Blood Crest

Chapter 2: Fool

Chapter 2: Fool

Harry felt the world constrict around him, like he was being shoved with great force up a very narrow tube, and then the sensation ended abruptly as the world exploded into bright orange light. He barely had the chance to realise that he was staring straight into a street lamp when the feeling came right back and he had to fight not to choke.

They emerged in a starlit alleyway between two dusty brick buildings. The unpleasant reek of decaying rubbish wafted up Harry's nostrils as he inhaled deeply and rapidly. He wanted to hold his breath, but his body wouldn't allow it, deprived of air as it was, so he was forced to take in the nauseating smell. It made trying not to vomit twice as hard, but somehow, Harry managed as he swallowed convulsively.

He turned to the cloaked man to ask what that had been and where they were now, because there was just no way that the horrible thing had been normal, but the man was not even looking at him. Harry tugged at the hand holding him, but the grip remained vice-like and the man's attention remained diverted as he muttered under his breath.

Something rough was pressed against his occupied hand, and Harry glanced down to see a length of rope brushing his thumb. That was all he could process before he felt himself launch into the air, doubling over as something dragged him along like there was a hook behind his navel. A myriad of dizzying colours swirled around him, and he had to shut his eyes to keep from projectile vomiting. Fortunately, the turbulence was not as bad with closed eyes, and he only felt like he was bobbing gently in the wind.

Were they flying? What was this? It was a bit too much for Harry's mind to process, and he was so confused that the concept of mere confusion no longer covered the situation. He had about a minute of being pulled along by that funny hook-like feeling and keeping his eyes screwed shut before the almost pleasant journey ended and he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground, face first.

Groaning and rubbing at his bruised jaw, Harry opened his eyes and pushed himself off the floor. The cloaked man was beside him, blocking most of the view, but Harry could see that they had landed inside a small room with stained wood floors and mottled white walls. There wasn't much furniture in the room, just an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, a short filing cabinet, and a couple of cushions littered about. The roof was heavily slanted, leading Harry to believe that they were in an attic of some sort. For some reason, there was a large, slanted fireplace against one wall that looked completely incongruous with the rest of the room.

But first things came first. "What was that?" Harry demanded, once he felt less like throwing up. His stomach was still churning, but at least it did not seem as eager to leap out of his mouth as it did a moment ago.

"Two times apparition and then portkey. Safety precaution," the man said, as if something other than complete nonsense had just come out of his mouth. Harry wanted to ask what the a bloody portkey was, but obviously it was exactly the thing that had just happened, the minute-long adventure of being dragged along by his spine. Though it was an appropriate answer to his question, Harry also found it supremely unenlightening.

The cloaked man left Harry there on the ground, moving to the filing cabinet and pulling out the second drawer. He had to stoop down to reach it, and shuffled around a bit before he came out with a sheaf of papers. He came back and motioned for Harry to get up, which he did. It just occurred to him that he had no idea where he was, what was going on, or even what the man's name was.

Harry felt a little stupid now, and a tinge of fear crept into his heart. He kept it at bay, telling himself that nothing actually bad had happened yet. And there were things he could do, questions he could ask, to fix all that.

"What's your name?" he asked, deciding to start with the basics. The cloaked man made a little amused sound.

"Joachim Petri, but you will address me as Master, if you must," he said. "And what is your name, Apprentice?"

Harry was still not entirely sure what that word meant, but he replied dutifully, "Harry Potter, sir." In this room now instead of in the middle of the play park, Harry got the sense that this man was to be respected.

"Harry, then," said Petri, and Harry was not sure he was comfortable with the man using his first name, but he also was not comfortable bringing it up. "I have here the apprenticeship contract. I keep many copies. Otherwise I run out too quickly."

At the time, Harry did not fully grasp the ominousness of this casual admission.

He took the sheaf of unexpectedly thick and yellowy papers from Petri, and saw with consternation that even the writing was all nonsense. Harry was not very good at reading, but even he could tell that none of the words on the page were English.

"Er, I can't read this, sir," he said, feeling a little stupid as he said it despite knowing that he wasn't meant to be able to read something like that.

"Problematic. You must learn German as soon as possible," Petri said. Still, he flicked his hand and suddenly there was a stick in it, and with a flourish he tapped it against the paper.

To Harry's astonishment, the words wriggled slightly and then transformed before his eyes. He looked more closely and could see that he knew most of them now.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Translation charm, obviously," Petri replied, though Harry could not see what was obvious about it. He had more questions, but could sense that Petri was impatient, and he knew from experience that impatient adults were not nice adults, so he tried to read the text instead.

It was all very confusing, even if he knew the words, and before he had even made it through a third of the first page, a feather was forcefully shoved into his hands.

"Just sign it," Petri said, clearly even more impatient than he had been before. "It's a standard apprenticeship contract. No tricks." As he spoke, he pulled the papers from Harry, shuffled them so that the bottom page was on top, and handed it back.

Harry took them absently, staring in confusion at the feather in his hand, but he quickly realized that the bottom of it was thin and pointy, so it was probably a fancy pen.

"It's a blood quill," Petri said, gesturing at the feather pen. "You need no other ink."

Feeling trepidation but also pressure from Petri's clear irritation, Harry knelt down, set the papers on the ground, and pressed the nub of the "blood quill" to the line. As he drew the first vertical slash of his name, he gasped and discovered for himself just where the "blood" part of the name had come from.

The red line that sliced like fire into the back of his hand disappeared as quickly as it had come, and Harry would have thought that he had daydreamed it, except that the spot still ached with echoes of the earlier pain.

A vertical stroke glistened on the page in bright red beneath his quill.

The casual prompt of "Go on," from Petri told Harry that this was apparently supposed to happen. Even he knew that there was something wrong with a pen that cut into the back of his hand, but he supposed that since the marks had vanished, it was fine to use. Bracing himself, he quickly wrote down the rest of his name in a sloppy cursive, like he had seen Uncle Vernon do with signatures. A stinging trail carved itself into the back of his hand, but when he inspected it he could see that it had healed perfectly, without even a trace.

"Good," Petri said, finally sounding pleased.

A/N: Short chapters, but hopefully I will be able to pull off some reasonably quick updates. Please read and review.