Chapter Four: The Wheel of Fortune I
AN: Rights are to JK Rowling and Warner brothers. Please write a review, feedback would go a long way to improve my work. If anyone likes this maybe, we will get past chapter 5. WARNING: This chapter I introduce low-level horror elements, as you can see I do not have this story tagged as horror. I find when used sparingly it can make for a great addition to any story. No this will not be a straight-up horror read, but occasionally a chapter or two will have elements of it. Namely, as some people could probably tell, I will use elements of cosmic horror. I need a beta, so if anyone finds this story interesting please contact me and we can see if we can work together to make something good.
The Wheel of Fortune.
The future is unknown. This is an inevitability of the universe. A counter to this is 'The Laws of Cause and Effect and Probability' which can make educated guesses over that future. Some of these futures are clearer to foretell than others, letting go of a held object will prompt it to fall to earth is one example of this. One practice of divination is working magic to draw out the cause of the world and predict the most probable fate. Thus, the nemesis of divining the future with tarot is established, The Wheel of Fortune.
To a diviner, much like Harry thought himself, it was a card that spat in his face. It often seemed the true antithesis to the art. He also never predicted that his future existed so close to his present, that the future the card spoke of existed two days away. Harry assumed that he had entered the domain of The Wheel of Fortune given how his head spun. The dark of the room bright with lights conjured up by Harry's eyes, though they did not help him see, only visual representations of the force behind the blow. Looking around the kitchen he was so familiar with Harry located his assailant. Vernon was standing beside the door bat in hand, Harry's eyes caught the burning fury and surprise of Vernon's staring back. His uncle had never played the sport before, not beyond pickup games in high school, but the man oft spoke that there were many uses for the bat. It surprised both him and Harry as the contact of the visions swing was not enough to send Harry to bed, unconsciousness eluded. Within the fury was another emotion, fear. Fear of Harry's potential, and what he could do to his loved ones.
The burning desire to harm his ward, to protect that was important, overtook him again and approached Harry with the bat, eager for a second swing. From inside the man's mind, he saw instances of a warning letter, horror stories of Petunia's parents' demise and the leech in the cupboard were all the things going through the gigantic man's mind. Harry felt this and knew what to do, a way to prevent the pain, doing the practiced motion of only hours ago he sent his yew wand into his hand. Harry had no clue how to use a wand, but that didn't matter, the object alone should be enough for Vernon. Then, a strange occurrence happened, despite not knowing any spells, the focus generated a swirl of magic around Harry, to help its new master, the act fueled by the child's fear. His guardian took a step back, in horror, from the weapon in the hand of his ward. The house quaked beneath his retreat, the familiar sound of stairs taken faster then he had ever heard.
Harry realized that he must flee, he doubted that this would be the last incident between the pair, the next would probably be fatal. Turning to run out the door he didn't make it far until he remembered his cards and his tome. Dragging his new chest with him he stumbled to his cupboard struggling to move, his mind still reeling, spots still decorating his vision. Almost pulling the door off its handles he combed through it, grabbing his treasures. His book, the cards, his stone collection, they all hadn't moved. He loaded the items into his chest, gingerly, vigilant to not damage them, they were his companions, his friends, Harry could never forgive himself if harm befell them. This had taken to much time. Overhead the sound of footsteps moving down the hall to the stairs provided a reminder he needed to hurry, the shower of dust above informed him he failed. Latching the chest he proceeded to the exit door again but was met in the hallway.
"Boy, stop right there," Vernon said in an aethereal serene tone, unsuited for his current state which should match that of a berserker. "Turn around," Years of conditioning triggered, and he listened, slowly turning to face the man who raised him, wand still in hand. Harry did and wished he hadn't, Vernon was standing at the bottom of the stairs holding a two-handed gun, a rifle which Harry did not realize existed before this occasion, Vernon's eyes no longer containing the rage and fear. Only retribution. The icy stare caused Harry to shiver, and for the first moment since beginning to live on Privet Drive, Harry had fear for his survival. The barrel of the weapon pointed straight at the child. Despite his slight proportion, there was no hope that the bullet would miss at this range, it wouldn't matter how quick he was, he would die. Before they had always taken comfort away from him, giving him enough to live, but his uncle or aunt would take it all away. Now they were taking more, taking his very self away.
