Chapter One: The Hermit

AN: Rights are to JK Rowling and Warner brothers. Warning for this chapter. It will read very slow, repetitive and boring. That is how this chapter needs to be, but the story will be very different. This chapter is titled the hermit and I want to portray how that feels. If anyone likes this maybe, we will get past chapter 5. This story Idea that I have is a Harry who is not good at wand magic but excels at esoteric magic, namely divination, enchanting, necromancy, and blood magic. He will never be able to stand toe to toe with Tom Riddle or even Snape as a duelist, he will never be able to transfigure like McGonagall or even Cedric. This will be a story with Harry in more of a supportive role but will have to defeat Tom Riddle. Shoutout to my first beta ever in jinxwalnut25 for their wonderful support in helping this mess of thoughts that I have!

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

Three major arcana cards, a new experience for the small, ten-year-old boy in the cupboard. Such an event was something new, exciting even. Large positive emotions were hard to come by at Privet Drive, usually only in the fantastic stories of neighborhood gossip that his Aunt, Petunia, recounted at the dinner table to his Uncle, Vernon, and cousin, Dudley. Before this particular full moon, he had never pulled more than a single major arcana card in any of the draws he had done over the past three years. The first card he drew, the Hermit, symbolizes his past, and his current life with the Dursleys. The card, marked with a IX, was a man facing west carrying a lamp and staff in his right and left hand, respectively. The man was cloaked in grey, with a flowing white beard, forever alone in a barren world: a perfect symbol for Harry. The contemplation of the card brought him back to reality, back to the Dursleys. They were always the Dursleys, never his family, just as he was only the boy living under the stairs, never their nephew. The lack of relationship extended to his referral of them, his 'Uncle' forbade the use of familial prefixes, and so they became Vernon and Petunia, nothing tying them to the raven-haired Harry Potter. He had learned the hard to never display the slightest notion that he shared anything other than a roof with his guardians. The Hermit was often his present, or future, or past: the only constant in Harry's life, other than the chores and travail he would inevitably face day after day. Sitting in the past alone would not be too surprising, but in conjunction with the card symbolizing his present, The Sun, it brought a speck hope thought to be long gone. It promised a life with more than just tolerance, but love and affection the two cards were a hint of a new beginning.

The Sun watched him, staring him down despite its apparent lack of sentience. It was an indifferent face eyeing Harry, pasted on a glowing wall of sunflowers, and the number XIX. In the foreground was a nude child, crowned in more sunflowers and riding a pure white horse, smiling at the holder. The Sun was meant as a beacon of warmth, comfort, hope, not unlike the star it portrayed. Staring at the star outside that shared its likeness reminded Harry of the day it all began when he had flipped this very card for the first time. His first-ever friend, hanging above him, preluding such wonderful occurrences. Shortly after turning the card the first time, Harry was told that the Dursleys were to be heading to a vacation in Germany and that he was to remain alone at Privet Drive. It was the first time the hunger pains stayed away for longer than a few days, the first time he didn't feel like a stranger in someone else's home. And so, The Sun became the one card in his collection that he had consistently brought him joy. However, the card carried with it a warning, a warning to restrain yourself and not overindulge. Harry learnt this the hard way, spending much of that very week throwing up the food he had gorged on, unused to being able to eat whatever. It was a mystery to Harry what The Sun would bring, another vacation, or something else entirely?

The final card was the most offensive of the three. The Wheel of Fortune, X. The card was of the heavens, depicting angels reading on their bed of clouds. In the very center, there was a large wheel holding up a blue sphinx wielding equally blue swords. Counterclockwise portrayed a snake chasing a devil into the three o'clock position. The only certainty the card brought, was that the future is uncertain; what a joke. In all of the tarot deck, The Wheel of Fortune took the cake as the most useless fitting card, unable to give any clues or speculation over what's to come.

The night of the full moon slowly ended, and as Harry drifted off into sleep dreaming not of the moon shining above him, but of the radiant sun smiling down at him.

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

As Harry moved into a deeper slumber, he dreamed of the foundation of his current obsession, precisely three years and six months ago. It began on a day like any other, running home from school, but not out of exercise or any love of running. Instead, Dudley and some of his rougher classmates thought it was a perfect day for their favorite sport, Harry Hunting. Stumbling into various locals, running around trees, and darting through alleyways, Harry attempted to evade the gang after him. He slid inside a small shop that hadn't been there before, in a building he did not recognize. The unfamiliarity set Harry's skin was sitting on edge, the air felt humid to his skin, thick and heavy all around him. It felt much like how he expected walking through a tesla coil would feel, the static dancing through the air, reminding of its uncontrollable and lethal nature. Staying away, but only just, the atmosphere did nothing to calm Harry's nerves.

