Tempus Omnia Revelat

Summery: A captured Death Eater sees a family picture in Harry's office and unveils a deep secret Voldemort has been keeping from Harry. Post Hogwarts.

A/N: This is unbeta'd, I have, however, done my best to work out the wrinkles. I hope to find a beta soon, and when this happens, this chapter will of course be reloaded without this notice. I hope you enjoy!

Harry Potter did not like Death Eater's. He did not like them in battle, when their taunts created a strange, pounding anger in his chest, and that anger would propel him to lash out at them, his actions restrained only by his will and knowledge that, around him, others who fought with him felt the same. He did not like them standing quietly in a queue, when their ghostly, skull-like masks were so reminding of the mark which resided on their forearms... Nor when they formed a circle, which was when he felt most out of control, and his mind would falter as he broke away from his team and lunged at the death Eaters, feeling his blood pound within his chest as he longed to render unto them the same service they rendered to Harry's friends. No, he did not like Death Eater's at all. But he hated them most when they were in his office.

He was sitting back on one of the leather chairs, looking across the desk at a family picture of Harry, his wife, his baby daughter, and his son, which had been taken four years ago. The Death Eater feigned comfort, but with his hands bound behind his back with magic ropes, he surely could not feel such. When Harry opened the door, the Death Eater's face jolted around to stare at him with an unusual shade of paleness, and yet his brown, almost amber pupils were so intense and searching that even Harry found it disconcerting and looked way from them as he moved to sit behind his desk.

"Sorry for the interruption, Harry, but this one's on you. His paper works had to go through the recant route." said Ron. Ronald Weasley had changed much since their school days; he was now taller, had more freckles, but was much less lanky. Harry took a deep breath. By the word recant, of course, his meaning was clear: 'A dangerous Death Eater wants to renounce Voldemort and join the Order as a spy'. Ron would have already interrogated him, along with a second Auror member, and now it was Harry's job, as Head Auror, to slip his paper work through so that no one on Voldemort's side would notice it, so that Dumbledore could speak to the man...

"Yeah, alright. Take him to a holding cell; I'll get to him later." He replied half-heartedly, his emerald eyes already scanning through the paper work Ron had put on his desk. Ron nodded, seeming to hesitate an instant before, sadly, drawing his eyes away from Harry's, which seemed to be more haunted then they had four years ago.

"You need a break, mate. Go home early, Harry. This guy can wait until tomorrow...you look tired." "Tired" was a huge understatement, Ron thought as he looked at his best friend. Whenever Ron said tired to Harry, the word never just meant tired. It meant a lot of other things, such as being overworked, suicidal, on edge, stretched too thin, miserable... He rarely said the others outright, though. Harry didn't need him to; he understood perfectly what his best friend meant.

Ron yanked the prisoner up, drawing the mans eyes away from the picture again, and started to push him towards the door. Just as he was about to pull him out the door, those amber eyes locked onto Harry's again.

"I've seen that boy before..." he murmured softly. Ron paused, frowning in confusion, until his eyes traveled to where Geoffrey had directed his own: the Potter family picture. There was a thick, cloth-like, silence that descended upon the room, and it was held there for what seemed an eternity, until a sharp intake of breath from Harry ended it.

"I'm sure you have; your master killed him four years ago." Harry said in grating tones and put down the papers that were in his hands. Ron was in agony; he was torn between wanting the man to confess more and between wanting to gag him and throw him into the deepest canyon on earth, along with the painful past that he brought up, as far away from Harry as possible.

"He refused to scream..." Geoffrey continued, eyes still on the picture of the boy, hands clenching as if in pain, behind his back. His voice trembled as he continued, "He called Voldemort Tom... said that he would not give Tom what he sought. He said that he could not believe that Tom had ever broken one of his own promises... the promise that he would never be like his father, never to be like the children at the Orphanage...or the man there... he would not scream... even when the Dark Lord said he could lift the Crucio curse...that all he had to do was scream. He blacked out..." Harry had risen from his chair and Ron had closed the door, but neither dared move any further, lest they break this trance-like state that had enveloped the entire office. "Dubhán...I could never pronounce his name. I still can't..." He looked straight into Harry's eyes, and Harry realized, staring back into the golden eyes, that Geoffrey was a werewolf. "The Dark Lord never killed Dubhán...he told us he was his grandson..."

