Harry Potter fic - Chapter Three
More Harry Potter fic. This is
Chapter Three
And Don't Be Afraid of the Dark
I
I look inside myself and see my heart is black; I see my red door, I must have it painted black. Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts. It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black.
Oscar Wurdmor waited in line beneath Waterloo Bridge, smelling the hot soup on the air as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. The line of ragged people moved slowly but surely towards the trestle tables where the Salvation Army were handing out food and blankets, but for Oscar the progress was shuffling and painful. His skinny frame wrapped in several layers of scavenged or stolen clothes, he still shivered so much that his bones ached. The chilly wind from the Thames whipped at his ears and he pulled his tatty wool hat as far down as it would stretch.
The stench of the muggles around him was almost enough to put him off eating, but after three days of scraps at the back of restaurants and the occasional shoplifted roll, Oscar was willing to endure it a while longer.
When at last he reached the table, he watched the uniformed muggle woman ladle out a bowl of watery, colourless soup. Some of it slopped over the sides and soaked into his fingerless gloves. The momentary heat brought a few prickles of sensation back to his skin, but Oscar didn’t react outwardly. He looked up at the woman with pallid grey-green eyes, did not say thank you, and moved on to get his blanket.
Most of the down-and-outs sat beneath the bridge, on the dingy slabs or the pavement to have their meal, but Oscar headed off along the Embankment, listening to the wind rustling the plane trees and to the quiet slurping of the river; tiny little sounds that were almost drowned by the din of muggle traffic all around the city. Oscar found a wrought iron bench facing the Thames and the South Bank, and sat there to finish off his soup. A couple of muggles passed him and shook their heads, then threw a couple of coins onto the blanket, which he had dumped at his feet. Oscar looked up and sneered, the look so unpleasant that the muggle woman squeezed her husband’s arm and led him quickly away.
There were too many of them around, Oscar concluded. Their boats jostled about on the river, their cars filled the road and their noise and smell was everywhere. He started to shake just thinking of them, of how near they were to him. He felt their gaze on the back of his neck; millions of them staring with those wide, unfeeling muggle eyes, devoid of any spark of magic and dull as the river. Closing his eyes he fought to ignore the world around him, which seemed to suddenly swoop down, the buildings lurching forward, the trees swishing angrily in the wind. He fumbled inside his pocket and drew out a small ceramic bottle. His fingers, trembling and cold, struggled to open it, then he tipped the contents down his throat, only to find that it was empty. With a loud cry he threw it into the river.
He gathered up the blanket, almost falling over as he bent to pick it up, and hurried across the road. He cut through the Embankment Gardens onto the Strand, ignored by the crowd - some gave him wary glances but quickly looked away - then skirted the edge of Trafalgar Square to get up onto Charing Cross Road. He stuck to the narrower lanes around the back of the stately buildings, where the trees grew in tight lines along the pavement and there were plenty of shadows to hide in. His movements, however, came more from instinct than design. He saw nothing but dark shapes and wild patterns, which only parted occasionally to let him glimpse the real world and find his way.
He passed through the Leaky Cauldron, keeping his gaze low and his pace quick, thundered along Diagon Alley, no longer caring if anyone saw him, and hurried towards Knockturn Alley as if he were being dragged there on a lead.
Out of breath, he collapsed onto the ground in a narrow passage between the shops and stayed there for a while, letting the cold griminess of the place sweep over him. The visions slowly faded, retreating to the very edges of his mind. He struggled to make his lungs work rhythmically again. Then after a while, Oscar was on his feet again, arms wrapped around his chest, his face red from the effort of returning to his natural world. He made for a shabby building that sat on a turn in the alley. Its woodwork gleamed like beetle shell and the upper storeys seemed ready to fall into the street, the windows too dirty to see inside. Oscar shoved open the door and staggered in, knocking over a few of the potion jars and ceramic bottles on display.
‘I need some more, Droma,’ he shouted towards the back of the shop. When no one replied, he banged his fist down hard on the counter and stared through the open door into the backroom. ‘Droma!’
A short, balding man in a grey suit shuffled out, muttering to himself. ‘All right, all right, keep your bloody hair on. And you want to shout a bit louder an’ all? ‘Cause there’s a wizard in Aberdeen didn’t hear you!’
‘I need some more Droma,’ said Oscar, lowering his voice. ‘Please. Please, I just need some more.’
The shopkeeper eyed him with a leering smile. ‘You still ain’t paid me for the last lot, sonny.’
