FREAK

by
Hawa D.L.

Chapter II
Here, freak, broaden your education a little.
Maybe you won't yet burn in Hell with the rest of us.

"By the waters of Babylon,
... there we sat down and wept,
... when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there
... we hung up our lyres.
For there our captors
... required of us songs,
And our tormentors, mirth, saying,
... 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!'

"How shall we sing the Lord's song
... in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
... let my right hand forget its skill!
Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth,
... if I do not remember you,
if I do not set Jerusalem
... above my highest joy!

"Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites
... the day of Jerusalem,
how they said, 'Lay it bare, lay it bare,
... down to its foundations!'
O daughter of Babylon, doomed to be
... ... destroyed,
... blessed shall he be who repays you
... with what you have done to us!
Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones
... and dashes them against the rock!"

– The Bible, ESV, Psalm 137: "How Shall We Sing the Lord's Song?"

Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Thursday, 20 September 2001, 11:30 P.M. GMT

Severus Snape slammed the door to the room open, uncaring that it nearly bounced back closed in his companion's face before he caught it, and strode into the room in an agitated flurry of black robes. Albus Dumbledore followed much more sedately behind him and shut the door before moving to sit at his desk. His steps were timed just so, so he needed not interrupt his colleague's pacing on his way. Once seated he watched his friend attempt to walk out some of of his frustrations, but the man appeared to become only more upset as the minutes passed in tense silence. Severus, who was normally of a pallor to rival the dead's, had a face full of color and looked full to bursting with anxiety and anger and probably a plethora of other emotions as well. Albus checked the clock hanging by the door. A minute more perhaps, then he'll have it out, he mused, beginning to place silencing charms around the room.

Sure enough, no more than a minute later Severus pivoted, robes flaring out behind him, to face the patiently waiting headmaster with a roar on his tongue. "He's a fucking murderer, Albus! A goddamn murderer!"

Albus just peered at Severus over the top of his spectacles as if to ascertain whether the potions master was in good health. "Now, Severus, you usually aren't one for stating the obvious. What else would you expect from a mercenary, my boy?"

Severus rolled his eyes and picked up his pacing once again, but refrained from telling the old coot to shut the hell up. The last time he'd said that, he'd been cursed with something rather embarrassing that made sitting quite the challenge for the following week until it faded. "He's supposed to be the Savior of the whole fucking world and he helps kill the people in it! And children, Albus! Even children mean nothing more to him than the scum of the earth! He's not got a human heart in that chest of his, no soul. Surely you, who spouts on and on about the 'power of love' and other such bullshit, can see the issue with having a Savior even colder and more dangerous than the madman we're fighting against!"

Albus frowned. "Now, now, the boy is certainly no Voldemort."

"No, he's ten times worse than the Dark Lord, goddamn it! And you actually want me to teach him magic! As if he doesn't know enough ways to kill without it!"

"Severus!" Albus said sharply. "That is quite enough!"

"Bollocks! It'll never be enough! He'll kill the Dark Lord in any way possible without regard to however many of our own are lost along the way."

"Nonsense. If he is truly a master of war, he will find the way to win with as few losses to our side as possible. That's part of the art in it, something we've both seen, he and I, I do believe."

Severus was standing still before Albus' desk now, though for the life of him he couldn't remember ever stopping there. He shook his head plaintively. "No, you barmy old fool, don't you dare liken yourself to him, to a machine. I'd be surprised if he had blood in his veins," he muttered the last mostly to himself. Deep inside though, he knew what the headmaster said was true. For three wars now, the first being against Grindlewald, Albus had played the role of war master to the best of his abilities. They both knew that he'd made mistakes though, and that the way the Second War was going was indicative that the Dark Lord had stepped up his game and Albus was out of his depth. They all were. Severus couldn't help but wonder what would happen to them all though once they placed their lives in the hands of a cold-blooded murderer, in hands that had once wrung the air from babes with nary a flicker of emotion—a memory gleaned from several subtle searches of legilimency by both himself and Albus. He sighed and took the seat beside him in front of the desk.

Albus pushed his glasses up slightly as he reached his fingers beneath them to rub ineffectually at the bridge of his crooked nose. "Machine or no, I trust him to win us this war."

At this, Severus blanched. "Are you mad?!" Then a snort. "Who am I kidding. Of course you are!"

"Hm." Albus gave him that 'are-you-sure-you're-alright-to-stay-up-and-have-this-conversation?' look again.

Severus just glared right back.

"How far into his mind did you search, my boy?"

A shrug. "You know I'm not the greatest of legilimens, Albus. You?"

