FREAK

by
Hawa D.L.

Chapter IV
Sir, please! The survey'll just take a moment!

"Well, that's easy. The best part of my job is the phase where everything is chaos, and no one knows where the enemy is or who to trust. When it starts, everyone is struck still with the shock of it. Then the idiots start trying to kill everyone in sight, and the smart ones try to run. All the rest either get swept up in the tide or caught in the crossfire, and when it's over all is silence, and the blood of man stains the ground. It's beautiful, the epitome of war."

– The freak, on a street in downtown Washington D.C., USA, 24 February 1999

Quidditch Pitch, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 8:30 P.M. GMT

The freak stooped to set his heavy duffel bag on the floor as he finally entered the commentator's box. Snape, as expected, chose not to acknowledge his presence, instead fully immersing himself in the task of observing the duelists below. Dumbledore, on the other hand, greeted him with a smile and a nod, which he returned as he came to stand beside the old man who was to the right a ways from his employee. Figuring the resident potions master would be able to handle critiquing the generals sparring below, he and the headmaster began ironing out a few other details.

To start, the freak pulled a small spiral notebook from his back pocket and tossed it to Dumbledore, who fumbled with it briefly before grasping it. "That's the questionnaire we discussed," he informed, watching with a peculiar combination of amusement and irritation as his newly dubbed adviser started flipping through the pages with childish excitement. Over a century old, yet he acts like he's ten. "Have you organized the census committee?"

"Yes, yes," the old man responded rather absently. "Quite simple, their jobs, won't you say? Just drop off the surveys, pick them back up again the following week."

The freak just nodded, seeing a question forming on Dumbledore's face, growing larger with each page he turned.

And eventually it came: "Why ever would we need to know all of this?"

And then the freak sighed. I swear, it's like the greater one's magic, the less one's logic. What the fuck? Still, he explained, "It's necessary to know the population, the genders and ages of its individuals, their relationships to one another, and their general skills and interests in order to plan ahead accordingly. For instance, if there are enough tradesmen here, we can turn this refugee camp into a self-governing body apart from all influence save the Queen herself. If not, it's still necessary to be able to predict how the population within the camp may change due to illness, injury, birth or what have you in order to better maintain and control supplies and space within the castle itself as the people arrange themselves in whatever family units suit them at the time."

This was met with a stunned silence in which even the scratching of Snape's pen ceased momentarily before he realized that he had essentially just made it blatantly obvious that he'd been lending half an ear to their conversation and started writing once more. Though nothing much changed about the way he held himself, the freak most certainly became just a bit more smug. He caught his thoughts before they could wander too far off-course (and towards a certain Potions Master) and turned his attention back toward Dumbledore, who had gone from wide-eyed and open-mouthed to deeply contemplative.

Then the old wizard's face bloomed into a beaming smile. "What a fascinating idea!" he cried.

Yeah, I know, right?! They say it's called logic. Apparently some smart bloke or other came up with it, like, thousands of years ago. Wicked, right?

What.

The.

FUCK!

During this mental rant, the freak continued talking. "In addition, I also want as many of the castle's inhabitants as possible to join the research and development team we discussed earlier. Loath though I am to do so, I'm afraid we've no choice but to pull Sergeant Granger and the Weasley twins from active duty to lead the project, with Professor Snape as their adviser of course."

"Hm, powerful though they are in duels, I daresay your decision will let them use their true strengths to the Order's greatest benefit," replied Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"Good, so we are agreed. Now," he started, moving on to the next topic on his mental checklist, "Sergeant Granger is capable of multitasking and producing high quality results while under pressure, correct?"

His answer was a hearty chortle. "Why, I daresay she thrives on those conditions, my boy. Why do you ask?"

"Media. I need her to lead an attack through the media. We'll need as many refugees as possible on this one too in order to come up with the most effective propaganda."

One look at the old headmaster showed eyes alight with glee and a nearly manic grin stretching his face.

What. The. Fuck. But the young assassin just raised one inquisitive eyebrow. "I take it this interests you?"

