A/N: Yeah, it's been awhile. But I don't intend to abandon this story – I just don't get as much writing time. ;-) My little guy is six months old tomorrow – so I wanted to get this out tonight. I have the next chapter about 70% done. :)

His feet felt like they were bolted to the floor. His mind like it was rushing in every direction. Meanwhile, his magic felt like it was trapped in an enclosed space, ricocheting around him with primal terror.

Harry Potter.

Devlin would know his father's eyes anywhere, even on a childish face; a green so vibrant that it resembled emeralds, like the magic etherial green of the Killing Curse being cast behind shattered glass.

They blinked - seeing, sensing, thinking. Alive.

Time seemed to pool around him like sticky wax from the heat of a flickering candle flame. Even as a fraction of Devlin's mind attempted to make sense of what was happening, the majority of him was still spiraling; disconnected from the world. The adrenaline of battle had not completely left him and it filled him with a strange heady-yet-deflated sense of being. He clutched his wand tighter, feeling the magic pulse. Power, power, power; the thrum of it steadied him, grounding him to reality.

"Are you like lost?" Harry Potter asked, furrowing his brow. Somehow, his voice did not sound at all how Devlin had thought it would. It was childish, fast, and unencumbered.

Harry Potter, alive.

Something was wrong - he could feel it in his gut.

He was in the past. Those unmistakable green eyes were his evidence.

Harry shifted, an eyebrow pulling downward in thought - waiting for Devlin to speak. Devlin looked away from the sharp green gaze.

He knew about time travel. Harry had brought it up more than once - whispered while Devlin was not meant to hear. Terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time, Hermione would always say, her voice a level of fervent and firm to match Harry's desperate tones. Harry never wanted Devlin to hear how helpless he felt to protect them.

Silence was only making the two boys more curious, and the last thing he needed was to be a curiosity.

But it was hard.

Harry Potter was there - his bright green eyes alive with life. Draco Malfoy stood there, and Devlin wanted to rip him to shreds before he had the chance to hurt Devlin all those years later.

Something was wrong.

Beside being in the past.

Something was wrong.

It churned like a sickness in his stomach, pulsed like a bad thought in his head, and squeezed suffocatingly at his heart. There seemed to be a thick fog clouding his thoughts and try as he might, he could not see through it to pin point what was so wrong.

"No," he said, realizing he still hadn't spoken. His voice was rough and dry. Harry Potter tilted his head and furrowed his brow, and Draco Malfoy looked concerned.

"You look lost," Draco declared.

Devlin wanted to punch the boy for even speaking; distracting him from trying to gain control over his mind and figure out what the bloody hell to do.

Past, present, and future swirled like a convoluted mess in his mind, and he tried to predict what next action would render the least harm.

Terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time.

Not even Voldemort had chosen that path to rid himself of Harry Potter - and that must have meant something.

He made himself look at the two boys sharply for a moment and made a sneer press the corners of his mouth down.

"Sod off," he said, in that childish-cheek in which rowdy boys spoke to one another in-between skirmishes about best Quiddich teams. He forced his feet to obey his command and pushed past Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. He did not allow himself to look back, his footsteps determined, his cloak swirling around his ankles.

He did not stop until he was outside Snape's office.

Snape, who he knew would protect him - he was Lily's grandson, after all. Devlin could tell him. Snape was perhaps the only person Devlin knew he could trust to keep so much information aligned as to keep a whole timeline in check.

He did not bother knocking. Severus would call such noisy behavior foolish in a moment such as this. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he had not been followed. No one was near; he touched the door in a specific sequence, and it opened with Severus' private passcode. Besides, while knowing the passcode might endanger him, it would also save him. Severus did not give it out lightly.

Only, something was terribly wrong and this time Devlin knew exactly what it was: Severus Snape was not behind the Potion Master's desk.

Slughorn was.

Devlin stared at him, uncomprehending. The world pulsed around erratically, like his heart. Confusion made his vision swarm, but Slughorn's face remained crisply clear.

Slughorn could not co-exist with Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy. He had been killed in Voldemort's first uprising, probably in Voldemort's attempt to cover the path by which he had achieved immortality. Devlin had, himself, dismantled Slughorn's Horcrux memory as repayment to Severus for a debt. He could vividly remember the look of weary terror that had overcome his face in that split second after Tom Riddle had uttered the word Horcux.