Albus was nodding in understanding. "Seeing as we had the time, I let my probe sink all the way down into the depths of his subconscious where his name should have been." He saw Severus sit up straighter at the "should have been" and nodded. "I'd thought there was something a little off about the way he didn't identify with the Potters right away, so I looked for how he identified himself. Usually, a thing as important as a name will leave an impression on everything in the mind, memories and thoughts, but there were no such traces in Mr. Potter's mind, and that place where his name should have been was not only empty but torn from long ago and still slowly bleeding. There were a few nets, patches of sorts, thrown over the wound, probably put there by his magic subconsciously in order to allow him to function somewhat close to normalcy."

Another snort this time. "Yes, of course, because being a mercenary is the epitome of your average 21-year-old male."

Albus merely inclined his head. "Indeed. In one way, it is a tactical advantage that none of the Death Eaters will be able to invoke magic using his name against him, as technically he has none. However, it has its obvious drawbacks. You are proficient enough in legilimency to monitor him as he learns and to eventually help him heal his mind and name him so he can move on in his studies."

Severus was staring at Albus, gaping. "Name him…" came the breathless response.

"Yes, I know, you will have to be close to him in order to do so," but the headmaster's voice sounded very far away to his friend.

Severus felt his heart collapse in his chest. "Close… You want me to be close…to yet another monster…"

Albus stood and rounded the desk to take the other man's hands in his own. "He is no monster. There is no ambition in him, no hunger. He is here to do a job and nothing more, and I believe he will do it well. But he can be more than this machine, Severus. He is a human being, struggling and in pain, and you can heal him." Severus was shaking his head again, but the headmaster went on, relentless. "You can fix all the broken things in him and give him life, a name, a heart with which to pump warm blood through his veins. You can do this for him."

"Albus, please. The man is a monster, a…a—"

A withered hand closed around his left forearm, and he fell silent.

When the moment passed, it was with a weary sigh. "Severus, I fought for you when others said you should die. Please believe me when I say that I saw the human being he truly is beneath what the he's been molded into. He was born selfless and peaceful, but has since been broken in so many ways… Please, my boy. You can help him."

Severus buried his face in his hands, feeling vulnerable in a way he would allow himself to be only before his mentor. "I can't… I need—"

"Time, yes." The older wizard gave the younger a pat on the shoulder before returning to his seat behind his desk. "Perhaps you ought to take to take tomorrow off, start your weekend early, relax and prepare for the challenges to come."

Slowly, Severus nodded and stood, for once acquiescing without resistance. "Indeed, I think I shall. You will ensure that my classes are covered? I wouldn't like to be set back."

Albus waved him off. "Worry not, my boy. I will see to it. Do take care of yourself. Hopefully, you'll remember to eat properly, but just in case, I shall call on you sometime Saturday, hm?"

Severus just rolled his eyes as he made for the door. The headmaster would always do as he pleased. "Until then, Albus."

"Farewell."

The door shut with a quiet click behind him, and the old man sighed once more.

"And blessed shall he be…"

Potions Master's Quarters, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Saturday, 22 September 2001, 3:00 P.M. GMT

By noon of the second day of his extended weekend, Severus had been close to going stir crazy.

It had been nice at first, productive. As it was only the third week into the school year, it had been little trouble for him to finish all his grading as well as making minor adjustments to the lesson plans for each of his classes. The afternoon had been spent reading the latest Potions Quarterly journal, writing a scathing review which he'd sent off to the editor, and a few hours on his own private brewing. He had been in the process of improving upon the Dreamless Sleep potion. He was living proof that overuse caused both dependency and resistance. He didn't really care if he was dependent on the shit or not, so he had only been focusing on making it stronger. Of course, these phials would have to stay locked in his quarters. They could prove noxious to children if taken accidentally. The evening had been spent, after a hearty meal sent up by the house elves, with Joyce's Ulysses and a full glass of Shiraz in front of the fire. Then, after five doses of Dreamless Sleep he'd been out for the night.

This day, however, he was itching to get out. He'd tried to occupy himself with his brewing and experimentation, but had been successful by ten A.M. and lazing about in his sitting room the rest of the morning.

Oh, how he hated being idle.

The tension in his body was a familiar one, though it happened upon him less frequently now that he was older. The pull in his groin would not go unanswered and was far more tempting to submit to than the mark on his arm ever was. And thus it was that Severus was found in the shower at this time, cleaning his body thoroughly and repeatedly and indulging himself in a couple of leisurely self-induced climaxes in preparation for a long night of shagging. Quite to his mortification, it was at this time that Albus Dumbledore chose to call on him.

His mentor awkwardly cleared his throat, and only years of working as a spy saved him the added embarrassment of jumping and slipping in the tub. For a brief moment that felt like an eternity to the quickly blushing man with water dancing rivulets in intertwining paths down his body, the two simply stared at one another, the only things separating them being the low rim of the tub and the steam filling the room with heat.