‘I will. I’ve got some money coming. But I need some more.’
‘Money coming? From where, falling from the sky?’
‘I’ll get you the money, Droma, everything I owe you. Just give me a little bit to tide me over. Just a little bit. Go on, please…Droma!’
‘Pay for what you’ve had, and you can get some more. This isn’t a bloody charity!’
Oscar stared, his hands shaking so hard he could barely keep them on the counter. ‘Droma, please…’
‘Go on, get out of it! I got real customers with real money to see to, and they ain’t gonna want to see some lowlife like you hanging about. Come back when you got the money.’
‘But I can’t…’
‘Get out of it, or do I have to get my boy down here to throw you out?’
Oscar shuddered and folded his arms, trying to regain some control over his body, then with a deep sigh he turned and left the shop.
He returned to the passage and sank down amongst the filth and discarded rags once again. His limbs grew numb, his head spinning. The aches inside his skull were so painful he couldn’t bring himself to think of a plan.
He barely registered the other man at first, but then he realised that a shadow had fallen over him, and he felt the tip of a wand pressed against his chin. Oscar couldn’t quite find the strength to look up, but he opened his eyes. The blurry image of a figure in dark robes and a cowl appeared before him, and a quiet voice spoke.
‘What seems to be the matter with you, boy?’
Oscar opened his mouth to reply, unsure if the figure was real or another symptom of his withdrawals, but before he managed to form any words, a cold feeling engulfed him from his toes to his scalp, and the world around him faded to black.
II
You were still in school when you had that fool who really messed your mind; and after that you turned your back on treating people kind
The smell of damp and decay hit Oscar first of all as he started to wake up, but he was well used to it. A cold breeze blew against his cheek, bringing more of that greenish, fresh yet unpleasant odour towards him, and he heard the faint whisper of someone breathing nearby. He opened his eyes and found himself in a small, dark room with undecorated walls and mouldy ceiling. He was lying on a bunk that creaked noisily as he moved and tried to sit up. Only one window allowed light inside, not enough to fight off the shadows in the corners.
Amongst those shadows stood the other figure. Oscar squinted and tried to make him out, but could only see a tall man in dark, hooded robes.
‘Where am I? What d’you want?’ he shouted, fumbling for his wand. It was no longer in his pocket. The figure laughed quietly.
‘Good morning,’ he replied, stepping closer. His face, however, remained obscured beneath his cowl.
‘Who’re you?’
The figure reached inside his robes and Oscar tensed. But the figure only drew out a small glass bottle, which he waved in the air.
‘I believe this is what you need,’ he said.
‘I ain’t got no money,’ Oscar told him.
‘Looking at you, I would hardly have thought so. Here.’ He tossed the bottle across the room. Oscar leapt forward and caught it before it hit the ground, then he crouched for a moment, holding it tightly. He then took out the stopper and sniffed the contents.
‘This is the real stuff? And I’m supposed to believe you’d just give it me?’
‘I hardly have use for it. My powers function perfectly well without any ‘enhancement’, and I have seen what becomes of those who seek shortcuts.’
Oscar scowled at the bottle again, then, shaking, swallowed all its contents in one gulp. He closed his eyes, feeling the liquid in his gullet, and just the thought of it doing its work calmed his nerves. When he looked at the room again, the details became clearer; he could almost make out the hooded man’s face, but not quite.
‘Why d’you carry this around then?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘If you don’t use the stuff?’
‘I said I would not use it myself. That does not mean I forsake its value to others.’
‘You talk rubbish, mate.’
The figure may have smiled, Oscar wasn’t certain.
‘How long have you been addicted?’ asked the stranger.
‘I’m not.’
‘How long?’
Oscar pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. There was a draught blowing right across his back, so damp it made him wonder if he’d been taken to the coast somehow, or if he was down by the river. ‘I never wanted to take it,’ he muttered.
‘No one ever does.’
‘A kid at school had it. Said he’d read about it in the library and stole the ingredients. He said it helped you study, ‘increased your magical performance’.’
‘And so it does.’
Oscar snorted. ‘I never wanted to take it,’ he repeated. ‘I just wanted to pass my O.W.L.s and get my old man off my back. Never had much time for study, and he made it sound like an easy ride. He never said what it does to you…’
‘Once addicted, you were no longer able to perform magic on your own. The addiction sapped all will, all strength, and only with another dose, and another, and another could you continue?’
‘For someone who don’t approve you know a lot about it.’
The stranger let out a dry, mirthless laugh. ‘I did have time for study.’
