FREAK

by
Hawa D.L.

Chapter V
Don't you dare look at me like that, you freak!
It's nothing, nothing's wrong. Nothing at all!

Save that my life has just been changed irrevocably.
Pulled like a rug right out from under my feet, no less,
and without so much as a by-your-leave!

"The quest—never more desperate than now—for a way of life is the passion of all great poetry. Sometimes it is a conscious seeking, and men speak directly of what they seek, and of what, in their seeking, they have found. More often, in poetry, the quest is not a conscious one, being but imperfectly realized, and that after the fact; and the results are communicated indirectly, by image and story. But the passion is the same, and the results contribute to the same high end.

"It would appear that the quest is more earnest and more passionate—more desperate—at some times than at others. The shock of circumstances hurls men into predicaments where they can no longer support their lives except they find a new way of thinking about life which can no longer be lived on the old terms. In such a predicament, men have behaved, historically, in two ways: they have sent their dreams into a Utopia, safe from the actualities which were crushing their bones within them; or they have looked these actualities in they eye, wrestled with them, nor would let them go till they were blest by them.

The historian of the future will see more clearly than ourselves how strongly the last three decades have been marked by this quest for a way of life. He will see, more clearly than we, that near the beginning of the present century we reached the end of our way. There was no going on in that way; the wreckage of a whole civilization was piled there. And much of the apparently unrelated phenomena of life and thought and art are the projected shapes of man's troubled need for a way of thinking about life.

"Of the two possible responses to this predicament, we chose the more honest and the more painful. We did so, even with some ostentation, scorning in a curiously bitter literature the narcotics of Utopia—and with a vehemence that testified to the sweetness of the temptation and the acrid sourness of the fruits we chose to eat, instead."

– David Morton, in a foreword to the Classics Club's 1946 publication of Lucretius' On the Nature of Things

Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 10:20 P.M. GMT

Molly Weasley née Prewett had been under the impression that raising seven children—six of them boys and two of those Fred and George—would leave anyone all out of shock.

She was so, so wrong.

By Merlin, she thought as a mixture of extreme apprehension and morbid amusement began to take hold of her, I daresay my sons have met their match with this one.

A test, he said! One of the effectiveness of a brand new tactic they could now build further strategies upon and additionally one of their leadership capabilities. This latter aspect of the drill, she knew, she had failed quite spectacularly. Disheartening though it was, the fact that she was in the majority allowed her burden of shame to be quite a bit more bearable since that crippling weight of inferiority was dimmed some by the fact that most all of her peers were judged inadequate as well.

Now, Molly's mind kept drifting, and she was finding it hard to pay all that much attention to the words coming out of the boy's mouth. Well, she mused, I suppose I oughtn't think that, wouldn't want it slipping into speech after all. Really, though. Field Marshal or not, mercenary or not, she just kept coming back to the fact that Harry Potter was actually younger than even her Ronald. That fact quite broke her heart. She knew that she would've loved him and protected him from things like scraped knees and war, had he been her own. But he wasn't, and now she had to see such a beautiful man, such a young child, orchestrate this war with the same sort of passion and skill Fabian and Gideon showed when they played their music. Only…where her brothers had been open, Harry Potter was closed; where their passion lit up their entire faces, his burned solely in his eyes; and where they threw out skill after skill just for show, he kept his cards close and let the imaginations of those watching him—because he knows, doesn't he, that there's always someone watching him—and their imaginations would run away with them, build up their fear of him, thinking up more and more fantastic answers to the question: Just what can that man do?

The thought rose from the base of Molly's skull.

Run. Danger.

But Harry Potter was a child in her eyes, and in her heart she wanted nothing more than to pull him close and hold him tight and never let him go until he believed her that she had loved him as her own from the moment she first set eyes on him, that she would always love him until her dying breath, that seven children!—eight children!—all the children in the world would never be enough for her to love and to care for because each child is special and each child needs love and that from now on he would always be hers to love and to care for because it was so painfully clear that he'd never felt a mother's love before and she would flood him with it, fill him with it, fill up all the cracks her mother's eyes could see in his child's soul.

And yet she would do nothing.

She was but a single key on her brothers' piano, and a man with a broken child-soul and a too-perfect mask would play her.

The song would be fierce and violent, so that notes would clash and strings would snap under forceful hammers and keys would loosen and fall and shatter.

Still, Molly knew, it would be beautiful.

This war would be Harry Potter's masterpiece.