Act or die. His instincts flooded him, and Harry yanked and pulled on his magic, allowing the foreign power to fill his whole being, saturating himself in the energy. He called out to it and asked for help, the flow coursing through him was his response. He asked his new partner, his 13 inches of yew, to help, pleading with it. The gun sounded and a crack followed. Blood hit the wall behind him, but Harry was gone.
The Wheel of Fortune.
White, everything was white. The ceiling, the walls, his clothes, the bedding, even the drink on his nightstand, all white. Even worse from the color was the fact that he recognized nothing. There existed no clock in the room, nor a calendar. The only thing that let him experience time was the sun's movement outside of his window. Maybe he was dead and waiting for his judgment, "the death card would have been better." He cursed his deck for not giving him an ample warning. Harry knew however that he was not dead, for the deceased probably had more enjoyable things to do than rest in a vacant room watching over an active street below. He felt over his shoulder, touching only a slight swell in the skin. Rolling it, there was no resistance nor loss in movement. A remarkable situation for having been shot. Inside his gown he rubbed his fresh scar, a slight thing despite the heinous nature of its origin.
A bare touch caused him to recall the burn. The agonizing sense of the hot bullet passing through his body, the agony of his retreat. Even worse from the pain of the bullet was the burning sensation all over his body inside and out. The sense of being compressed, as if his cupboard had collapsed on him, the pain of being ripped apart and assembled anew. A sudden impact of landing hard on the street, looking at his own leg, bleeding in front of his eyes, no longer on him. The rush of people approaching him, shouting, questioning. Nothing followed all this. After endless nothing, white. As the sudden urge to use the restroom hit, he sat, head spinning, the headache he didn't notice he had revealed itself. With his gown riding up from the activity he saw an ugly gash around his bad leg, the same limb he had lost a staring contest with. Eventually making his way to his feet he smiled a bright smile that the leg still worked, though walking to the bathroom showed his limp had magnified.
After relieving himself he walked into the room again. This time he was not alone. A single unique feature was present, the absence of glasses showing only a blur. It sat next to his bed, on a chair new to the room, for it gleamed brown, not white. The blur shot up and made its way to Harry, clutching him and struggling to help him back into bed. Harry flinched from the contact but allowed the man to guide him, the blur apologizing for not being in earlier. The sound was male. Once the man had made certain the young wizard sat snugly in bed they talked. The discussion that followed Harry would never forget.
"So, Mister Potter, My name is Harry Thompson, but you can call me Doctor Thompson. I have been in charge of your care since arrival at Albertsons Medical." The man said in a gentle voice as if wishing to not upset him. He had a pleasant tone. Harry wanted to glimpse into the man's eyes. "I am glad to inform you that you have made a complete physical recovery, that being a reattachment of your leg, and a complete overhaul of your shoulder." After letting Harry digest that report he continued, "This has taken the better part of a week to carry out, but you are physically healthy."
Harry interrupted him, in confusion at being asleep for over one day, not recalling an occasion where he slept over seven hours. "Doctor Thompson, you keep saying I am physically healthy, or physically fine, why do you specify that? Is something wrong with my mind, is something wrong with my magic?" Harry clasped his wet palms and shook, despite only being introduced to it yesterday he was possessive over his magic. Despite only being introduced to magic yesterday he realized it had been with him much longer. Magic surrounded him in Ollivander's shop when he joined with his wand, but also with his book, or his cards. He had known the delicate caress of magic with every divination attempt, losing it would be as if he had lost himself.
The room was quiet. "Apparition is a hard feat of magic, a large number of adults can never achieve it, given the amount of magic that needs to be channeled to succeed." He let that description resonate, his voice had a somber undertone he was struggling to suppress. "The fact you could do it is honestly perplexing, but it was not without consequence." The declaration remained in the air.