‘Bully for you. They never understood, see. All them teachers and governors and Ministry officials, they never had to work for nothing. They don’t know what it’s like, knowing if you fail, your dad’s going to take the strap to you, length and breadth of the house. They didn’t care. ‘Caught using banned substances,’ they said. ‘Immediate and unconditional expulsion. And the kid what gave it me told ‘em it was all my idea. And him a bloody muggle-born an’ all! That was why I got it. Them and their ‘we have to have a fair quota of muggle-born students in school’ malarky. That’s why they turned me out. Sent me out to be one of ‘em. One of the filthy muggles. They’d even’ve taken my wand if I hadn’t given ‘em someone else’s to destroy when they asked me. What was I supposed to do? Like my father was going to let me stay with him after I’d been kicked out! But they didn’t give a toss.’
Hugging his bony knees close to his chest, Oscar grimaced for a moment, determined not to cry, much though he wanted to.
‘Your family,’ began the stranger, ‘had some standing in the community?’
Again Oscar snorted. ‘Can say that again. No money or nothing ‘cause they spent it all, but they were old blood. But didn’t matter. Couldn’t have a failure in the family. Better to throw him out onto the street amongst the muggles and pretend he never existed than to say he failed.’
‘There was a time when the reputation of the pureblood families mattered at Hogwarts.’
‘Not now, it ain’t.’
‘No,’ sighed the stranger. ‘No, things have changed, haven’t they? Muggles and half muggles… Once they would have done their utmost to preserve your name and your integrity. Long ago they would never take the word of a muggle-born over one of the true bloodlines.’
‘What good is that to me now? Ain’t gonna get me off the bloody streets is it? Put galleons in my pocket or get me some swanky house in the country, is it?’
The stranger cocked his head to one side. ‘Galleons would make your life better?’
‘Course they would. You stupid or something?’
‘Then what if I were to take pity on you? For the sake of the pureblooded amongst us wizards, who still know what that means? Who know what the mongrels and the mudbloods have taken away by their very existence?’
Oscar regarded him, his mind clearer now that the potion was taking effect. A shadow of suspicion flashed over his eyes. ‘What you on about?’
‘For a long time I have worked alone…some ‘projects’ I took upon myself to complete. But now things are on the brink of motion, and it is too large a task for one wizard alone to tackle. I will need people I can trust around me, people who can work for me without question.’ He stepped closer, allowing Oscar only a glimpse of his eyes, glistening beneath his cowl. ‘How would you like to have all the noxious substances your feeble body could wish for, and money to spare?’
‘You for real?’
‘All I ask is that you remain loyal, that you ask no questions, that you obey any instruction I might give you, and that you speak to no one about me or about my business. Is that too much, in exchange for a life free of the longing and the pain in your belly? An easy life, such as the one you should have known, if Hogwarts and its band of do-gooders had done what they were duty-bound to do?’
Oscar frowned. ‘Why me?’
‘Because you have nothing. Therefore you need me.’
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘You don’t need to know that to know what you want. Which appeals to you more, child? Drab existence or the vibrancy of life?’ He reached into his robes and withdrew a second bottle. ‘What is it to be? There is plenty more where these came from.’
‘And all I have to do is work for you? Odd jobs and stuff?’
‘Precisely.’
Oscar swallowed hard. The word ‘stupid’ sounded in his head a dozen times, but then with a tremble in his fingers, he offered his hand to the stranger. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘All right, you got a deal, mate.’
The stranger brought his hand level with Oscar’s, but before he accepted the handshake, he grabbed Oscar’s wrist and pushed back his sleeve. With a swift flurry of movement, the stranger drew his wand, placed the tip against Oscar’s skin, pushing hard between the veins on his forearm, and then uttered words in an almost serpentine hiss.
Oscar shrieked and gritted his teeth. His arm felt as though the blood inside was boiling. Searing heat spread from his wrist to his elbow and a sensation like a dozen needles jabbing at his skin followed soon after.
‘There, child,’ whispered the stranger. ‘Our bargain is properly sealed, and this shall remind you of it. Always.’
At first, as the stranger stepped back, Oscar kept his eyes closed, afraid to look at the damage done to his limb. But slowly, as the pain subsided and became a mere dull ache, he forced himself to look down.
Not quite as bad as he had thought - there was no blood and all his fingers were still attached. All the stranger had left him with, in fact, was a slightly reddened and swollen image drawn upon his skin, a death’s head, with a slow moving serpent emerging from its jaws.
