I started this story under a different pen name in 2005, but then life and college and so much more got in the way. Throughout the years I have kept writing bits and pieces of it on my own and a year or two ago when I tried to update the story I realized I had entirely lost the password to my account. I guess that's what two new computers do to you (okay so my first computer consisted of borrowing my mom's). Realizing that updating would take some time, I went and did the other real life stuff that had to be done, intending to get back to it. Midterms and finals and family stuff got in the way until this week, when I was writing another piece and said "I just have to" and I made a new account. This story, however, will vary significantly from my previous publication. I will be posting a chapter at a time as I give them one more read through. I suspect the first six to go up fairly quickly (all of the previously published chapters) and for the others to follow at a fairly consistent pace. A few snippets of things that are related to the story but may never make it into the main story will be posted as one-shots. A good review usually gets my butt back into gear, too. ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original characters found in the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling owns these characters.

So, here we go:

Chapter One – The Informant

The end is like the beginning – uncertain.

Harry Potter does not like Death Eater's. He does not like them in battle, when their taunts create a strange, pounding anger in his chest that urges him to lash out at them, controlled only by the knowledge that around him, others who fight along side him feel the same. He does not like them when they form a circle around his men; it is when he feels most out of control, longing for nothing more then to render onto them the same service they have rendered onto so many innocent people. The thought proves to him over and over again how far he has traveled from innocence. He does not like them when they are standing quietly in a queue, waiting as the Aurors walk down the line and pull the skull-like mask from each of their faces to reveal the human behind it; the human who cannot be human at all to have done such heartless acts. No, Harry Potter does not like Death Eater's at all, but he hates them most when they are sitting in his office.

The Death Eater is sitting back on one of the leather chairs, looking across his desk at a family picture of him, his wife, baby daughter, and son. The picture is almost five years old. With his hands bound behind his back with magical ropes, Harry knows the comfortable appearance he presents is no more an act. When he had opened the door, the Death Eater's face had jolted around to regard him with eyes of an unusually pale shade of amber; their intenseness reminds Harry of Remus, but these eyes are more feral and less in control than Remus could ever dread to achieve. He looks away and makes to sit behind his desk.

"Sorry for the short notice, Harry, but this ones on you. His paper work has to go through the recant route," Ron says. Ronald Weasley's appearance has not changed much from school, except that, as most do when nearing their thirties, he has lost the boyish features which lingered about his cheeks and in his smile well after school. With such growth come the lines of stress, across the forehead and around the mouth, which accompany every face Harry peers into, young or old, these days. Harry hates himself when he looks into people's eyes and sees their suffering. He hates Voldemort too. But he hates Death Eaters the most; each had a choice and all the hundreds of them chose to be on the side of evil.

Harry takes a deep breath. By using the word 'recant', Ron has signaled his true meaning: the Death Eater wants to renounce Voldemort and join the Order as a spy. Ron would have already interrogated him along with a second Order member, both hiding behind the shield of Aurors. Now it is Harry's job, as Head Auror (and Order member), to slip the man's papers through the system in a way that Voldemort's Ministry lackeys will not notice. The papers have to end up lost, unknowingly appearing on Dumbledore's desk. What happens to them after they are lost will never be spoken of. Dumbledore will never admit to his source of information and Harry will never admit to handling the case. End of conversation. The Boy-Who-Lived does not lie in court.

"Take him to a holding cell; I will speak to him at a later date." He does not confirm whether he heard Ron's signal, but Ron knows he has. He is already scanning the paperwork Ron put on his desk. The man's name is Geoffrey Goddard. "I'll be sure to inform you if I need further information, Mr. Weasley." The wink Harry sends Ron is half-hearted; Ron pauses hesitantly before, shaking his head sadly, he draws his eyes away from Harry's. They seem so haunted. He has been watching them darken a shade every day over the past four years; he wonders sometimes if he will come to dinner one night and those emerald eyes, nearly as symbolic of Harry Potter as the scar on his head, will be black.