"To explain what happened to you I will have to first explain some things you would learn at your magic school a few years down the road. We wizards pull magic from the world to fuel spells, we then push it through our bodies to give it direction, and then through a concentrated point, that point being of our wand, which allows the magic to occur. Do you understand?" Harry nodded, it seemed like mumbo jumbo but Harry was racing to his answer, did he still have his magic, or was he alone. "One must practice magic to be able to push more of it through, much like a muscle, but if they push more then they can handle they hurt the body." He let Harry think upon his words. "As I have said, Apparition is difficult, but it is difficult for multiple reasons. The first is the concentration required, the second is the magic required. To be honest, your body couldn't handle the magical stress you had forced it into."
Harry nearly cried out. Would he never be able to use magic again? His breathing took off, his heart raced. "Sir, can I no longer use magic?" He questioned out loud, desperate to know.
The doctor's reply came slow, "You can, you have just damaged your magic pathways, making it more difficult for yourself. I am sorry." He answered in the same tone as his apology, mournful, all Harry wanted to do was cry. "Now Mr. Potter, the Aurors will come and ask you some questions about your situation, can I get you anything before that?"
"Yes please, I, well, I can't see. Could I get my glasses?"
"Of course, yours were broken, but I will send for a crafter, they will be up shortly." With that Dr. Thompson left the room. The dam that Harry had constructed broke, he cried. He knew of magics existence for less then a day already he had damaged the thing he found as the most precious. Vernon had sought to kill him. He thought about that, the man who raised him had tried to kill him. Harry assumed hatred from them, considered nonhuman in the eyes of his blood relatives, but to try and kill him like a rat, that was too much. What had he done, why did they despise him, what did he do. Was he evil for the sake, was his presence alone all that was required for hate to fester. The tears continued to fall, pooling below him.
From the foot of his bed, a small brown shape lunged at him, as Alastair made his residence known to the young wizard. Harry smiled down at the new pet whom he shared a special connection with, Alastair looked back. The pair sat in shared silence, both deep in sorrow. As the minutes rolled by a knock sounded. Wiping his face he told the knocker to enter with a wavering voice. It was another man, this one introduced himself Samual Harris, a master crafter of enchanted items, with a heavy lean on glasses, despite not wearing them himself. After various spells, he gave Harry a pair of glasses, pulled from a case that entered the room with the man. He promised he would return with the final product, but these filler glasses would have to work. Harry stayed in awe, never seeing so clear, the blurriness he thought natural, gone.
The Wheel of Fortune.
As Master Harris left, a pair of individuals approached, joining the white room. The woman appeared regal looking, her posture as straight as her greying auburn hair. Her eyes seemed hard as ice, and blue to match. Her compatriot was a firm man, younger than his co-worker, his head reflecting the lights of the room.
The woman took point, "Hello Mister Potter, my name is Amelia Bones, and this is my partner John Williamson, we have some questions for you." Her voice emanated authority, and despite being held back it rumbled with authority. The initial inquiries seemed routine, his name, age, birthday, address. Then she asked him if he remembered how he ended up where he was. He told her the tale, of the letter, of Professor Sprout, of reaching home, and of running away.
"Your uncle is currently in custody for attempted murder, and after finding traces in the home of child abuse your aunt was deemed unfit to continue to watch over children, meaning your cousin will be with your Aunt Marge now. You need not testify." She continued to explain what would happen to his former guardians, how the muggles would see they would never harm Harry again. The boy could only nod at the stream of horrible events that had happened to the Dursleys, feeling nothing but pity for them, why was it their fault they had to host him. They deserved it, they needed to suffer. That Dudley got off scot-free was bad enough. Harry didn't hate Dudley though, he was a respectful boy, he didn't despise the Dursleys at all, they were not evil. He breathed, closing his eyes he steadied himself, forcing the voice down again.
"Now is the question of your living condition next year. Luckily you are going to Hogwarts, but after that, we will need to locate you some new guardians, proper ones this time." She looked down on him with sympathy. "Don't worry about it. We can start on some paperwork later, but throughout the year we will have meetings in Hogsmeade, to find you a home, a family." After a few more moments of silence, she spoke again, realizing the boy wouldn't speak. "Until the year starts you will live here, on ministry funds, of course. You will have a curfew of seven o'clock in the evening and will answer to your physician as if he were your guardian. That is all, have a pleasant day." With that the duo left, leaving Harry again alone. Harry wondered if Mister Williamson couldn't speak.