"Ooohhhh, yes,"—Holy shit, that sounded way too much like an orgasm—"I simply must be a part of this, General Potter," he entreated, placing a hand on the freak's arm,—Don't touch me, you dirty old coot!—"wouldn't you agree? I've plenty ideas to contribute, after all, and since I'm no longer in command"—He's talking faster than a teenage girl hyped up on sweet cream and espresso—"I'll have a lot more time on my hands, and I'm sure Miss—ah, excuse me—Sergeant Granger and I will be able to come up with some truly fantastic ideas when we pool our knowledge, especially when we compare and contrast our opposing backgrounds—"

Here, the freak raised his hand, attempting to stem his budding headache. The silence that followed was divine, and he gloried in it briefly before opening his eyes. The old man was looking at him with wide wet eyes and a pout, his hands clasped tight before his chest. Dear god. And he's the most powerful wizard in my ranks. We're fucked. "You will lead the media project with Granger," he conceded with a sigh.

At this, Dumbledore's fist pumped the air, and he danced a little jig on the spot. "Oh, yay! This is so exciting!"

And the headache was back. He had to resist reprimanding him; it wouldn't do to be on less-than-good terms with the old man after all. Be that as it may, he still couldn't resist quipping, "Settle down, Headmaster, before you wet yourself."

Something clattered to the wooden floor to the left of them, and Snape made a loud choking sound.

"Do you need something to drink, Professor?" called the freak to the potions master, taking note of the reaction. The tips of his ears are red and he's holding his breath. Was that outrage or laughter that he swallowed just now? Or perhaps both?

"I'm fine," Snape snapped. He stooped to pick up his pen then faced out over the field again, silent once more.

The freak gave a long, slow blink. …It's a sad, sad day when I'm the most normal person in a room. He turned his attention back to Dumbledore, who was grinning like he knew Victoria's secret, though he was thankfully now still. And so, the conversation continued on in this vein as the duels progressed, eventually moving on to the arrangement of the troops, possible formations utilizing affective skill combinations, training schedules, and then onto resources.

"So, there's 15 to 17 thousand civilians in the castle, correct?"

The old wizard seemed to know that this question was, in fact, a statement and thus, did not respond.

So, the freak went on, "Where's the food coming from, and how long will that resource last? And who is handling all the cooking and cleaning? The Hogwarts treasury is in pretty decent shape for now, but feeding so many mouths will go through it all in just a few months' time. And that's no good since ideally we should be saving up in order to purchase enough supplies to last the siege."

The headmaster appeared as though he'd just been pleasantly surprised by the complexity of a puzzle. It was the same way one of the kids the freak knew back at the training camp looked at his first Rubik's Cube. Tapping one long gnarled finger against his chin, Dumbledore replied, "Why, I don't know!" He looked positively gleeful at this.

The freak, meanwhile, was having trouble keeping his jaw off the floor. What? "What?" Damn it, where'd that brain-mouth filter go?

"I mean, I've never thought about it before! Where do we get our food from?"

What? "How?" Almost, not quite. Think my brain's fried or something.

"Exactly! How do they manage it? I'm well aware that house-elf magic is extraordinary, by far more versatile than the most advanced of wizardkind, but surely not even they can defy a Principle Exception of Gamp's Law."

Huh? "Who?" Yup, it's official: My mind has been blown. The stupidity of wizards must be astronomical in comparison to muggles', so much so I can't even fathom it.

"Oh, Phosphorus Gamp was a very famous Master of Transfiguration back in the early 17th century who—"

"Not Gamp, you old fool, the house-elves," the freak retorted sharply, his words clipped. "Who are they?" Finally! I sounded like a complete moron uttering all that monosyllabic nonsense.

"Oh, them," came the reply accompanied by a dismissive wave. "They do the cleaning and the cooking, keep the fires going, run errands, that sort of thing."

"Huh." Versatile magic, he says. Work for wizards, he says. Hah! Talk about fucking untapped resources. "And are they like slaves or serfs or indentured servants or what? Are they paid?"

"Hmm. You know, it appears to be slavery at first, but I daresay the system more resembles serfdom, to be honest," began Dumbledore's explanation. "In essence, you see, it is a form of symbiosis in which—" But suddenly there was a finger in his face.

"Hold that thought." The freak turned slightly and addressed the potions master. "Professor Snape, how progress the duels?"

The dour man answered without shifting his attention from the clipboard in his hands. "They're almost finished now, and I've long since finished taking notes on all the generals' performances. After Mad-Eye finishes with Tonks, it will be just him versus Amelia Bones."