He was almost sure Harry Potter's heart stopped, had skipped at least three beats, unlike the red-head, Weasley, behind him, who's heart seemed to double its speed, pumping blood into every part except his face, which was as white as cream. He could smell the hope, a tangy, sweet, slightly bitter, smell, like a freshly cut nut, the instant, waning, aroma...he can also smell the weariness, the guards that have been built around these two hearts to prevent disappointment, the cautiousness war has instilled in them. He can almost hear their first thought 'he's a trap'. He waits in silence, knowing that speaking now would only be seen as persuasion, then again, so was silence.

"Prove it." There is an instant, as Mr. Potter's magic seeps out of him and Geoffrey can sense it, that he realizes, beyond the picture of the boy, beyond the similarities that the child shares with Potter, that he is the father...for Dubhán shares his magic...that deep, cooling magic which calms any around him and is cold, freezing, even in anger.

"Tell me how..." Harry has moved from behind his desk, Ron has steered him back to one of the chairs. "I do not know how except to tell you I know that boy... That I knew your smell when you entered the room...that it is very similar to Dubhán's."

"Show me!" His magic has one difference from Dubhán's; it does not stay cold, it boils and lashes out, like steam. "Tell me if he is hurt! Tell me what has happened to him!" Geoffrey's mouth twitched, he turned to Ron Weasley.

"Do you suppose I could speak to Mr. Potter with Dumbledore present? The others were wrong, I think, Mr. Potter is worse than the old man." He turned back to Harry, "He has a bigger temper anyway."

"It would be a good idea to call Dumbledore, Harry, and to speak to him in a safe place." Harry reigned in his emotions enough to nod, though it was a grudging, stiff, gesture.

"Fine!" He grabbed a handful of Flew from a jar on his desk and threw it into the fireplace, located on the other side of the room; behind the chairs Geoffrey and Ron sat in, calling out for Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, what a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?" His face went somber when he took in Harry's features, the twinkle in his eyes dimming to small, shaded, candles. It was such an effortless change that Geoffrey wondered if the other face was a carefully erected mask, waiting to crack under the frequently bad news.

"I need to bring a prisoner through, Headmaster, we need to speak to him privately." Privately meant safely, and safely meant without the worry of prying ears. Geoffrey did not like this idea...he almost regretted mentioning the small boy in the picture...he was lost from what Mr. Potter thought still existed. He was not the child Harry must have thrown up into the air, tucked into bed, or held yards above the earth, atop a broom; no, that child was gone. Why had he set Potter up to seeing this?

Albus nodded, stepping aside to allow Mr. Potter - who had just pulled Geoffrey up from his chair, a second time that day, and was dragging him over to the fireplace -entrance into his office.

He had never seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry's office before – he had not attended Hogwarts. He was drawn to the pictures, all snoozing, and to the objects that lined shelf after shelf, but he was imprisoned, captivated, stunned, and fascinated, by the flame colored bird perched near the stair well. Even as he was moved around to a chair he remained looking at the bird, black eyes against amber orbs.

"Hello..." Harry slipped Albus the same file Ron had given him, "Ah, Geoffrey Goddard."

"We need to use the order's pensive, Headmaster." Dumbledore regarded Geoffrey for a long time, seeming to listen to Harry while examining the object of their consideration. Geoffrey did not like the gaze, but he did not look down. "Mr. Goddard has told us he knows something about...Devlin." The Headmaster exchanged Geoffrey for Harry now: staring at Harry just as intensely as he had Geoffrey.

"Of course." His words are all at once hollow and hopeful, Geoffrey cannot quiet sense what he feels...he does not like it when his instincts fail him. "Perhaps we should ask some questions of Mr. Goddard first?" Harry nodded grudgingly, and the Headmaster began the interrogation, one, which promised to be longer and harder then his last.

"How is it that you first came to know Dubhán?" Geoffrey bites back the impulse to ask what is meant by 'known' and settles for a short pause to consider his options.

"I first saw Dubhán when he was brought to camp by a pair of Death Eaters, I first spoke to him several days after he had recovered from his... initial ordeal...which was when I was assigned as his Guard." Dumbledore's eyes lit, he had not positioned Geoffrey in such a high position in his calculations, and neither, Geoffrey could tell, had Potter.

"He was enough importance to be assigned someone to keep him safe?" This was Ronald Weasley, the ever-impulsive Auror.

"I was to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from himself...I did not say I was ever told to protect him from everything. Although, four years later, I have had no order that would place him in any harm." He worded himself carefully; crafting his answers so that they were not lies and yet hardly very truthful.

"You mean Voldemort never told you to kill him, or for you to leave the room in order to let him do so." Geoffrey bowed his head. "How wonderful! That hardly tells us anything!" Ron, again, was not at all sly or sleek in his questioning. He was a Gryffindor down to the bone.