"You need a break, mate. Go home early, Harry. This guy can wait until tomorrow…you look tired." 'Tired' is a huge understatement, Ron thinks, as he looks his best friend over. Whenever Ron says 'tired' to Harry, he never really means the word in a single fashion. It stands for and represents much more, such as being overworked, suicidal, on edge, stretched too thin, miserable... He rarely ever says the others outright, though. Harry doesn't need him to – he understands perfectly well what his best friend means.

Ron gives a last sigh at the empty eyes and yanks the prisoner up. Geoffrey's gaze is forced away from the family photo he has been regarding so intently. Except for the initial arrest, Goddard hadn't put up a struggle with any Aurors. He had brokenly admitted to his crimes and asked to become a spy. It is strange and annoying then, when, just as Ron is about to shove him out the door, he stops dead. Damn it, Ronald Weasley hates those who just stop in their tracks and become dead weight! He hates it.

"My wand is still at the back of your neck, Mr. Goddard," he drawls, but the man remains facing Harry's desk, mouth moving wordlessly, eyes still regarding the picture. He didn't seem to feel Ron jab at his back.

"I've seen that boy before…" His voice is broken and horse. He had been offered no water through his interrogation nor any after it. Ron pauses, slightly confused – it was not unusual for Death Eaters to break beyond repair once captured. He follows the other's gaze, intending to access the situation and decide whether to risk bringing him to the infirmary and having them peek into his mind. But the gaze is still mesmerized by the Potter family portrait. Silence descends.

"I'm sure you have. Your master killed him four years ago," Harry's voice is sharp and bitter; it devours the air like fire eats at thin parchment.

Ron is in agony; he is torn between wanting the man to confess more and wanting to gag him, throw him (and the painful past he has brought up) into the deepest canyon on earth, as far away from Harry as possible. For a moment, Ron imagines Harry's eyes have turned black.

"He wouldn't scream…" There is a hollowness to the Death Eaters words; like a man who has swallowed the whole vial of truth serum in one gulp. It has been hours since Ron gave him the antidote for the three drops used for questioning him. Ron isn't sure if he is purposely attempting to torture Harry or if he really should have heeded the Mediwitch's concerns over the stray spell which hit the man's head. "Foolish, silly child – he should never have called the Dark Lord by his real name. Stupid, stubborn child – he should have screamed and showed weakness."

Harry rises from his chair and Ron closes the door, but neither dare move any more, lest they break the trance-like state that has enveloped the entire office.

"The Dark Lord called him by a name…I could never quite get myself to say it correctly. Dev – it began as Dev, but I gave up on the name long ago. He didn't seem to mind my own version. I called him Dubhán. He tore his eyes from the picture and toward Potter's. "I had a nephew named Dubhán, once." Harry realizes, staring back into the golden eyes, that Geoffrey is a Werewolf. "My Mast – Voldemort saw something in the boy…he never killed him. He told us that he was his grandson."

Geoffrey is almost certain Harry Potter's heart has skipped at least three beats, unlike the red-head, Weasley, who's heart seems to double its speed, pumping blood into every part except his face, which is as white as cream. Tangling in the tension and uncertainty of the room, Geoffrey can sense hope. Hope is strange when it comes from people who have learned hope is more a symbol of fighting, a symbol others can recognize and cling to, then a true emotion. It is bitter, lingering in the air like the sweet-scent from a hidden sleep potion steaming up from a cup of tea. He waits in silence, knowing that speaking will be seen only as persuasion, yet knowing silence is seen as the same.

"Prove it." Potter's magic, seeping from him, is deep and calm – Geoffrey is reminded distinctly of Dubhán's own magic. Even in anger, it is freezing. But his voice is demanding and intimidating. Geoffrey has opened a door that can lead either to his safety, because of the importance of his information, or death, because he will be the one person in the Ministry's control which has aided in the imprisonment of Harry Potter's son.

"Tell me how I may do so, Mr. Potter," Either way, he doesn't want to die here and now, tied up and weak from lack of water and hours of questioning. Weasley steers him back into one of the chairs, while Potter moves from behind his desk. Geoffrey is walking on the edge of a velvet-covered knife.

