He had almost forgotten how the Muggle world looked, smelled, and sounded. He observed them over a cup of plain black coffee as they passed by the little metal table, unaware of the danger that he presented.

Sometimes I like to watch people. I'll sit real still and pretend I'm not really there, because me being there must change something and I wish I could see as they were without me there.

He didn't think like the boy. He had never contemplated a time in which he wasn't present and powerful. He was a brilliant thinker, but somehow the idea of puzzling together a world in which he did not partake had never occurred to him. It was one of the stranger things the boy had ever said to him.

Today, he could almost imagine what the boy had meant. It was strange to be settled at the posh muggle cafe, surrounded by people, without one truly aware of the threat he would ordinarily present. The waiter had taken his order just like anyone else's - bid him a good evening and handed him the little paper cup with a kind smile. It had all been surreal in a strange way.

He was dressed nicely.

Not like he had been as a boy - threadbare, dirty, and calloused.

"Are you waiting for someone?" The waiter asked him, when he had motioned for a refill.

"Yes," he said, but did not elaborate further.

Another smile. Hot coffee filled his cup. The young man withdrew into the store again. It was cold outside, but he wasn't cold, of course. He wasn't some Muggle.

He shivered a bit as the thought reinforced that he was drinking something a muggle had prepared - sitting at one of their tables. But there was a purpose and he tried to reiterate that thought and reinforce that desire.

He was going to see his boy.

He spotted her first. He had expected as much. The boys magic would be drained from a night full of nervousness and children's magical auras were always less distinct than adults. Her magic was like his, which made her about as easy a target in the crowd as her bright red hair.

She looked nothing like him; he logically had always deduced that she looked like whoever had given birth to her. Voldemort tried not to think too deeply on this topic, even though he had made himself aware of almost every detail after he had discovered his blood connection with the boy. He had been young, seeking to prove his power to his followers through the actions they used themselves. The only worthwhile event that had come from the rape was the boy.

Potter was beside her and there was a little girl in his arms. So this was the girl - he had seen pictures of her before, of course, but this was much different. Potter leaned over to his wife and whispered something. Suddenly her magic was snapping together and Voldemort could almost imagine what he had said. My scar hurts.

The boy had heard.

Of course he had. His clever little Dark One heard almost everything. He smirked as he watched the boys eyes widen and his frame freeze.

Potter was tugging at his arm, forcing the boys body to be pulled along, but his boy was searching frantically for him.

Of course, the boy didn't really know what he looked like.

The only thing he had ever hidden from the boy were his red eyes. His eyes weren't as brilliant as Potter's and not as easily caught through a crowd. Not when the boy must be looking for a mysterious cloaked figure - not a man who would look just like him.

Still, he stepped forward, the cup in his hands, to get a better look.

For one moment their gazes connected. He saw in a flash himself standing outside of the Potter's house, of Potter saying "clear". The boys own voice - a wash of unknowing - that he had left him there. There was an image of Emma, twirling with him at the Minstry ball.

They're gazes disconnected and Voldemort stepped back, but not before he had seen the realization in the child's eyes.

"Another day," he said into the night air. It wouldn't be any fun here.

oOoOoOo

He felt his whole body going numb - as if everything were leaving him through his toes. He felt cold all over, searching the crowd frantically for the strange looking man that he knew was Grandfather, even as Potter pulled at his arm, dragging him through the crowd.

Emma was in Alexandra's arms, crying - sensing the tension but not understanding. The bad man, that was what she had called him. Dubhán wanted to reach and and grab her, because if she was there, everyone would be safe. He didn't want to be alone with Potter. He didn't want Grandfather to catch them both. Somehow he knew it wouldn't be him screaming, but Potter - and he wasn't sure he could watch that.

Perfume, alcohol, and sweat filled his nostrils as people pressed around them. Potter was silent, his wand quite visible, his hair more windblown than he had seen it. His magic pierced the air around them, tight and constricted and afraid.

"Has she got it, Alex?"

It took a moment for Potter's words to travel all the way to Alexandra.

"Yes, of course."

"I'll meet you there."