"You said from himself?" Mr. Potter was softer, more calculating, and harder, like Dumbledore, to place in an emotional position. His magical aurora had faded back to a calming cold; back to the one Geoffrey was so familiar with.

"So far as I could tell," He began, turning to raise a brow at Mr. Potter, "your son was not bitten by one of the Dark Lords werewolves." Harry clenched his jaw, but nodded.

"No, he was bitten when he was very young." Geoffrey mastered the urge to growl at Potter and strongly express his disappointment. Rarely did a grown werewolf want a child to be bitten

"What one word would best describe Devlin?" Geoffrey also found himself stopping himself before he corrected Albus on the pronunciation of the name: Geoffrey was the wrong one.

"It is impossible to crush all of him into such a compact thing...calculating would come the closest though." Harry frowned, all at once remembering the times Devlin had been calculating but how they had been few and far between.

"Calculating as compared to who?" Geoffrey considered Potter's question carefully...knowing how far the boy would be judged upon the comparison.

"Rather like I have been told Dumbledore is; hard to place...brooding, calculating, careful..." Dumbledore did not seem pleased, he knew how old he was, and how no child should be compared so closely to him. He glanced at Harry, seeing wheels, pulleys and systems working behind shaded green eyes, eyes that mirrored his own thoughts.

"In power-" He did not even have to finish the question, Geoffrey was already answering.

"He will out succeed all in this room – he will out succeed Voldemort." Geoffrey's gaze was so steady, his words so strong, that Dumbledore, that Harry and Ron, believed him. "He has the training and knowledge Harry Potter never did, and the upbringing that fosters his growth..." Harry gritted his teeth, clenching the sides of the chair as if it were an anchor to restrain him from attacking.

"An upbringing that fosters his growth..." His voice sounded as hard and brittle as ice. "How – how dare you say that! How dare you allege that someone who stole, stole, him from us could provide him a fostering environment!" Geoffrey met his anger with patience, his glare with an even, quelling stare. He did not look down...would no look away. Harry felt for an instant they where two children playing a game of Stare.

"I speak only of what I see...only of what I know. I speak not about the Dark Lord; I would not dare to you, but of myself and others of my group. You son has many friends, Mr. Potter, many who would die for him..." He unclenched the chair, but his eyes remained narrowed, and his back straight and tense; Geoffrey's words had instilled no clam.

"Which ever may be truth, I would like to make certain this is Devlin, I would like you to picture a recent memory with him in it, and then we will put it in the Pensive. Ronald, if you would?" Weasley moved over to his side, bringing his wand to touch Geoffrey's temple.

"I must ask - though this position makes me entirely aware of my mortality - what will you be doing with my information. What will be your plan of action toward Dubhán – I am as certain as any magic test you will perform that Dubhán is Mr. Potter's son – when you know his appearance and locations?"

"We will rescue him" Harry did not even seem to notice that the Headmaster had been going to speak, he seemed determined to set his opinion, and to have it understood it was the only one, before Dumbledore had the time to consider another.

The Headmaster's slightly disappointed gaze did not much effect him any longer – disappointment meant little to Harry these days, these years. It was the slight sympathetic, saddened, and understanding gaze of Geoffrey, which seemed to pull at him. "What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter, may be kidnapping to Dubhán."

"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."

"You stare at me, Geoffrey, as if you are searching for something. Has it not occurred to you that I might answer your question?" Large green eyes, specked and swirling with gold peek over the rim of a book. Harry feels his throat close up, feels his legs stiffen, even as he wishes, and knows he cannot, to grab the child in this memory and never let him go. He watches with rapt attention, forcing, to no avail, but to weaken them, his emotions away.

"Why do you never smile, young Master, why is it that you speak only when spoken to?" Ivory skin, lighter then Harry had ever had – more his mother – revealed itself as the book was marked and brought away. Harry reaches out to Ron, grabbing his friend to support his failing knees. The child is much more his mother than his father, delicate, charming features that are wispy and beautiful. He has inherited his father's hair, jet black with strands that are unwilling to lay still, though.

"To smile is to give something away, to give something away is to loose an advantage. An advantage can never be recovered. I do not smile, I rarely speak, because they give things, secrets, away, and something are better left unturned." He lifted the book again, and the memory spun around them, twirling them into another.

