FREAK
by
Hawa D.L.
Chapter VI
What do you think it would be like?
To be a mother?
"It was a beautiful letdown
when I crashed and burned
when I found myself alone, unknown and hurt.
"It was a beautiful letdown
the day I knew
that all the riches this world had to offer me
would never do.
"In a world full of bitter pain
and bitter doubt
I was trying so hard to fit in,
until I found out
"I don't belong here
I don't belong here
I will carry a cross and a song
where I don't belong.
"It was a beautiful letdown
when you found me here
and for once in a rare blue moon
I see everything clear.
"I'll be a beautiful letdown
that's what I'll forever be
and though it may cost my soul
I'll sing for free.
"We're still chasing our tails
and the rising sun
and our dark water planet
still spins in a race
where no one wins
and no one's one.
"I don't belong here
I don't belong here
I'm gonna set sight
and set sail for the kingdom come.
Your kingdom come.
Won't you let me down!
Let my foolish pride forever let me down.
"Easy living, you're not much like your name.
Easy dying, you look just about the same.
Would you please take me off your list?
Easy living, please come on and let me down.
"What a beautiful letdown
painfully uncool
The church of the dropouts, the losers,
the sinners, the failures, and the fools.
What a beautiful letdown
are we salt in the wound?
Let us sing one true tune."
– Switchfoot, The Beautiful Letdown, "The Beautiful Letdown"
Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 8:00 A.M. GMT
Albus Dumbledore quite adored lemon drops. Indeed, upon further reflection, one would see they were the perfect metaphor for life: sour yet sweet; hard yet yielding if one works at it; spherical, the symbol of a never-ending cycle, yet finite, the end of its goodness always inevitable… and always followed by another…
"Ahem. Professor Dumbledore, sir?"
"Ah, Miss Granger!" exclaimed Albus, finally spying the young woman sitting in wait before his desk. "How can I help you, my dear?"
Miss Granger smiled awkwardly, saying, "Um, you called me, Professor."
"Oh, yes, yes, of course I did," Albus recalled with an airy wave of his hand. Then he offered, "May I interest you in a lemon drop?"
Miss Granger didn't quite manage to hide her grimace. "No, thank you, sir."
Albus almost pouted, but he was long used to people declining his offers of candy. Oh, well, more for me, he thought, smiling once more. "If you're sure," he said. "Now, onto business then. I must say, you've caught the attention of the new field marshal in a very good way, Miss Granger. He would very much like to put you in charge of a couple new committees, one focusing on research and development and the other on propaganda and public relations in general."
Miss Granger stared for a moment, opened-mouthed, before gasping, "Seriously?"
And Albus chuckled lightly, saying, "Quite so, Miss Granger, quite so. Am I correct to assume you're interested?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yes!" came the shout, before she cleared her throat, sat up straight from where she had been leaning forward, and repeated, "Yes. Yes, I am."
"Excellent! You'll be working directly with Messrs. Fred and George Weasely in research and development and with myself in public relations. Both initial meetings will be this Thursday evening here in my office, and I do believe we will be starting off with research and development. If you would, please begin thinking of people to invite to these committees so that we might discuss it then. We would prefer to recruit mainly civilians, but if you know someone in the Order with promise, well, we cannot rightly exclude them."
"Of course, sir."
"Do you have any questions, Miss Granger? If so, I would be happy to answer them."
He only remembered just who he was talking to when he caught sight of the eager look in her eyes, and he sighed, half wishing he could take the offer back.
Ollivander's, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 8:50 A.M. GMT
"Ah, Mister Potter. You're early."
Garrick Ollivander almost wanted to frown at the lack of response from the man in front of him. Everyone always jumped when he sneaked up on someone. No exceptions. That is, apparently, bar Harry Potter. The young man just turned to face Garrick with those calm eyes of his and a small knowing smirk on his mouth that the older man thought looked infuriatingly natural.
I had to practice for hours in the mirror to get that smile right, mused Garrick. In point of fact, I quite recall practicing turning and standing just like that when I was his age. How very curious.
Mister Potter gave a small bob of his head. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mister Ollivander."
