FREAK

by
Hawa D.L.

Chapter I
How 'bout you, slick?
Tell me 'bout your mamma, where ya comin' from.

"I have no mother. I clawed my way up to the surface of the earth from beneath a bed of lilies, and with my first breath I did not wail but wept quietly tears that were tainted pink. And my eyes glowed for two weeks until I got used to the light above the earth. And my skin burned for two months until I got used to the light above the earth. Fragile though I was, I was strong. For nine years I lived in the light above the earth and was reviled. For nine years I was beaten, but try as they might no hand could leave a mark on my skin. I have no name, but to humans I am known as the freak."

– The freak, at a casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, USA, 1 January 2000

Motel 6, New York City, New York, USA, Wednesday, 19 September 2001, 4:00 A.M. EST

He groaned as he caught sight of what awaited him inside his motel room. Yet another goddamn package. He'd hoped to get at least a week's reprieve after the last assignment he'd just wrapped up the day before, especially seeing as it had taken three whole months to execute. Damn the bastards, he thought as he gently picked up the plain package wrapped in brown paper and held it to his ear. No ticking. No beeping. A little shake. Hmm, a book perhaps and my smokes. Another shake. And a few loose pieces of paper. It can wait.

He tossed the package back on the bed and began stripping off his clothes as he made his way to the bathroom and started the tub filling with hot water. Standing before the mirror, he threaded his black lacquered fingers through the voluminous strands of his ebony hair, pushing the long bangs out of his face and tying the lot back with a rubber band. Slowly, he let his hands trail over his naked skin, and he watched as they left shimmering paths in their wake. Eventually, all the glamours he wore over his skin faded, and the beautiful sight of his scarred flesh was his to take in. I knew I was feeling randy earlier, but damn, I'm already up just from looking at myself. He smirked, admiring the curve of his pink rose petal lips and the viper piercings. He tongued the left ring, getting harder as his jade eyes stared at the small wet muscle, red and glistening like blood. His entire body was long and lean, with firm tight muscles, but his eyes focused on the line of black hair he traced on his pale stomach leading to the thick curls nestling his erection. He sighed as he finally began pumping himself slowly with one hand, playing with the foreskin and teasing his balls. The world owed him time for at least one bath and a good wank. Surely it could stop spinning for that long. Although, given his luck something noticeable, an embassy maybe, would probably blow up if he didn't read this latest missive in time. Damn it. With a put-upon sigh he went and fetched the package and settled in the tub with it, stroking himself all the while.

Inside the package was a one-way plane ticket to London that left at 8, so he effectively only had an hour to get over to the airport since security was sure to be a bitch given the incident he'd helped orchestrate the other week. In addition to the ticket was a carton of Djarum Blacks, a letter in a blank envelope, a passport, a driver's license and other ID, £2,500, and a book titled An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding World: Everything a Muggleborn Needs to Know, 10th Edition by Miranda Hadley. He sighed. Just thinking of the utter madness about to ensue had his boner shot to hell. So much for that wank. Before he let his mind ponder the implications of a "wizarding world" (What the fuck?) he opened the letter and… his jaw dropped.

You were not born a freak. You were born a wizard.

Your name is truly Harry James Potter. You were born 31 July 1980 to James and Lily Potter, in the midst of the First War against the Dark Lord Voldemort. Your parents were part of a vigilante group called the Order of the Phoenix founded by Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with the purpose of fighting Tom Riddle, a Dark wizard who goes by the name of Voldemort. On the night of 31 October 1981 Voldemort tried to kill you and failed, though not before killing your parents. He disappeared that night for ten years. According to Dumbledore, Voldemort attempted to cast the Killing Curse on you but it rebounded and struck him, leaving you with the lightning bolt curse scar on your forehead. Dumbledore and his colleagues Minerva McGonagall and Rubeus Hagrid were the ones who recovered you and placed you in the care of your muggle (that is to say, non-magical) relatives, the Dursleys, your aunt Petunia Dursley née Evans being your mother's older sister.

