Even Lady Luck Organizes Coincidences

A.N. Right, so I was going to wait before continuing this, but my mind can't seem to shut up. My focus is still on the other story, however. Hopefully you still like it. Harry Potter doesn't belong to me (and frankly, I'm glad it doesn't because I would've never come up with the story), and I'm not gaining money from this. Please comment (possibly point out a few mistakes), but mostly, please enjoy.

A week later, young Harry Potter was extremely frustrated.

A whole new world had been introduced to him, one he highly desired to explore, so he had been ecstatic, before.

The problem was, he realized once the happiness subsided, he had no way of getting in contact with said world.

Sure, the man had mentioned an entrance in London, but Harry had no way of getting there, or even of knowing exactly where the entrance was.

He could still try, but Uncle Vernon would rather die than do anything for him, and if he tried to go off on his own, well, he would probably be back at the house faster than he could say the word policeman.

Then there was also the matter of his dice; he'd asked if it would be alright to attempt to do so anyway, but the answer given was clearly a no.

So what to do?

He found it unlikely that the entrance in London would be the only one, but then again, after hearing the wizard talk about brooms, and something that appeared to be teleportation (the actual name Harry heard was hard to remember), the boy figured it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination.

Besides, looking for another entrance in the entirety of Little Whinging, never mind the entirety of Surrey, would probably not be the smartest move. It would be much faster for him to wait for his letter to Hogwarts, the supposed magic school.

So that wasn't an option.

He could try doing magic on his own (and he had, in fact, done that), but learning proper procedures and incantation was a must if Harry hoped to do anything besides some levitation and other minor acts.

Besides, he had recently grown obsessed with the idea of his past. Who, exactly, was he? Who was You-Know-Who? His relatives had eagerly told him about his parent's death before, but Harry was now surer than ever that it wasn't the truth. Additionally, there was his fame. He needed to know what others perceived him at. Too many people would probably try to take advantage of his supposed fame.

It was a fame that he still didn't know much about, except for the fact that it involved his parent's death and the wizard called You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, respectively.

So he still needed a way to gather information. He wanted to know everything.

What to do? What to do?

He wanted to get in contact with the magic world, but had no way to do so. He wanted to know more about the magic world and his own past, but he, again, had no way to do so.

Hence, Harry was frustrated.

That is, until Harry suddenly fixed the books with his bright green eyes.

He'd been hiding in the library from Dudley's gang (since it was a place that Dudley's Neanderthal ways could not stand), and now he was suddenly glad about it and upset at himself for not thinking about it before.

"Of course," he whispered, "libraries!"

Even wizards must have needs for them, especially the poorer families, Harry reasoned, and it wouldn't be too hard to install a magical sector to at least one library by city. It made sense.

Or at least, he wanted it to make sense. It was a pretty reasonable thought, after all.

Unfortunately, Harry had doubts on the magic world's common sense—the wizard's fashion sense and stories hadn't helped—but then again, he'd only met one man, so it was too soon to judge.

Now he just needed to research the libraries in the city.

Before that, however, he had two decisions to make; whether to actually try to find such a Library, and, most importantly, to choose which library.

So he rolled his dice.

He kept the same rules as when he'd met the wizard. Odd for no, even for yes. The results, once shown, were what he'd hoped for.

Two threes, a total of six.

Harry had by now started to interpret what his Luck attempted to tell through the dices, and this he very much thought of as a message: he should definitely go, but the odd factor of the number three indicated that the choice of library was indeed important.

After a bit of research, a strong smell of alcohol, and a mysteriously absent librarian, the nine years old sighed.

He'd managed to find information about five possible libraries.

Three of them he could easily access without much trouble, but two others that were impossible to visit unless he managed to trick his family into it.

One of them was, obviously, his school's library, but he was pretty sure there were no magic books around, or he'd have found them. He had spent enough time in it to explore every nook and cranny. There could be some hidden by magic, he supposed, but it made sense of such books to be visible by those with magic, and wards against "muggles" probably would not have worked on him.

At least, he hoped so.

So that left only four possibilities.

"Well, it's your turn again," whispered Harry, kissing his fist and throwing the dice that laid in it.

He had decided that for every library he'd throw the dice once.

However, he had also decided to change the rules for this particular game.

Harry had read once, in a random book he'd picked up while hiding, about mystical numbers.