Slughorn rose; slowly, his face full of emotion Devlin did not allow himself to decipher. Suddenly primal terror returned to Devlin; his heart beat frenetically behind his ribcage. The moment Slughorn moved, Devlin bolted out the door.

Terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time.

More and more it felt like time was messing with him, having some grand laugh at his disposable.

The hall was empty - perhaps classes were in session - and Devlin's feet sprinted beneath him without much prompting from his mind. He ran until he had reached the disused classroom that he often went to think in.

It was disused here, too.

He did not even bother vanishing the dust, simply slid down the nearest wall to the door and buried his face in his hands.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

'Think of the facts,' Geoffrey used to tell him. It had been a long time since he had heard Geoffrey's voice in his head, guiding him. At that moment, every other person seemed somehow compromised, and the Death Eater's words came to him easily. 'Facts are plain. Let the ocean swallow the rest.'

He had run away on the battlefield.

He had fallen.

He had hit his head.

He could not be in the past.

He could not be in the future.

Devlin took a breath. He tried to imagine the possibilities as a complex spiderweb.

He might be dreaming. Yet he had tried to alter this reality and had not been able.

It could be someone else' mental landscape imposed upon him - which was possible he supposed even if he did not remember being hit or subdued in anyway. He had fallen - perhaps someone had tripped him.

He had fallen.

It was also possible he was dying - bleeding out in the forest. This could be a hallucination. He wouldn't know; he had never experienced a hallucination brought on by blood loss before, but he had heard of them.

The little stone in his pocket felt immeasurably heavy and warm in that moment, filling him with foolish determination. He had the urge to touch it, but as soon as his fingers were at the edge of his pocket, he withdrew them.

Devlin did not want to die.

He did not want to be Harry.

He did not want to participate in his father's last wish - to protect a stone more than his own son.

"If this is not my dream it is someone else'," he said. It sounded like an accusation, as though an empty room could be accused of a dreadful crime. He had no one else to accuse at the moment, and he felt the need to accuse someone of something. He ground his teeth, pushed himself up from the floor, and clenched his fists. "I refuse to participate. I refuse to be used. I have proven my value already."

The empty room did not respond. Silence felt like a terrible cold, killing him slowly. The stone burned again through his pocket, haunting him with the fact that he could not stop thinking about his father's death.

'There will be no more fighting.' The words whispered in his mind, carried on a wind that welcomed his defeat, taunting him with a pain and loneliness he had not imagined possible.

"I am not like my father," he said, and he felt the words like a terrible sting to his bones. "I do not want to die."

He could not be in the past. He could not be in the future. At best he was in someone else' dream, at worst he was on the forest floor, bleeding out. Either way, he had to wake up.

Harry was gone and that meant his mum and Emma would need him.

He walked resolutely out of the room.

He knew where he had to go. The Headmaster's office. If this was his dream, Dumbledore or perhaps even Harry would meet him there. If this was being controlled by someone else, of which there could really be only one other person strong enough, then Voldemort would be there waiting for him.

In the face of death, Devlin had always been able to do whatever it took to survive. He strode purposefully onward. The halls were quieter than he thought they should be, and he could feel magic in the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on their ends.

"Hey!" It was whispered from a tapestry. Devlin turned at the sound, drawing his wand with a sense of automaticity. The tapestry pulled back slightly at the edge, and the luminescent green eyes of Harry Potter went wide from within the shadows at the sight of his wand. "They're looking for you. Get in here."

He hesitated. Straining his ears he could hear the slight patter of larger feet moving purposefully through the hallways. Harry Potter would be the perfect lure if someone else where controlling this mental landscape. Yet - he would also be who Devlin's mind would choose as his guide.

"Come on! You're in trouble right?"

His green eyes shone with honesty and curiosity, and it was such a Harry look, that Devlin followed him behind the tapestry without further questioning.

There was a small alcove back there - just big enough for a small gathering, and then an old worn wooden door.

"It leads up to the seventh floor," Harry Potter said. Devlin's eyes were glued to Draco Malfoy, however.

He wondered why Malfoy was there at all.

The footsteps got closer.

"We'd use it but it squeaks, so just be quiet."

And so they all stood in awkward silence for a number of long, drawn out, minutes. Devlin tried once more to bend the reality of the dream, but as before it did not budge. Finally, the footsteps had come and gone.

"What did you do?" Draco asked.