There was a strong part of Nathaniel Westernberg that wanted nothing more than to rebel against this new leader of the Order of the Phoenix. Not only did the psycho nearly murder them all, but now he was treating them like children and demanding that they all attend classes. Frankly, it was beyond insulting. They knew all about tactics, and even if they didn't, they most certainly wouldn't need a teacher so young as Potter. Nathan was twice as old as this newcomer, and yet the man talked down to them all, as if Nathan and his friends were somehow inherently inferior to him.

But no matter how strong that part of him was, Nathan was first and foremost a reasonable man, and it was this rational part of him that forced his reluctant eyes open, to see all the inadequacies that Potter must have spotted a quarter-mile away as he picked them off like insects crawling on the field below. He swallowed his pride and admitted, if only to himself, that this was necessary. Though they had experience with war, they were obviously losing for a reason. It wasn't all that hard to remember that Potter also had experience with war despite his young age—it was there to see in his eyes, plain as day—only he had experience with winning them.

Nathan figured that the harsh blow to his ego was worth it, if studying under this man (But he's so young! Barely half my age!) would save his world in the end.

Glancing at those generals who had remained uninjured during the field marshal's "test," he was once again forced to admit that the lessons to come would bear fruit, most likely sooner rather than later. Half of them were dazed, swaying in their seats and occasionally blinking until their eyes came back into focus. Molly Weasley in particular looked quite out of it, and Nathan doubted she'd remember a word of what was said tonight.

Simply unacceptable.

Nathan's eyes caught with Dirk Cresswell's, and they held gazes for a moment before coming to some unspoken agreement and turning to face front as Field Marshal Potter finished describing the four different classes he would be designing for all generals and some sergeants to participate in starting next week and then went on to outline the new physical training schedule. Apparently, this would be for all members of the Order and would begin in two days once the other generals were pronounced ready for active duty and could help by organizing those soldiers under their command.

Not ten minutes later they were dismissed, and Nathan watched with blatant curiosity as Potter and Snape walked (or stalked in the latter's case) off together, murmuring quietly to one another with their heads bent close. Dumbledore was the next to leave, and soon there was a steady stream of people exiting the Great Hall.

Dirk Cresswell came up to Nathan just as he rose from his seat. They greeted each other with tired smiles.

"How are you feeling?" asked Nathan, recalling the fear he felt when he first saw his friend fall to Potter's weapon. Another reason he held his peace about the upcoming lessons was that one of the classes he was rather keen on taking would be training them all to use these "guns."

Dirk smiled a little, his own fear probably still haunting his thoughts as well. "Good, I'm good. That projectile—What'd they call it? A bullet, right? Thing went straight through me. Took the mediwizard nary a second to sew my muscles back together. 'S practically good as new," he said, rolling his shoulder a bit. "So, think the wife'll let you stay out for a drink?" he inquired with a hopeful tilt to his mouth, smile just a little less forced now.

Nathan snorted. "You kidding? Course not! So, Rosmerta's?"

His friend laughed loudly even as he nodded. "Sounds good, though I don't wanna hear anyone blamin' me if you and Betsy get in another row now, you hear?"

And the two best friends left the castle proper toward the pub set up on the grounds.

"I'm sorry, I can't have heard you correctly."

The freak could have hidden his smirk if he so chose. He didn't. "Oh, I think you heard me just well, Professor. You are hereby assigned to sow as much dissent in Voldemort's ranks as you can before we pull you from active duty November First."

And now the potions master walking beside him out of the Great Hall of Hogwarts was practically vibrating indignation. His next words were choked and soaked in venom. "I hardly think you've the knowledge necessary to make such a decision, Field Marshal."

"Quite the contrary, actually," replied the freak. Their heads were close together, voices lowered, since the halls they traversed, while not exactly crowded, were certainly full of enough passersby to warrant the caution. "Ten years of spying so close to the leader of our enemies is an exercise in foolishness at best. You're locked, tongue-tied, and practically useless now seeing as both leaders know you're a spy and will tell you nothing they do not wish the other to know. The fact that you're even alive now in spite of the futility of your current position—something that, naturally, has increased every year since the start of this war—is really a testament to your ability to both be at the right place at the right time and to talk yourself out of deep shit when you can't.

"No," the freak continued as they came to a halt before the downward sloping hallway marking the decent into the depths of the castle, "your role as spy is obsolete and your worth in this fight now lies elsewhere. Keep up your work and clear a way out of Voldemort's ranks by the end of October. Have I made myself clear, Snape?"