But Garrick waved all that away. "No thanks are necessary, young man," he said. "I daresay we'll all reap the benefits of our new leader having a wand of his very own. And truthfully, I'm rather excited about this myself; it's been decades since I've had to create a custom-made wand."
As, by unspoken agreement, the two men made their way to the back of the shop, the young Potter shot Garrick a mildly curious look. "Oh, is that so?" he inquired, sounding as if he couldn't care less. "I was under the impression that all wands were custom-made."
It was clearly an idle question meant only to further an idle conversation, but the answer could potentially involve so much obscure magical theory that Garrick became almost positive that Mister Potter was purposely searching for such information, at least on wand lore if not the nature of magic in general. Having come to this conclusion in under a second, Garrick hummed to himself for the span of another as he decided to throw the young man beside him a bone. Knowledge was power after all; and if Mister Potter was going to be the one fighting for him, then Garrick wanted him to be as strong as possible. The reasoning was plain and pragmatic, but there it was.
"That is a very simple question with a very complicated answer, Mister Potter," finally came Garrick's reply, the old wand maker pushing open the door to his workroom. The lanterns lit themselves upon their entrance, and Garrick motioned his client toward a stool in the corner while he made his way to a shelf on the other side of the room. The place was filled with them, all stuffed-to-brimming with boxes and bottles, those themselves all full of supplies.
Sitting and crossing his legs in one graceful movement, Mister Potter said, "I find it easiest to start from the beginning when explaining something complex."
He huffed and did not deem that worth looking up from the materials he was currently browsing. "Yes," he grumbled, "I daresay that is obvious."
"My apologies," said Mister Potter, and Garrick didn't need to look at him to know he was speaking with a grin. He was also quite sure that if he did look, the young man's grin would be one Garrick himself was known for wearing quite often. "It did not seem to be obvious to you."
This time Garrick Ollivander really did want to frown, and he had a darn hard time beating the urge back. Is this really how annoyed I make everyone else feel? he thought. No wonder most folk can't stand me. "Well," he said, huffing some more. "I say, there's no need to be smart with me, young man. Now, to answer your question, yes, every wand is, in a way, custom-made, however…"
And Garrick went on to explain how most wand makers had a bit of seer blood in them and how such such abilities played part in the making of wands, occasionally breaking off in his monologue mid-sentence to stare at Mister Potter for a few moments before resuming both his explanation and his search for appropriate materials. The type of intuitive divination required of wand makers, said Garrick, was that particular to sensing magic—the clients' magic, to be precise—thus enabling the craftsmen to determine the materials most suited to those aforementioned clients. However, around three centuries ago, when the growing population began calling for the mass production of wands, another skill was then needed: extensive memory. Those wand-making families who had gained their seer blood from human ancestors were quickly put out of business, save for the occasional private commission or two. Those families like the Ollivanders, on the other hand (that is to say those who had gained their seer blood from having magical creatures in the family tree) were able to adapt much more easily. This was because their creature ancestors rarely blessed them with only one gift, so Ollivanders already had excellent memories and others were either similarly gifted or could compensate in other ways.
Garrick then went on to explain that the reason extensive memory or a similar gift was so important was that it was quite possible to predict the type of wand that a child of the next generation would need simply based off the wand types of the parents and grandparents. While sales records would have solved this problem for most wand makers, enough wand lore was known back in those days for wizarding families to refuse having information on their wands—and their inherent properties—written down where others outside their families might possibly have access to them. This necessitated that the keeping of such records be solely in the mind and passed via word of mouth, something that became trickier and trickier with each generation as the wizarding population continued to grow. Many wand-making families were unable to overcome this dilemma, and the practice became even more specialized over the next several decades until only a few families were left in Europe who were able to provide the service, putting even more pressure on them. Garrick himself was responsible for the knowledge of nearly all the wands in use in Western Europe today—this including their users, the family of said users, the history of said family, and the wands used therein.
At this point Mister Potter gave a low whistle. "Impressive," he said. "And the muggleborn?"
"Usually their magic is similar to one pureblood family or another, and I can match them with a wand from the store I have built up for that family over the years. Not that you'll find a lot of purebloods who would actually acknowledge that, especially considering the times. Even still, if I need to make a wand from scratch nowadays, it's usually only for a muggleborn whose magic proves unique."
