Welcome to the fifth story in the Inferiorum series! The first five stories in the series can be read in any order, so, if you haven't read any of the others yet, never fear! (Although I would recommend reading them in order...that order being Doppelganger, Heretic, Adversary, Shape Shifter, and then, of course Fool.) For those of you who already know this, just go on to the rest of the story…

Note: The reason I named this story fool is not in anyway insulting the main character. In Tarot, the first card of the Major Arcana, the Fool, usually means the beginning of something, where one doesn't know very much because they are a novice, one of the uninitiated. So, in this way, I'm using it to mean that it's someone beginning on a journey…

Fool

Part the First

"Character is what a man is in the dark."

-Dwight L. Moody

The room was completely dark and smelled musty. It was an old basement, as old as the house, and who knew how old that was? It had been in the Dursley family for years, even though they were not particularly rich. There was nothing to be done about the musty smell. No matter how many times it was swept and dusted, it was still a dank old basement.

There were spiders too. Not that he particularly minded spiders, especially after living with them for so long, but they were still there, weaving webs quietly in the corners and living out their short lives. At once point he had tried to clear them out, but they always came back, so he decided just to let them stay.

There was a very small window in one corner, high above his bed, so that if he stood on his bed and stood on his very tippy-toes, he could look out it. It wasn't particularly exciting though, just the ground.

Right now, he wasn't trying to look out it, he was sleeping. His mattress was old and lumpy and on an old creaky bed that sounded as though it would collapse in the middle of the night every time he got into it. His one blanket was getting holes in it. It was okay during the summer time, but in the winter, it was a job trying to stay warm. He would usually put on all the clothes he owned and curl up under the blanket. He didn't own a very big wardrobe either. His three outfits hung on a clothes line he had put up so that they wouldn't have to sit on the floor. He was wearing his pajamas, which had been hand me downs, as all his clothes were.

This young boy, who was twelve at the time, knew why it was that he always got hand me downs and had to sleep in the dank basement with the spiders.

It was because he was an orphan.

"And an orphan," His aunt told him, looking down her nose at him, the way she always did. "Is someone whose parents didn't want them."

That's what she would say if she was feeling particularly mean. Other times he was told that his parents had gotten themselves killed in an accident. He liked that explanation a little better, but only just. He didn't want to think that his parents hadn't wanted him, because that made being an orphan even more unbearably lonely than it already was. But the idea that they had died, well, it could mean that they had loved him but had been snatched away from him by events they couldn't control.

That's the sort of thing Harry Potter thought was comforting.

He was sleeping quite peacefully because last night, his uncle had had a dinner party and Harry had been washing the dishes until past midnight last night. When he came down to his room in the basement, with his hands all clammy, he had just fallen over onto his bed and gone straight to sleep.

But, he wouldn't be asleep for much longer.

In the basement, there was a set of bells, each labeled for a different room. Harry had gotten so used to them that he could just see what bell was ringing and know instantly which room it was. One of the bells began to ring and didn't stop for several minutes.

Harry shot out of bed groggily, putting on his clothes in such a practiced fashion that you could tell this was how he normally woke up. He went over to the bell and tugged back on it, so that his aunt and uncle would know he had heard it.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's room. That's which bell it was. They'd be wanting their breakfast and so would Dudley, his cousin. He grabbed his spectacles and went up the stairs, into the kitchen. It was a trap door that went to the basement and some mornings, if Dudley actually got up earlier than Harry, he would sit on the trap door so that Harry couldn't get out of the basement.

This morning he was lucky and got to go straight to work at making eggs and sausages and toast for breakfast. He was just making orange juice when he heard another bell ringing down there. Dudley. He groaned quietly. He finished his aunt and uncle's breakfast and loaded all up onto a tray, before leaving the kitchen. He to make the treacherous climb up the stairs—one of the hardest things to do while holding the tray because there wasn't quite enough room for him to hold the tray comfortably and be able to see the steps. Whenever he tripped and fell down the stairs, dropping a tray, he usually got locked in the basement for several days. Harry always thought they'd lock him in there longer but they hated doing anything for themselves.