Only a dream. He has no power. A figment of a mental landscape. Give him no power.

"It depends on whether this dream does or does not belong to me."

The two boys frowned in unison.

"You're not dreaming," Harry Potter said. "But what did you say to Professor Slughorn? He went right to the Headmaster. We followed him."

Devlin narrowed his eyes. The boys had not followed him to the Professor's door. Devlin did not miss people. And yet, they knew he had been there. It reinforced in his mind that this landscape was being controlled by someone - himself or someone else.

"How did you see me at his office? I checked."

It did not seem like Voldemort to be foolish enough to allow such an unrealistic event - he would know Devlin would check, and he would know Devlin would know.

"We used my Dad's invisibility cloak. I, ah, borrowed it from my brother this morning. He's going to go crazy, but I ah, had to get something back."

The boy rambled as if his words were inconsequential. As if Devlin should be able to process and understand them. Instead they made his brain stall with impossibilities. Past, present, and the improbable future warped around him. The world felt like it had a pulse, beating erratically.

"Your…dad?"

He had seen James Potter die - Voldemort had felt satisfaction in sharing the memory with him.

"Yeah," the boy said, shifting a little - as if it had just occurred to him Devlin might not know something he had thought he would. Devlin tried to push aside the mental image of James Potter - wandlessly lunging at Voldemort - so that he could focus on the boy's words. "You know - Harry Potter. He gave it to James - since he's the oldest," he rolled his eyes, "and well I had to borrow it. You seemed really spooked so we followed you. I mean, we could see your tie and you didn't know the password or us and we didn't know you yet you're in Slytherin too…"

He rambled until Draco Malfoy nudged him.

"I'm hallucinating." This time he said it more firmly, like a burdensome, absolute truth. It felt weightier this time around. Harry and Draco exchanged another glance. Harry Potter rubbed at his eyes and for the first time Devlin noted that they were not framed by spectacles. "Voldemort would never think of this."

So he was dying. Bleeding out on the forest floor. The realization swept through him more calmly than he had anticipated. His body felt heavier and his thoughts slowed with a morbid sense of acceptance.

Draco Malfoy's eyes narrowed at the Dark Lords name, and he shifted backwards.

"I think you hit your head," Malfoy said, with a bit of a jab. Harry Potter elbowed him. But he persisted. "No, seriously. Talking about Voldemort, not knowing who Albus is - thinking you're dreaming. You should see the Mediwitch."

Devlin couldn't help it. The emptiness he felt inside was suddenly consumed with a flush fiery anger. He took an advancing step forward.

"I know who Albus Dumbledore is! I even know who you are, who your father is."

Draco furrowed his brow.

"Exactly. I'm not talking about Dumbledore. He's been dead for ages, just like-"

Devlin's breath hitched in his throat; he felt his world spiraling out from beneath him again. If someone had questioned him before as to whether Dumbledore's death would effect him, he would have resolutely denied it - yet he felt it acutely even in this dream. Dead. He thought of the old Wizard, seated behind his desk, always ready to assure Devlin that Devlin had a choice as to whom to be an asset. Ready to tell him that even Tom Riddle had not been a lost cause. That he had made choices.

"No," he said interrupting Malfoy and flatly denying the claim. "I don't believe you, Draco. I choose not to believe you. Maybe I'm not believing myself. Maybe I'm not believing Voldemort. But I don't believe whoever this dream belongs to. You're trying to mess with my head, and I won't allow you to compromise my actions. I have to wake up."

"Wait," Malfoy said, brow weighted down with realization, "do you think I'm Draco Malfoy? Do you think he's Harry Potter? Do you think we are our parents?"

Devlin's head pulsed and the world felt as though it were frozen and flat, slamming him in the face. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. His lips parted, his wand shook, his-

The tapestry was yanked aside.

Slughorn was on the other side. He was pale, but his wand was steady as it swept across them and then landed purposefully on Devlin.

Immediately Devlin felt his mind filter out all the static that was his thoughts, and focus on the danger. There was a wand pointed at him and that wand was held by a more than capable wizard.

Could you die in a hallucination by virtue of someone you imagined?

"I've found them," he whispered - his wand tip glowed a soft yellow, and Devlin knew his message had been sent to whoever else would have been looking. His eyes, a deep blue, held Devlin carefully in their gaze so that Devlin felt his best course of action was to move as little as possible. Pulling himself into a defensive or even offensive stance would only serve to highlight his abilities. Sometimes it was twice as valuable to be underestimated. While his wand was on Devlin, his words were for the other two boys. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy - please come out and stand behind me."

