We got here! Did you think we would? ;-)

I know this is short, but it introduces everything we need introduced and I did update it at the same time as the last chapter in Convergence. If you missed that chapter I'll reiterate my goal here. I hope to have one more new chapter here before January, then it probably won't be updated until February/March because I am welcoming my first baby in January. :D

I removed the rest of the chapters (or that is, put a placeholder on them), because it never works to leave them up. Someone inevitably doesn't listen to my A/Ns and reads ahead and then gets upset/irate/flaming about how it is all confusing. So, this just works better from experience. ;-)

Lastly: PLEASE READ THE OTHER DEVLIN POTTER STORIES FIRST! Start with Riddle and Rescue. It is as simple as that. This is a continuation. An AU of an AU. :)

Oh yeah – please leave a review! :)

Harry Potter was dead.

Devlin was alive. It felt impossible that he could be alive while Harry was dead.

And yet - Harry's body hung in the air as limp as an unanimated marionette, leading them back to the castle. Voldemort's face was full of power, satisfaction, and glee as he magically floated his enemies remains. Like a beast who has finally savored the taste of it's elusive prey.

Dead.

Devlin could not even have been certain he was moving his own body, except that when he glanced down at his feet they were rising one after the other, propelling his body forward. Many of the dead still left on the campus were Death Eaters, since the Light side had come and collected their dead and injured. Still, the amount and the smell, was overwhelming.

Harry's body passed over it all without awareness, Voldemort's magic controlling his lifeless form. Nagini slithered on the other side of Voldemort.

Finally, they reached the castle. It was eerily silent, the occupants standing vigil at it's entrance; ready for them. He thought there was sound - a collective shout - but then Voldemort must have silenced the offenders.

Voldemort reached out an arm and pulled Devlin close. Devlin hoped he could not feel his racing heart.

"Are you ready for the show, Dubhàn?"

His lips were against Devlin's ear, breath hot and moist.

The name threatened to send a shiver up his spine, but it also helped him - helped tear down the wall he had built around himself. Helped remind him that death was at his door too.

Devlin did not want to die. In the face of death he had always been able to do whatever it took to survive.

He supposed it was yet another way in which he and his father were different.

"Of course, Grandfather."

He made the muscles in his face stretch into a smirk.

This was his reality now.

Harry was gone. Harry would not rescue him again. There would be no Geoffrey to whisper assurances into his ears and explain to him the cruelty of the world.

He was alone. Abandoned at Voldemort's feet.

So he would be Dubhàn, the Little Dark One, until he wasn't so little anymore.

The resolve took less time to solidify in him than he had thought it would. After so much relative freedom, imprisonment was still so familiar.

Voldemort retracted his hand and waved it in front of himself. Rubble from the castle cleared to make room for the body of Harry Potter. Voldemort let it fall harshly onto the ground, visible to castle's occupants.

"Your Savior is dead," Voldemort called out. Devlin let himself look up - let himself find her. His mother. She was screaming. Silently. Devlin realized everyone had been silenced. Ron and Hermione were holding her back, and if he read her lips, he was confident she was screaming for him. Dumbledore stood passively at the front of the crowd, his blue eyes like a storm. His wand was out. "He was killed by me in a duel."

There will be no more dueling.

Lies.

But did it really matter? It did not change that Harry was dead, and - in this one small instance - perhaps it was more honorable than the truth.

No one seemed surprised. No one pointed at Voldemort as if to call him a liar.

No one had thought Harry Potter had come willingly to his death.

Devlin could understand. He had not thought Harry Potter would ever come willingly to his death. He had thought that as long as he lived, Harry would never stop fighting.

Harry had promised him that until he was strong enough, he would always be there to save Devlin.

Voldemort drew him close again.

"Harry Potter is dead. From this day forward, you put your faith in me. As you can see, even his son, my grandson and my heir, has declared his loyalty to me. He stood by me while I killed Harry Potter as you will stand by me - if you wish to live."

Devlin wasn't sure if it was just the reiterated claim of Harry's loss (though clearly undeniable) or the combined declaration of Devlin's loyality, which ignited the crowds fury to such a degree that somehow they managed to collectively break through the silencing and protective shields. Within seconds they were swarming around them, ready and willing to fight again.