The seconds filtered away, or was it minutes? Perhaps days? Time seemed to lose all meaning as Harry stood in front of the door, rooted to the spot. Mixed in with the wild air, a feeling of power and hope jumped around. Peace and Serenity juxtaposed by the animalistic feeling the air had taken inside the store. Despite this strange atmosphere, or perhaps because of it, Harry felt no urge to run, content in the feeling it gave off. This feeling he had only felt secondhand, it was one that Dudley often displayed when hugging Petunia; was it love? Suddenly, the peace was gone, and the sound of Dudley and his friends reemerged. Harry turned to run further into the shop but instead found himself staring out of one of the windows, safe inside, while the group of boys ran past his hiding spot. Letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, Harry wished for the feeling to return. He closed his eyes, hoping it wasn't imagined when a small cough startled him out of his musings

A man leaned up against a small shelf, staring at him curiously. Crystal blue eyes pinned Harry to the spot, looking far older than his appearance made him seem. Clothed in an unusual, yellow and black striped robe, buttoned down to his waist where it began to loosely drag. He appeared to be in his thirties, at the most. He was thinner than average, but not as thin as Harry was, and his blonde hair was long and tied behind his hair in a high ponytail. Stepping from the wall, he began to approach Harry, causing the young boy to start sweating, blustering as he began sprouting excuses for why he was there, and how he should go. "Sorry sir, I apologize for the inconvenience, I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll go now," Harry said with a soft staccato, punctuating each word as if it were the end of a sentence. As Harry tried to turn the knob, he realized he couldn't grip the door handle, his hands were shaking too hard and lubricated with his own sweet. It was just as well, his feet remained firmly in place, unwilling to follow Harry's command to turn and leave.

"It's quite alright young man, my name is Adrian Farley," The man said in response, pushing his chest out, opening his arms to gesture around the room, a beaming smile upon his face, "and this is my shop, Lost, Luck, and Stuff." Harry's head began to move on a swivel, taking in the room and noticing how strange it was. To his left sat a bookshelf running to the back wall of the store, stocked end to end with books of various sizes. Small display tables were scattered around the room with seemingly no significance to their placement. Orbs, jewelry, paintbrushes, and knives cluttered the various tables somehow all fitting precariously on the minimal space. The whole place made him feel as if he was in a pawn shop, a very peculiar pawn shop. The man was being sincere, he wasn't intruding, he was welcome.

"Sorry, I have no money. I should go," Harry sputtered out again, the ingrained belief he wasn't welcome dominating against the welcoming presence he felt in the shop, years of training fighting against the sense of wonder and adventure. Too much had happened already, and different didn't mean good; he needed the safety of his cupboard. The man ignored his words and continued forward until he was soon looking down at Harry. When he got close enough, something clicked. The man radiated the same feeling as the shop. There was more than met the eye, it was as if the feeling had come from him all along.

Mr. Farley never lost his smile. Instead, he let out a small chuckle and said, "Now, there is nothing wrong with just looking. One doesn't always have to buy something, right?" The older man didn't pose a danger to him, yet, strangely enough, he didn't want Harry to leave. Thus, Harry decided to appease the man by looking around the strange store. It took him several minutes of walking to realize the complete lack of lights. Instead, every few meters were a set of candles, either on a table or attached to a wall. The whole store seemed darker than it should at four o'clock in the afternoon because of this. It seemed as if the objects were taking the light for themselves, something was not quite normal in the pawnshop. The walls of the room reminded
Harry of pictures of old manor studies, the style didn't match what should be in Surrey. He could imagine an old lord walking through this room with a drink, parroozing over his various collectibles, each with a story attached to it: a far cry from the bland social events on Privet Drive.

Harry walked from table to table, not knowing what he was looking for, but content in running his hands over the various clutter. All the while Mr. Farley watched him with increasing interest, as if in anticipation of what was to come. Eventually, Harry encountered a small box. As his hand brushed over the beautiful brown container, he stopped; that feeling of power earlier had taken a new direction. Though having never seen a symphony, the Dursley's would hardly take him on any outing, he imagined it is how an orchestra director would feel. It was as he controlled the box, conducting what would happen, and in charge of every little piece that made up whatever was inside. The box was a slip seam, and Harry dutifully slid the contents into his palm. He gasped. In his hand, on top of a deck of others, was a beautifully decorated card. On it, a man stood on the edge of a cliff leaning forward as if the wind was holding him up. Next to him, a small white dog sat copying his motion. He was clad in an ornate tunic, with vines trailing over the fabric. In his hands, he carried a traveling stick over his shoulder, and a flower by his side, the sun warming his back. Harry looked down on The Fool.