You are famous in the wizarding world as the first human being to ever survive the Killing Curse and also as the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. There are whispers among the wizards and witches of Britain of a prophecy that identifies you as the sole Savior of the world. When you ran away from home in 1989, you left the wizarding world defenseless when Voldemort regained a body in December 1991 through use of the Philosopher's Stone. For the last ten years the Second War has waged on, and it is now beginning to spread into the muggle world. Your assignment is to kill Voldemort once and for all and to finish the Second War before the wizarding world is exposed to muggles.

You are hereby released into the service of Prime Minister Tony Blair and Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour. Follow procedure only until you meet them and are debriefed. You are fully expected to die by the end of this assignment. However, should you exceed these expectations, as is your habit, you are free to settle in this world or elsewhere should you so choose. You will receive your final paycheck upon completion of your assignment, and afterward your monthly pension will of course be deposited into your account.

Your service has been invaluable, and we wish you the best on this assignment.

Dazed, he folded the letter and put it back in its envelope before picking up his new passport and driver's license. The pictures were slightly different from each other, but he looked the same in them both. His hair was pulled back to show his face and his piercings and his scar, the one he could never hide no matter how hard he tried. Magic. Kind of explains a lot actually. He looked down at the puckered pink lines littering his chest and ran his fingers over them, watching them disappear with a brief shimmer of the air around them. An actual glamour, like in those fantasy novels. Cool. Really, he wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once and just generally freak the fuck out, but he knew he didn't have the time now.

With a carefully blank mind, he washed himself and put on a clean set of clothes—plain black jeans worn grey at the knees with a bottle cap-studded leather belt; black, steel-toed work boots; white wife beater; green and blue flannel shirt left open. His laptop, iPod, cigarettes, the book, new passport and other identification went into his book bag. The key to his motorcycle in his front pocket, his wallet with his new license in his back pocket, chained to a belt loop. All of his other clothes and old ID went into a garbage bag to be burned. He'd buy a new wardrobe in London. After one final sweep of the room, he left to go check out.

Transatlantic Flight, Wednesday, 19 September 2001, 2:30 P.M. EST, ETA: 7:45 P.M. GMT

He sighed as he closed An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding World and slipped it back into his book bag. The plane was beginning its decent at the end of the nearly eight-hour flight. He might have been going home to England, but from what he could tell he might as well have been going to China for all that he'd recognize the culture. He pulled his iPod out of the side pocket of the bag and tried to relax for a few minutes before landing. Even without his well-deserved freak-out, the whole situation was starting to look less like something out of a book and more like one of the usual dire situations he found himself in. Only this time with a fucking prophecy on top of the whole mess. For the first time in years, he was actually a little nervous.

By the time he landed in London, he had his quick pulse and his sweaty palms under control. He meandered his way over to the baggage claim and picked up a duffle labeled "Harry Potter" before slipping into the gents'. Once ensconced in a cubicle, he did a quick inventory of everything stashed in the bag. In addition to the usual—that being loads of ammo including five hundred darts, four dozen throwing knives, four standard issue hunting knives, a Swiss Army knife, a beautiful set of daishō, a classic Uzi SMG, a long-range Noreen BN36, two Taurus 1911 .45 ACP pistols, four .45 ACP P220 Sigs, two Taurus CIA concealed carry revolvers, and his baby: a Ruger Super Redhawk Double-Action revolver. God, he loved that gun—there were also several basic spell books and a note that read, "Talk to Scrimgeour about purchasing a wand." There was also an extra box of Djarum Blacks and a customized butane Zippo lighter. It was polished chrome with with a lightning bolt engraved on the front and tiny jade charms dangling from two chains attached to the hinge. And there was yet another note. "Just a present. Figured you could get some use out of it if we don't bury you with it first." He suppressed a wince. Ouch. Could at least pretend I'm not walking into a deathtrap, the bastards. Finally, in a separate pocket on the side of the duffle, he found what he was looking for: a key and the address to his new apartment. And another damn note. "Keep it."

He placed what weapons he could conceal on his person, then returned the rest to his bag. The notes were shredded, the scraps flushed. With music blasting in one ear, he made his way to the rental office to find a motorcycle to his liking. Yamaha. Eh, good enough for now. Guess I'm going shopping for a new bike too.