The hours milled away with Harry reading some basics from his textbooks, though none of them described what the doctor had said about magic and how it functioned. The books only spoke about feeling and willpower, using messy looking equations with variables that had no numerical value. How does one measure concentration? They listed things they called magic spells which looked to be pseudo-Latin phrases with literal and nonliteral translations to the effect they caused. Just as Harry began to drift off, another knock sounded on the door interrupted him, entering was the man who had given him his new glasses, Samual Harris. Harry gave the man a lookover, he deserved as much for letting Harry see.
Samual Harris was an odd fellow. He stood towering and heavy, not to Vernon extent, but tall and bulky all the same. He looked to be around Vernon's age. Despite that, he possessed a soft smile that was absent from his erstwhile guardian and a gleam that manifested in his eyes when he watched Harry seemed just as alien. He held a narrow package, bound in maroon and gold paper. "I got this for you, as a thank you and late birthday present, I have some enchanting to do on it, meaning I will do it by August 27th, but I wanted to make sure you liked them." He was nervous, Harry wondered what caused people to act a fool around him. A gorgeous pair of spectacles with rounded corners and sizeable frames came from the package. A brilliant silver color decorated the frames, not unlike the metal that was used in Gringotts.
"I can't accept this sir, they look far too expensive." The elder leaned forward, grasping Harry's hands in his looking deep into his eyes.
"This is a thank you, my boy, for everything." Harry witnessed the moniker again, 'the-boy-who-lived' but this time held something new, something that Master Harris feared. It was a demon of death, Voldemort. Harry initiated the break this time, glancing down at Alastair. The brown horned toad looked back. Seeing that the boy was probably tired Samual Harris reminded Harry to swing by Luxurious Lenses, his store, on the 27th.
Harry overtook by exhaustion allowed sleep to overtake him, dreaming of snakes chasing devils, later of the wonders of magic. He dreamt of his wheel of fortune until he tumbled from the heaven depicted in the card until, after an eternity, landing on a heap of balls, staring forward to a gate which stood great and noble. The area around him completely dark, vastly different from the blue atmosphere he previously left, yet despite no light source Harry could see. Below him had strange orbs, a weird green mass of spheres all around him, where the balls did not exist was void. Harry focused ahead and started striding towards the gate, desperately needing the knowledge hidden behind it, slipping over the irregular ground he dragged himself forward, to the truth that lay beyond. Harry could hear voices behind him, strange cries in a nameless tongue telling him to turn back, pleading with him to not continue down this madness. The voices would have had a better chance of persuading a mountain to move, the pleads falling upon deft ears, for curiosity had won. The doorway, shining ahead as a beacon, appeared familiar. His feet squished through the bulbs of green below him, moving closer to the gate. The journey was long until he made it close enough to make out the gate in significant detail.
It was enormous, wrapped in the same bulbs that made existence in the void. Taller than any building that Harry had ever seen. Expertly drawn in the center of the door was his tome's sigil. Harry took solace in it, a reminder of the wonderful things he had. That was until the sigil opened exposing a single eye, it's color indescribable. The eye peered into his heart, learning all he was and would be. The eye knew all, it looked into Harry's soul, his hairs stood on end.
Trying to run found him glued, whether by dread or the terrain was anyone's guess. The eye continued to stair, judging and weighing the boy, again the ground below him swallowed his very being as he fell, a sound swam around him in a language incomprehensible to him, a maddening noise. As he fell and fell and fell the voice gained more and more volume. The fall lasted an eternity until at the end of time Harry understood, his destiny was the gate, for the gate would be his victory. He awoke, covered in sweat, throat raw, to Alastair's tongue in his ear thankful to no longer be trapped within his nightmare.
The Wheel of Fortune.
The sun rose and set. This process repeated and repeated. Harry had already read all his new books, the book on Magic Theory twice, and already reeled in boredom. The confines of his white room being tighter around him than his cupboard. It wasn't until Doctor Thompson asked him confused why he hadn't left yet that Harry learned that all he needed to do to leave his solitary was to ask. He adventured alone on his trips after the first day and roamed the various alleys in the magical world. Today his conquest was Knockturn.