Up ahead Alexandra was grasping at Emma's necklace (a pretty golden bird, Dubhán recalled) and before he could understand, she had ducked into an alleyway. He thought they would follow her, but Potter gave a harsh tug and led them past. As they passed, Dubhán looked for her and Emma, but saw nothing.

A few blocks later and they gave their own tight turn into an alleyway.

"Hold on tight, Devlin," Potter whispered. In the dingy alley all the sounds seemed muffled and Dubhán was left with the overpowering smell of mice and soggy paper and decomposing waste.

They spun on the spot, Potter's Disapparition tight and expertly controlled.

Every muscle in his body felt like it was humming, not like he was about to start shaking, but like his body was trying to prepare itself for unpredictable terror. Cool air bombarded his lungs and he opened his eyes to realized that he was in a little muggle park, behind an overgrown bush.

Potter squeezed his hand and dragged him through the small little park. Dubhán was well versed in all the hypothetical and theoretical strategies that one might implement in an escape or a chase. It was with a great deal of certainty that Dubhán looked back at the over-grown bush and knew they were leaving their traces of magic behind. They weren't done Disapparating.

Potter dragged him across the lawn, onto a street, onto a sidewalk - around a bend and through a small set of houses - each identical to the next. The only thing that differentiated them were the flowers in their beds and the numbers 1, 2, 3- they passed through heavy wards that accepted Potter with welcome arms - as if he were their creator.

He seemed to know where they were going without really needing to look. It was in the flowerbed of number four that they paused. The street was hushed, the lights all dimmed, the curtains all drawn. He picked up a painted stone, gripped Dubhán's hand tighter, and said firmly: "water lilies".

He felt a tug at his navel and knew they had just used a portkey.

He found himself in Sirius' Black living room, on his hands and knees, looking at the floor. He felt like throwing up and gagged on the air that had been pushed too sharply in his lungs during the trip.

Potter was a mess beside him, sprawled out on the floor in a pitiful heap that made Dubhán look like an expert.

"Oh my god, I hate those," he moaned, looking green.

Dubhán tried to master his own nausea. He pushed himself firmly and lifted his weight off of his hands. His torso swayed, but his folded knees held him upright.

Potter may sprawl easily, but he sprung just as well. He was on his feet, looking around sharply within moments. He didn't lift Dubhán off the floor like Dubhán half expected, but instead stepped forward, in front of him.

His wand was drawn, his breath caught in his chest. They were safe, surely? But Potter didn't ever seem to believe in safety - a trait Dubhán was familiar with because Voldemort never wandered far from paranoia, either.

There was a creak upstairs - something that Dubhán would normally have said only he would hear, but Potter's neck snapped to the sound. He licked his lips and turned to Dubhán.

"Stay very still for me," he said softly. "It's probably only Sirius but...you understand."

And he did. He wasn't Emma. He understood. He didn't nod, but Potter eventually turned away and stepped forward, closer to the hallway.

His movements were quick and soundless and Dubhán was reminded of him on a broom, seeking out the snitch. Dubhán rose to his own feet, perfectly silent. A flick of his wrist and his wand would be in his hand, but he resisted, because if it wasn't Sirius...

Now would be a perfect time to hurt Potter, a slinky voice in the back of his head said. The voice that had always kept him acutely aware of what Grandfather would want him to do.

He kept his wand in his holster.

Potter had reached the doorframe. There was a flash of snow-blue magic and Dubhán realized that just as Potter had sent off some kind of magical animal, so had someone else. A great stag leapt into the hallway just as a large ominous dog bounded into the living room.

"Harry?"

"Sirius?"

The ominous grim-like dog vanished. Potter stepped into the hallway.

After a moment, he turned around to gesture that it was safe. Dubhán didn't move. He had no desire or need and now that the running was through, he almost wanted to collapse to his knees again.

"Are you alright?" Someone was asking, their feet striding down the stairs.

"Yes," Potter said, but his body was in the living room and his voice was uncertain. His eyes were on Dubhán, looking at his deflated posture with worry. Dubhán looked away. He came to him on soft but not silent feet. His wand tucked away but his body still tense.

"Devlin, it's alright."