"Hm, yes, that's quite interesting. And I see what you mean about the creature blood. I mean, sure, humans could keep track of knowledge and pass it on by word of mouth, but they'd forget something each time and it wouldn't be at all accurate."
Garrick smiled, shamelessly pleased to hear the admiration in his client's voice. "Exactly, Mister Potter. The Ollivanders have long been allied with a clan of High Elves, and we renew the alliance periodically by way of arranged marriage. My daughter is with them now; and when my grandson is old enough, he will take my place as the proprietor of Ollivander's Wands."
The young Potter now appeared so engaged as to be beyond attempting to feign disinterest, but Garrick changed the subject before he had a chance to respond. "Now, Mister Potter," began Garrick cheerfully with a clap of his hands, "I daresay I have found every last item in my shop that might possibly respond well to your magic. Why don't you come over here to the table and see what catches your eye, hm? Run your hands over them even, search for those that make you feel good and set them off to the side."
Mister Potter did as told while saying, "I confess myself curious as to how you knew none of the wands you have stored would work for me."
"Simple," replied Garrick. "Your upbringing—whatever it was—must have been so far from anything I might have possibly predicted as to make you into a kind of wizard I've never encountered before. Things like that do happen from time to time of course, but usually I can just match the client with the magic type of a different family. You, however, are something else entirely."
He was a bit disappointed (though not at all surprised) that his not-so-subtle fishing into the young man's background yielded no more response from Mister Potter than yet another question: "And what is it that sets me apart from other kinds of wizards, Mister Ollivander?"
"Ah, a bit more complicated, this one is," said Garrick, mulling the answer over and over in his mind as he attempted to put it into layman's terms. "I suppose," he began slowly, "that the best analogy for the common wizard is to compare the center of their magic to a well that sits in the heart. It fills up as the heart pumps blood and magic through the veins. Like water in a well, magic seeps out of the bloodstream, through the walls of the heart, and into a pool: that is, the 'core' of the wizard's magic. Whenever a wizard casts a spell, he pulls from this pool, this well; and as the wizard continues to live and breathe, he continues to absorb the ambient magic in the world around him into his blood, and thus the well refills.
"You, on the other hand, have no well, no 'core' from which you pull your magic. It is… hard to describe, Mister Potter. It appears as though every part of you is so imbued magic that you are actually made of it, much like a magical creature might be. You seem to be a part of the the earth's magic itself instead of just connected to it. I am sorry, Mister Potter, but I cannot make it any clearer than that."
"No, no! Oh, thank you, Mister Ollivander, truly," said the young man who had long since paused in his examination of a block of ebony to watch the wand-maker speak. Gratitude was effusive in Mister Potter's voice, shocking as it was. He was showing a surprising amount of emotion: It was as though he had just come across some remarkable serendipity; and, furthermore, his joy in this seemed genuine. "That makes perfect sense! Haha! This is wonderful!"
"Not so fast, Mister Potter," Garrick cautioned. "We've no idea if this means you will be more or less capable of utilizing your magic. It will certainly render the traditional wand useless, hence this whole custom-made business."
Mister Potter nodded at this. "Right. Yes. Wands. That's definitely what we're talking about." With a second or two of effort, he tamped his beaming smile down to something more akin to a mischievous grin. "You were saying?"
Oh, dear, Garrick thought. I've missed something terribly big here, haven't I?
But the conversation was going on, and he couldn't find a feasible way to backtrack. The old man sighed, explaining, "The function of a traditional wand is to pull, amplify, and direct the wizard's magic. They help wizards pull magic from their pools of accessible magic, and they also prevent wizards from pulling too much out, thus wasting it on nothing and tiring quite quickly."
"Ah, I see," said Mister Potter. "And the amplification aspect of wands would help with that too since it would take a lesser amount of magic to produce a greater result."
"Exactly," Garrick said with a nod. "It is easier to aim with a wand as well since it releases magic in a narrower stream…"
"… which also cuts down on wasted magic. Brilliant! I adore efficiency."