Knockturn Alley oddly saw less traffic than the other Alleyways. The street seemed to be enveloped in a constant dimness, even with the sun burning above, the road had many shadows. Compared to Diagon Alley the buildings stood reasonable, though gothic in appearance. The shops appeared as elusive as the street itself, many not bearing any information about what existed within, no windows, not even names. Hidden in the shadows he watched several people move through different doors, the sole evidence of a shop was bags full of purchases.
His people watching turned out to not benefit him as a strange humanoid walked the road. It was a cloaked figure with skin that looked almost green. It looked feminine with an enormous nose. The thing looked at him and went a large grin, revealing pointed teeth within her horrible mouth. She strode towards him, like a predator upon a wounded prey. Harry fled hearing the demonic humanoid behind him which gave off a chilling laugh, running Harry wandered into a small shop called The Starry Prophesier. Entering the room, and closing the door hard Harry took cover behind one curtain in the room.
The moments passed and his pursuer never entered. Harry breathed, his lungs burning from the lack of air. He surveyed the room and found it small, like his cupboard. He moved apart a set of shades revealing another room this one dark with a faint perfume permeating in the room. The room was devoid of humans.
As Harry entered the curtains behind him fell forming a soft wall behind him, the room only holds within it a table with a clear ball upon it. The ball was smaller than a football and appeared forged of glass. I pulled at Harry giving the desire to look, to see. He remembered his dream, of the gate of knowledge, it looking back upon him judging him, this ball was similar, oh so similar. It sat there, gleaming in the faint candlelight which barely illuminated it, calling out for him. Harry couldn't resist.
Sitting at the table he gazed into the ball, a disjointing sense overtook him as his consciousness slipped into the serine state of shuffling tarot cards. Harry gazed into the ball and to his horror, the ball stared back. He was again in front of the gate as its eyes opened, it gave Harry a stream of knowledge, rummaging in his head, the sensation was the same as when he looked in people's eyes. Amongst the myriad of information images projected of a store and ancient runes. He gripped it hoping to gain more insight, moving in to look closer. His fear not being enough to pull him away from the future pulling him in. He was met with more flashes, a castle, a lake, loneliness, hope, a monster, a mirror, the flashes continued, growing too fast to recognize. Pain filled him and overexerted his brain, the images kept flashing and flashing, never stopping, the ball that kept his gaze not willing to let the flow stop until one final image held his full view, his card, XIII, death.
A force pulled him out, not on his own will. His mind felt as a scrambled egg ran over by a car, a woman who appeared like his precious pursuer had joined him in the room. She was short and hunched, warted with a large nose, her eyes brown as the earth and pointed and looked at him with great curiosity, but looking at her dead-on was strange, even in the low light she seemed to shimmer like aluminum foil-covered skin. She differed slightly from the one before, but she still terrified Harry. He tried to speak, but his throat dry and raw from screaming.
"Shh boy, It is all right, what did you see?" Her voice was odd to him, sounding her consonants harder than he was used to. She attempted to calm him by rubbing his back, Harry couldn't fault her for not knowing that the contact would only drive him closer to panic. Her appearance, his experience with Vernon and the adrenaline flowing through him set him off. Her hands were soft, in opposition to her gangly looking hand. He shot towards the wall, crashing away from her grip, using it as an ally backing him so that his only opponent would be on his front. He tried to breathe to calm himself 'She saw you, she knows you, eliminate her.' The voice was back pleading with him, he sprung out his wand, pointing it at the witch, 'Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra' flashes to the dream, the light, the loss. He knew those words, he recognized them well, he lived them most nights and now he knew what they did.
The woman in front of him did not deserve to die though, she had not done him wrong. She was not the same beast as before, she had saved him. His non-wand arm jetted down to his pocket, clutching the cards he packed today, brushing his hand on the smooth container, focusing, pushing away the anger and hate. An unfamiliar person appeared where the nasty one had been before, gone was the warty woman replaced with a considerable beauty. Her hair beneath her cloak hood was a platinum blonde and her eyes were a shimmery blue, like the arctic beach crashing on the glacial shores. Harry pushed away his wand back to its holster, offering his hands up in surrender, getting mighty embarrassed for acting such a fool. The woman gazed at him, tears brimming within her crystal eyes, understanding the burden Harry was under. He rose and dusted off his robe, something he had purchased the past day so he would not be touring around in school attire, gathering his thoughts. He offered the woman a polite bow and offered his apologies. The edge of suspicion never escaping him.
