FREAK

by
Hawa D.L.

Chapter III
Always remember, kid:
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

"Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart,
... as well as your body?
And can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love,
... as well as your folly?
And can you kneel before the king and say, 'I'm clean, I'm clean'?

"But tell me now, where was my fault
... in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh, tell me now, where was my fault
... in loving you with my whole heart?

"A white blank page and a swelling rage, rage.
You did not think when you sent me to the brink, to the brink.
You desired my attentions but denied my affections, my affections.

"So tell me now, where was my fault
... in loving you with my whole heart?
Oh, tell me now, where was my fault
... in loving you with my whole heart?

"Lead me to the truth and I
... will follow you with my whole life.
Oh, lead me to the truth and I
... will follow you with my whole life."

– Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More,"White Blank Page"

Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 7:55 P.M. GMT

"What are the healers doing here? Isn't this a strategy meeting?"

Severus Snape had to resist the urge to sigh as the inane babble of the Order's generals washed over him. The many long tables and benches that filled the Great Hall during the day had been removed, one large round table placed near the main entrance instead, leaving the majority of the space empty. Most everyone required at the meeting was already present, save two. The ten healers, the source of debate amongst the soldiers, were seated side by side to Severus' left, looking highly uncomfortable and out of place, no doubt due to the less than warm welcome from the twenty men and women on the other side of the table. Severus couldn't keep the sneer off his face as his eyes observed the people entrusted to lead the rest of the Order members into battle. How stupid do you have to be to insult and belittle those who very well may be all that will stand between you and death in the near future? Idiots, the lot of them.

Casting a Tempus charm, he saw that it was nearly eight, causing him to frown, not that anyone else would've been able to tell. What the hell is keeping them? Albus and Potter should have been here by now. Not that he was at all anxious to see that son of a bitch, Potter, again. Just thinking about him set his blood boiling. He was honest enough with himself to admit that this was mainly due to his own embarrassment, but that little fact did nothing to assuage his anger. In truth, it only made it flare brighter.

The event that Severus was so hung up on was truly nothing extraordinary or earth-shattering, but to a man like him it mattered a great deal. It happened Saturday night when he was out with a group of four others to go clubbing. One was a man named Micheal Weston, an acquaintance of his whom he'd first met in a pub a few years previous. The others were Weston's friend David and a couple on a quest for a threesome. To Severus' and Weston's irritation the group had ended up at a flashy club called the Bar Code where the pickings were slim, at least for those with standards. However, luck seemed to be with him as not long into the night he had spied a sexy young man wearing a silver sleeveless shirt and dancing in a way that sung of freedom and liberation, a feeling Severus had never known before.

And Severus had wanted him.

Wanted him so badly it had hurt. The voices of his companions and the sound of music had faded into the background as his eyes remained glued to the man's sinuous form. It had started as a drift, then strides, then he was stalking toward him, only aware of the blood rushing through his veins, the bass reverberating in his chest, and his prey.

About then was when his good fortune had turned bad.

When his prey had met Severus' eyes, he'd smirked, a chilling, cold, confident look on his strong face shrouded in long black hair. A niggling thought had entered his mind then concerning this hunter-like behavior, but he was too consumed in his longing to make a note of it.

At times even the smartest of men may act a fool.

When the two had finally met on the dance floor their bodies had come together with magnetic force, both moaning and moving in synchronization as though the one had been made for the other. They were even around the same height, about six feet even with their boots on. With the addition of their equally pale skin and ebony hair it was like Severus had been looking in a mirror and seeing another part of himself. In hindsight, he wanted to smack himself for having allowed such sentimental drivel to pass through his brain. Merlin, I made such an ass of myself.

There had been lines of what appeared to be poetry written on the man's cheek, and Severus had found himself mouthing the words as he read them:

Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!

And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.

The man had just smiled and raised his hand where more was written:

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

"That's a beautiful piece," Severus had commented, the sound more breath than voice.

"I know," was the response. Then, "At least you can read. But do you know what it's called?"

And Severus had paused; as well-read as he was, he'd never bothered with exploring the world of modern poetry, preferring classic English literature and Greek and Roman epics and plays. As such, the mention of the famous blind prophet, Tiresias, had instantly had several Ancient Greek titles on the tip of his tongue even though they would obviously be the wrong answers.

This must have been written all over his face because the man had tsk-tsked and spoken again, this time with a slight pout on his lips. "Aw, that's too bad. And I was all set to give you a treat too. Tell you what: since I kinda like you, I'll give you another chance. Can you guess who wrote it?"

Severus, finally realizing that he had absolutely no control of the conversation whatsoever, had to rein in a rather frustrating combination of irritation and lust as they both began to rise higher and higher. He might have wanted this man, but he had his pride too, dammit, and would not be made to jump through hoops just to get some ass. The very notion was ludicrous!