Then, "Get the hell out of my bathroom, you old pervert! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Albus laughed. Laughed! "Come now, my boy, I've seen men in the buff before."

"Man," Severus emphasized. "A. Man. One. And I certainly hope that this encounter is not being seen in the same light." The potions master began making quick work of rinsing the conditioner out of his hair.

"Oh, certainly not, certainly not," the headmaster replied. "I just decided to check in on you, is all."

Severus shot a disbelieving look at the old wizard. "Surely you don't think me capable of drowning in the shower, Albus."

"Of course not, but I figured we could talk."

"I'm in the fucking shower, you dolt!"

Albus flicked the lid of the toilet closed with a dull clam! and made himself comfortable. "Yes, but you do take forever getting ready for one of these nights of, as you so eloquently put it all those years ago, 'man-hunting'. So, how has your weekend been thus far?"

His companion's only answer was a series of unintelligible grunts as he ran a soapy washcloth over his body one last time. Somehow, Albus managed a translation.

"Good, good. It's nice to see that you're more relaxed now, considering the times and circumstances."

That earned him a glare. "Are you here simply to wreck my mood?" It was a weak comeback since, to his utter humiliation, Severus was still half hard. I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now.

"Nonsense, my boy—"

"And for the love of Merlin, stop calling me your boy. You're in my bathroom, and I'm soaking wet and naked. This is a new height of weird, even for you, Albus," appealed Severus in clear exasperation.

The older wizard cleared his throat once more. "Yes, well, I daresay you're not my type."

A snort. "I should hope not." Declaring himself clean, Severus turned off the water and patted himself dry with a white towel. Surprisingly, the silence from his observer wasn't as awkward as he would have imagined it to be. His back to Albus, he started searching through various bottles lined up on the counter beside the sink. Finding the body oil he was looking for, he faced his friend again as he began the next step in his ablutions. "Really now, Headmaster, why are you here?"

The headmaster in question was rummaging through the various pockets hidden within the folds of his sky blue, cloud-patterned robes. "Do you not recall my mentioning that I'd be visiting today?"

A pause. "Right."

Finally, Albus pulled a lemon drop from the correct pocket, plucked a piece of lint off, and plopped it in his mouth. He fished out another. "Lemon drop?" he offered.

Severus made a face. "Not on your life."

Albus shrugged and put it back, sucking on his own candy with a happy hum. "You know, sugar is good for the soul."

"So is fucking."

"Yes, but you don't have to hunt for candies now, do you?"

Severus just chuckled. "But that's half the fun of it, old friend."

"Hm. Where are you starting out tonight?"

The potions master was thoughtful. "I'll probably begin with the wizarding pubs, get together a decent hunting party. Then we'll hit the muggle clubs."

Albus chortled. "My goodness! You have an entire method to this madness. And one that sounds distinctly lion-esque, O Head of Slytherin House."

"Har har. Wolves hunt this way too, not to mention humans. That we'll be hunting our own kind is no difference really." Towel now wrapped around his slender waist, Severus moved on to spelling the potions stains from his skin, leaving alabaster trails in his wand's wake.

"You know, this wouldn't take so long if you would just wash daily like you ought to."

A tired sigh. "Please tell me that you are not trying to critique the hygienic habits of a 41-year-old man."

Albus simply gave an unhelpful shrug that made his companion groan. "I know you're old enough to take care of yourself, but really, why you would choose not to is beyond me."

"I have a persona to maintain, you old fool. Severus the Death Eater doesn't care that his hair is greasy and his skin is sallow and his teeth are yellow and crooked. Come to think of it, Severus the Potions Master couldn't give a damn about what color his hands were either. Severus the Man on the Hunt, however, he gives a damn."

Now it was Albus' turn to sigh, privately wondering when his friend was ever Just Severus. "Surely you could at least do without those awful teeth," he mumbled, tapping said teeth with his wand to align and whiten them. He didn't stop the flow of magic until they were all straight and bright, only a shade or two off white.

Severus turned and bared his teeth with a grimace, examining them in the mirror and rubbing his sore jaw. "Passable." A.K.A.: Very nice. "Thank you."

But Albus waved him off with a smile. "Come on then. Let's get you dressed."