"It's quite alright young man, why do you not do me a favor and sit down." She took a seat on one side of the table, and Harry sat across from her, daring to glance at the ball again despite his previous experience. Instead of the gazing ball a unique blanket lay, sealing the seeing stone from the world. The pair remained in silence, the tapping of his legs rhythmically tapping echoing. The woman watched his every move. "I am Madam Völva." Her voice sounded different to him, her accent was not English. She remained waited for his response in no external hurry.
"Harry." He responded with a quiet voice.
"What did you see Harry?" Her voice laden with concern, as if she recognized what it was like to have one's whole life play out. How could she though? How could he do anything again?
"All of it, through and through, all the way till the finish." He fished his deck out, cutting twice and drawing the card regarding it with apathy as the skeletal knight watched him over a field of bodies. Harry looked deep into her eyes, tears welling within both pairs.
She understood, they had taught her the subject, she learned how to quit seeking. When to stop looking, "You poor boy, no one should have to read their own death, you poor boy, do you know how or why?"
He stared at her in indifference, death was his end, and it appeared in the close future. "No, just soon, but be that tomorrow or ten years does it matter?" The tears disappeared, for they stood no purpose.
She merely looked at him with pity, she had been trained to stop gazing, the main problem of the crystal balls was the draw, the pull of knowledge, of going too far. He had no way of knowing, of counteracting the tug, but she thought him a genuine prodigy at the subject, as it took many years of practice to get graphic enough reading to cause his reaction. He looked away not wishing to know more, that is what got him into his current situation, he needed to learn to stop gazing. "Always remember the Wheel of Fortune young man."
That rattled him to his core, he remembered the flash, the card of ambiguity, of uncertainty. "What?" He stammered out. His head shooting an accusatory stair at her. Could she be someone who was writing his fate, how had she known his card, his future?
"The Wheel of Fortune, how the future is not set, death now does not mean that it is absolute then. The ambiguity of the future, how cause and effect can fall to randomness"
He beamed at her, was this a part of his fate, was his deck reminding him how no matter what, the future is a product of the present and can change. Had his prediction from days ago been so that at this juncture he would not suffer himself in fear and apathy? He held the death card, caressing it before placing it back within his collection, resealing his cards. They rested warm within his grip, reassuring they would always be with him. They would guide him on the correct path. The tears fell again, emotion overtaking him. Harry felt that he lived on the bar of a balance with constantly adjusting contents, teetering back and forth between madness and sadness, with few moments of peace.
"Thank you, Madam, really." He said, choking on the words, clearing his throat he spoke again, "Would you mind if I asked you a question?" She leaned back in her chair waving him to do as he wished. "Where could I find some books on ancient ruins?" He remembered back to his original vision of the day before it became too much for his mind to handle he had seen the words ancient ruins in his vision.
She looked at him with curiosity, "You look a little young to be a third year, though it would explain the divination training, yet not why you ignored all of the rules involved." She scolded him, her face losing some of its pitty and instead, turning to disappointment. "Why would you need other books? Is your schoolbook not good enough?"
"Well, I have this book, and, well, I can't read it, it's not in English. While gazing I visited a bookstore. It stood without a name and held within ancient ruins, so I thought maybe..." He trailed off not knowing what to say. Upset at himself for rambling.
"Four doors down on this side, opposite Horizont. That is where you are looking." she paused, "I wish you well young man, be careful with divination, it is fickle and uncaring. It is also the most dangerous subject that I know, you would do well to remember that," she peered at him with solemn eyes "but remember divination is not always what it seems." Her eyes soft again with the realization he was not a student. With that lesson she turned and strolled through the curtains opposite him, leaving Harry alone again. He shoved the thoughts of Death and isolation aside, instead, for the first time, being thankful for drawing his future card.
The Wheel of Fortune.