The grinding of the other man teeth was almost audible, the silence between them almost tangible, before Snape replied. His voice was a low hum of bass, soothing the freak's eardrums yet caustic, burning through him like acid, dripping as they were with hatred.

"Crystal."

And the freak smiled, sincerely, the first in a long time, (The first, I daresay, of many for this man, he thought.) even as he pushed his attraction to Severus Snape to the back of his mind and chained it there. Of the non-magical and of the magical people he'd met in his life, this man appeared to be an anomaly, a curious mix of the illogical—something the freak was coming to associate with magic—and the logical, and a host of other contradictions were just lurking beneath the surface, he could tell.

War, he told himself firmly. I am here for war, and what a beautiful one it is sure to be. Hardly missing a beat in the conversation, the freak responded, "Excellent. Now, I believe I ought to leave you here. I'd like to hunt down my tutor and begin to arrange my own lessons as soon as possible."

And then he was walking away.

Silence, and then, "What are you on about, you fool?" called Snape. "I am your blasted tutor."

"No, you were suggested to me by Dumbledore," the freak called over his shoulder. "I've decided against it. Now, I bid you good night, Professor."

That inappropriate humor of his was back again as the freak made his way toward the nearest flight of stairs he was aware of that went up. The heat of the glare borrowing into his back almost made him giggle, an unfortunate habit of his that insured he almost never laughed aloud where others could hear. He quickly ascended the steps and made his way over to the nearest portrait. After little verbal finagling he had some decent instructions to the Hospital Wing and was off again, all the while contemplating the probability of his apparent infatuation with one Severus Snape.

It was, he decided, incredibly low.

Hm, yet another anomaly. I want to just pick that man apart.

Infirmary, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 10:53 P.M. GMT

He had successfully quelled the grin on his face ten minutes later when he walked into Hogwart's Infirmary. There were few people around this time of night, and thus the man he was looking for was even easier to spot than usual. He snatched up a chair without breaking stride and soon settled himself next to Alastor Moody's bed, coolly ignoring the magical eye trained on him all the while.

"How do you do, General Moody."

Mad-Eye grunted and his namesake spun briefly before coming back around to nail the freak again. "How do you do. What brings you to my bedside, Field Marshal?"

The freak's grin found an outlet in his green eyes. He could do short and to the point. "I'm in need of an instructor, and you've impressed me quite a bit. What say you to another apprentice?"

Both eyes were on him with a shocking intensity then, weighing the freak and searching for something that would forever remain unknown. To be fair, the question was rather forward, considering that this was in fact the first conversation he'd ever had with Mad-Eye. The master-apprentice relationship was much more involved than a mere teacher-student one. The freak was, in essence, handing himself over and asking to be molded by this man, imbued with all his talents, all his considerable skill. If he had to guess, the freak would have to say Mad-Eye was looking for either his innate quality or his worthiness or (in all likelihood) both.

The assessment continued on for several long moments of silence. The freak waited patiently, crushing the occasional urge to fidget every minute or two. Eventually, the other man began nodding to himself.

"Yes," stated Mad-Eye, seemingly more to himself than to the freak. "Yes, you just might do. We'll have a three-week trial period. Agreed?"

Now, instead of grinning, the freak's eyes shined with triumph. He nodded. "Agreed. I've an appointment with Ollivander in the morning to begin work on crafting my wand. He says it should be finished in three days' time. Will your lung have healed properly by then?"

Moody dismissed the question with a wave. "Beh, you leave my healing to me. Wand or no, we start tomorrow at noon. Now, go."

The freak gave a small bow as he stood, leaving the chair where it was. "Tomorrow."

And then he was off after the next person on his list.

Head Mediwitch's Private Chambers, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 11:24 P.M. GMT

Poppy Pomphrey had an old, skittish heart, and when a guest she was certain she never invited over appeared in her bedchamber, the poor thing tried to jump nigh on outside from behind her breast and run off to hide someplace. In truth, it seemed she only just managed to catch the old girl and keep her where she ought to be.

Then, before Poppy could find the air to scream, the figure stepped fully out of the shadows.

"Good evening, madam," greeted Mr. Potter with a respectful nod. "How do you do."

"M-m-m-mister Potter! Whatever are you doing here?" came her mangled reply, what with her preoccupation trying to calm the pounding between her ribs.

The young man came a step closer, saying, "I would like to request an examination, madam."

Needless to say, Poppy was shocked. "A… An examination?!" she exclaimed. "Mister Potter, it's after eleven at night!"