He knocked on the door to the master bedroom and he heard a, "It's about bloody time, boy!" Harry managed to get the door open with a practiced balancing maneuver. He put the tray down on the small breakfast table which was a little ways away from his aunt and uncle's bed. Aunt Petunia was in her dressing gown and didn't look pleased to see him—not that she ever did.

"Here's your breakfast." Harry told them, mostly out of habit. No one was going to thank him. "I'll just be going then—"

"Don't you ever comb your hair? Or do you insist on looking like a vagabond?" Aunt Petunia interrupted him. "Someone even commented on it last night at the dinner party—saying our hired help could use some sprucing up—I almost died of shame."

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia." Harry apologized quickly. He was used to apologizing for things.

"Go, boy." Uncle Vernon ordered him out and Harry was only too happy to oblige. He had to get started on Dudley's breakfast anyways. As he went downstairs, Dudley ran up behind him, shoving him out of his way as he ran down. Harry rolled his eyes. Dudley had clearly done it just so he could shove Harry.

Dudley was blonde, blue-eyed, and was fat. He was the exact opposite of Harry who had jet-black hair, green eyes, and was extremely skinny.

"Where's my breakfast, orphan?" Dudley jeered at him as Harry past him on his way to the kitchen.

"I'm getting to it." Harry muttered impatiently.

"You better eat breakfast today too. You'll need your strength." Dudley told him. Harry looked at him in confusion. Him and Dudley hated each other and never did anything together. "Piers is coming over. We thought we'd play 'Harry Hunting'."

Harry's heart sank. Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best friend, often came over and the two of them found nothing so delightful as torturing Harry. Most often, the games ended in Piers holding Harry and Dudley using him as a punching bag.

"I have a lot of work to do." Harry began whisking eggs for Dudley's breakfast. "Your mother won't like it if you stop me from doing it." He knew it was a feeble threat. Aunt Petunia let her 'precious little Dudders' do anything he pleased. Still, he could hope.

"She won't care." Dudley leered and then turned to leave. "We'll be seeing you later, Potter." And then he went out of the kitchen. Scowling, Harry continued to make breakfast. After finishing the huge platter that Dudley devoured every morning, he went about his morning chores.

The Dursley family wasn't quite wealthy enough to have any servants but when they were given Harry, it didn't matter. It was free labor as far as they could see. Harry Potter had been left on the doorstep when he had been barely one year old with a letter, not that Harry knew about the letter, he only knew what Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon told him—which wasn't much.

The one thing they could never quite give was an explanation of the scar on his forehead. It was a strange lightening bolt shaped scared on the middle of his forehead, though it was partially hidden some of the time by his hair, which he found impossible to keep neat or tidy looking. It just grew in whatever direction it felt like—even defying gravity at times. He would look at the scar in the mirror and wonder how he had gotten it. Anytime he asked, he was told to stop asking so many questions.

Which probably means it's an interesting story…

The Dursleys didn't like Harry having any sort of strange notions either. They were all mundane and unimaginative people, but sometimes Harry liked to make things up. Like, he would make up stories about how really, his parents weren't dead, but they were in faraway places, maybe locked up in a prison by an evil emperor or something, but one day they would break free and they would come and find him there.

Or sometimes, he would imagine that one day he would be working in the yard and just get up and walk down the road—but instead of stopping, he just wouldn't. He would walk for days and days, going off to seek his fortune.

In his room, he had very few toys, he only got toys that Dudley stopped playing with or broke. He had a small set of soldiers—most of which Dudley had lost, but he still had about ten of them. He would lead them into fierce battles and somehow they would overcome the enemy (usually something like a stuffed animal that Dudley lost or something to that effect). But he had to do this all secretly in the basement because the one time he had been playing outside, Uncle Vernon had caught him and yelled at him for making up stories.