But it wasn't. Nothing was ever alright.

"Don't say that," he said and he sounded like Dubhán, the little dark one. "Don't say that to me."

His body shook. Potter frowned.

"Devlin..."

"Don't say it! Don't say it! Don't say it!" He shouted, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "It hasn't been alright. It was never alright. You said it would be and it wasn't. Don't lie! I'm not a little boy anymore!"

Where had his control gone? If it were grandfather this sense of panic and franticness would have sent his mind into overdrive, but with Potter it always seemed to collapse around him, leaving him grasping for the loose ends.

Potter stood very still. Dubhán shook, but felt numb. Nothing good. Nothing bad. Nothing at all.

It was odd to equate the sensation with a lack of control, but Dubhán supposed if he felt nothing, he also couldn't feel control.

"Devlin!"

His magic buzzed beneath his skin like a swarm of wasps and he took as step forward, all Dubhán and not at all Devlin, to glare up at Potter.

"He was there! He came for me! Why can't you just give me back!"

He must have. If Potter hadn't dragged him away, grandfather would have rescued him. Dubhán squashed the small sharp part of him that murmured 'kidnapped' in the back of his mind.

"Devlin - shh...we're-"

But suddenly Potter's words didn't matter, because he understood in a rush. There, at the door, were the figures of many people. Their wands were out, although they were not aimed. Many were wearing white robes. Some he had even seen at the party, like Shacklebolt.

He took a step back.

Stay away from men in white robes.

Potter reached out, trying to soothe him.

He shook his head.

They kill wizards like us.

"Don't touch me!" He said. There was a flash of fear that melted that nothing, nothing, nothing and suddenly he could feel again. His wand was in his hand now, his magic buzzing beneath his skin.

"That won't be necessary, child," said the old man, who was at the forefront of the group. Why weren't these people with Alexandra and the girl.

Because the bad man doesn't want her, his mind taunted, using the little girls term for Voldemort.

It was even possible that there were protectors wherever they had gone, but Dubhán had gotten Dumbledore because wherever Dubhán was, was most likely where Voldemort would be.

"I'll decide what's necessary for me, you can decide what's necessary for you," he snarled, feeling that magic curling tighter and tighter around him.

Dumbledore smiled.

"That does seem fair enough," he said softly. He meant to reassure, but all of Dubhán's nerves were firing at full-speed and a silly little smile and twinkling blue eyes wasn't going to stop him now.

The little girl at the table. Draco Malfoy. Little Man. Grandfather.

Even though there were threats in front of him, all Dubhán could focus on was what Voldemort might have seen in his head.

Had he seen the little girl? Did he know?

He could feel his panic rising, even as outside his face was nothing, nothing, nothing. It was always safer to show nothing at all.

Out in the hallway Severus Snape pushed through the crowd enough to see him. Dubhán stared at the endless obsidian gaze, because he had nothing to fear. He was nothing, nothing, nothing. The Potion Master frowned.

Dumbledore was speaking to him, but he wasn't paying attention. The spout of anger had left him feeling lethargic and heavy and it was now only his mind that continued to feel the chaos of it all. Potter was looking at him, urging him to say something, unwilling to touch him when he knew he wouldn't be appreciative.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

You have more control than this, Grandfather would have said, his voice harsh and his hands digging into his skin to press his point. Like a spell. As if he wished he could swish his wand and murmur 'repairo' and his Little Dark One would be all fixed.

Dubhán took a breath. Severus Snape's eyes were still on his own, the intensity making Dubhán's skin almost itch.

Potter was right next to him.

"Get me out of here," he whispered, hoping he wouldn't need to beg the man.

Potter swallowed and there was an infinitesimal shake of his head.

"Devlin...it's past dark. It is safer here tonight." Still Potter came close. "Come on, I'll show you to a room, alright?"

He didn't nod, but he allowed Potter to guide him through the crowded hallway, up the stairs, and into a guest room. There were two beds and Potter explained they'd share the room.

"Where is Emma?"

Potter paused in taking off his shoes.

"At a different safe house. Alexandra didn't have much choice - Emma's necklace is already pre-programmed. You and I can't get there, because I don't have a portkey on me."

