reality of the situation settling over him. The path to change, it seemed, was intertwined with traditions and expectations far older and more complex than he had anticipated.

Harry gulped hard. “I… don’t think I can marry four witches. That seems… excessive.”

“Perhaps in some parts of the world it would be seen as wrong, but remember how Albion works. Blood purity above all. If you want to change society, you must unite disparate Houses. There are a handful of Lords that have two wives, but I don’t think any have ever had four.”

“I can’t imagine keeping four witches happy.” His mouth was dry. It seemed there was little way out of this.

Madam Justine smiled. “You are a good person, Heir Potter. You will do your best to keep them happy. But the reality is their happiness is of little consequence. Once your status as Heir of four Ancient and Noble Houses becomes known, Lords will be soliciting you until you… find acceptable candidates.”

Harry looked up at the ceiling before meeting Madam Justine’s eyes again. “So I need to marry four witches. Four noble witches. So I can use their family and connections to attack the very system that got me four wives.” 

Harry felt his legs go weak.

“I would not put it in such a way, but essentially, yes.”

Insanity.

Harry scoffed. “I find this hard to believe. What woman would be okay with being a second or third or fourth wife?”

Madam Justine laughed. It was a soft sound, almost melodic. “Pureblood women do not have the luxury of choosing their husbands. They are tools for their Lords just as much as they are to you. Do not look at it in such a black and white way, Heir Potter. There are many worse things than being married to the most politically available wizard in our entire history.”

Harry gulped. “I don’t think I - I mean is this really the only way?”

Madam Justine schooled her features. “Of course not. You could build trade alliances. You could court various Lords over many years and change their mind over time. You could threaten and mollify and bargain and steal until you have enough favors and blackmail to achieve your goal. You might even be successful.”

The catch?

Her gaze hardened slightly. “You will still be expected to marry four witches. You need four separate wives to keep the Houses separate. You are Heir to four Ancient and Noble Houses. They cannot be absorbed or destroyed. The magic of Albion - the magic of Merlin himself - prevents this. Even suggesting that you have only one wife will fly in the face of tradition so significantly that the other Lords will demand your acquiescence.”

“So no matter what, this is my future? I don't know that I am enough for four witches. I don't know that anyone is enough.”

She smiled gently again and softened her eyes. “Of course you are enough. Do not see this as some inevitable doom. See it as an opportunity. You can approach families with eligible daughters. Court them over many years. Build your relationship with their parents and help them come around to your way of thinking.”

So this was it. His future was laid out before him. Do I accept this and play their game or try and find my own way through?

Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny all flashed through his head. Neville, Fred, George, Sirius, Remus, and many others followed. This focus on blood purity would lead them all to ruin once again. Their Final Night would come because of this cursed belief. His battle against the Dark hadn't worked so far. Killing Dark Lords only slowed the rot, never stopped it. Would I marry four witches to protect them?

Instantly the answer clicked in his mind. Yes, of course I would.

Harry sighed and swallowed hard. This was it.

“Alright. This seems insane but I will do it. But I will need your help.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Of course, Heir Potter. We can make sure the witches you court are of good, noble stock. No families with ties to Death Eaters or other truly Dark families. Some with good trade relations and reasonable Lords. Not all Purebloods agree with the status quo, after all.”

All Harry could do was nod. This is my fate it seems.

“There is also the matter of you declaring your status as Heir of those other houses, but we can look at that another day. Go back to your room and sleep. I imagine you have much to think about.”

Harry nodded again. “Yes Madam Justine. Thank you for all your help.”

She smiled. “Good night, Heir Potter.”

I am not good enough .

Harry looked at himself in the mirror.

I am scrawny. I don’t know what’s going on in this world. My core is weak even if my ring supplements my power.

He turned away and paced around his room.

I am good at killing. At destroying. He grimaced.

But I have never been good at loving. Being a husband seems so… not me. My last girlfriend…

Memories of an auburn haired girl flashed through his memory. Of good times and bad times. Her final breath echoed in his ear. He shook his head.

I am not good enough.

He sat at the edge of his bed, head in hands. He downed another dose of Growth Potion, its unpleasant muddy flavor lost between his thoughts.

Maybe with Justine I can be better. Maybe I can fix this broken world.

He sighed heavily as he laid back in bed, eyes closed.

But right now I am not good enough.

FWOOSH!

An enormous pillar of flame burst from the middle of the North Sea. The coast of Scotland was just barely visible. A witches cackle could just be heard.

The dark intelligence of the ritual looked for its prey. Its summoner. The pillar twisted and found its target - the small, blonde haired girl with a devilish grin.

OBLITERATE.

With a snarl, the pillar raced towards the girl as she raised her hand, the wind whipping her long hair against her body.

Her lips moved and a language lost to the world for thousands of years was uttered. The pillar and the creature within found itself being pulled further down. Down into the girl's chest. Down, down, down…

Erinvele Perl absorbed the flame deep into her core. The ritual was a success. The Demon of Flame was tamed and she would use its power for own ends.

“Almost got me. Demon doesn’t know what’s best for it.”

She cackled again as the ritual circle broke and her hands ejected flame.

“Perfect. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”