Chapter Three
And Don't Be Afraid of the Dark
I
I look inside myself and see my heart is black; I see my red door, I must have it painted black. Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts. It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black.
Oscar Wurdmor waited in line beneath Waterloo Bridge, smelling the hot soup on the air as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. The line of ragged people moved slowly but surely towards the trestle tables where the Salvation Army were handing out food and blankets, but for Oscar the progress was shuffling and painful. His skinny frame wrapped in several layers of scavenged or stolen clothes, he still shivered so much that his bones ached. The chilly wind from the Thames whipped at his ears and he pulled his tatty wool hat as far down as it would stretch.
The stench of the muggles around him was almost enough to put him off eating, but after three days of scraps at the back of restaurants and the occasional shoplifted roll, Oscar was willing to endure it a while longer.
When at last he reached the table, he watched the uniformed muggle woman ladle out a bowl of watery, colourless soup. Some of it slopped over the sides and soaked into his fingerless gloves. The momentary heat brought a few prickles of sensation back to his skin, but Oscar didn’t react outwardly. He looked up at the woman with pallid grey-green eyes, did not say thank you, and moved on to get his blanket.
Most of the down-and-outs sat beneath the bridge, on the dingy slabs or the pavement to have their meal, but Oscar headed off along the Embankment, listening to the wind rustling the plane trees and to the quiet slurping of the river; tiny little sounds that were almost drowned by the din of muggle traffic all around the city. Oscar found a wrought iron bench facing the Thames and the South Bank, and sat there to finish off his soup. A couple of muggles passed him and shook their heads, then threw a couple of coins onto the blanket, which he had dumped at his feet. Oscar looked up and sneered, the look so unpleasant that the muggle woman squeezed her husband’s arm and led him quickly away.
There were too many of them around, Oscar concluded. Their boats jostled about on the river, their cars filled the road and their noise and smell was everywhere. He started to shake just thinking of them, of how near they were to him. He felt their gaze on the back of his neck; millions of them staring with those wide, unfeeling muggle eyes, devoid of any spark of magic and dull as the river. Closing his eyes he fought to ignore the world around him, which seemed to suddenly swoop down, the buildings lurching forward, the trees swishing angrily in the wind. He fumbled inside his pocket and drew out a small ceramic bottle. His fingers, trembling and cold, struggled to open it, then he tipped the contents down his throat, only to find that it was empty. With a loud cry he threw it into the river.
He gathered up the blanket, almost falling over as he bent to pick it up, and hurried across the road. He cut through the Embankment Gardens onto the Strand, ignored by the crowd - some gave him wary glances but quickly looked away - then skirted the edge of Trafalgar Square to get up onto Charing Cross Road. He stuck to the narrower lanes around the back of the stately buildings, where the trees grew in tight lines along the pavement and there were plenty of shadows to hide in. His movements, however, came more from instinct than design. He saw nothing but dark shapes and wild patterns, which only parted occasionally to let him glimpse the real world and find his way.
He passed through the Leaky Cauldron, keeping his gaze low and his pace quick, thundered along Diagon Alley, no longer caring if anyone saw him, and hurried towards Knockturn Alley as if he were being dragged there on a lead.
Out of breath, he collapsed onto the ground in a narrow passage between the shops and stayed there for a while, letting the cold griminess of the place sweep over him. The visions slowly faded, retreating to the very edges of his mind. He struggled to make his lungs work rhythmically again. Then after a while, Oscar was on his feet again, arms wrapped around his chest, his face red from the effort of returning to his natural world. He made for a shabby building that sat on a turn in the alley. Its woodwork gleamed like beetle shell and the upper storeys seemed ready to fall into the street, the windows too dirty to see inside. Oscar shoved open the door and staggered in, knocking over a few of the potion jars and ceramic bottles on display.
‘I need some more, Droma,’ he shouted towards the back of the shop. When no one replied, he banged his fist down hard on the counter and stared through the open door into the backroom. ‘Droma!’
A short, balding man in a grey suit shuffled out, muttering to himself. ‘All right, all right, keep your bloody hair on. And you want to shout a bit louder an’ all? ‘Cause there’s a wizard in Aberdeen didn’t hear you!’
‘I need some more Droma,’ said Oscar, lowering his voice. ‘Please. Please, I just need some more.’
The shopkeeper eyed him with a leering smile. ‘You still ain’t paid me for the last lot, sonny.’
‘I will. I’ve got some money coming. But I need some more.’