"Why not?" It seemed rather foolish. Potter pursed his lips and looked away.

"I'm who he wants, Devlin. I don't...I don't keep things like that on my body."

Dubhán understood better than the man clearly wanted him too. They would torture him, take it from him, or take the location from his mind. By not knowing - by not being able to reach Emma and Alexandra, he was protecting them.

He nodded to show he had understood.

Potter went back to undoing his shoes and Dubhán lay down on the bed, thinking about the girl at the table.

I wonder if she's telling her mum and dad right now...

OoOoOoO

Dubhán noted absently that Potter moved a lot during sleep, tossing and turning, flinching and jerking. Dubhán knew if there was a competition, however, that he would win.

He peeled the covers off himself with expert care, slid onto the floor in his socked feet with practiced caution, and opened the door with a murmured silencing charm that was anything but accidental.

The hallway was silent and dim. Through various doors he could hear even breathing and moved his body quietly past them all. He wasn't used to stairs - at the camp they didn't have any. At Potter's house there was even one that squeaked.

He kept his weight on his tip-toes and instead of placing his feet on the steps themselves, he put them into the slats of the banister, climbing down sideways. He made no noise and smirked when his feet landed on the first floor.

Up ahead was the kitchen, but he slunk backwards, into the living room. If this house was anything like Potter's house than the kitchen was probably occupied.

Instead, he found that the living room was occupied.

Remus' hazel eyes swerved to find his own. Dumbledore's blue twinkled. A redheaded man with glasses frowned in uncertainty. Sirius Black put down his drink. Severus Snape narrowed his eyes.

Everyone was very still.

"Does Harry know you're up?" Sirius asked, kindly.

"Maybe," Dubhán said, making his lips smirk and his eyebrow arch. Never tell them you're without my protection, silly boy! He figured it was almost the same with Potter. If they knew Potter didn't know to look for him here...

Years with Voldemort had taught him to be anything but meek. Perhaps the time had even taught him to be a little bit reckless - in a controlled manner.

"Planning raids?" He asked, keep his voice cool and silky, his eyes hooded, and his lips expressionless. His eyes didn't need to talk for him - the arch of his brow showed every dripping ounce of sardonic sarcasm that he needed.

"Is that what the Dark Lord does in his living room at night?" Snape asked, his own brow arched in sardonic humor, as he brought a cup to his lips.

"No, we usually play chess and he tells me stories," he said, which was both truthful and a lie, but none of them needed to be told the obvious. He enjoyed the frown that bent the tips of Dumbledore's lips.

Remus, the redhead, and Sirius all seemed to slink back a bit in their chair - as if avoiding the topic that was in the air. Snape smirked and Dumbledore smiled.

"And in these games, child - do you ever win?"

He turned to Dumbledore, all false charm and politeness to cover up the hostility that this man brought automatically to his chest.

"Yes," he said. "I know all of his weaknesses, you see."

Let them sit and stew on this turn of phrase. On the outside he was nothing, nothing, nothing, but inside he was smiling. Even he was a bit proud of himself for that come back.

The triumph at the look of thoughfulness in Dumbledore's eyes was short lived, however.

"You should be in bed, little one," Geoffrey whispered, from behind him. There was a glass of water in his hand - as if he'd just come from the kitchen. Obviously he hadn't felt welcome sitting in on the meeting going on here.

"That's not necessary, Geoffrey," Dumbledore said kindly. "The boy can sit here until he is tired. Harry is probably exhausted."

Remus and Sirius exchanged glances, but it was Geoffrey who came forward and physically removed him from the doorframe. Geoffrey who stood in front of him.

"Harry would want him where he belongs," Geoffrey said firmly.

"You're not his guard anymore, Geoffrey," Dumbledore reminded gently, perhaps chiding the hand that was gripping his shoulder almost painfully. "The boy can act on his own accord, here."

Geoffrey leaned down so that his lips were by his ear.

"Be smart for me, Little Dark One."

Geoffrey always spoke in code. Dubhán stepped backwards, out of Geoffrey's grip.