"Give me evidence." Potter whispers fiercely. "Prove to me that St. Mungo's best staff are inept at identifying a dead body." His magic has one difference from Dubhán's: it does not stay cold – it boils and unfurls slowly, billowing out around him like steam.

"I am a man who has given his very freedom up to your side…I have no evidence to provide. If I showed you my memories you would accuse me of creating them. If I make an oath of truth you will say that I have nothing to loose and therefore, why should I not risk death? I have no way to assure you completely, Mr. Potter. At the same time – you have no way to completely prove I am lying." Geoffrey is a man who has gown up knowing about distrust. He is a Werewolf. He also knows the art of manipulation and persuasion. Potter's weakness, at this moment, in this room, is the notion that he might have given up on a child who had never really died. Doubt has entered his mind. Geoffrey will not allow him to bury it. It is to his own benefit to keep it fresh in Potter's mind.

"Nevertheless, you will do both." Finality settles forebodingly in Potter's voice. He is not taking the bait as eagerly as Geoffrey had hoped.

"It is against the law for an Auror to seek a Truth Oath from an imprisoned man." He states this not defensively but as the fact it is. Potter cannot ask him to engage in any Oath, magical or otherwise. Neither can Weasley.

"That is true. There is no such law, however, for a member of the Wizengamot." There is no smile on Potter's face – it is as blank as Voldemort's before he casts the Cruciatus Curse. He wonders, distantly, what Harry Potter's Cruciatus Curse is. Every powerful man has a favored form of torture.

"Should I call Dumbledore, Harry?" Weasley asks. Potter shakes his head and makes his way casually over to the fireplace on the other side of the room.

"I will."

Geoffrey stays staring ahead of himself – wondering what luck has fated him to be in the same room as Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. The Floo Powder lights the room green – Geoffrey thinks cynically of Avada Kedavra.

"Harry! What a pleasant, quite unexpected, surprise. What may I do for you?" Dumbledore's voice is somber and quiet by the end. Perhaps he can see through Potter's masks – perhaps he sees the brooding and disquiet behind it that Geoffrey can only sense in his magic.

"I need to bring a prisoner through, Headmaster. We find it necessary to speak with him privately." Of any word Geoffrey would have liked to come from Potter's mouth, "privately" is the farthest from it. Privacy means safely and safely means without the worry of breaking Ministry laws.

Geoffrey is not certain he likes the idea of being brought to such a secluded spot. He wonders what possessed him to open his mouth and say such a stupid thing. Potter will never get his child back. That boy was lost the moment he had been brought to stand before Voldemort.

Dear Merlin, he wants to survive, not be killed by an enraged Harry Potter.

Geoffrey has never seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry's office before. He did not attend Hogwarts. Nevertheless, he feels as if he knows the room already. After all, one does not interact with so many Slytherins without knowing what the Headmaster's office looks like (in detail), or the reasons why (usually in the form of a lecture) the Slytherin house is the most superior and prestigious of the four houses. Little trinkets, lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling, confuse the eye and befuddle the mind.

"Hello, Mr. Goddard." The words have already been uttered and left to linger in the room before Geoffrey even considers the possibility that the Headmaster is present. He decides, in his defense, that the Headmaster either has spells cast on the room or on his own person. Geoffrey's Ministry file lay in front of the Headmaster like a student's recorded crimes. He shoves the sensation of childishness down – kicking it until it is silent. He is not a child. He will not allow himself to feel like a pup being towered over by an angry adult.

"In the learned behaviors of our culture and species it is proper to reply likewise, Mr. Goddard." The voice is light and teasing, but it irks Geoffrey nevertheless. He grits his teeth and shakes his inner wolf awake, urging his eyes to dilate and turn solid amber. It is a trick he has learned from years spent in Voldemort's ranks, but the ability to walk the thin line between tame and feral never looses its danger. He opens his mouth, forcing out the sounds that make up human speech.

"Hello, Mr. Dumbledore." Dumbledore has no reaction to his gaze; he merely nods, smiles, and looks back down at Geoffrey's record. Geoffrey feels his wolf frown as he pushes it back into its cage.