"Indeed, Mister Potter, and wands are the pinnacle of magical efficiency."
"Hm. Yes, I'm sure they are, but it doesn't sound at all suited for me."
"Indeed. Thus I must create a new sort of wand to act as a focus for your magic. Nothing needs pulled from your core because you don't have one. You just need something to push it through, to magnify it and make it dense."
"Yes, into a beam I can focus and aim. But since that's the case, why make a wand? Wouldn't a ring or something else work just as well?"
Garrick Ollivander's first reaction was indignant outrage. 'Why make a wand,' indeed! But then his thoughts caught up with the meaning of the idea, and a thoughtful smile touched his mouth.
Yes… Why make a wand, indeed.
Voldemort's Court, Yggdrasil, Allerdale, Cumbria, England, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 3:02 P.M. GMT
Severus Snape had long ago mastered the Art of the Personae. Mastered it beyond the ability of any other, as was necessary to maintain his position as spy.
A position it seems I will no longer have to fill.
He didn't quite know what to make of the tangle of emotions that always accompanied that thought every time it crossed his mind. The resentment was the only one he could bring himself to except, since anger would do his health no good and he couldn't consciously acknowledge having ever felt relief or gratitude or fear or…
Severus focused both mind and eye on his godson across the room. The Dark Lord might not have been in the room just then, but it still wouldn't do to become distracted in the midst of his current company. Master of the Personae as he was, Severus could tell immediately that something was off with Draco Malfoy's. To be fair, it was quite decent, certainly good enough for most, but still…
His godson was hiding something.
Having just been dismissed from the Dark Lord's presence—informing him that the mysterious new leader of the Order of the Phoenix was none other than the Harry Potter had been unpleasant to say the least—Severus decided he could afford not to spend time socializing and to simply get his business here over and done with. He'd been sure to make it so that no one would ever expect him to talk much at these things anyway. (That was, after all, the key to all personae, to never lie outright about oneself but to instead breathe half-truths. The audience will always fill in the blanks with what they want to hear.) In addition, though he disliked Draco greatly at times, he cared for the boy more than he did for most—the latter being not at all. And so it was with these thoughts in mind that he prepared to abandon his corner of the room to drag his godson off somewhere and find out just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time when he saw it.
Severus couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before to be honest, even though he'd been in the room hardly five minutes. It was plain as day to him now, his godson's secret: He'd slept with a girl.
The wrong girl apparently.
It was all in Draco's body language: His smile, just a little more smug; the strut just a tad more like one of those bloody albino peacocks than usual. It was in the way he seemed to orbit around one point in the room, and how he constantly remained oriented on that same point, probably unconsciously. Dear Merlin, Severus thought. The brat's smitten too! Sighing in the safety of his mind, the potions master scanned the room for the 'lucky girl,' and…
… And this just keeps getting worse.
Asteria Greengrass was as cold and aloof as ever at first glance; but looking closer, it was clear to Severus that she was acutely aware of his godson as he moved through the crowd, despite never shifting in her seat off to the side nor taking her eyes off some distant point across the room. Hn. Just as awkward as ever, I see. Awkward though the child was, he had quite liked her. She was all hard angles—sharp wit, keen intelligence, cold cruelty—not a soft bone in her body. Yes, he had quite liked teaching Asteria Greengrass.
He wondered what could have possibly possessed her to start an affair with her older sister's fiancé. The wedding would be in the spring for Circe's sake; and once Daphne was with child, Asteria's own engagement to a cousin of hers wouldn't have been far off. Once she'd borne an heir for the Greengrass line and her sister an heir for the Malfoys, they could have slept with whomever struck their fancy. But now… now, things were tricky. Really, the whole thing had 'blood feud' written all over it.
Severus downed the last of his wine and left the room. He would save his talk with Draco for tomorrow.
Right now, he had a contraceptive to brew.
Voldemort's Study, Yggdrasil, Allerdale, Cumbria, England, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 3:11 P.M. GMT
Bellatrix LeStrange always felt a certain type of awe whenever she looked upon her master. It was an all-consuming sort of awe, the kind that mere mortal men have always expressed when graced with the presence of gods. It swallowed her whole, and she fell into it gladly, reveling in the feeling of weightlessness even long after she had been dismissed. It brought her the highest joy to know—and be secure in the knowledge—that she was favored by her Lord above all others. She had yet to truly fail him, and she was determined to never do so.