Here, he gave her an apologetic smile and twinkling eyes reminiscent of a certain headmaster. "And you've my sincerest apologies for that, madam," he replied, "but secrecy is of the utmost importance in this matter."

"Hold, sir," she commanded, hand raised. "You wish me to examine you now?"

"Yes, madam. And here, if you would."

Poppy sighed and began to straighten her night clothes to spare her time to think. Utmost secrecy, hm? Well, a patient is a patient in the end, and—the rudeness of breaking into my rooms aside—he's been perfectly polite so far. Another sigh. "If you would disrobe and be seated, we can start," she replied with a wave toward her bed.

The next smile she was graced with was charming beyond measure. She actually had to fight off a bit of a blush. "Much obliged, madam. I've never had an examination done by a magical healer that I can recall, so I'm sure I'm long overdue."

Poppy just nodded and set about her work, instructing Mr. Potter to do this and that and casting charm after diagnostic charm on the young man. Hours passed, and the more she learned about his body, about his magic—for the two were inexplicably and inextricably intertwined, more so in this man than in any other human she'd heard tale of—the deeper Poppy dug, being mostly driven by a combination of her inner Ravenclaw and her healer's sense of duty to the patient before her.

The part of her that was purely Poppy, however, had long since recoiled in horror.

Meanwhile, Mr. Potter's smile never wavered, and his manners never faltered, and in the end he asked her, "Please, madam, the reason I requested this was because I must know: how long do I have left to live?"

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 2:08 A.M. GMT

Draco Malfoy's body was betraying him in the worst of ways.

Even now a part of him raged at the treacherous emotions coursing through him, forcing his feet onward as he crept through the deserted halls of his ancestral home. He knew that no good would come from this, he knew he was not himself, but he was powerless to resist this call. The doors leading out to the gardens were before him now, and Draco knew once he opened them that there would never truly be a way back, not to the safe, secure life he had always wanted for himself. His fierce anger gave one last surge, one last fight, before it faded away.

He grasped the handles, opened the doors, and slipped out onto the moonlit path.

No longer could he call peace his home.

Draco ghosted through the late fall blooms on silent feet in quest of her. The sounds of the warm night embraced him, and the half-moon held his hand, led him onward. She was here, and waiting. For him. She was the quail who had escaped him once, but soon, so soon! she would finally be his. She was of the ones who were once pursued, now huntresses in their own rights. She was the Danaid who would surely best him in the end.

For better or for worse—undoubtedly, he knew, it would always be for the very worst—he would have her this night.

It was not long before Draco came upon the labyrinth in the heart of the manor's gardens. He knew it well from fond memories of his childhood, and he was swift to reach its center. There, the young man saw the fountain, tall and simple; a peacock, pale and luminescent in the depth of night; and he saw Asteria Greengrass, and he trembled at the sight of her as one would before the might of the Mother.

Loose ringlets of yellow hair held streaks of gentle moonlight, and her nightgown seemed to be woven of the silver light. Tonight, her eyes were blue, and they shined bright as stars in her fair face as they met his across the short distance between them. Her slender limbs were folded, sitting as she was before the fountain, and her long fingers stroked the feathers of the majestic bird who had rested his bowed head on her lap.

To be sure, he was tempted to do the same.

"You came."

His grey eyes remained fixed on her as she spoke, drinking in all they could of her countenance. "You called," he said.

Asteria's answering smile twisted his heart, and Draco had no way of knowing if that was good or not.

"It's a shame that my sister and I leave in the morning," she went on, "wouldn't you say?"

"Yes. Yes, it really is. I will miss you terribly." In fact, he wished desperately that she hadn't even brought the subject up.

The young witch feigned appalled surprise at the scandal, though she couldn't quite stop a slight grin from touching her lips. "Me? But what of your fiancée, Scion Malfoy?"

Draco frowned and stalked nearer to her. "Do not play coy with me, Asteria. You know damn well Daphne has no place in my heart. This is not a game. You know this. You know what they'll do to you if we're discovered."

The reminder sobered her quickly, and when he offered her his hands, she took them and rose from her perch, dislodging the albino peacock and letting him strut off into the distance. The younger Greengrass stepped forward into Draco's embrace and leaned into his chest, drawing the strength she needed from him. "I know," came her whispered response. "I know. But can you blame me for trying to make light of it?"

The wizard chuckled grimly deep in his chest, a sound Asteria felt run through her own body rather more than she heard it. "Yes," said Draco. "Yes, I can."