"I only wanted to know if Emma was here," he said and then he was turning on his heel and walking away, a feeling of fear that he knew wasn't necessary blooming in his chest. It was almost an automatic response, he realized, to a warning from Geoffrey.

He did not, however, go back to Potter. Being still had never been good for him when his thoughts were like this. At camp he would have wandered around and found Geoffrey, but Geoffrey had clearly seen fit to send him back to the less-than-helpful Potter. There were no Death Eater's to pester, no duels to watch, no books to read.

He counted the wooden floorboards in the hallway, check how many of the doors were locked and unlocked, memorized which boards squeaked, turned back around and counted the knots in the wood - until his body was far beyond his mind. The door to Potter's room opened soundlessly.

"Hello."

It was Potter, staring at him kindly. Awake. His brilliant green eyes looked as if he'd never fallen asleep.

"You were asleep," Dubhán said, his hand lingering on the knob.

"I woke up," Potter said, a bit of a laugh in his voice at the obvious nature of their conversation.

"Why?"

Potter shrugged and seemed to consider his words carefully for a moment.

"I had a nightmare."

Dubhán wanted to ask 'about what?' but he didn't, because that question invited reciprocation and he didn't intend to disclose his own feverish thoughts. Instead, he and Potter simply stared across at one another for a long moment. Dubhán waited for the man to say something reckless and lame, like he had in the safe house, but he didn't. There were no tears, no frown, no fear - his eyes were closed off and half of Dubhán suspected that if he had Voldemort's mind-reading talents he would find nothing, nothing, nothing in Potter's eyes right now. Dubhán looked away - there was something hauntingly similar about their eyes when Potter looked like that, made more poignant by the fact that he had seen Voldemort's own eyes look like this as well.

"You should get some sleep, Devlin," Potter whispered. "Alex is probably reading Emma a story right now. They'll come here tomorrow."

"How can you be so sure?"

He didn't like this uncertainty. Somehow it had been easier to forget Emma and Potter and Alex when he had been at the camp for all those years. It was easier to forget when one knew they weren't allowed to remember at all. Easier when he could feel the probing sensation all the time.

It had been easier to survive without the need for them, but it wasn't the same here. Potter wasn't methodical. There was no power-games here. No need to be cunning at every turn in their conversations.

It had been easier to forget when he had needed to use every scrap of mental ability to keep up with Voldemort's twists and turns.

Without the pressure, his mind found it entirely to easy to remember.

Potter smiled sadly and came to sit next to him.

"This must all seem so chaotic to you, Devlin. You must think Emma is so scared - but she's done this before."

His eyes weren't nothing, nothing, nothing anymore, but full of that something that still made him feel like his breath was caught in his chest. He looked away and nodded.

Potter sighed, unfooled by his stoic face.

"It was stupid of us not to have you wearing one as well, Devlin. I don't like not knowing, either, but I trust Alexandra."

"You're the better dueler," he said softly, tipping his head down to hide his eyes behind the fringe of his hair. He could almost feel Potter's frown. "One of the Death Eater's told me someone always saves her in a duel - she's no good at it."

"This isn't - I'm sorry someone talked to you about this sort of thing, Devlin," Potter said, shaking his own head. His hands were intertwined on his lap, his knuckles white.

"They weren't. They didn't know."

Potter frowned.

"Not everyone knew who I was," he answered. "I don't look anything like either of you, after all. And most of the Death Eater's I spent time with were werewolves - feral ones - and they don't usually stick their nose into Wizarding business."

Potter nodded and stood from the bed, perhaps sensing Dubhán's discomfort.

"You should go to bed. Do you want a potion?"

"Dreamless Sleep?" He inquired gently, sure Potter would refuse. Potter stared at him hard for a moment.

"You seem good at keeping secrets - don't tell your mother. I think we'll both take one. I'll wait until you're asleep, though."

Dubhán nodded, not because he necessarily agreed about him going first, but because he wasn't about to have Potter change his mind.

"Let me go fetch some."

It tasted horrible, but Dubhán couldn't help but sigh in relief, because he hadn't been looking forward to sleep that would have been plagued with blue eyes and red hair.