A Not So Bogus Prediction

Ginny was in a particularly depressive mood. She had been lonely.... very lonely. Lately, her body had been controlling her mind and making her do things she normally wouldn't do, as if it was taking over her...., but this trip to Hogsmeade wasn't that kind of situation. Hogsmeade had been her favorite place since she was a kid. Hogsmeade seemed particularly happy and mood-enlightening, so that would be Ginny's happy place when in depression. She loved to see all of the kids running around having fun because it reminder Ginny of her as a Hogwarts student.

A new shop had just opened and it caught her attention. She walked closer to what looked like an enchanted tent. "Interesting...." she said under her breath. But she saw the name of it and automatically new it was a prediction tent. She rolled her eyes. Ginny peered inside to see what kind of bogus seer would be sitting at a table with wide eyes staring into a a steamy crystal ball. It was a guy that seemed younger than her. She also recognized him from the Auror Office. It won't hurt just to get a prediction...., she thought. Ginny walked in and sat down in front of the guy.

Half-empty bottles were strewn everywhere. Bottles which Nemo would occasionally revisit when he found that he'd finished off another drink, in the hopes of finding something left in each to satisfy the bottomless craving that he'd adapted for the substance. After a moment of sitting still at the only piece of furniture within his makeshift tent, Nemo would climb to his feet and reach for any of the glass containers that looked as though it may still hold alcohol. But he had long since depleted his supplies, and was left with nothing more than the rank scent of his last drink upon his tongue to tide him over.

A dreadful silence had fallen over Hogsmeade as the sun had begun on its decent from the evening sky, and so, Nemo had switched on his beat-up stereo with a flick of his wand. The deep bass line of a classic muggle song thudded beneath the table that Nemo had propped his crossed ankles upon, and provided him with a much-needed distraction from his thirst. He leaned backwards in his chair and smiled upward dizzily at the patterned cloth that hung above his head. To Nemo, there was no more comforting element than music.

He was only vaguely aware of the presence of another human being as he tapped the toes of his boots together to the rhythm of the song. She had entered so quietly that Nemo surely would have drawn his wand in reaction to her arrival, hadn't he been in such a trance. He lolled his head to one side, resting his cheek against his left shoulder as he peered over the table at the woman. Immediately he recognized her face, as well as the expression that her facial features had formed, and could do nothing to prevent himself from giggling softly to himself. "My, my - look at you, Ginny! Your all frowns today, aren't you?" He shifted in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. "But I'll say; you wear depression well," he added with a flirtatious wink, before drifting off into a dazed state once more.

Ginny smiled.... or at least tried to smile at his remarks. She did agree with him though; she does wear depression well. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure if I know your name. Did I come at an unwanted time?" Ginny said to him noticing his trance-like state with the music she didn't recognize. Maybe it's muggle...., she thought. Weather she was unwanted or not, she sat down across from him. The sun had set and the kids had returned to the castle so most was quiet and the only thing you could really here is the sad sound of the wind.

"May I have a prediction?" Ginny asked him, "I think I'll go with palmistry." She reach from her bag and pulled out two galleons and placed it on his table. Ginny spread her palm, stretching out her fingers to let him see her palm nice and clearly.

With each move that Nemo made he rocked unsteadily, as though he had started an all-out war with gravity. As he dragged his heavy boots off of the table and dropped them to the ground once more, he swayed forward, only to be prevented from falling any further by an instinctive motion of his right hand. He gripped the table’s edge to steady himself, before settling casually in his chair once more, hunching forward.

“People call me Mortimer,” he replied, having decided against providing Ginny with his birth name. On several past occasions, people had refused to refer to him by his lengthy nickname when they’d learned of his true title.After all, who had the time to force three syllables from their lips when two syllables would easily do the trick? Nemo waved off her next inquiry with an intentional snort, as though he believed that ill timing was an impossibility when fortune telling was involved. Or, perhaps it was the money that he felt was so worth his time, rather than the opportunity to provide others with the hope of a brighter future.