A302 Bridge Street, London, England, UK, Saturday, 22 September 2001, 8:00 P.M. GMT

He released a content sigh as he pocketed his lighter and leaned back in his chair, taking a drag on his cigar and soaking in the view. The sun was low in the sky and a spread of warm colors were reflected in the river flowing under the bridge. The cigar smoke wafted around him before drifting out of the open window of the observatory at the top of his flat. It smelt spicy and sweet, and he hummed in satisfaction at his well-deserved break. He had all the plans he could conceive with his current level of intelligence plotted out, though he did have a few experiments to run before he knew which ones to set in motion. In particular, he wanted to know the power and skill levels of all the fighters at his disposal so he could arrange the squadrons accordingly. He would also need to test the effectiveness of muggle weaponry against wizards and see if training some of them up would be a worthwhile venture. Now, however, he figured, since work would begin in earnest on Monday, was the best time for his traditional night out. One last night of pure and simple living before he slipped fully into his assignment.

These nights were always best played out in big cities, and he couldn't be more glad at that moment that he was located in London for his very last assignment. Born in England though he was, he'd never been, and being there now was like coming full-circle, a fitting place to begin the last chapter of this phase in his life. He couldn't even begin to fathom what he'd do with himself after all this was over, but those thoughts could wait until he'd nailed his mark.

Nearly a half hour later the cigar was finished, and he stretched before making his way downstairs. He passed his bedroom and went further down into the kitchen where he helped himself to a chicken caesar salad and then spent a full ten minutes brushing and flossing and rinsing every trace of his dinner from his mouth in the bathroom. On a whim, he grabbed a black Sharpie and wrote a few lines to a poem on his right cheek and a few more on his left hand. He was so familiar with the words that looking in the mirror didn't throw off his writing, which was neat and straight in small capitals. He smirked as he took in his reflection. Maybe he'd give whomever could name it a treat. A blow job in the bathroom perhaps.

Practically strutting, he returned to his bedroom to dress. He'd already made his inquiries after the club scenes in the area, and after deciding if he was in the mood for men or women, to pick up or be picked up, for someone kinky or vanilla, he'd finally settled on an outfit for the night, which was currently hanging on his closet door. Though new, the jeans were nothing special, just a black cotton-spandex blend with holes in all the right places. The real eye-catcher was the silver skin-tight mesh tank top he was wearing with it. He'd wear three black hoops (two in his lower lip, one in his upper ear), brand new black biker boots, a leather trench coat, and a short piece of broken chain he'd acquired some years ago and since took to wearing as a choker from time to time to complete the ensemble. Not exactly the most effort he could have put into the getup, but he knew from experience that the sight of his dark nipples through the reflective shirt as he danced would lead men to him not five minutes after he'd remove his coat. Deciding that his nails were fine without an additional coat of nail polish, he began to don his clothing, and not five minutes later, face hidden behind black bangs, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, he was headed out the door.

Having settled for something lighthearted and fun, he made his way toward a popular gay bar in Soho, the trench coat flaring out behind him as he sped out of the car park on his bike. Though the johns in the club were sure to be nothing special, a colleague of his once remarked that if everyone else in the place is lame then you'll definitely be the coolest one there. Despite the fact that as far as he was concerned he was always the coolest person in the room, it was also fact that the less dignified the quarry the surer they were to flock to him as moths to a flame. It was simply a matter of course.

Catching sight of Vauxhall, he chose to park his bike in a nearby alley and make his way to the club on foot. Inside, everything about the Bar Code was just as loud and bright and, well, gay as he'd expected. There were men with tight pants and bare chests all over both levels of the club, gyrating and grinding and swaying with the throbbing pulse of the bass booming in every corner, vibrating his very bones. His trench coat left in the coat room, he joined the masses, and sure enough there were soon hands sneaking out from everywhere around him, palming his arse, sliding over his chest, strangers' bodies pressed close and moving with his. He spent the next hours in a haze of arousal and music he could feel but couldn't be bothered to understand, always half hard, always touching someone, whispering in their ears, licking sweat from their necks, embracing the slick slide of sweat-soaked skin. Men came and went, behind or in front of him, their thighs between his, pricks pressed close, their wandering fingers sometimes buried in his hair, sometimes tweaking his nipples, sometimes questing lower, groping in places to make him groan. No matter how thirsty he became, he never stopped dancing, never stopped touching. Would not until an acceptable fuck for the night came his way.

God damn, he loved acting like a slut!

And would you look at that.

This man practically had A+ stamped on his forehead, and, of course, he was headed the freak's way. More than that, he looked like a lioness closing in on an antelope strayed too far from the herd, so intense was his focus. Just a glance was enough to tell that he didn't belong here, and a second look was enough to tell him exactly why. A wizard. In a white poet's shirt, the laces left open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth pale chest, like sculpted marble. Dark, dark brown leather trousers, curving to hug his hips, his thighs—His arse probably looks incredible in those—dear god, barely enough room for his junk. Definitely no room for pants under there. Tan suede boots, ankle high. And silky shoulder-length hair cascading in ebony waves around a face the freak would not soon forget.

Slowly, a predatory smirk slid across his features in reply.

Let the game begin.

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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