The static remained at the edges of Devlin's mind, whispering.

Do you think we are our parents?

He could smell Slughorn's tight knitted fear - suspicious, strong, and inflexible - as it mingled with his own.

Potter and Malfoy looked at him, confused and a little afraid.

"He's not right in the head," Malfoy said, biting his lip. His feet shuffled as he made a move to leave the alcove. "I dunno what he did, Professor - but he's been bleeding, and he isn't thinking right."

Devlin noted how he left out that Devlin had called him Draco. Nevertheless, the boys stepped forward and behind the Professor.

"Put your wand down," Slughorn said, voice firm in a way Devlin could tell the boys had not expected. Behind him, they looked at one another with confusion and weariness. His gaze was still sharp and diligent upon Devlin, wand still steady. "It will be better if you are unarmed."

"It is never better to be unarmed." His voice was hoarse, and he could feel the adrenaline which had kept him going, taking a nose-dive. Slughorn swallowed. He looked afraid of Devlin, which was impossible, as Devlin did not know him.

Why was his wand aimed at Devlin?

Was Devlin's head really imagining a world in which a dead man would threaten him with a wand to his head? This seemed so unlike a typical Voldemort approach.

"I don't know how you came to be here - or what magic has made you appear, but-"

"I'm dreaming," Devlin supplied. "Whether it is my own dream, or someone else' I do not yet know."

Slughorn blinked.

"That's what he keeps saying even though we tell him it is not a dream," Harry mumbled.

"Just because you deny knowledge does not make the reality of the situation differ," Devlin retorted.

"Put your wand down," Slughorn implored again. "Everything will go more smoothly without it."

"That has never been my experience," he said, impatient. His head was starting to hurt from where he had hit it. He wanted to wrap his hands around his scalp and dig his nails in.

Something caught the boy's attention, and they shuffled off side-ways down the hallways.

"Other people are on their way. It will be better if you are unarmed."

Devlin was pretty sure the people who were supposedly coming were already there. He did not bother responding.

The footfalls were already approaching.

Would it be Voldemort? Would this be revealed to be his idea of some sort of test? He felt like something significant would make an appearance at any moment. He gripped his wand more tightly and felt his magic knit more densely around him.

Then he saw him.

He walked into sight with a confident stride. He seemed older and there was something like disbelief that passed over his face as he saw Devlin. Devlin's gaze snapped from Slughorn's wand to his eyes; still as green and powerful as the killing curse.

The little boy who he could no longer see now seemed a poor comparison to the real thing.

Harry Potter.

"Put your wand down." It had not been what Devlin had expected him to say. Regardless, for a mere reflexive moment his grasp on his wand loosened at the direction. Then he remembered this might not be his own dream. He waited a moment, hoping Harry would utter his name. If he recognized him, it was not with fondness. "Now."

"I can not do that," Devlin said. "I'm dreaming and I don't know if it is my dream or his dream. Everything is terribly confusing. Nothing is as it should be. Maybe I am dead."

Harry seemed repulsed in some way. Angry. Afraid. Speechless. He had never once looked at Devlin like that before, although Devlin had often felt deserving of such gazes. Devlin had done things - terrible things. This was always how he had imagined Harry Potter would look at him when he learned of what Devlin had done.

But he hadn't. He had told Devlin that he would always love him.

And then he left you in the forest, with Voldemort. Where you belonged.

He swallowed his emotions. Now was not the time.

"I'm dreamin-"

"This is not a dream. Stop playing head games. Put your wand down."

"Could he be from the past, Harry?" Slughorn asked. Devlin blinked in confusion at the question. "He might not have any idea."

For a moment the anger shifted on Harry's face to make room for consideration - maybe even possibilities. Then he seemed to shake himself.

"We'll figure all that out in time, Professor. But even if he is, he's still dangerous."

Harry said it almost absentmindedly, as though he were dredging up some fact he had almost forgotten and needed to keep in mind. There was less fury on his face, more caution, and a smidgen of pity.

It was a look Devlin had seen before.

He knew immediately; Harry thought Devlin was Tom Riddle.