"Ah, Bella. What news?"
Her knees threatened to collapse beneath her as the silken sound of his voice washed over her once she entered his study, but she knelt before they had the chance. Her eyes stayed trained on her master's face though, taking in every iota of his beauty and committing the lines and planes of his visage to memory.
"My Lord," she began, her voice soft and reverent, "the Order has selected a new leader."
The Dark Lord looked up from the tome he had been reading beside the fireplace and pierced Bellatrix with a fiery gaze of his own. "Yes, so I've heard. What else do you know of him?"
Her breath caught in her throat briefly before picking up again twice as fast, her cleavage rising and falling rapidly against the tight bonds of her dress. Quickly, she rushed to tell what little she had learned thus far. "Someone new, my Lord, new to Britain. They have not yet revealed his identity to the Order at large."
"Hm. Interesting," he commented, red eyes calmly smoldering once more. "It seems Severus is not entirely useless after all." Bellatrix felt a monster rear up in her chest at the implication that Snape might have possibly had more information than her, but she remained quiet. Her master returned to reading his book, adding absently, "Have your men test him; kill him even, if they can manage it."
"Yes, my Lord."
Weasley Quarters, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Tuesday, 25 September 2001, 6:44 P.M. GMT
Ronald Weasley hated family meetings.
When he was a kid, he hated how boring they were. Now that he was older and a man in his own right, he hated them because of the constant reminder that two of his brothers were gone; one having died for them, the other…
"Hey."
Ron nodded to his sister as she sat next to him on the couch. "Alright, Ginny?"
He hadn't really been expecting an answer, but the way she sighed and curled into him broke his heart a little bit. Ginny was thinking of them too. He knew she blamed herself for their brother's death. He'd taken that cutting hex last spring for her after all, and she wasn't even supposed to have been at that particular battle.
But Weasleys stand together, she'd said.
And their brother had died with those words on his lips.
Weasleys stand together.
Except for that deserter, the prat.
Ron tried not to think about him though. He couldn't afford to nurse that kind of anger nowadays.
"So, what's new, Mum?" came Bill's voice.
Oh, he thought, feeling a little dumb for a moment as he realized everyone was gathered round the fireplace already.
Mum and Dad looked just as tired, just as sad as they had after the Battle of Diagon Alley last spring. Just as worn as they had been everyday since then. I guess losing two sons in one fell swoop would do that to anyone.
It was the same thought he had almost every time he saw them, and the consolation wasn't much.
"Yeah, we never—"
"—have these things on a Tuesday."
"What gives?"
Ron smiled a little; the twins speaking in unison had always amused him, apparently ever since he was a baby.
"Well…" His dad paused, looked at his mum, looked to the ground. Repeat.
Mum cleared her throat. "Well, dears… Dumbledore's stepped down and appointed a new leader for the Order."
Ron would've heard one of his mum's sewing needles hit the hearth rug, it got so quiet.
And then Dad cleared his throat. "And… this new leader… well, you'll meet him this week, but… his name…"
But it was Mum who took the dive:
"It's Harry Potter."
And the silence was back with a vengeance, but not for long. Not two seconds passed before the Weasley Clan erupted into a noise the likes of which hadn't been heard from them in months.
Harry bloody Potter! Who'd'a thought!
Ron kept on shouting with the rest though he really didn't know quite how to feel about this whole thing, but there was certainly a lot of awe going around.
Awe… and hope.
(A missive en route to Poppy Pomphrey:)
To my dearest Madam Pomphrey (whom I hold in high esteem):
A new theory on my condition has emerged, and it appears quite promising. I would like to discuss it with you and Mr. Moody as soon as possible. Are you free to meet us tomorrow afternoon perhaps?
Sincerely yours,
H.J. Potter
Potions Master's Quarters, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Wednesday, 26 September 2001, 7:50 P.M. GMT
"Hello, Severus. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Severus Snape gave Draco Malfoy a rare genuine smile, looking truly wicked.