The apartment was very near the center of downtown London and was a two-story penthouse with a fabulous view of Big Ben. He suppressed yet another sigh. Whoever he worked for must be sure he was going to die if the upscale accommodations were anything to go by. A sweep through the place revealed an envelope on the pillow in the master bedroom. This time it was an invitation to high tea with the prime minister the next day at 10 Downing Street. He couldn't help laughing. British though he was the thought of actually sitting down to high tea was a bit much. Oh, well, naught to do about it I suppose, he thought as he stripped. Tomorrow he'd eat and shop before meeting with Blair and Scrimgeour for the debriefing. Now though, the freak would sleep.

10 Downing Street, London, England, UK, Thursday, 20 September 2001, 6:00 P.M. GMT

He straightened his jacket as he approached the black door, having forwent the tie for this evening. He'd already removed his lip rings and glamoured the piercings. He'd even pulled his hair back in a plait that ended just below his shoulder blades and removed his nail polish. As far as he was concerned, that was a lot of unnecessary effort to convince these people of his respectability. Unnecessary because they already knew he was a mercenary and therefore had none. But of course they were going to dance around this fact. Hence, why he bothered wearing the light grey suit with navy blue satin lining, crisp white button-down, and shiny new dark brown dress shoes. He did leave a small diamond stud in his upper right ear though. Just a reminder.

Once inside, he was quickly shown to the parlour where Blair and Scrimgeour were waiting, the latter of whom doing a double take once he walked in, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

"Potter?" Scrimgeour asked in disbelief, staring at the lightning bolt scar exposed on his forehead. Scrimgeour was dressed in a set of red robes and what were probably dragonhide boots. His short golden beard did a poor job of covering the scars littering his pockmarked face.

The freak grinned. It was nasty and malicious. "In the flesh." Then to Blair, who was busy staring dumbly at the whole exchange, "I take it they didn't tell you who they were sending?"

Minister Blair was wearing a fashionable dark business suit with a teal patterned tie. Blair shook his head, probably to rouse himself rather than in answer to the question. "No, they just said they had a man perfect for the job."

"Well, if what I hear about a prophecy is true, then that's certainly me," he responded with a chuckle.

"Where the hell have you been, Potter?" Scrimgeour was practically red with indignation by this point.

The freak shrugged. "Can't say." And to Blair he held out his hand. "Harry Potter, mercenary. It's nice to meet you, Minister."

Blair quickly shook his hand, taking the awkward introduction in stride. "Likewise."

Scrimgeour looked like a Smurf from holding his breath and counting to ten.

The freak gestured to the nearby chairs. "Shall we sit and discuss business, gentlemen?"

Blair nodded. "Yes, yes, of course, please make yourself comfortable."

Scrimgeour took his seat without a word.

They were silent as they waited for the meal to be brought in and then silent as it began. The freak used the time to take in his surroundings, but really as far as parlours go this was about as plain as it got: hardwood floors with earthy rugs, warm rust-colored walls with scenic paintings, bookshelves and a couple desks lining the walls, a fireplace. Bleh.

By the time Scrimgeour was on his third cuppa, he remembered how to go from shouting mode back to speaking. "So, Mr. Potter. What have you been doing all these years?"

He gave a small smile and was delighted to see both men shiver. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that either. Part of the job description, you see."

Blair just nodded, and Scrimgeour appeared to acquiesce, so he continued.

"There are several things that I need to know and that need to happen before I can help you in this fight against Voldemort." Without pause, he noted the way Scrimgeour flinched at the name, remembering that Voldemort was referred to as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his book for muggleborns. "To start, I'll need a basic rundown of both wars and then a more thorough breakdown of the second. I'll also need to know much more about this Order of the Phoenix, but first and foremost I'm going to need a wand and a tutor."

And then there was a silence so profound he fancied he could hear the heartbeats of the two men before him.

Blair recovered first. "You mean to say you don't know magic." Interesting that it was a statement and not a question. He decided then and there that he rather liked Tony Blair.