Devlin did not want to die.

He pulled out his wand and readied himself.

"This should be fun," Voldemort said, a mischievous almost pleased look on his too-human face. His eyes flashed red, his lean muscles tensing beneath his expensive robes. He seemed unrestrained and more empowered than before. Of course he would. Harry Potter was dead at his hand.

Devlin did not want to die.

"Did I tell you I made it onto the dueling team?" Voldemort chuckled next to him. In the battle of Hogsmeade Voldemort had told him he believed Devlin would manage not to die, so Devlin used his words, hoping to tangle them further together. "I think I'll more than manage not to die."

Each Crucio, each flame, each cut made Voldemort laugh even more. Devlin kept looking for Dumbledore, but he did not come forward to fight them - he kept himself busy defending his people against the Death Eaters.

There was something intoxicating about partnering with Voldemort - wands lashing out in unison, power coiling tighter and tighter around them both.

Devlin lost himself in it.

Almost, but not quite.

He lost himself enough to kill one of his father's men without shaking, but he held onto it enough to arc high, or shoot too low, several times. This time, to save Severus. He 'missed' the Auror in front him, grazing his thigh with a cutting hex, but made his true mark and cut the legs right off a Death Eater that was ready to make the death blow to Severus while he was busy facing Bellatrix.

Severus had to kill the snake. Severus had to get the necklace. Devlin had no idea if he was the only one on the mission or one of dozens to know about Nagini - but he very well could be the only one who knew about Bellatrix' necklace.

One more charm, and the Auror who he had missed was sacrificed to cover his actions.

Voldemort crackled as the Auror's blood pooled.

Good. Devlin needed him tangled and knotted, and distracted.

Harry had wanted to die, but Devlin found he did not want to forever live like this. If there was any hope, shaky as it was, it lay in those who would avenge Harry's death.

And then he saw it. It was simple enough. Random. Without any true symbolism.

An Order member, struck in the back by the Killing Curse. His body sagged, bending at the knees. In slow motion his hand opened and his wand dropped a little ahead of his body, crashing to the ground.

It reminded Devlin of what Harry had dropped in the woods.

"There will be no dueling, Tom." Somehow, Devlin had been expecting something more grand as Harry Potter's final words, but yet, the more he lingered on the words, the more fitting they became. There will be no dueling. What had it meant?

He was as haunted by these words as he was by the small something that had dropped from his father's hand. What had that been? Why had he dropped it? At the time, his father's eyes had begged him not to follow it, not to attract attention to it, and Devlin had granted the man his wish. His last wish.

An overwhelming rush of need filled Devlin and drove him away from Voldemort. He broke his way viciously through the battle, wand out and ever moving. He ran for the forest, his body crashing through the woods and for a moment he felt like a little boy again, escaping. Then he found himself in the clearing again.

For a moment he was frozen. He could hear shouts from behind him but there was too much blood rushing in his ears for him to tell who might have been following him, if they were for him at all. He scrambled forward, throwing himself on the spot where his father's body had fallen, searching for that last wish. It had been important and Devlin wanted it for its importance. He felt a rush of jealousy for something his father had kept safe longer than his own son.

The footsteps and shouts were getting closer.

It shimmered up at him, amber like his eyes, and he flung his arm forward, curling his hand around the stone. He was on his feet in a moment, rushing further and further into the forest, until it was so dark he could barely see. He fell down a hill of some sort, his body crashing against the ground as he tumbled down and down.

There was an unexpected tugging sensation - not quite unlike a portkey, but instead of it feeling like he was being pulled through a straw, he felt like he had broken up and was being shoved through a sieve.

When it stopped, he ached all over. His head pounded rhythmically - the beat so harsh that he like vomiting was more than just a possibility. After a moment, he dared to chance opening one eye - only to check that the stone was still in his hand.

It lay there, warm from his fist, innocently unaware of it's importance to his dead father.

It was daylight and he was on the forest floor still. He shut his eye again, willing down the nausea and wishing desperately the headache would go away.