To be honest, the tome in question had only managed to hurt his head, and he was pretty sure they were mostly rubbish, but the numbers aspect of it had fascinated him.

Especially when three of the number fit with his dice: Three, seven, and ten.

It was unusual for him to suddenly change a rule, especially when they'd given so much, but he couldn't help it. Something in his very being was pulling towards it, the same feeling he had whenever he used his dice.

Therefore, despite it narrowing his odds, Harry decided to trust his instincts and his dice once more. It was a special case, just for this. Those numbers would indicate what library would yield the results he sought.

And so, Harry rolled once again.

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Two days and five hours later, at 3:05 pm, Harry Potter found himself in front of a rather miserable looking building.

"This can't be it… Can it?" muttered Harry, under his breath.

Certainly, the building was listed as a library, and it had been the one that his dice had agreed on, but his eyes really didn't want to believe it.

He'd had a hint of it before, on the state of the building that is, while asking for directions. The strange looks from people, comments of confusion over it being a library, the odd behavior of the population (who seemed to either constantly forget about its existence, or just pretend to), and so on had definitely been indicators, but he hadn't believed.

Till seeing it, that is.

The place in front of him was, by all appearances, very ill maintained.

A horrible smell permeated the area, strongly reminding Harry of the smell Dudley left behind whenever he visited the loo. The barely visible paint looked faded, with various cracks in the stone wall adding to the ruined look. The wall plants had certainly taken a liking to the house, drowning the house in an almost full sea of green, although one area was oddly uncovered, leaving Harry to suppose that that was the entrance.

And so, neatly side stepping a dead rat, Harry gathered his courage. It had taken so much planning to get this far, he wasn't about to chicken out now.

Going through the entrance, Harry almost immediately reeled back from shock.

Contrary to what one might think, it wasn't because of the strange and inexplicably cold feeling that transpierced him once he passed by the half melted iron door that had appeared once he'd been close enough.

It wasn't even the fact that the interior opposed almost everything the exterior of the house had hinted at, giving way to what was probably one of the cleanest and grandest libraries he'd ever seen.

Neither was it due to the sleeping librarian at the counter, the very same librarian his school had (though he would definitely be revisiting this later on).

No, the thing that had actually put him in such a state of mind was the presence of ghosts (and the moving paintings, but mainly the ghosts). White, transparent, and very much real, ghosts.

Even after being told about magic, the thought of ghosts hadn't even crossed Harry's mind.

It was kind of funny, he thought, even while still in his shocked state, considering that he'd believed in mystical numbers, but not mystical beings.

Once the shock waned, however, the nine years old child barely contained a cackle of glee. He had made it! He bloody had made it! He had found his source of information!

Making sure to move silently, not wishing to wake the suspicious librarian before gaining the precious knowledge he wanted, Harry moved through the aisles, glancing at the book titles while simultaneously attempting to ignore the curious stares from the rather transparent population. He couldn't be bothered at the moment, he had plans.

Before anything else, however, he needed to know about himself.

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Anger often came in many forms.

It sometimes came burning hot; ready to burst out in one swoop.

It sometimes came like cold ice, freezing all those around, shutting out all emotion.

It sometimes came suddenly, like a sudden storm after a beautiful day.

It sometimes started slowly, building up in strength as more and more infractions are made.

However, no matter what kind of anger, it tends to be immediately recognizable once shown, as the ghosts haunting the library were reminded of, hours later.

There was, after all, no denying that Harry Potter was angry.

And, while seeing the nine years old angry would have been deemed cute by all non-magicals, those in the library were highly aware of the damage that a volatile and angered magical child could, as evidenced by the spontaneous combustions of various items in the area. Needless to say, most of the ghosts had fled by the time that Harry had started to regain his composure.

Had anyone been brave enough to ask him why he had seemed so furious, he'd have roughly and emotionally said that he was angry about everything.

Because Harry, at that moment, was angry at the world.

He was angry over Sirius Black's betrayal.

He was angry over Voldemort's existence.

He was angry over his parent's death.

He was angry over his placement at the Dursleys.

He was angry over his life being presented as a story for children.

He was angry over the fact that that story had riddled with falsehoods and fake adventures.

He was angry over his heritage having been hidden from him.

He was angry over the amount of people who used, controlled, and plastered his name, and thus himself, everywhere.