And so it was with a mental shrug (To hell with it!) that Severus had replied coolly, "Haven't a clue."

But then the man had groaned and slipped his hips away so they were no longer pressed tight against each other. "You were this close to being perfect!" he'd exclaimed, holding his thumb and forefinger close together. Then came a shrug accompanied by a gusty sigh. "Oh, well. Plenty of other fish in the sea. See you Monday night, Professor." And he'd moved to go before turning back to face a shell-shocked Severus Snape. "Oh, and would you mind terribly informing Albus that he should have a few healers present at the meeting? I forgot to mention it when I last saw him. Good thing running into you though, since you're sure to speak with him before I am." A pause. Severus still hadn't responded. "You will pass on the message, won't you?"

A stiff nod.

"Cheers," and a smile.

And then he was lost in the crowd.

That was Potter.

It had taken a full five minutes for the thought to actually sink in.

And then it had taken a full night of shagging Weston senseless to become calm enough to function again.

Though as the doors to the Great Hall opened and Albus stepped through escorting the Great White Git, Severus could feel all the rage returning, as strong and as pure as if it'd never left. As impassive as he normally maintained his expression, he knew that his wrath showed as fire in his eyes as he set his sights on Potter. His glare was so strong it should've made the prat keel over, but no, onward he sauntered with a black duffel tossed on one shoulder, as confident and as self-assured as ever, his gaze passing coolly over those assembled. And then the unthinkable happened: as his eyes swept over Severus, he actually had the gall to wink at him. Wink! And he was fucking smirking too! Why, that little effing prick! The sheer nerve of him!

The potions master's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. I could strangle the little blighter.

And then the meeting was starting.

The freak was skilled at maintaining a serious face while fighting the urge to smile since he usually had a ridiculously inappropriate sense of humor. And so it was that as he stood before the best of the Order of the Phoenix being introduced as Field Marshal and preparing to give those assembled a basic debriefing and assessment tests that he managed not to burst out laughing at the death glare one Severus Snape was sending his way. He'd never had to deal with a woman scorned before, something his long-range mark instructor had warned him of, but he was pretty sure that Snape would beat any woman hands down, judging by the amount of fury radiating off him in waves.

He pushed this amusement to the back of his mind, however, as he stood to begin the debriefing. "Good evening. My name is Harry Potter, though you may address me as Field Marshal, General, or sir. I am a mercenary by trade and have been hired to turn the tide of this war.

"It should be clear to you lot by now that we are indeed fighting a losing battle. Our enemy has unlimited resources thanks to the Philosopher's Stone, the public's favor, and, in just a fortnight's time, they will have the Ministry as well." He ignored the gasps of surprise here and continued on. "Most of the government officials left in office have already been bought and coerced to joining the ranks of the Death Eaters. Out of the one thousand or so employees remaining, only 49 are loyal to Britain. Minister Scrimgeour has been walking a fine line these last few years and has done an admirable job holding off the inevitable. He is a walking dead man who will be forced out of his position within two weeks at the most and certainly assassinated by Halloween.

"This makes Hogwarts the next target as it is the only stronghold left to those who oppose the Death Eaters. The last two years have seen this school turn into a fortress. It has become headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, a sanctuary to those unwilling to flee their homeland, and training grounds to future soldiers, all in addition to its normal function. It has essentially become a small city, a home to thousands in this dark time, and come the new year it will be under siege by a force of over 500,000 witches and wizards and thousands more dark creatures at their sides. And our number currently stands at just 1,020 fighters.

"As you can tell, we have our work cut out for us. Buck up, now; I wouldn't still be here if I couldn't see a way to win." A white lie if ever there was one, that is. Moving on, the freak continued, "Our primary goals internally will be to train, recruit, and build alliances. To do this, we'll need time; to get time, we'll need to delay the siege; to delay the siege, we'll need to enact a series of external goals: First, cut off the Death Eaters' supply lines; second, assassinate most of their Inner Circle; and third, steal or destroy the Stone."

He gave this information a moment to sink in before picking back up again. "If we space these distractions appropriately we will be able to delay the siege up to as much as six months, placing the attack somewhere near the beginning of June at best. So basically, this means that we have until then to increase both our numbers and our skill until each of us can hold our own against upwards of five hundred men apiece."

All those present shifted in their seats and glanced at each other uneasily.

Inside, the freak smirked. "I will design special teams to tackle both the external and internal goals later on this week. For now, before we begin training we need to assess where we are in our skills and where we need to be. Follow me."

And with that he swung his bag over his shoulder, barely noticing the additional heavy weight of his guns, and swept from the hall. Murmurs and glances abounded before Dumbledore stood to follow him, Snape barely a beat behind. The others finally did the same, obviously not wanting to be left behind despite their apprehension at the abrupt appearance and brusk manner of the "Chosen One" (Puh-leez. How ridiculous can wizards get?). The laughter came so close to bubbling to the surface that the freak was forced to bite his tongue to keep from grinning like a fool.