The realization sunk like a cold stone into his stomach. It felt like the last ounce of confirmation he needed; this was his dream and his alone. He was laying on the forest floor, dying. Hallucinating.

This was his dream, because this was his fear. The fear that had sat coldly in the back of his mind for ages; he hated his mind for making him confront it so viscerally.

"I'm not." I'm not him. I'm not bad. I'm not dangerous. I'm not worthless. The declaration felt hollow and desperate, and this dream Harry frowned as though he could see through Devlin's lie. And Devlin was lying, wasn't he? He might not be Tom Riddle, but he had done the same terrible things Tom Riddle had. He deserved this look. All along, from the moment he had been returned to his own real father, he had deserved this look. He was a Dark Wizard and Harry was the symbol of all that was good. The highlight of what it looked like to have so much power but still make all the right choices.

A strength Devlin did not have.

"Put your wand down." His voice was firm. Although there was anger and something else at the edges, it was almost the same tone he would have used if Devlin were, say, being unfair with his sister.

It almost made Devlin listen, except that his sharpness lunged forward, knocking aside the momentary haze.

"I'm not," he said again. Harry looked annoyed. Somehow, he just wanted Harry to acknowledge it. Say it. Turn back into his dad who told him how loved he was, how he was not Tom Riddle, how he had choices. "I did not hang that rabbit from the rafters. I did not hurt Amy or Dennis. That wardrobe was not mine."

"Who is that?" Slughorn whispered, morbid curiosity flittering across his face.

Harry did not answer him. He took a step forward, every bit the fighter and leader that Devlin only glimpsed outside of family life.

"Put your wand down."

There was a finality at the edge of his voice.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

"I can't do that."

"This is your last warning."

There was no love in Harry Potter's eyes. He looked somehow both older and younger all at once. His wand was held superbly between his fingers. Everything about his body was ready, ready, ready and Devlin was struck with the thought of how truly prepared his own father had been, when he had come to the clearing.

Still, his wand was pointed and his eyes were hard, and Devlin had to wake up.

His mouth reminded Devlin of his sister Emma when she was upset with him.

He had to get back to her. Had to throw himself between her and Voldemort and beg for her life.

I would do anything for her, he had told Voldemort, when he had been small. Now he had to remind Voldemort he still intended to do anything for her.

He clenched his fist.

He had to get out of here. Had to wake up.

"They told me Dumbledore is dead," he said, instead of answering. Harry frowned at him, but his body remained ready.

"He is," Harry said.

Devlin thought his disbelief must have been clear on his face, because Harry's brow knitted together for a moment. Half of Devlin had thought perhaps the boys had lied.

Devlin almost asked Harry to prove it, but then he thought better. This dream-Harry wasn't about to do him any favors.

So Devlin would have to prove it to himself. Because if this was a dream he knew the escape must be in Dumbledore's office. Either Voldemort would greet him, or Dumbledore would be there to guide him, or Severus would be there to tell him how foolish he was. Perhaps he would throw floo-powder into the fire and wish himself to his house.

To get there Devlin had to escape here.

Devlin made the first strike - a blasting curse. It was only Harry's shield that protected the shocked Auror's behind him. The magic reverberated around them and the door behind him exploded.

Perfect.

Harry cast an immobilizing spell, Devlin blocked it with ease.

Harry raised his wand, Devlin struck out with his with a quickness he could see Harry had not anticipated. A red slice of magic went zooming toward Harry - a cutting hex. Harry stepped aside, slower than he had thought. So did his Auror's. In unison his men sent stunners, and Devlin encased himself in a full body shield. His magic pulsed against his skin, alive and powerful, thrumming in his blood. He could feel it undulating in the air around him. It tasted like ion and thunder.

He set fire upon the Auror's robes with a wordless spell - a mere single spark that was hard to detect. His grandfather had taught it to him. He left Harry unscathed.

Harry's magic grew and expanded. It was cool and smooth, and felt foreign to Devlin.

He sent an archaic immobilizing spell toward Devlin, probably thinking Devlin would neither be able to block nor counter it, but Devlin new the counter charm, and said it through gritted teeth.

And then, it was time to escape.

He levitated the dismantled door and set it in front of him. And then he set it on fire. The Fiendfyre ate through the door hungrily and began to expand in search of more to consume.

Meanwhile, Devlin tucked his wand in his teeth and transformed. A little wolf - scurrying quickly up the stairs. He heard Harry curse.