He must have been knocked unconscious. He was surprised Voldemort had not found him - but it was possible the forest was too dense, or that he had not bothered looking - or that he was right now checking to see if Devlin were amongst the dead.

He should get up. No matter the pain - he should get up.

Get up.

But it was easier to just lay here. Easier not to face what would lay at the forest edge.

If Voldemort thought Devlin was dead, Alexandra and Emma would have no protection.

It should have made him terrified. It should have made everything in him ignite and burn until he rushed to his feet.

Instead, although it permeated the all-consuming pain where no other thought had, it did not have it's original power after getting there. It made him rise slowly with a heavy sense of obligation. An obligation and burden that would now be his to carry alone - forevermore.

There was no Harry to protect them.

Now it was only Devlin.

Because Harry had chosen to abandon them.

Fury rushed up like a tsunami from one of the crevices in his mind, unexpected. It overtook him for a moment, throbbing more strongly than the headache, burning more than the pain. It made him open his eyes. Made him lift himself on his hands and knees and then stabilize him on his feet. His wand was, thankfully, laying nearby.

He had to find Voldemort.

It smelled like Spring. Cool and lush and everything on the cusp of beginning.

It made his heart ache.

He looked down upon himself. His robes were covered in dirt, ripped in places. There was a cut on his arm that must have reopened when he had put weight on the limb. His pants were torn at one knee and his kneecap was purple already. He surmised that his face would less than handsome.

With how painful everything felt, he wondered how long he had been unconscious. He felt dually beaten and dehydrated.

He did not look like the Little Dark One.

So, he took out his wand.

Maria had taught him how to repair robes after his first tear from Dueling, and his mother had taught him how to vanish bruises during his summer before Hogwarts. Scorpius had cleaned his own robes enough times that Devlin knew the spell by heart. It was all far from perfect, but it would do. He did not bother to repair his arm or his knee - his grandfather would have better trained healers and would berate him for leaving a scar.

The forest was peaceful. Close to the edge, the thestrals were grazing. He supposed they were unafraid of death and so the battle had not effected them overly-much. Still, they gazed at him with caution, as if they had never seen him before.

He walked around them, and over toward Hagrid's burned down hut. It would allow him a bit of coverage before he wandered out into the open.

He stopped suddenly, a few tree-depths from the end of the forest and the beginning of Hagrid's garden.

Hagrid's hut was unburnt. His garden lush and vibrant.

He moved cautiously closer, looking up the hill. The lawn was as green as ever. There were students walking around in the sunlight. The castle was unmarred. His brain felt like it was pulsing; the physical evidence he could feel on his own skin at war with the visual information he saw before him.

Something was terribly wrong.

He had spent weeks disregarding his instincts this school year. Now, when they spoke to him - fervent and potent, he knew he must listen.

Something was not right.

He crept toward the castle, keeping close to the forest.

The youngest children were practicing Quidditch on the ground, the way first years did who could not bring brooms. The oldest children lounging beneath the warm sun and studying for pressing exams. Everything looked so very normal - except something was wrong.

His heart pulsed with the feeling, but his mind failed to identify what that something was.

He wandered toward the Great Lake - far enough away from the children his own size who might easily recognize him. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious - but either yesterday had never happened, or it had been longer ago than yesterday.

Was this all in his head?

He felt hungry enough to believe he had been unconscious for at least a few days.

A couple of the older students glanced at him as he walked past, but none of them called out to him in recognition, and he did not recognize them, either.

The sense that something was terribly wrong intensified as he wandered toward the castle doors. He was grateful no one had recognized him, because he did not feel like he would be able to speak.

The Great Hall doors were open already, letting in the warm air. It had been crisper before, he thought. And the doors had been blown off their hinges. No one paid him any mind as he crept through the hallways; he must have managed to remove all of the visible blood, he thought.

"Ectotherm," he said to the Slytherin entrance. Nothing happened.

His magic moved like sludge around him, nearly paralyzed by the foreboding sense.

And then:

"Who are you?"

Devlin could hardly find his voice.

It was Scorpius.

But no.

It was Draco Malfoy, because standing next to him was Harry Potter.