‘Money coming? From where, falling from the sky?’
‘I’ll get you the money, Droma, everything I owe you. Just give me a little bit to tide me over. Just a little bit. Go on, please…Droma!’
‘Pay for what you’ve had, and you can get some more. This isn’t a bloody charity!’
Oscar stared, his hands shaking so hard he could barely keep them on the counter. ‘Droma, please…’
‘Go on, get out of it! I got real customers with real money to see to, and they ain’t gonna want to see some lowlife like you hanging about. Come back when you got the money.’
‘But I can’t…’
‘Get out of it, or do I have to get my boy down here to throw you out?’
Oscar shuddered and folded his arms, trying to regain some control over his body, then with a deep sigh he turned and left the shop.
He returned to the passage and sank down amongst the filth and discarded rags once again. His limbs grew numb, his head spinning. The aches inside his skull were so painful he couldn’t bring himself to think of a plan.
He barely registered the other man at first, but then he realised that a shadow had fallen over him, and he felt the tip of a wand pressed against his chin. Oscar couldn’t quite find the strength to look up, but he opened his eyes. The blurry image of a figure in dark robes and a cowl appeared before him, and a quiet voice spoke.
‘What seems to be the matter with you, boy?’
Oscar opened his mouth to reply, unsure if the figure was real or another symptom of his withdrawals, but before he managed to form any words, a cold feeling engulfed him from his toes to his scalp, and the world around him faded to black.
II
You were still in school when you had that fool who really messed your mind; and after that you turned your back on treating people kind
The smell of damp and decay hit Oscar first of all as he started to wake up, but he was well used to it. A cold breeze blew against his cheek, bringing more of that greenish, fresh yet unpleasant odour towards him, and he heard the faint whisper of someone breathing nearby. He opened his eyes and found himself in a small, dark room with undecorated walls and mouldy ceiling. He was lying on a bunk that creaked noisily as he moved and tried to sit up. Only one window allowed light inside, not enough to fight off the shadows in the corners.
Amongst those shadows stood the other figure. Oscar squinted and tried to make him out, but could only see a tall man in dark, hooded robes.
‘Where am I? What d’you want?’ he shouted, fumbling for his wand. It was no longer in his pocket. The figure laughed quietly.
‘Good morning,’ he replied, stepping closer. His face, however, remained obscured beneath his cowl.
‘Who’re you?’
The figure reached inside his robes and Oscar tensed. But the figure only drew out a small glass bottle, which he waved in the air.
‘I believe this is what you need,’ he said.
‘I ain’t got no money,’ Oscar told him.
‘Looking at you, I would hardly have thought so. Here.’ He tossed the bottle across the room. Oscar leapt forward and caught it before it hit the ground, then he crouched for a moment, holding it tightly. He then took out the stopper and sniffed the contents.
‘This is the real stuff? And I’m supposed to believe you’d just give it me?’
‘I hardly have use for it. My powers function perfectly well without any ‘enhancement’, and I have seen what becomes of those who seek shortcuts.’
Oscar scowled at the bottle again, then, shaking, swallowed all its contents in one gulp. He closed his eyes, feeling the liquid in his gullet, and just the thought of it doing its work calmed his nerves. When he looked at the room again, the details became clearer; he could almost make out the hooded man’s face, but not quite.
‘Why d’you carry this around then?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘If you don’t use the stuff?’
‘I said I would not use it myself. That does not mean I forsake its value to others.’
‘You talk rubbish, mate.’
The figure may have smiled, Oscar wasn’t certain.
‘How long have you been addicted?’ asked the stranger.
‘I’m not.’
‘How long?’
Oscar pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders. There was a draught blowing right across his back, so damp it made him wonder if he’d been taken to the coast somehow, or if he was down by the river. ‘I never wanted to take it,’ he muttered.
‘No one ever does.’
‘A kid at school had it. Said he’d read about it in the library and stole the ingredients. He said it helped you study, ‘increased your magical performance’.’
‘And so it does.’
Oscar snorted. ‘I never wanted to take it,’ he repeated. ‘I just wanted to pass my O.W.L.s and get my old man off my back. Never had much time for study, and he made it sound like an easy ride. He never said what it does to you…’
‘Once addicted, you were no longer able to perform magic on your own. The addiction sapped all will, all strength, and only with another dose, and another, and another could you continue?’
‘For someone who don’t approve you know a lot about it.’
The stranger let out a dry, mirthless laugh. ‘I did have time for study.’