Looking up, he saw Mr. Farley trying to mask disappointment, evidently not as impressed as Harry himself. Confused as to why he begrudgingly slipped the cards back into place and set them back down. Harry moved on with his search, reluctantly, feeling the loss of cards as the powerful feeling dissipated. Eventually, he came to the books. Running his finger from spine to spine, each book felt unique and powerful, as if the knowledge itself permeated through the books. After touching a specific book, unassuming as the rest, Harry felt a spark, not unlike that of the cards. However, this was different. The cards were subtle and all-encompassing, but this book was dangerous. Sinister. Whatever knowledge the tome carried did not feel of this world, yet still, Harry was drawn to it.

Like a child seeing fire for the first time, Harry reached out to touch where he had felt the spark. Fortunately, drawing it from the shelf left him unscathed. The book sat comfortably in his hand and was bound in brown leather. Harry felt the spine again, feeling little ridges running down. Turning to see the cover, Harry traced a white sigil design that was painted on. He fingered the encompassing circle, then he began to follow the lines from the right side to the top, then lower on the left. He continued, tracing a second a triangle from just above the center of the circle connecting left to right, then below the center, not touching the bottom.

"The gate of Yog-Sothoth."

Harry jumped up, the trance broke. He turned and tried to hide the book behind his back guiltily. The shop owner had lost his smile and was staring at Harry intently. Reaching forward, he held out the cards from before.

"Take these and that," Mr. Farley said, his head tilting at the book semi-hidden behind Harry's back. The mirth gone from his eyes, the shop owner looked far older than the thirty years Harry had assumed when he first arrived. "The book," Mr. Farley explained, his voice sharper than all of the knives in his store combined, "Nothing good will ever come of it, and you will be doing me a favor in taking it off my hands." He gestured to the cards he had handed Harry, "This is payment for your service. Now go." Hugging the book close to himself gripping the deck tight, Harry ran from the store. When he turned around after exiting, there was no store, only an empty lot.

The book, as he later found out, was written in three different languages: Greek, Egyptian Hieroglyphics, and one he was still trying to find. It was odd, the book was written with the languages mixing all over the place, chapter by chapter as one would assume. Harry had attempted to learn some Greek from the library in hopes of being able to read the book but to no avail. The progress on learning Egyptian Hieroglyphics was moving even slower, as scholars still don't even know the meanings of some themselves. Gating most of the translations in more important libraries than his local one. Leading the only resources available in the pictures of books, and most of it was self speculation. In the same way, Harry couldn't decipher the third language and had found no reference on 'The Gate of Yog-Sothoth', whatever that meant. The closest thing Harry found was Thoth, the god of knowledge in Egypt.

The cards, on the other hand, were easy to figure out. The Tarot cards Harry had been given were meant to assist in divining past, present, and future. He studied divination as much as he could in the library, reading various techniques. He had never put much stock into the more obscure sciences, given his upbringing, but felt he could trust this esoteric magic. It was as far as he was willing to go. Harry had made the mistake of taking one of the books home once, an occurrence he never desired to repeat. His uncle, upon finding a book on cleromancy, had punished him so severely he still walked with a slight limp in his left leg. Nevertheless, Harry had truly mastered card reading. The cards responded to him, worked with him as an extension of his hands and mind. The shaping and dealing, though never as powerful in the shop, was as close to the feeling he had felt standing outside the door. The feeling of power and control was like bringing chaos to heel and commanding it. The cards became his friends, in place of the lack of others willing to associate with him, many too scared to get on his cousins' bad side. Touching them, even when not in use, could calm or comfort Harry. No matter what he did, no matter what he was punished for, the cards always stood with him. They were not fickle, they were the only things Harry had ever had to stand by him.

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

His present was the sun, yet never had he felt more restricted. The card was hinting something would change, yet Harry was still in the small area under the stairs. Hardly somewhere that gives an impression of sunshine. It was the following morning and still, nothing came. Harry reached down to touch his book, letting its presence soothe him, bringing the distress he had been feeling down. Something was different though, the cards seemed as anxious as he felt, nervously thrumming in his hands. Harry shook the thought away, collecting his cards and placing them away, upset with himself for not doing it the night before. Reminding himself to not make it a habit, Harry involuntarily thought of what could've happened. If his uncle had seen them. He did not doubt that his uncle finding himself in such a state would lead not only physical pain but the destruction of his only friend: the cards Thankfully his guardians never came to the cupboard, not since he got his limp. Nevertheless, Harry remained wary.