While simultaneously drumming his toes against the ground to the steady drumbeat that echoed throughout the area, and mumbling softly to himself the song’s lyrics, Nemo reached for Ginny’s hand. With calloused fingers and focused eyes he began to study the palm that he had been presented with. Every line that decorated her flesh was examined as he slowly traced each one with an unsteady fingertip.

“There.” Nemo doubled back over the line from which emotions were determined. As he went over that portion of her palm, an overwhelming feel of dread, hopelessness, and fright shook his body. Like a cold stone it settled in his core, freezing him from the inside, outward, causing the hairs of his arms to stand straight. In an attempt to free himself of the torment that Ginny’s future had plagued him with, Nemo moved his fingers towards her wrist, causing his touch to ghosted above the next line.

And in an instant, the emotional suffering became physical. Nemo grunted as a stabbing pain split through his skull, as though he’d been struck by one of the many bottles that littered the floor of his tent. Acting hastily, Nemo withdrew his hands from Ginny’s to press them flat against the sides of his head. But just as he began to curl into his folded arms, the pain ceased.

His crystal blue gaze flicked upward to meet with the eyes of his customer. He wore an expression of anguish and fear, despite his drunken state. Alas, he spoke of what he’d witnessed, “There is nothing but suffering. Torture – you will be tortured by a demon with skin as cold as ice,” Nemo informed her. He was beginning to return to his original position, but it was evident by the hissing noise that he made upon uncurling his spine that he had not yet recovered. "And the worst of it is, you will live."

There was a look of shock on Mortimer's face, as if something had frozen him while a look of horror was on his face. Ginny just sat there while he stared into her palm feeling scared, as if something might be wrong.... But there was. She would be tortured? And the worst part.... live? "Bu--" she said when she tried to talk, but no words could come out of her mouth. She just stared at her palm as she retracted it from his reach. Ginny held her hand like it was the only thing left that was important to her. A tear escaped her eye. She was scared and there was nothing she could do about it. She had to accept fate and nothing was going to change Mortimer's prediction.

"What do you mean?!" she screamed to him, "Are you sure? How can this be?! WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN TO ME?!" She was crying now and buried her head into her arms, wetting her jacket.

Empathy had never been Nemo Omara's forte. He was unskilled in the art of comforting others in any way other than offering them a drink. And in the absence of any alcohol to offer Ginny, Nemo was left with nothing more than memories of having found himself in similar situations in the past. She was not the first of Nemo's customers to receive news of the unbearable misery that the future would inflict upon her - certainly not. In fact, if Nemo were to recall and take score of the number of times that he'd delivered an omen to someone who had come to him for a simple prediction, there was no doubt in his mind that these occasions would outweigh the number of times he had been given the opportunity to speak of good news. As Ginny began to weep over the devastating truth that she'd learned, Nemo put to use the lines that had done him good in the past, "Yes, I'm sure. My condolences," he replied.

Nemo had rested his arched spine against the back of his chair, and once more he began to stare at the tent above. For a moment it appeared as though he had forgotten entirely of Ginny's presence - but appearances were often deceitful. Nemo was not so cruel as to ignore the sobs of another; he could not possibly have pushed the woman from his mind while her whimpering rung so clearly in the evening air, rising above Nemo's music. No; he was simply thinking of a way to respond to Ginny as his gaze drifted upward.

Would the truth be of any help? Nemo did not think so, and yet, it was this option that he chose when he spoke, "I don't know how it will happen. I don't know why. But I can give you the demon's name. He made his name clear - in fact, he wouldn't stop repeating it," Nemo informed her. He dragged his eyes downward once more, tilted his head slightly to the side as he examined the weeping woman before him.

"Ginny," he began, his tone firm as he spoke her name aloud. It was an order; he was demanding her attention, as though her life depended on her ability to focus on his next words. "You must remember that you are an auror, Ginny. And while I have not yet seen proof that the future can be changed, I am certain of one thing; the Ministry can be one clingy bunch. Once you've joined their forces, they become hellbent on keeping you around. Tell the head of the auror department of what I have seen. The Ministry might be of some help."

Nemo sighed and raked several fingers through his untidy hair. He had not yet had enough to drink to take part in such serious business.