With that same smile as before, he answered anyway. "Not a lick."

"But," Scrimgeour began, "why would you even be sent here if you don't know magic?"

He fought not to roll his eyes. "Prophecy, dear sirs. Besides, there's some magic that I've known how to do subconsciously for years, particularly basic glamours and healing charms, but I never knew there was an actual wizarding world until about..." he checked his watch, "thirty-eight hours ago."

And the silence was back.

This time it was Scrimgeour who broke it. "Would either of you mind if I fetched Albus Dumbledore? I do believe he'll be of the most help here."

Blair just nodded his acceptance while the freak smiled again, saying, "Please do."

Scrimgeour made his way over to the blazing fireplace, grabbed a pinch of dust (Floo powder, if I do recall correctly.) from a container on the mantle, tossed it in with a shout of "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office!" and promptly stuck his head in the flames. Minister Blair and the freak watched and sipped their tea in silence as they listened to the conversation between the two men take place. A few moments later and Scrimgeour was once again reclaiming his seat.

"He will be joining us shortly," said the Minister of Magic. "He would like to gather some things to share with you, Mr. Potter."

The freak nodded, and Blair excused himself from the table to speak to someone about having another place set for yet another guest. After the maid left, Scrimgeour cast a short-term stasis charm on the food so it would keep warm and fresh until Dumbledore arrived, and then they all settled in to wait.

"So," began Scrimgeour, breaking the silence as he turned to face the freak, "why did you run away from home all those years ago?" Blair looked to him as well, evidently interested in what his answer would be.

He frowned. "Is this information pertinent to the topic at hand, sirs?"

They both frowned, and when Scrimgeour spoke his voice was quiet, thoughtful. "No. No, it is not."

His only response was a hum and to return to his tea. He hated how obvious his past was to strangers. It was like he had ABUSE VICTIM tattooed on his forehead or something. No matter. They would never know the truth behind it all, the depths to which he'd been broken as a child, stilted.

The awkward moment was broken when the fireplace flared and a tall man stepped through the Floo shortly followed by another. The first was very old and garbed in a riot of color, his robes and tall pointed hat made up with stripes of fuchsia and marigold. He had long white hair that reached past his knees, from both on top of his head and his face, though the mustache was trimmed short to leave his mouth clear. His eyes were a crystal blue and they twinkled behind his wire-frame half-moon spectacles. He was smiling and humming jollily as he brushed ash from his shoulders.

The second, however, was shorter and clad all in black. Even his eyes and hair were black, the latter greasy and lank, hanging in limp waves to brush his shoulders. These were narrow and led down to even narrower hips. Though not particularly tall, everything about him was long and skinny, especially his hands and his face, which would actually be rather striking and comely were it not for the ugly scowl he wore. It made what would have been an otherwise artfully crafted nose seem too big for his face since his lips were virtually nonexistent and his eyebrows were fine, leaving his dark eyes, deceivingly wide, the only things to draw attention away from it. It didn't help his appearance to the freak that he was the main focus of his fiery glare either.

The older man stepped forward and offered introductions. "Greetings, Minister Blair, Mr. Potter. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is my colleague, Severus Snape, Potions Master."

Snape merely gave a staccato hum of acknowledgment, almost a grunt, in lieu of actually speaking.

Blair rose as they came over and shook their hands. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. If you will excuse me, I shall have another place set up in a moment. I'm afraid we were only expecting one more."

But Dumbledore just waved him off. "Let me, my boy." And with a wave of his wand another set of dinnerware appeared, identical to the others, in addition to a matching chair at the head of the table where he sat, leaving the space prepared next to the freak for Snape.

"Ah, yes, I suppose that will do," Blair said as he too took his seat, shooting Scrimgeour a glance as if to ask why he hadn't done that the first time.

Scrimgeour appeared to ignore this.

"Now tell me," asked Dumbledore, "what seems to be the issue?"

