A/N: Hope you enjoy this chapter, the scene where Devlin leaves (or in some versions didn't leave) his bedroom was revised at least seven times. I'm pretty happy with it now. I have to be careful to stay true to Devlin. There is such a child in him, hidden away, that sometimes it is so easy to want to write him with his true personality, rather than this over-cautiousness that he's acquired. Nevertheless, a little childishness does shine through. :)
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He wakes at the first glimmer of sunlight through the draperies and quickly transforms back and gets dressed. It had been so foolish to transform! What if the man or the lady had come in and seen him? No, he had to keep all his tricks to himself, incase he needed them to escape.
The locking charm is still active and he breathes in relief: they hadn't come in last night. Perhaps they want to lull him into a sense of false security before they harm him? He takes it off – perhaps he will lull them into a false sense of security.
He sits down at the desk in the room, watching the dog as he continues to sleep.
At some point the door opens softly and the man's head peaks around its frame.
"Good Morning, Dubhán." The man greets, "did I wake you?"
"I haven't been in a state which you could wake me from." Dubhán replied.
"I didn't sleep much either," he admits. "Are you hungry?"
"No." Which is a rather short way of saying: not for anything you'll feed me. Harry sighs and closes the door behind him.
"Listen..." He pauses, raking a hand through his already untidy hair. "I don't much fancy having this conversation with an eight year old, but I'll have it anyway." He sits down on the bed and sets his jaw. Somehow, Merlin only knows why, he would rather be having any other conversation with Dubhán than this one.
"Life has a way of getting pretty damn messed up and horrible, I know this, you know this, but that doesn't mean we can curl up somewhere and ignore everything, or..." he can not make the words come out, so he tries again, "or..." Dubhán's green eyes are expectant, not quite, but similar, to the expectancy that had always shone in them when he had asked a question, and had thought, as most children do, that their parents have every answer. "There's always something worth living for, Dubhán, however small or vast...you can't...you have to promise me you wont do anything to hurt yourself."
"If I had wanted to do that, Mr. Potter, I would have some years ago." He says, after a long tense pause between them. "I was a coward then and I'm a coward now." Harry is so startled by his words that he misses the clear statement that should have made his parental part kick in and say: you're not a coward. He feels silly when he finally does say something to the effect, both because the words are preceded by a long silence, and because Dubhán is raising his eyebrows at him in way that resembles Alexandra when she thinks one of his comments are rather unconvincing.
"Be that as it may; I am still not hungry." Harry raises his own brow, mirroring Dubhán with a perfection that seems to frighten the boy slightly.
"I'm not bad, you know." Dubhán blinks; he cannot help but think that Potter, for all his fame and power, should have the capacity to think of something better to say, something not so lame. "You used to like me." He runs a hand through his hair.
Memories seem to crowd in his eyes, obscuring the dark green even further, clouding the alertness war has instilled in him. Dubhán is entirely aware of this moment of weakness, of the opportunity it held; he could attack Potter now, perhaps even escape the room, perhaps even reach a fireplace...yet something holds him back.
"What has he done to you?" Potter asks, choking on his own words, lifting a foot to take a step toward him, before, reluctantly and forlornly, placing it back down. "I..." He staggers over to the bed, falling onto it and covering his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry."
Dubhán does not quite know how to react to this, never has he received an apology from an adult that holds a parental position. It feels strange and confining: as if the words have spun into rope and tied themselves around him.
'It is worthless to speak of love' his grandfather often said, yet here was Potter, at least close in power to his Grandfather, saying it aloud, repeating it over and over like some kind of chant, hands covering his face, body shaking with emotion...
He realizes, very slowly and very painfully, that he does not understand a single thing about Potter, that, just as he had first realized with Voldemort, he does not know how to survive Potter. He has forgotten how life operates beyond the camps barriers...
He thinks of telling Potter that crying only makes it worse, or that he should hold himself together, or even answering his question which had not been a question all, of telling Potter, firmly and forcefully, that his Grandfather has done nothing to him, but he cannot bring himself to open his mouth and say any of this. He allows himself a single, shaky breath: a moment of weakness.
"Why do you cry over things that have already happened; its really quite useless." He hadn't meant to say the exhausted words at all, but they come out anyway, falling heavily from his tongue.