Death-trap though this may be, it sure as hell is gonna be fun.

The generals and healers all whispered to one another as the group followed the newly named Field Marshal across the twilit grounds of Hogwarts to the Quidditch pitch. Severus, on the other hand, was content to remain silent; however, a certain headmaster had other ideas.

"It is quite a relief," commented Albus lowly, "to no longer have to deal with the stress of being in charge of all this. It ages one, you know, and when that one is as old as I, well, I suppose I may count myself among the blessed to have lived so long."

Severus heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Headmaster, I'm sure you are aware of how tiresome I find such pointless chatter."

His friend smiled at this, his thrice-damned twinkling eyes shining like stars. "But of course! Hence why I enjoy filling your ear with it."

"Ah, but of course," he responded sourly. A twitch had formed beneath Severus' right eye.

Gratefully, it was at that moment that the group arrived at their destination: the training grounds, which five years previous used to be the school Quidditch pitch. Potter stopped in the center of the field where he set down his large duffel and waited till the stragglers caught up. Once all were gathered and silent he began his instructions with a bark.

"Generals! Line up shoulder to shoulder in order of seniority! Most years to my left, least to my right! Quickly, people, move it! Healers, Dumbledore, and Snape, to me!"

Severus had to repress the urge to stomp his foot. He hadn't behaved in such a way since he was an adolescent, and there was a snowball's chance in hell that he was going to start again now. Between that prick's smirking and Albus' twinkling, however, this proved surprisingly difficult. He was well aware of his anger issues—had been since before his Hogwarts days, to tell the truth—but the fire had never burned this bright, this hot for so long before. The mere sight of the Potter brat made him want to scream, and since his friend's consistent response to his ire (Albus had always possessed an uncanny ability to sense that sort of thing) was to be even more annoying than usual, Severus' blood pressure was at an all-time high. He was sure he would have to spend the next few nights meditating and sorting his thoughts lest he die prematurely of an aneurysm. He still made a mental note to brew more potion for his hypertension after tonight's meeting, just to be on the safe side.

It only took a moment for all the healers to join him and Albus with the new field marshall, where they were soon made aware of his plans for the evening.

"Thank you for attending tonight's meeting," he began, addressing the healers. "I understand this is a bit of a break from routine, but I have a feeling your presence might be needed." Turning to Albus, he continued, "Dumbledore, if you would, please draw the field into ten even parts so the generals will have spaces to duel. Take the healers with you and leave one of them to oversee each section."

The headmaster, ever congenial, complied with a nod. "Of course, my dear boy, no trouble at all."

Severus almost smirked when he noticed Potter's smile get just a little bit tighter at this address. "Thank you. Wait for me in the commentator's box when you're done."

The healers left with Albus, ever silent and awkward, following the eccentric wizard like sheep. Severus was musing over their apparent shyness when a thought suddenly struck him like lightning: he was currently alone with the bane of his existence, a remarkable status considering the short amount of time they'd been in acquaintance. He remembered a nearly instantaneous dislike of his father, James. Perhaps it was a family trait.

"Now, for you, Snape."

He could feel the growl building in his chest and just barely managed to cut it off before it reached his throat. Instead Severus merely arched an eyebrow. "Yes?" This better be important. I was nursing my hatred of you when that damn gravelly voice of yours interrupted.

It grated his nerves to see the man's smirk broaden, become more genuine. "You're going to be in charge of judging the duelists. You're the most familiar with the skill levels of the Death Eaters. For each level, the Inner Circle being the highest, there should be a scale of one to ten, one being sub-par, five being par, and ten being mastered."

Severus chose to simply grunt his compliance. Even more irritating than that damn smirk was that he didn't mind his job. Critiquing a bunch of idiots? Actually sounded like fun.

Even more irritating than his reluctant pleasure, however, was that he couldn't stop himself, no matter how hard he tried, from checking out Potter's arse as he bent over to fish something out of his bag.

This time it was a scream he bit off.

When he stood up, the son of a bitch flipped his braid over his shoulder and grinned at Severus. "Here you go," he said, handing the potions master a clipboard with a wad paper and a muggle pen. "You can head on up to the commentator's box. I'll join you once I've got this lot organized."

The spy found himself fighting a blush—A flush, goddamn it! It's a flush!—the entire walk up to the box. Every second spent in that brat's presence worked at loosening the self-control he'd spent years gaining. If Albus had seen him at that moment he surely would've asked if he'd just had a Pepper Up potion, because he was positive steam was pouring out of his ears.

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series belongs to one J.K. Rowling. Cover image is "Wasteland" by atomhawk on Deviant Art. I make no profit from this.

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