"THEY AREN'T REAL SOLDIERS!" He yelled into Harry's face. Of course they weren't real, Harry never thought they were actually real, but he didn't see the harm in imagining they were real. But to people like the Dursleys, imagination was a dangerous thing.

Harry decided that day that he wouldn't go outside. Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley and Piers had to play outside so they wouldn't break anything in the house. If Harry just stayed inside all day, then nothing bad could happen…right?

This plan would have succeeded brilliantly too, if it hadn't been for Uncle Vernon spoiling it.

"Why haven't you done the back hedges yet, boy?" Uncle Vernon asked him as Harry finished scrubbing the parlor floor. Of course. The hedges. Uncle Vernon had something about them yesterday but had been caught up in his dinner party so he hadn't noticed that Harry hadn't done them. But today was different. And if he didn't do them…

Bravely, Harry took the hedge clippers and went outside. It was afternoon and late enough in the afternoon that Piers and Dudley would probably go inside for food. He went down to the hedges, weren't really in that bad of shape, but he knew it wasn't worth it to argue with something Uncle Vernon told him to do.

He began to work on them and thought that he had indeed escaped a day of 'Harry Hunting' when something hit him in the back of the head. He turned around to see that it had been an apple and his cousin Dudley was grinning stupidly at his accomplishment. Piers Polkiss, the rat-faced boy who was always with Dudley seemed to think it was amusing as well. He was in for it now. Oh well, he wouldn't just let them hit him.

"Well done, you've hit me with an apple." Harry spoke sarcastically. "Pat yourselves on the back. It might take a bit of coordination but I suspect you'll both figure it out in the end."

"Are you calling us stupid?" Piers accused him.

"I'll let you work it out." Harry countered and tried to ignore them and go back to the hedges.

"Let's get him." Dudley suggested. Harry reacted as fast as he could. He dropped the hedge clippers and simply took off at top speed. Although he was skinny and a little small for his age, he was as fast as the wind.

The two boys came running after him. Well, Piers did at any rate. Dudley was huffing and puffing several yards behind them. Harry knew if he made it to the woods, he would be fine. It was really easy to hide in there.

But Piers leapt and tackled Harry to the ground. He struggled viciously, trying to bite and kick his way to freedom, but Piers was an expert at this. He dragged Harry to his feet and Dudley swiped at Harry's face, knocking his spectacles off his face. They didn't break this time, but they had broken in the past. Aunt Petunia constantly complained about how clumsy he was and how she shouldn't have to buy him new glasses.

And then Dudley laid him out, his massive fists pounding into Harry's stomach and his face. He'd be full of bruises and bleeding by the time Dudley stopped. With each hit, Harry ground his teeth, determined not to yell out in pain, which would have given Dudley some small bit of satisfaction.

They got sick of this and dropped Harry and ran back up to the house, talking about how hungry they were. Harry found his spectacles and sat up slowly. His head felt like it was made of lead. He crawled over to where he knew there was a stream and scooped up the cold water, splashing his face to wash away the blood. The cuts on his face began to sting because as he looked at the rippling reflection of himself in the water, salty tears made their way down his face. He sat there, looking at the stream and trying to stop crying. It wasn't really crying, not like he used to do. But now, he would wipe at his face in annoyance, trying to stop his own tears that seemed to just leak out. He sniffed a little.

I don't belong here…I hate them…I hate them all…

But he had nowhere else and knew no one else. He had never made any friends and didn't feel particularly close to anyone. He felt so out of step…this just wasn't his place. His real place was somewhere else, maybe with parents he never knew, or some faraway land or…or…

And now he would get up and probably get yelled at for not trimming the hedges. And then Aunt Petunia would tell him off because he wasn't around when she called for him or something.

A leaf fell from one of the trees and landed in the stream, staying there for only a minute before it was carried away. Harry wanted to follow it and see where it went…a better place. And so he went, trudging back, wondering if one day, something would change. But nothing ever did.

To a worthless orphan, even the smallest bits of kindness could mean the world. But there was no one to offer him even that.

To a worthless orphan, life hardly seems worth living.

To Be Continued