Potter cannot seem to think of any reply; he lifts his eyes and stares at him as if he is some kind of skewed puzzle. Dubhán has the feeling he is being measured, pictured and categorized. Abruptly, Potter looks away from him.
"Well," Potter says softly, "maybe you'll just come join us at the table. We have a visitor you might remember." With those words, he stands up and leaves. Dubhán watches him go.
Dubhán looks around the room after Potter has left. Everything seems so foreign to him - as if it is from a whole different world. A world he had once been part of but no longer remembers how to join. He sighs and sits at the desk again. In the drawers are crayons and old papers and little action figures. He closes it back up; that's part of a world he can never join again. He turns towards a chest at the foot of the bed. It is full of stuffed animals and dragons that roar at him in welcome, and a small little golden ball that activates when he touches it and begins zooming around the room. He catches it effortlessly and sticks it in his pocket – perhaps it's not too childish.
There are pictures on the wall – of the lady and of the man and of the little girl. And – he touches one – of a little boy with unmistakable umber hair that is almost as dark as the man's crouching next to him. The little boy in the picture has brilliant green eyes without a fleck of amber. He's grinning sheepishly as he waves to the camera.
Over on the bedside table is another picture with all three people in it, only in this one the little boy's eyes aren't so young looking anymore. A bit of caution and thoughtfulness has settled in them just as the amber flecks have mixed with the green. He picks this picture up and stares. There is no denying his thoughts anymore. This is not a picture of the man, the lady, the little girl and the little boy. This is a picture of his father, his mother, his sister, and himself. It is the proof. He puts it down gently.
In a corner is a racing broom – he lifts it gently and traces the well-worn handle. He'd flown on this. His father had taught him. Mum had made him spell it to stay close to the ground, but he'd once taken them off when Mum was busy at someone's house. 'Potter was always a fabulous flyer,' his Grandfather had once said, when Dubhán coach had been impressed with his own flying. It had been a criticism disgusted as a compliment. It was never a good thing to be compared to Harry Potter. It had been his Grandfather's way of reminding him that there would always be a bit of Dubhán that wasn't worthy of being Salazar Slytherin's heir. But his Grandfather also never lied about Harry Potter, so he knew he was a good flyer.
Emotions overpower good sense in a way they haven't since that night and Dubhán races out of the room with the broom in his hands. His feet clatter down the steps and around the corner and through the living room, until he reaches the kitchen. He ignores the other occupants of the room. He has eyes only for the man, Potter, Harry Dad.
"I remember," he says breathlessly. "I remember flying. We went to a game. You took the charms off. You gave me this-" he pulls the snitch out of his pocket. "You brought me to Hogwarts. We ate at your old house table. I remember." The man, no Potter, no Harry, no – Dad, is so surprised that his grin is delayed, but when it appears it is followed by a laugh.
"Yeah, I remember," he says and his smile makes his eyes sparkle.
"You took the charms off, Harry?" Says the lady – his Mum – so softly that it can't be anything good. The little girl, Emma, is giggling and another man Dubhán just notices is at the table stifles a chuckle.
"Now, now, Alex. Surely you should save Harry's tongue lashing for a different time." This is the unknown man.
"Just remember, Harry James Potter – I don't forget." Potter made a show of swallowing and grimacing. Dubhán didn't think he was actually that afraid.
Dubhán can't draw his eyes away from the stranger. There is something uniquely intriguing about him that goes beyond the fact that he thinks he knows this man. After all, he thinks he knows a lot of things about this world, but the feeling that is rising in his chest, while he is trying to remember this man, is quite different.
"Hello… Dubhán," the unknown man says softly with a friendly, if uncertain, lilt to his voice.
"You're a werewolf," Dubhán states, narrowing his eyes in thoughtfulness. He can feel his eyes becoming amber as he breathes the mans scent in. "You're the man Geoffrey was so angry with." He takes a step back. It takes a lot to get Geoffrey so enraged.
"I am," the man answers, regarding him with concern.
"Geoffrey didn't want you near me," he says, taking another step back.
"That's true, he did not," the man says, with such brutal honesty.
"Why?" He says, hearing his voice come out with a hollow edge to it. Somewhere deep down, his wolf knows the answer to his question. It's knowledge is evident in the way it over-takes his senses and in the way his shoulder starts to throb dully. And so, when the man opens up his mouth and answers his question, the wolf in him isn't all that surprised.
"Because I bit you, when you were very little."
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