"Harry, dear boy, enlighten me." He is signaling the lack of anything of importance in his file, Geoffrey is certain. Before admitting to having information on Devlin Potter Geoffrey had been the same as any other Death Eater looking to become a spy.

"Goddard came into my office with Ron in order to be put down the Recant Route. While seated in my office, he seemed content to stare into space. He was, in fact, staring at the family portrait taken four years ago. As Ron was about to leave with him, he admitted that he had known the boy in the picture." Dumbledore regards Geoffrey like a man examining an object of interest while listening as its owner explains its faults and advantages. "He admitted to having information on…Devlin." Dumbledore's unnerving gaze, that he had refuses to part with, leaves him in favor of Potter. Geoffrey will never admit aloud how relieved he is to be rid of those eyes. "We would like to use the Order's Pensieve."

"The Pensieve is, of course, open for your use. However," Dumbledore took a deep breath, regarding Geoffrey once more, "perhaps some initial, baseline, questions are in order?" Geoffrey knows the workings of Pensieves when used in an interrogation. He is a Death Eater; he has watched the procession of a detailed questioning that inevitably leads to torture. Somehow, he finds it hard to shake the images of pain from his mind. They are going to ask him question and see if his memories contradict his answers. Potter gives a reluctant, grudging, nod; the Headmaster begins. He can only hope that the 'Light's' form of torture is less painful than Voldemort's.

"How old is the boy whom you call Devlin?"

"He is eight."

"What colors are Devlin's eyes?"

"They are Green – darker than Potter's."

"What is the color of Devlin's hair?"

"It is black."

"How old was Devlin when you first met him?"

"He was four years old – he turned five shortly after."

"Who did Devlin say his parent's were?"

"He didn't."

"Devlin did not state either parents first or last names?"

"Not that I am aware of." Geoffrey thinks they will linger on this subject, but Dumbledore seems to decide otherwise. Potter looks annoyed at the decision.

"Did Devlin come to you with any medical issues?"

"He was a Werewolf."

"As you are also?"

"Yes."

"What is the color of Devlin's magic?"

"Gre-" Geoffrey falls abruptly silent. Yes, there are definitely spells in this room.

"Ah – you see magic, Mr. Goddard?" He nods stiffly. "I thought as much. It is a rare power, but it has its own magical aura to it, yes?" Again, he nods. He realizes Dumbledore has been suppressing his aura for the sole reason Geoffrey not see the talent they share, in it. There is a kind smile tipping Dumbledore's lips upward – Geoffrey turns away.

Voldemort knows the system of rankings that Werewolves subconsciously use and manipulates it to his advantage. When he is standing in front of Voldemort, he knows who is the Alpha. Voldemort would not have smiled. He would have not looked kindly at him. It is an odd experience, trying to convince himself that Dumbledore is the boss. In a subconscious effort to think such, Geoffrey finds himself slouching in the chair, attempting to pretend Dumbledore is taller than him. Anything, to help him in believing he has no other way to survive. Anything, to save Dubhán.

"Now tell me, Mr. Goddard – what this boy is to you." It is an order, yet Geoffrey cannot bring himself to answer. As a mere child, Geoffrey knows he would have cared for Dubhán; his cynical jokes and silent power lend a kind of charm to him. But Dubhán is not a mere child: he is Werewolf. He is a part of Geoffrey's pack. He is a pup. It is his duty to protect him.

If he says all of this to Dumbledore he knows it will be his biggest contradiction, because he is also a Death Eater and Voldemort was also his master. Voldemort made very clear to whom Dubhán belonged.

"He is a boy I have failed to truly protect before…he is a child I am risking betrayal to Voldemort in order to protect." Geoffrey straightens himself in the chair and meets Dumbledore's gaze, something he would never have attempted without being prepared to die, with Voldemort. But perhaps that is his mistake; he is trying to make Dumbledore's side fit into the same design as Voldemort's side. Nevertheless, it seems impossible to shake it entirely from his mind.

"What is your relationship to Devlin, Mr. Goddard?"

"I am his Guard." Potter's head tips slightly and he drags in a breath of air. Dumbledore brings his hands onto the table and folds them neatly. Neither suspected his position. It has it advantages, Geoffrey is aware.