Harry left his cupboard, going through his hygiene routine as quickly and quietly as possible. After getting dressed and precursory cleaning, the cooking began. As always, hearty strips of bacon, sausages, eggs sunny side up, and toast were prepared. While he cooks, Harry's stomach grumbles, a reminder that he hadn't eaten yesterday, and the smell of bacon is no substitute for the real thing. Harry prepares three plates with various combinations of the food and sets them on placemats. He goes to pour tea, white with plenty of sugar, flitting about to make sure everything looks perfect. Contemplating whether to grab the burned bacon stuck in the pan, Harry resigns himself to another day of going hungry. He quickly goes to the cupboard and shuts the door, grateful at least that he finished before anyone came down.

In the nick of time as well, Harry has only just closed the cupboard door before the stairs strain overhead. The smell of bacon was a wakeup call for the others, as the other inhabitants of Number Four make their appearance for the day. Coming down first, the reason behind the groaning stairs and falling plaster, is Vernon. Built like an elephant, and just as strong, something Harry knew firsthand, Vernon had played Rugby at university. While he was once a man of great strength, the years of a desk job and a hearty diet added extra thickness to a body that had once been pure muscle. His powerful figure was usually outlined in a tailored grey suit, his uniform as a regional Director at Grunnings. Combined with his pocket watch and handkerchief, Vernon looked an imposing figure to anyone, especially his nephew.

Though tall, Petunia looked petite next to Vernon. Slim and straight, she was the perfect counter to her husband. An athlete in university as well, a runner, she kept her shape by running through the neighborhood, useful as well to be kept up to date with all the local gossip. Petunia kept her head high, preferring to look down upon you, giving the impression of a rather long and sharp neck. Though rather angular and sharp, Petunia was pretty, her watery blue eyes and curly brown hair, softening much of her features. She dressed to compliment her figure, in flowing skirts and dresses that gave the impression of someone much nicer than she. However, she was just as powerful as her husband, working in the local government. She had originally worked before Dudley was born and was returning now that Dudley was older. Now that he was old enough to be left alone for a few hours, Petunia gladly took the opportunity to return to work. She truly cared for her neighborhood and county, willing to go above and beyond to make it the best it can be.

Harry listened from his cupboard. The content radiating from the kitchen could not have been more unlike the hungry ten-year-old in the dark cupboard. The ceiling rattled once more as Dudley came down to join them. Everything felt different when Dudley was around, he was the recipient of the love in the house. As if a switch was flipped, the content changed to happiness as Dudley made his way into the kitchen. His parents cheerfully greeted their son, his presence waking them up more than the tea ever could. His enthusiastic response could be heard to Harry, as he loudly recounted the dream he had had the night before. The three were close, it was unusual for the happy interaction to be disrupted.

Dudley was very much his father's son. He was big. Standing a full head taller than Harry, Dudley was the tallest boy in their grade. His large frame was strong, built for boxing. At school, he was popular, a rough hand on the schoolyard, and one of the many reasons Harry had no friends. Contrary to what one would think, however, he was not only brawn but also possessed a brain. Ranked top of their class, Dudley consistently scored well on tests, and, when he wasn't engaged in Harry Hunting, could often be seen doing any sort of schoolwork. He was a prodigy in math, having been sitting in on his father's work meetings since he could speak. Most of his drive for success came from the high expectations that his parents set for him. Having both pulled themselves up by the bootstraps, they expected only successes from Dudley, in everything. Their desire for greatness came from love, yes, but their expectations had become stifling, and underneath the calm facade was an underlying worry that he wouldn't measure up.

Unfortunately for Harry, he could not be compared favorably to his cousin. His grades were abysmal, and no amount of effort seemed to improve them. Mentally comparing him to Dudley wouldn't be fair, like apples and oranges, as the drive to succeed simply didn't exist in Harry. Physically, he wasn't the most attractive child either. Thinner than Petunia, Harry's slight build made him look to be eight years old instead of his ten. Where her slimness was that of a runner, Harry's body was due to malnutrition and cramped spaces growing up. His hair was not the straight sandy blond of Vernon and Dudley, nor was it the light curled brown of Petunia, but a mop of unruly black on his head.