The young lady sighed and tried to turn away, but Draco tightened his hold on her until she was pressed flush against him. There was a passion racing through his veins, and it roared ever louder at the feel of her breasts pushed up against his own chest. He knew, instinctively, that they would just fill his hands, and he thought longingly of how she would feel—held fast against him like this—if he had as few clothes on as she… and then fewer yet…

But he forced himself to focus. Just a bit longer, he thought, then she will forever be mine.

His touch was light when he lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his, and he searched them desperately for an answer. "Do you have even the slightest idea of how much you mean to me? Of how I love you?"

The glare hardened quickly in her eyes. "I know shame and I know pride," whispered Asteria lowly. "That is all I know. You know that, Draco."

But he just touched his forehead to hers and whispered, "And I can let you experience so much more. Please, let me show you how you make my heart feel." Their voices were cracking now, so quiet did they speak, but neither cared.

"No, Draco. You can't. No one can." But she was nodding, falling further into his arms even as she said aloud her denials.

Gentle, like the moonlight, he cupped her face with one hand, the other still strong around her waist. His lips brushed hers as he spoke. "Yes, love. Yes, I can."

His mouth drifted past Asteria's, just grazing the flesh of her cheek, then trailing up and down along the smooth column of her neck, glorying all the while in the sensation of her shuddering breaths fanning over his own. He pulled her to him now, unrelenting in his vice-like grip as he finally, finally! tasted her. Butterfly kisses shortly gave way to an open, hungry mouth, and Asteria felt a long-neglected part of her seize up and release—seize and release—when Draco attacked her pulse point and stayed there for moments that seemed never-ending, as though he would die if he proved unable to inhale her heart through the veins there.

The last scion of House Malfoy dragged his hand away from her face, down the other side of the Greengrass's neck, fondled briefly one her breasts, and continued on to her lower abdomen, just above the V of her legs, and it replaced a pressure Asteria hadn't been of a mind to identify before. Draco drove the point home when he rolled his hips and brought her even further into him and whispered harshly in her ear, "Do you feel this? This is how my heart feels at the mere thought of you. Do you feel this, love? This pleasure, this distraction. This obsession, this addiction. Every hour of every day, my heart skips beats over you."

Then he kissed the lips of her mouth, and she was lost to his sweet tongue. Asteria would have sworn he was in search of her soul, and—in that moment at least—she wanted his just as badly. No matter how deeply she breathed through her nose, she couldn't seem to get enough oxygen. Maybe, she wondered vaguely, I really won't be satisfied with anything less than his soul. His pull on her was like the tide, ever changing yet ever constant, seeming to never fade. Even when he broke away from the kiss, she felt a piece of herself go with him.

"And that," continued Draco, "is how it feels all the bloody time, even when I push you all the way to the back of my mind, my heart is always crying out for you, always looking for you. Always.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She hadn't even realized her eyes were closed, and when she opened them, she saw she was crying. She hadn't the slightest idea why, but apparently she was transparent before Draco in a way she'd never ever been before anyone else, not even herself.

He brushed away her tears and told her, "Shame has no place here, nor does pride. Right now, in this moment, you are mine, and I will give you everything you need to feel."

No denials were forthcoming, and her last conscious thought of the night flitted through the back of her mind:

Obsession and addiction are spot-on descriptions.

And thus, it was Asteria Greengrass who trembled beneath the light of the moon because, if only for this one night, Draco Malfoy was her god.

(A missive en route to Bellatrix LeStrange née Black:)

24-9-01 0400

There are whispers among the Order that Dumbledore has stepped down and a new leader has been appointed. All the platoon leaders have been called to a meeting tonight. A full assembly will likely be held later on in the week.

No one has seen the new leader yet. Very little is known of him. He is young, male, and most probably not native to Magical Britain.

Long Live Our Lord

Post Script: I took the liberty of using the alternative spelling for Astoria/Asteria, because the latter offers so much more by way of allusion to Greek mythology, as evinced above and explained in the following: The first allusion Draco made was to a Titan goddess who transformed herself into a quail and flung herself into the sea while fleeing Zeus (the guy does have a tendency rape anything even remotely comely in appearance, you know); the second I frankly forgot the most of, but it basically amounted to a whole bunch of women who also flung themselves into the sea to escape pursuers and were turned into kingfishers, beautiful and colorful birds of prey; and the third was to a group of women (demigoddesses, I believe) called the Danaids who were notorious for killing their husbands on their wedding nights.

I also took the liberty of spelling Lestrange as LeStrange, simply because I like it better that way, dammit.

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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