The grin slowly spreading across the field marshal's lips almost made Albus Dumbledore step back before he stopped himself. And even though Severus Snape didn't see it, he felt it all the same: It was in the chill running down his spine and in the rise of the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. It made his chest break out in a cold sweat. Everything primitive in him screamed the presence of a predator nearby. Ever cautious, he chanced a nervous glance over his shoulder.

And was met with the face of something feral.

"Finally." The word was almost a purr. "We're getting to the best part."

And with that the freak went over to his duffel bag and began setting up his sniper rifle.

Alastor Moody saw it coming.

He always saw everything in his immediate vicinity, to be sure.

However, seeing a bullet speeding toward one's back does not necessarily give one the ability to dodge it.

Dodging bullets fired from a handgun is tricky business at best.

From a high-caliber rifle designed for long-range precision? Nigh on impossible.

Or so Alastor would later attest.

Poppy Pomfrey and Dennis Creevey, on the other hand, would declare both feats hopelessly impracticable and advise him to put such thoughts out of his head immediately.

He never did put much stock in the opinions of medis anyway. Having thrice been falsely proclaimed dead by one mediwizard or another, he felt himself justified in this, seeing as his stalwart heart was still beating at the time of each of these declarations. And so it would be that Alastor would become determined to learn how to dodge bullets, much to his attending medis' twin dismays.

Presently, however, he had just acquired his first-ever gunshot wound and was so shocked at this sudden development that he forgot how to stand and began to fall over, his mouth surely catching flies all the way down. The hard landing jarred the wound—a galleon-sized hole to the left of his heart and beneath his clavicle—and caused Alastor to suck in a harsh breath through clenched teeth. But the air gurgled deep in his chest and made him cough and groan, a frothy mixture of blood and spittle pooling in his mouth.

And so it was that as the world around him became a cacophony of light and sound, Alastor Moody engaged in his toughest fight yet: a battle for air.

Remus Lupin caught his wife's eyes and was already running to meet her by the time his mind completed the only thought that mattered just then: Dora.

Her hair was shifting shades as they drew nearer to each other: From the usual bubblegum pink, it first became stark white when Mad-Eye fell; now, it was turning blood-red mixed with all the colors of the hottest fire. She was pissed. But her eyes had turned black, the irises and pupils white. They were frightening because she was frightened. As he finally reached her, Remus spared a split second to grasp her hand in his, to press his forehead against hers, a brief exchange of breath, of peace in the heart of chaos. Eyes locked. Eyes held. Eyes changed to ice-blue. Eyes said,

Let's rock this shit.

And he certainly agreed with that.

Heat from Dora's back washed over his own as they took up their stances, ready to attack or defend at a moment's notice. Separately, they were formidable; together, they were a match for You-Know-Who himself. For now, though, their only goal was to find shelter. A handful of those around them also managed to keep a cool head and had the same idea, and he was relieved to spy his mother-in-law, Andy, among them. By some unspoken agreement they all began a hasty procession toward the stands beneath the commentator's box, needing desperately to get out of the line of fire. However, that was easier said than done as over two dozen other wizards and witches were running around like headless, ax-wielding chickens.

Remus grunted as the glaring green of an Avada Kedavra passed under his left arm. Friendly fire, my arse.

Amelia Bones recovered merely a split second after Alastor's collapse and was the first to begin moving toward the stands, levitating her mentor's body just in front of her. Whatever it was that had struck him down had come from up high, somewhere near the commentator's box, so it was her hope that hiding beneath the attacker would block his line of sight, thus disabling his ability to cut them down. A part of her mind was reeling over the deadly accuracy of a spell cast from so far away (as far as she knew, it was impossible, unprecedented) while another part was wondering just how in the hell a Death Eater could have gotten onto the grounds in the first place.

Her thoughts ground to a halt.

Well, shit. If there's one…

Just as the obvious occurred to her, Amelia saw Dirk Cresswell get hit with the mystery curse out of the corner of her eye, and she decided to pick up the pace. She would just have to keep a keen eye out, she decided. Her fellows were panicking all around her, surely becoming easier targets for the enemy, but there was simply no time to try to calm them down some and knock some sense into their skulls. They were becoming ever more frantic as the seconds ticked on and casting fatal spells left and right. She'd have one hell of a time trying to find cover from the Death Eaters in the midst of the madness of the other generals and all the healers.