A pleasure indeed, the potions master thought.
And then it was gone.
"You are alone, yes?" he asked his godson.
What Severus could see of the younger man's posture through the fire became just a touch more tense, though Draco still managed to appear calm and relatively lax. Good, thought Severus. It wouldn't do for the lad to forget all that Lucius and I have taught him just because he's gone and fallen in love.
"I am," replied Draco. "What is on your mind?"
"How long have you been sleeping with Asteria Greengrass?" came Severus's rather blunt query. He never had been one for beating around the bush, quite unlike a certain headmaster.
For a moment, there was silence… then,
"Damn you. There's not one secret you can't sniff out, is there?"
Is a poor shot at my nose the best you have by way of defense, boy? Or does the mere mention of her name really scatter your wits so badly? Severus spoke warningly, "Draco."
The Malfoy heir sighed, admitting to his swift defeat in that one breath. "Just the night before last, Severus," was the grudging response.
Severus nodded as though he knew all this—and he pretty much did. "And I trust you both made use of the appropriate potions and spells?"
He knew the answer to this one as well, and it must be noted that he found the rapid collapse of his godson's mask one part amusing and two parts irritating. It was like watching a statue fracture beneath the blow of a hammer.
"I… uh… We…"
He was even blushing, for crying out loud!
Severus decided to move the conversation along rather than bear further witness to such a pitiful spectacle. "Here," he said, holding up a single crystal vial filled with a pearly rose-colored potion then tossing it through the floo to his godson, who caught it with deft fingers.
"What is this?" he asked as he examined the vial.
"A contraceptive for the young Miss Greengrass," explained Severus. "Get it to her as soon as possible. She has until this night is over to take the potion. Any later and it will be ineffective against any pregnancy that might have resulted from your activities the other night."
The boy's relief was palpable. "Thank you, Severus."
The potions master accepted Draco's gratitude with a nod. "I will begin hinting that your father ought to reopen your marriage contract. I don't imagine it will take too much convincing to get the Greengrasses to switch Daphne for Asteria." (This was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Asteria was meant to be the Head of House Greengrass after all. Her father would never willingly let his favorite daughter join another family, even one as well-regarded as the Malfoys. Nevertheless, Severus felt sure that Draco would appreciate the effort he was prepared to put into this folly, particularly as he would get absolutely nothing out of it except a heap of trouble.) "Until then, be discreet. I've no doubt Dionysus will declare a blood feud should you be discovered. The Greengrasses have always been more ambitious than cunning after all. He would jump at the opportunity."
Draco's expression was solemn when he nodded. "We will do as you suggest. And Severus, if you're sincere… then I shall forever be in your debt."
Severus almost showed his surprise at that. Those were serious words when coming from a Malfoy. I might just get something out of this after all.
"I'm honestly amazed you've offered to help me in this madness," his godson was saying, "instead of spending all this time trying to talk me out of it."
Severus snorted. "An exercise in futility if ever there was one. You are still a Malfoy, after all."
Draco grinned fiercely, determination making his grey eyes hard. "And a Malfoy always gets what he wants. Thank you, Godfather, and goodnight."
Severus leaned back into the couch cushions as the Floo disconnected and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. So much to do and so little time. He only had a month to get the marriage contract negotiations reopened and to make such a solid argument that it would still be irrefutable even when his betrayal of the Death Eaters came to light at the end of October. And he needed to prepare for his extraction as well. So, so much to do…
So it was that Severus spent the rest of the time until his first mind healing appointment with General Potter thinking and discarding plots and plans of action, trying to find that particular course which would achieve the most of his ends through as few actions as possible. And he continued this line of thought until his patient arrived, interrupting him with a knock on the door.
For some reason, this surprised Severus some, that an enigma such as Harry Potter would do something so mundane, so normal as observing the rules of common courtesy. It just didn't seem to fit his image of the mercenary, and yet he'd never seen him be anything but unfailingly polite. Well, minus that one night of shameless seduction…
"Hello again, Professor."
Severus grunted as he opened the door wider, pushing such thoughts from his mind. "Get in here, Potter."
And it was as the newly dubbed Field Marshal stepped across the threshold that it happened.