The comparisons don't end at Privet Drive, with his broken glasses, crooked teeth, and ill-fitting clothes, Harry was at the receiving end of many jokes. With his appearance, it's unlikely he would have found solace with any other kids, even if Dudley didn't threaten anybody who spoke a kind word to him. Harry was the shortest student for two classes and about the weakest of three. He could have been athletically gifted regardless, but the limp given to him by Vernon ended that dream very quickly. The only redeemable quality about his appearance was his eyes. When people were there, they stopped and stared. They'd get captivated looking into what appeared to be a kaleidoscope of one color, glowing with a hidden depth and power that seemed almost tangible. Harry lived for those moments, convincing him to believe he had worth.

The sound of chairs scraping broke Harry from his thoughts. The family began to move to the sitting room, as they did every morning. The sounds of the telly turning on was his signal to begin his chores. Moving to the kitchen Harry began to clean what remained of breakfast, straining to hear over the sound of the sink as he did the dish, he could hear the peals of laughter over the latest show the Dursleys had begun. Listening to the chatter from the other room, Harry's heart yearned to be a part of it. Just like every other morning, Harry imagined himself there as well, imagining himself as one of the family, feeling Vernon and Petunia's proud smiles.

"The post. Boy! I need my paper," Vernon calls in a gruffer voice than he was speaking to Dudley. His delusions shattered as reality crashed. His place is not with them, it isn't with any family. Going into the entryway he collects the small pile, sorting the letters by the recipient and handing the newspaper to Vernon, Returning to the kitchen, Harry tries to tie his hunger over, wondering if it will be like normal: eating the crumbs left behind or going as far as to lick the egg yolk left on the plate. Fortunately, today was a feast, an entire slice of toast was left behind! His stomach satisfied; Harry prepares lunch with more vigor than usual. As he's making the sandwiches, Harry wonders if it was left behind intentionally, if perhaps they're coming around, if that's what The Sun card was about. After finishing lunch, he packs the mess away and begins on his next list of chores. His day passes as he weeds the garden, dusts the sitting room, tidies the garage, and bakes a shepherd's pie for dinner.

Harry becomes quickly fatigued as the burden of work steals his energy. He's about to grab some fruit to gain back some momentum just as Dudley arrives home. His cousin enters the kitchen, ignoring Harry and not knowing the punishment he had helped Harry avoid, to grab his own secret snack. As his brown eyes met Harry's green, Harry focused. The monotony of his tutoring played in Harry's mind, from Dudley's point of view. The kitchen comes back into view as Dudley looks away. After the small bit of food, Dudley runs upstairs to play on his new electronic, leaving Harry slightly disoriented from the abrupt break. Harry begins to bake, knowing that the arrival of Dudley is a prelude to the arrival of the two adults, and dinner will need to be prepared. He's very good at baking, and it had become the one thing outside of his cupboard and divination that he enjoyed at the Dursleys house. An escape that he could share with the rest of the house, unafraid of the consequences.

Petunia was the next to arrive home, turning on the telly, likely excited to see if her opinion had made it to the news. The oven beeped for the pie just as Vernon arrived home, the smell of potatoes wafting throughout the house. As the three of them began to eat, Harry continued cleaning the house, scrubbing the bathroom until it shone. If he was good, Harry would get any scraps left over that weren't packaged away to keep. After dinner and the subsequent cleaning, Harry retreated into his cupboard for the night. The two adults continue to exchange thoughts on politics and work over tea in the sitting room, going upstairs to sleep when the grandfather clock strikes nine. The entire time they talk, Harry listened from a room away, imagining once again that he's sitting there with them. Mentally interjecting with questions and answering imaginary ones, he's tempted to leave the cupboard and join them. As the two adults go upstairs, the plaster and spiders that rain down on him show him what they think of that idea. For the first time, Harry curses The Sun. The hope he had felt last night dissipates into the dark, much like how The Sun had left him, and Harry drifts off to sleep, aching for

more.

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

The next morning, Harry glumly goes through the same thing again. However, following Vernon's call, "The post. Boy! I need my paper," something strange happens. The mail that Harry went to get is not addressed to any Dursley. Instead, staring up at him in flowing calligraphy are the words, Harry J. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs.

The Sun.

Edited 3/21/2020

Please note the next few chapters will still be up in a reduced state until further noted. No the quality of this fic will not be turning down, The chapters are merely remnants of what I had as a general outline before adding the talented jinxwalnut25 to my writing.