In fact, Harry was having a hard time trying to find something to not be angry about.

Every book he had read, every newspaper, and even every magazine, either contradicted the information of another, or had given him another piece of information to research and be upset over.

And every time, what had started as a low growl would heavily increase in volume.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, for Harry, due to this growl he had aroused someone from sleep.

It was with great discontent that the newly awakened painting shouted out to Harry, shocking him out of his current book, "Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century."

Said painting was that of an old wizard, dressed in what he assumed to be middle-aged clothing. The man had quite certainly been rich judging by his size and the heavy layers of clothing adorned by gold. Currently, the face displayed discontent, grey hair greasy and a mess from the previous nap and, possibly, from the fumes his cauldron gave out in the background.

The wizard of the painting was quite annoyed. He had, after hearing the quite child-like growl, assumed that Harry was a spoiled child simply whining about some unimportant things (at least less important than the own painting's sleep), and hence found the kid's befuddled stare quite amusing.

"You… You can speak?" asked Harry, slowly. He had seen the paintings move before, but he'd assumed that they were just an enchantment of some kind, seeing how they didn't seem to do much.

"Of course I can speak! For Merlin's sake, what kind of painting would I be if I couldn't?" Snarled back the painting, still bitter about his interrupted sleep.

"I, uh, don't know…?" weakly answered the boy, still in a confused state of mind.

"Hmph. Figures. Another ignorant one," said the painting, having had many previous clashes with kids, his painting in the library not being the only one. "Who are you anyway? I haven't seen you before at all. Trust me, I'd know. There's not much to do here but watch the living. And sleep, but you interrupted that"

"I'm, um, sorry sir. I'm Harry," he said, keeping his last name out of it, keeping in mind the reaction of the last wizard he'd encountered.

"Linfred of Stinchcombe. Pleasure, I'm sure."

Well, Harry thought, he might not be the most pleasant of individuals, but he could probably provide some immediate answers.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but… who's that at the counter?" Harry asked.

"Him? He's Mundungus Fletcher. Don't know what he's doing here, though. He clearly doesn't have an affinity with libraries. I'd personally say he has more of an affinity for shiny metals, liquids of the alcohol kind, and thin white-bearded old men," he finished, smirking as if sharing a private joke.

"Right…," commented Harry, having confirmed that the man was suspicious despite not understanding some of what the painting had said.

Mundungus Fletcher was definitely to be watched. Especially considering that Harry had known of the man as Cornelius Fudge, his school's librarian.

There was something going on there, something that Harry's instincts did not like.

Of course, it could be a coincidence, but he had never really believed in coincidences, especially those that smelled rotten, like this one.

Luck, yes. His dice were proof, after all. Coincidences, however, he found that they were usually manipulated carefully by someone else. Piers Polkiss' planning, Dudley's bullying, the box of cigarettes they had hidden in his desk, and the "coincidental" search by the teacher had taught him that much.

Maybe it was a paradox, to believe in Luck and not coincidences, but in his mind, they were very much separated.

So who really was Mundungus Fletcher or Cornelius Fudge, and why was he posing as a librarian despite hating it?

He'd previously just thought of the man as an incurable alcoholic, but now it seemed like there was so much more to it all.

Glancing at the painting in front of him, he sighed seeing Linfred back asleep. Apparently, the man could go to sleep ridiculously fast.

After standing up, Harry briefly debated borrowing some books, but his desire to avoid the librarian's attention won out when his dice clearly indicated to leave it alone with an odd number. Once he had put all books in their proper place, Harry left the library.

While he didn't particularly want to leave, he had to properly process everything, investigate the librarian, and cook dinner for Uncle Vernon.

"Thankfully," the Dursleys had mysteriously gotten tickets for a cruise- tickets that Harry had won with Luck, of course, leaving Vernon Dursley as the only entity that could hinder him in his quest for magic. Vernon was already annoyed at the fact that the house was at his nephew's mercy during the day, so Harry had to make sure to keep him happy.

His dice had said to return at nine when he'd asked, so he would do so despite fearing Vernon being back at his house already.

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As it turned out, the dice had chosen the perfect hour.

Uncle Vernon had arrived from work around eleven due staying unusually late in an attempt to impress the president of a possible partner company.

The same reason he had, regrettably, turned down the cruise for.