There was a power, a control, which seemed to surround Devlin. It is not the aura of anger and power that surrounds Voldemort, or the withholding, almost shy, power that always surrounds Harry and rarely reveals its full self, but a guarded, shielding power that seemed to reflect off of the boy like a mirror, reflecting back an illusion, a calmness, a certainty, which could not truly be there. He was standing perfectly still, completely and utterly silent. He looks at only one thing, listens to only one thing – Voldemort. It is the only time Harry can remember ignoring his enemy, focusing on something else in the monsters presence.

Voldemort takes a step toward the boy, and Harry must admire Devlin's control, his focus, his calculation, his strength, as he holds back a flinch, when Voldemort's hand reaches for his chin and lifts it up. "You look much better." The hand leaves the child, and Harry feels a superficial sense of relief.

"Yes, sir." He speaks with a plain, flat, emotionless voice. "Thank you for the potions." Voldemort clenches his jaw, he seems for a moment angered by Devlin's words; infuriated by them. Harry cannot help but take a step forward.

"You never thank someone who has created the problem because they fix it, do you understand Dubhán?" His voice is sharp, strict, and final. He looks into Devlin's eyes again, only loosening them when the child nods.

"Yes, sir, I understand." Dubhán understood him, and he understood his position in this room. He knew he was lying; he still had the memory about him to consider himself a traitor, a spy that did not submit any information. That was what a traitor was, wasn't it? "Grandfather." But he couldn't break the weakness of instinctual survival...he did not want to die.

There was a moment of pause between this memory and the next. "You can't do any worse then that." He told Geoffrey, but Geoffrey merely lowered his eyes, an action more difficult and significant to him than Harry could ever realize.

Harry was wrong: the next memory was worse, or at the very least, equal. Dubhán was at least seven in this – although Harry thought this one might be a very recent memory – and looked, for once, at peace. This did nothing to comfort Harry.

"What is this?" Dumbledore had walked closer to the long table – most likely several pushed together – that seated nearly, if not more than - a hundred guests. All were Death Eaters, except for two figures at the head of the table, one could argue, and for one individual, Harry could hope, were not servants to the Dark Lord. Voldemort himself, and Dubhán, who lay, perhaps asleep, in the Dark Lord's lap. Lazily, speaking to one of his more important supporters, Voldemort combed his hair through the boy's hair as a parent or grandparent might.

"It is the Dark Lord's birthday." Geoffrey replied. They are spun into blackness and then out of the pensive entirely.

"This brings up many more questions." Dumbledore whispers, seating himself heavily behind his desk and rubbing his temples with a weariness that pulls the curtains away from his twinkling eyes and cheerful face, revealing his true age. "I think we ought, Harry, wait a moment before asking them." Harry begins to shake his head, eager to finish the questions, move onto building a plan, and getting the boy out of there. "I do think Alexandra would be upset if she were not made aware of this, Harry."

Geoffrey is intrigued by Potter's quick realization, his slightly chagrined grin. "Yeah, I'd better tell her."

"Who is this Alexandra?" He can hear the voice repeat itself over and over in his mind, can hear the restless murmur of a child in the other ear. He knows the name. Dubhán had uttered it, screamed it, on his first transformation that Geoffrey had over seen, and had whimpered it, curled beside him, afterwards. He had called her something else, as well, and although Geoffrey knew her other name, he had to be certain, and so he asked again, "Is she his mother?" Potter turned to him, frowning in consideration.

Geoffrey can see the hope behind his eyes that Dubhán remembered, had told Geoffrey, of his mother, he can see the defeat that the child had not mentioned him, and he can see both of these thrown away as a crushed paper, before they reach his mouth.

"Yes, she is." Sharply, as if he could twirl his emotions away from him, Harry turned on his heel and grabbed for floopowder. "I'll just call her."

The name, which he called out, was whispered beneath his breath, so lightly the even Geoffrey, a werewolf, could not hear it. He had a sneaking sensation Potter had cast a silencing spell around himself.

"Harry!" The voice is smooth and calming, it is wispy like a fairies, and strong like a centaur. "What are you calling for?" Harry swallowed, leaning closer to the fire.

"Where's Ana, Alex?" Across the fire, Alexandra Potter's face falls, and she frowns. He asks it as if he is worried she will hear, as if he is about to tell her that a close friend has died. He says it like he did when he came back from the office that night and reported that Voldemort had sent Dubhán's body.

"She's with Hermione, I had a lot of work to do, and she was off..." She is holding back the worry; it is as evident to Harry as it is clear to Geoffrey, who cannot see her face. "Why?" She holds her breath, half fearing the answer.

"We have news on Dubhán. I need you to come to Dumbledore's office. We think he may-" Harry was cut off by Alexandra coming though the fire and falling onto him.