"And what, exactly, do you guard him against? It can't be those disease infected Death Eaters – you're one as well!" This is Ronald Weasley, the ever-impulsive Auror. Geoffrey holds back his temper and finds the will to smile. Death Eater's like to joke about Weasley's tendencies. Geoffrey builds a wall to cage the wolf with those jokes.

"I was ordered to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from angry Death Eaters who had no rank to harm him, and from himself. I have never received an order that would put him in mortal harm. Another Death Eater, myself included, has never been allowed to harm him." He words himself carefully; he knows neither truths nor lies must escape him in this office. The ground is fragile beneath his feet and he must make it to more stable earth. Alive.

"Mortal danger, how informing!" Weasley is a Gryffindor to the marrow; there is not a sleek or eloquent bone in his body. Just bravery. "There's a lot you can do to a person without placing them in mortal danger!"

"You said from himself?" Potter's voice is soft and uncertain. Geoffrey finds uncertainty sits unwell in Potter's eyes; like a great illness that you fear will infect the world. He wonders if he would feel the same, should uncertainty present itself in Voldemort, but decides it is a worthless question; Voldemort is either incapable or to calculated to show the emotion.

"So far as the child informed me, he was not bitten by one of the Dark Lord's Werewolves." Potter's jaw clenches, but he nods. There are not many Werewolf children in the world. It is rare that a grown Werewolf desire to bite a child. This excludes, of course, the Werewolves Voldemort keeps merely because of their extremism. They are usually stupid and more than half insane. He keeps them to kill. Geoffrey avoids them when possible. Dubhán won't step foot near them, even if his caretaker must.

"No, Devlin was bitten when he was very young." So honest. So brutally honest - even to his enemies face. Dubhán had never been willing to tell him how he was bitten. Truth be told, Geoffrey knew it had been before his capture from the healed wounds, not from the boy. Potter could have remained silent, or lied, but he told the truth. And now Geoffrey hates him. Hates him more then he ever did as a Death Eater. Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Head Auror, had not protected his child. He wants to lung forward and pin him to the wall. But he won't. Survival reigns higher than even the beast within.

Silence falls between them. Potter fiddles with the hem of his Auror robes, Weasley with the ring on his finger, and Dumbledore with a strange trinket on his desk. He sighs.

Potter is too human. Voldemort is too inhuman. Dumbledore is too caring. Dubhán is too unchildlike. Geoffrey would like to know who or what chooses the destiny of the powerful. But he never will, so he sighs again.

"Perhaps, if the questions have concluded, we could move onto the actual viewing?" He no more wants to move onto it then he wants to be stood in front of Voldemort and proclaimed a traitor. He breaks the silence anyway, because it has to be done.

"Ah, yes, I do believe all pertaining questions have been answered. Harry, if you'd fetch the Pensieve for me. Ronald, if you wouldn't mind?" Geoffrey feels the unmistakable sensation of a wand against his temple.

"Now, Geoffrey, if you'd select a few memories of both recent and further past." Geoffrey decides he will come to loathe Dumbledore's unstoppable cheer and good nature. He decides he will come to fear ever pushing the man too far.

"I must ask, although Mr. Weasley's wand makes me entirely aware of my mortality, what you plan on doing with my information. What will be your plan of action toward Dubhán, once you know his appearance and location?" It is too late for the answer to change the outcome, but Geoffrey feels obligated to ask, nevertheless.

"We will rescue him." Potter seems oblivious to the fact that Dumbledore had been about to speak up, either that, or determined to set down his opinion before Dumbledore could utter his own. Once more, Geoffrey wonders who his new master really is. Who is more powerful.

The Headmaster's gaze lingers on him, disappointment making the regard heavy and sharp. He ignores it; disappointment means little to Harry these days…these years.

"What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter, may be kidnapping to Dubhán," Geoffrey forewarns, but he is easy to ignore as well.

"I think now would be the ideal time to see these words in action. Focus on these truths you claim, Geoffrey, and let us see them played out." Dumbledore's words shake him back into the present. He does not like the present. He does not like his memories, either. He has an inkling, however that he might very well like the future.