And while Vernon would usually have taken it out on his poor nephew, he had been far too happy about the warm home cooked meal to do so, having only eaten vending machine snacks during the day.

Which left Harry bruises free and full, a rarity that allowed him to leave the house without worries.

Today, he had a new person to visit, and a new mission.

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Turning the corner, Harry found the place he'd been seeking.

While Harry was, indeed, an intelligent child, he was still just a child.

That meant that he didn't really know how to look for information about someone.

Even if he had known, he would've also simply lacked the necessary network for it. He had acquaintance, yes, but mainly for games.

It didn't help, too, that Harry wasn't really known for talking.

Harry knew, however, who would know how to get information. His logic and his dice had told him the answer.

Admittedly, he had, at first, wanted to go back to the place he'd named The Library (Harry would never claim to be original, and he supposed it was probably a wizard trait, so he's figured it was probably alright). Mundungus Fletcher or Cornelius Fudge, whoever he may be, was an unsolved mystery, however, and one that might be connected with Harry.

Thus, the detective in Harry wanted to play, and the survival skills he had developed at the Dursleys wanted the knowledge to understand whatever connection and be able to protect their self.

So, he'd left up the decision to the dice once more.

They had been pretty quick to decide for him once he'd set the rules (odd for the library, even for the information search), leaving a ten, double fives, resulting from the roll.

Which lead him to the most important question, how to find the answers he sought?

The best possibility came to him pretty quickly, but it had taken Harry eliminating all other possible options for him to accept it.

There was a group of delinquents at Harry's school that had somehow managed to gain control.

What made them important, in this case, was that they had gained rule of the school through blackmail. Through information.

Of course, this was just a rumor, but it was one that Harry very easily believed.

So, if anyone knew about "Cornelius Fudge," it would be them.

To be honest, Harry's survival instincts truly wanted nothing to do with them, especially coupled with Harry's fear of teens.

He had avoided them, because of this, like the plague, even though they couldn't possibly have cared about an inconsequential child.

It didn't matter, for in young Harry's mind, they were dangerous.

Adults were dangerous because they could control his life, but they cared too much about looking good, and thus usually controlled their most horrible and vile impulses. Such was the case of the Dursleys, for instance.

Teenagers, however, had protections and a rather unfortunate spike in emotions that adults did not. They got away with a lot more. They had almost the same control on his life as adults, being older, and they were also able to give in to their more violent impulses without much repercussion.

An adult would hide disdain and put on a fake smile. An adolescent would openly jeer, influence the crowd around into doing the same, and would hit and hurt him as many times as they wanted.

More importantly, however, adults did not see what they did not want to see. And they didn't want to see the cruelty of children, even the more grown up ones.

The adults of the school were content in believing that they ruled the school. There could be no bullying, since this was a respectable school, they wanted to think. So they did.

"You remember how it was, all fun and games. Being rough is part of it too!" had even said one of Harry's teacher while talking with another teacher. "It's character building!"

That's why Harry saw the older kids as dangerous. As people who had control. As people who could hurt him, and not feel a thing from it.

He already received pain from peers his own age; he didn't need for it to escalate, or for his bullying to switch into more dangerous hands.

But his dice had made the ultimate decision for him. And when his dice spoke, he understood, it always led to the best situation. He had to believe that.

They had eliminated all other resources he'd thought about, leaving only this path open. So it had to be the correct one. Despite whatever his survival skills believed.

And so Harry found himself in front of most the leader's house, a girl named Belinda. He'd heard quite a bit about her, including the fact that she apparently would hurt anyone who'd call her by her last name. But as someone used to there being false rumors, he wasn't quite sure about any of them.

So he stood in front of the house, attempting to think on how to approach this.

Turned out, he didn't have to. Two seconds later a dark haired girl left the house and crashed into what she thought looked like a very malnourished little boy.

Harry may not have believed in coincidences, but Lady Luck certainly did. Or, at least, when she was the one to arrange them.

This was one such "coincidence," and their meeting would prove to alter the paths of many. It would give Harry everything he wanted, and it would give Belinda the opportunity for revenge.

That is, once Harry woke up.

Crashing into Belinda had had the rather unfortunate effect of Harry hitting his head against the pavement and passing out.

He would wake up several hours later in a hospital, only to be met with Belinda Malfoy's face, eyes filled with grief and apprehension.