‘Bully for you. They never understood, see. All them teachers and governors and Ministry officials, they never had to work for nothing. They don’t know what it’s like, knowing if you fail, your dad’s going to take the strap to you, length and breadth of the house. They didn’t care. ‘Caught using banned substances,’ they said. ‘Immediate and unconditional expulsion. And the kid what gave it me told ‘em it was all my idea. And him a bloody muggle-born an’ all! That was why I got it. Them and their ‘we have to have a fair quota of muggle-born students in school’ malarky. That’s why they turned me out. Sent me out to be one of ‘em. One of the filthy muggles. They’d even’ve taken my wand if I hadn’t given ‘em someone else’s to destroy when they asked me. What was I supposed to do? Like my father was going to let me stay with him after I’d been kicked out! But they didn’t give a toss.’
Hugging his bony knees close to his chest, Oscar grimaced for a moment, determined not to cry, much though he wanted to.
‘Your family,’ began the stranger, ‘had some standing in the community?’
Again Oscar snorted. ‘Can say that again. No money or nothing ‘cause they spent it all, but they were old blood. But didn’t matter. Couldn’t have a failure in the family. Better to throw him out onto the street amongst the muggles and pretend he never existed than to say he failed.’
‘There was a time when the reputation of the pureblood families mattered at Hogwarts.’
‘Not now, it ain’t.’
‘No,’ sighed the stranger. ‘No, things have changed, haven’t they? Muggles and half muggles… Once they would have done their utmost to preserve your name and your integrity. Long ago they would never take the word of a muggle-born over one of the true bloodlines.’
‘What good is that to me now? Ain’t gonna get me off the bloody streets is it? Put galleons in my pocket or get me some swanky house in the country, is it?’
The stranger cocked his head to one side. ‘Galleons would make your life better?’
‘Course they would. You stupid or something?’
‘Then what if I were to take pity on you? For the sake of the pureblooded amongst us wizards, who still know what that means? Who know what the mongrels and the mudbloods have taken away by their very existence?’
Oscar regarded him, his mind clearer now that the potion was taking effect. A shadow of suspicion flashed over his eyes. ‘What you on about?’
‘For a long time I have worked alone…some ‘projects’ I took upon myself to complete. But now things are on the brink of motion, and it is too large a task for one wizard alone to tackle. I will need people I can trust around me, people who can work for me without question.’ He stepped closer, allowing Oscar only a glimpse of his eyes, glistening beneath his cowl. ‘How would you like to have all the noxious substances your feeble body could wish for, and money to spare?’
‘You for real?’
‘All I ask is that you remain loyal, that you ask no questions, that you obey any instruction I might give you, and that you speak to no one about me or about my business. Is that too much, in exchange for a life free of the longing and the pain in your belly? An easy life, such as the one you should have known, if Hogwarts and its band of do-gooders had done what they were duty-bound to do?’
Oscar frowned. ‘Why me?’
‘Because you have nothing. Therefore you need me.’
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘You don’t need to know that to know what you want. Which appeals to you more, child? Drab existence or the vibrancy of life?’ He reached into his robes and withdrew a second bottle. ‘What is it to be? There is plenty more where these came from.’
‘And all I have to do is work for you? Odd jobs and stuff?’
‘Precisely.’
Oscar swallowed hard. The word ‘stupid’ sounded in his head a dozen times, but then with a tremble in his fingers, he offered his hand to the stranger. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘All right, you got a deal, mate.’
The stranger brought his hand level with Oscar’s, but before he accepted the handshake, he grabbed Oscar’s wrist and pushed back his sleeve. With a swift flurry of movement, the stranger drew his wand, placed the tip against Oscar’s skin, pushing hard between the veins on his forearm, and then uttered words in an almost serpentine hiss.
Oscar shrieked and gritted his teeth. His arm felt as though the blood inside was boiling. Searing heat spread from his wrist to his elbow and a sensation like a dozen needles jabbing at his skin followed soon after.
‘There, child,’ whispered the stranger. ‘Our bargain is properly sealed, and this shall remind you of it. Always.’
At first, as the stranger stepped back, Oscar kept his eyes closed, afraid to look at the damage done to his limb. But slowly, as the pain subsided and became a mere dull ache, he forced himself to look down.
Not quite as bad as he had thought - there was no blood and all his fingers were still attached. All the stranger had left him with, in fact, was a slightly reddened and swollen image drawn upon his skin, a death’s head, with a slow moving serpent emerging from its jaws.