Ginny lifted her head. "What is his.. or its name?" she said to him nervously. "I need to know it!" Then, Ginny looked at Mortimer as if her life depended on it. "I know I'm an auror and I know that the Ministry will protect me! But it's meant to be! It's gonna happen," she said as another tear rolled down her cheek. The make-up around her eyes and on her cheek was starting to fade and was looking quite ugly. Ginny felt embarrassed. She had cried in front of him and displayed herself as a weak person.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said and paused, "If I never had this prediction, would this still happen to me?" Ginny had been worried since she had entered the tent, that it was a mistake to be here. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

For a brief moment, Nemo's fingers lingered near his head, as though he believed that he may find blood amongst the short stands that sprouted from his scalp. The ghost of the pain that he'd previously experienced there had remained; a faint reminder of precisely what it was that Ginny would be forced to endure in the future.

He tore his arm away from his skull, and held it out before him as he spoke. He began to make small gestures alongside each of his words; flicking his wrist and rolling his fingers in a manner that made his vertigo painfully evident. It was a wonder that he had remained seated in his chair thus long. “Vi-to Dee Sym-ons,” Nemo answered Ginny. He had fumbled with the name, drawing out each syllable as though he had never heard a stranger title in his lifetime – a truly comical point of view of someone named “Nemo”.

“Yes,” Nemo replied in an exasperated tone. It had not taken any foresight for Nemo to recognize the fact that Ginny was looking for someone to blame for her misfortune. It was a common reaction of the less fortunate of Nemo’s customers, and it was always easiest for the men and women to jump to the conclusion that the seer was responsible. This truth did not insult Nemo; on the contrary, he was growing quite tired of the accusation. “I am flattered, Ginny,” Nemo lied for the sake of a joke. “I am not Fate. I don’t hold any power over your life. I only delivered a message – a sneak peak. No matter if you see the trailer or not, the movie is going to premier.” Nemo shot her a lazy smile in the hopes of stemming the flow of tears that proceeded to fall from her lashes.

“Some claim that ignorance is bliss. But from what I have seen,” he tapped his temple with his index finger, “it is a hell of a lot more fun to go down swinging.”

Vito Dee Symons. Vito Dee Symons. Vito Dee Symons. Vito Dee Symons. Vito Dee Symons.... She wouldn't stop repeating it in her head. It was just some wicked, evil name that just felt so wrong. Now when she heard someone coming up to her saying "My name is Vito Dee Symons," she would no what to do. Ginny felt embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Just curious," she said nervously. But she frowned when he said movie. [i]Is that muggle? Wow. He really knows about muggles. But what's a movie?....[i], she thought. "Excuse me but what's a movie? And a trailer...."

"Mmmm. Well I think it would be better if I hadn't found out. I wish he could just walk in and torture me now and get it over with," she said back into her depressive mood.

With an unsteady hand, Nemo waved off the apology that he had been offered. Neither the question that she had asked nor the response that he had earned from her was of any significance to him – not due to arrogance on his part, but rather, the boredom that came along with having witnessed the same scenario far too many times in the past. Nemo had but two methods of coping with the misery that he often involuntarily inflicted upon his customers, and that was to react with indifference, or to be swallowed by his grief.

But from his indifference, a sense of amusement was born as Ginny questioned his choice of words. Perhaps Nemo had grown too fond of the habits of muggles when his beloved father had taught him of their ways, for it seemed he could do nothing to prevent the mention of their customs during his conversations with fellow magic folk. Quite often, Nemo confused others with his unorthodox knowledge of muggle ways, and it never failed to amuse him when questions regarding the simplest of things arose. “Forget about it. It was a metaphor. Muggle stuff,” He explained.

“Most do.” He paused to allow another sigh to fall from his parted lips. “It is actually rather surprising that you haven’t denied my reading. That usually comes first,” he added, before momentarily inspecting her facial features, his crystal eyes in search of said emotion. “Boston said something about that once; ‘The future is coming much too slow’”, he mused. “Though I don’t suspect you will know who they are, either.”