The freak watched the two ministers glance at each other before Blair answered the headmaster. "Well, as the war is becoming worse and muggle casualties were increasing, I decided it was time to outsource. There are several mercenary groups that we are aware of, and I was going to attempt to get into contact with some of them and see if any could help fix this situation. However, before I could, one of them contacted me instead, said they had just the man I was looking for to help end this war, that he'd meet Mr. Scrimgeour and I here at six. Lo and behold, it was Mr. Potter here who walked through the door."

And here, Scrimgeour continued. "He says he needs a thorough debriefing, a wand, and a tutor, obviously. I figured that you would be the best to go through for all three."

Dumbledore nodded and turned to the freak. "You know nothing of magic?"

A shake of the head. "Not much. I was supplied several books for this assignment, and I've performed basic glamours and healing charms most of my life, subconsciously at first, purposefully as I got older. Other than that and my readings, nothing."

Another nod. "What books have you been given?"

"An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding World and ten spell books of ascending difficulty level. I've read them all, though the spell books weren't much use without a wand. It gave me a basic idea of what we're capable of though."

More nodding. "Good, good. Now for the debriefing."

And so the talk of war began, and Severus Snape's significance became known as he revealed himself to be a spy with a secure position in Voldemort's Inner Circle of Death Eaters. Dumbledore and Snape did most of the talking while the others simply nodded along, the freak asking questions from time to time and Scrimgeour throwing in a comment or two of his own. It took nearly an hour to hash out the important events of the First War, but the freak noticed something a little out of place about how it all ended.

"So, Voldemort went after the Potters once he learned of this prophecy, correct?"

Dumbledore nodded. There was a lot of that going on in this room. It was surprising no one's head had fallen off by this point, really. "Yes, that is correct."

"Well, how did he come to know of this prophecy in the first place, if it was made in private as you said earlier?"

Dumbledore's congenial smile didn't waver; however, the freak noticed the way his eyes flicked ever so quickly to the man at his side.

He graced Snape with his small cold smile, and was gratified to watch the man stiffen slightly in his seat. "So, it was you who gave Voldemort the prophecy, hm? Why not tell it all? Because surely he wouldn't've gone after them himself if he'd known he would mark the child first."

He could practically hear Snape grind his teeth. "Fortunately," came the clipped response, "I only knew a portion of the prophecy at the time."

Dumbledore cut in again. "And thus you and your parents were hunted."

"But surely you hid them?"

An odd look passed between the surrounding men, but the freak let it go for the time being.

Dumbledore again. "Yes, but their hideout was betrayed by one of your parents' closest friends. Everyone originally believed the culprit to be your godfather, Sirius Black, and he was sent to Azkaban. However, we have found out that the criminal was actually Peter Pettigrew, another of your parents' school friends. Try as I might to have him released, poor Sirius died in Azkaban," the freak noted Snape's quiet snort at the phrase "poor Sirius," "and Pettigrew is still among the Death Eater ranks."

The freak nodded and was just about to move the conversation onto the Second War when Snape spoke. His voice was quiet yet piercing and quite enjoyable to listen to, or at least so thought the freak. "You speak of them in third person, as if you are not one of the Potters yourself."

The question actually managed to make him pause for a moment, and he saw the other three men look askance at him as well. Did I do that? Well, damn, that was stupid of me. The freak just shrugged. "I guess I still don't feel like I'm talking about myself. This is all rather new, I'm sure you understand."

"You mean you don't feel like a Potter when you've been one all your life?"

He smirked. "A bit presumptuous of you to state I've been a Potter all my life, wouldn't you say?"

A scowl. "If not Potter, then what are you called, hm?"

Another shrug, careless. "True enough, Mr. Snape. I suppose there are enough Potters in the world for me to feel unrelated to these two, no?"

Snape's scowl twisted even more, but just as he was opening his mouth to speak, Scrimgeour reached across the table to stop him. "Let's just move on, Snape."

And so the talk of war went on. He was glad to see that at least Scrimgeour was experienced in these matters and set to keep them all on task. Neither the ministers and nor the headmaster deserved to know his past, even though he was in their employ. They would all just have to wait until they were in the need-to-know—or, in other words, never, so long as the freak had a say in it. In the mean time, there was a war to be orchestrated.

Little did he know, he didn't have a say in it at all.

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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