Potter flickered.
At first, Severus thought he was imagining it, but when Potter started glancing between his own hands and the door, he knew he had seen something.
It took a few seconds for him to recall Potter saying that he could use glamours and a few more after that to realize that the wards around his rooms had ripped a glamour from Potter the moment he entered. But he put it back up so fast, I nearly missed it going down in the first place. And then he thought,
Does Potter where one all the time?
Severus was casting the strongest finite he knew at Potter before he even realized his wand was out of its holster. Yet he was frozen in the next moment, for some unfathomable reason, unable to find it in himself to look up past the other man's chest. He could see his hands—so raw and scarred, even now peppered with fresh bruises and open wounds—and his courage fled him at the sight. Quite suddenly, the prospect of delving into this man's mind was nothing short of daunting.
Potter had gone almost entirely still the moment the potions master had armed himself, but then, seeing the effect of the professor's spell, he relaxed again. "Aw, that was your wand," he pouted teasingly. "And here I was thinking you were happy to see me."
Severus didn't reply, his gaze aimed off to the side and driving into the mantle above the fireplace, absolutely refusing to look at Potter's face. That is, until the other man forced his way into Severus' line of sight, and the potions master saw with great relief that the glamour had been replaced. He motioned Potter to a seat before taking one himself. He didn't offer tea or biscuits. He didn't say anything at all. Just sat. And stared.
"So, how are we going about this whole 'mind healing' business?"
And Severus was surprised once more, this time by Potter having bothered to break the silence at all. He cleared his throat and had to refrain from shifting in his seat. "I will enter your mind via legilimency and learn it to the best of my abilities. Then, we'll go from there, I suppose."
And the staring resumed.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"
This time there was disgruntlement. "Of course not," he replied scornfully, figuring there was no sense in pretending otherwise. "Do I look like a damned healer to you? No, this is just me following orders."
"No," Potter corrected, a strange light in his eyes, "this is you doing a favor for a friend, I'd say."
Well, he thought, if that wasn't oddly insightful.
… and even odder, there wasn't even a trace of scorn or sarcasm in the way Potter said it.
Meanwhile, he was saying, "Be that as it may, our position has not changed. For whatever reason, Dumbledore claims your mind is broken, and circumstance demands it be fixed. So, if you wouldn't mind letting us get on with it, I'd very much like to get this over with so I can do something a bit more productive this evening."
Potter's amusement was plain, and it pissed him off like nothing else.
"Indeed, let's," was all he said.
Severus squared his shoulders and took a deep, fortifying breath. "Look into my eyes and pretend you trust me. The less resistance you offer, the less pain you'll feel."
"Eh," he shrugged. His emerald eyes were trained, unwavering, on Severus' own. "What's a little pain?"
Severus Snape once again fought the urge to fidget, exhaled, and whispered, "Legilimens."
And his world exploded in agony.
Dungeons, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Thursday, 27 September 2001, 12:38 A.M. GMT
The freak laughed quietly to himself as he made the trek up from Snape's rooms in the dungeons to the place on the grounds designated as a "gateway" in the wards through which Dumbledore's portkeys could pass. Every time his laughter subsided, he would recall Snape's pale face and the way his hands shook throughout their legilimency session, how he actually fainted at the end of it—and the giggles began anew.
At that point, the freak had let himself have a good, hard laugh about it before leaving the potions master collapsed awkwardly on the cold stone floor. It was a bit vindictive of him, sure, but aside from Snape's reaction, the whole thing was decidedly unpleasant, as evinced by the legilimens' loss of consciousness.
He sighed as he passed through the Entrance Hall and out onto the starlit grounds. He always tried his best to avoid thinking about it, but the truth was that his mind was broken—just as much as his body—and in desperate need of healing. He'd tried to confront some of his more traumatic experiences on his own over the years, but he couldn't bear it, and the wounds on his psyche would be left bleeding even more than before. It wasn't long before he gave it up as a lost cause altogether, even knowing as he did that it wouldn't be long before he went insane, that is, if his body didn't fail him first.