Idiots! she snarled to herself. Bumbling fools! I wish I could just curse the lot of you!

Amelia caught sight of movement coming in her direction from just behind her and off to her right. Prepared to dodge, she flicked her eyes over and saw with relief McGonagall, the Lupins, a Weasley and a couple others also running toward the stands. Apparently she wasn't the only person on the field with a touch of sense to her name.

She had just enough time to grin before she too fell to the curse, dropping with Alastor as the charm broke.

Merlin curse it all!

And then the pain came.

Never let it be said that Augusta Longbottom was anything but a proper lady, of the never-sleeps-past-ten and the always-on-time-and-everyone-else-is-simply-early variety.

Also of the "we never rush, we hasten" variety.

And so, posture ever-so-straight and skirts raised primly to the ankles just so, the fine lady Augusta could be seen hastening—not running as were her uncouth fellows, but taking small and deliberate steps—toward cover in the spectator stands beneath the announcer's booth. She knew that Field Marshal Potter, Master Severus Snape, and the good Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had all been situated there at the start of this mess and would surely be the first to find and neutralise the threat, skilled and efficient fighters that they were. Honestly, she thought. This will be over in a matter of minutes, considering; flailing around like fools will help no one.

She reached the stands just behind some of the other generals who had managed to retain some of their wits about them, though, as she neared, it became clear that she was the only one among them to recall the existence and present whereabouts of the three most powerful wizards in the Order of the Phoenix. She only just managed to keep from scolding them on having dropped most all of their proper deportment. They long learned that one of the most useful tricks of the trade is to always act as if one knows precisely what is going on and all the while work out via the logic innate to one's mental faculties just what is, in fact, going on.

The fine lady Augusta let a lone sigh suffused with a sense of long-sufferance pass her lips. They are but children, she reminded herself and watched with calm eyes as they took off again up the stairs.

Then, she smoothed and tucked her skirts and sat down to wait.

I can't believe I'm just letting this happen, had been the recurring thought circling through Albus Dumbledore's mind the last ten minutes.

Potter had very willingly answered any questions he and Severus had had as they watched the mercenary set up his weapon. In fact, he'd been quite happy—eager, even—to explain his reasoning and his hopes for using this muggle-style fighting in the war. The young man had immediately gained their interest and quickly their agreement, but then Albus had been struck by the obvious:

He was going to test this weapon's effectiveness against their own troops.

Severus had been quick to sense his impending protestations, however, and had swiftly begun nipping them in the bud with his cold logic. The field marshal had soon joined in this endeavor, and with the two tag teaming against him, Albus found himself thoroughly and soundly out-witted for the first time in at least a decade, if not longer. (Privately, he felt they'd had quite the advantage of surprise on their side seeing as he'd assumed the fierce animosity between them would prevent either from ever being able to cooperate so well with the other, and completely on the fly no less!)

"It will kill two birds with one stone," Potter had reasoned. "I need to know how the leaders you've appointed react to the unknown and whether guns will work against our enemies. Trust me when I say I'm a skilled enough marksman to keep from fatally injuring any of them. After all, the last thing we need to do is to start killing off our own men. Worry not, Headmaster, I know just what I'm doing."

And thus, Albus had relented.

Surely, he had assured himself, the generals would be able to band together and keep cool when under fire. Surely, having fought in a war for ten years, over twenty even for those who'd also fought in the first, they would have learned at least that much. Of course, of course. It would all work out fine. Surely.

Now, though, looking out over the chaos, Albus realized he couldn't have been more wrong.

He also realized that he did trust Potter in this matter. Quite frankly, the old wizard was amazed at the man's pinpoint accuracy, and his fear for the generals was quick to diminish in light of this fact.

No. What Albus mostly felt was a bitter disappointment in them.

The look of scorn on Severus' face and the heavy sigh that passed Potter's lips made it clear they both felt the same.

The field marshal backed away from his weapon, which was mounted on a tripod and harnessed to his chest, and took the cigarette from between his teeth to flick the ash off the end. His expression was solemn, though he seemed at least somewhat glad that he could proceed in planning several surprise attacks on their enemies using this muggle technology. "Well, gentlemen," he spoke seriously, "it seems we have some major work to do."

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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