Madame Pomphrey had confirmed that first night that whatever had been keeping him alive (his "exploded core" as he had taken to calling it after his conversation with Ollivander yesterday) was now proving ineffectual. According to her, his magic never healed him properly, but merely held his various organs together enough for them to continue functioning and eventually heal themselves somewhat. (He thought that sounded about right, considering the chronic pain he'd lived with for as long as he could remember.) Despite his amazing magical plasters, his body could only restore itself so many times before the scar tissue became too much and it started flagging, especially after having suffered such extensive damage. He'd only recently turned 21, but his body was comparable to that of a 100-year-old muggle war veteran, which truly astonished Madame Pomphrey since even the healthiest of wizards would be lucky to make it past their 130s even with their magic.
Madame Pomphrey was currently attempting to find a way to heal him that was slow enough to avoid triggering massive organ failure yet also expedient enough that it would do him at least some good before he just dropped dead. The first offensive on that front would be a prescription to reduce scar tissue, the specifics of which she would relay to a potions master named Horace Slughorn so he could begin brewing it immediately. In addition, the freak had explained to both the healer and Mad-Eye Moody just this afternoon about his conversation with Ollivader and shared his new theory about his magical core, a subject which had quite simply had Madame Pomphrey in a bit of a tizzy most of Tuesday.
This being because he essentially didn't have one.
At least not according to her scans, and the poor witch had been having quite the fit over it too, something the freak found quite amusing. However, the theory about an "exploding core" seemed to calm her down quite a bit, now that she had something to research. Moody had just been intrigued and had stared at him quite hard with that bright blue eye of his before stating that just because he was dying didn't mean he could get out of training, sending Madame Pomphrey straight into another tizzy.
That minor tangent aside, it stands to reason that if the magical bandages on his body were beginning to fail him, then it was only a matter of time before the ones on his mind did too.
And thus, he decided, he would force himself to continue with the mind-healing sessions with Snape; because, though a large part of him sincerely wanted to stop fighting for a life that had no meaning (and there he had no illusions: following orders from a person he'd never met certainly didn't fill him with purpose), a small part of him refused to give up.
It was the only part of him that was strong, and it always—always—won.
As he finally reached his destination and wrapped a hand around the pendant that would take him a few blocks away from his apartment, the freak was blindsided for the first time in years. The spell came from his ten o'clock and hit him square in the chest, sending him flying just as he felt the tug behind his navel. Between the free-fall and the dizzying sensation of portkey travel, he was thoroughly disoriented when he landed on his back in his usual alley in downtown London, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs.
He tried to right himself and catch his wind again, thinking only, What the fuck was that?
His unasked question was promptly answered by several distinct crack!s as men in black cloaks and skull masks appeared in a perfect circle around him.
… Shit.
Bathroom, Asteria Greengrass' Quarters, The Garden, Gwynfe, Carmarthenshire,Wales, UK, Thursday, 27 September 2001, 1:12 A.M. GMT
Asteria Greengrass had trouble meeting her own eyes in the mirror most days.
She was stood before her bathroom sink, her eyes skittering away from her reflection to rest on the pale pink potion her lover had sent her before peeking once more at the mirror, skittering away again, peeking back, again and again. Asteria always saw so much there, in those hollow eyes in the mirror, a pain so deep she was afraid she'd fall in and never be able to find her way out again. As far as she was concerned, Draco Malfoy professing his love for her was as good as him ringing his own death knell. He was a dying star now, collapsing under the weight of her gravity, and, in time, he'd become a black hole just like her.
The guilt of it was more than enough to break her back. Truly, she had been broken long ago. This world, with all of its cruelties, was not for her. Asteria had dedicated herself to her path years before, and it was too late to turn back now. Her only regret would be that she would end up destroying poor Draco for standing in her way. But she had already decided years ago that the House of Greengrass would have an Heir. She would have this child, no matter what she had to sacrifice along the way.
And so it was that Asteria Greengrass—dry-eyed and with a firm resolve—met her own eyes in the mirror, breathed, and dumped the potion down the drain.
Post Script: Next update should be around 11:59 p.m. EST on 1 May 2O16. The poll asking which weapon should become the freak's focus will close around 11:59 p.m. EST on 7 May 2O16.
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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