Years of flooing to Auror and Order assignments kept them both on their feet.

"What news?" She managed to gasp out, holding onto the back of the chair Geoffrey was seated in for support without the slightest notice of its occupant. "What news, Harry?" She is firm and unrelenting, asking before Harry has even had the chance to form his answer. Geoffrey takes pity on Potter.

"I would be the source, Misses Potter." She spins around to him, frowning down at him in the chair.

"And you are?" She asked; voice as steely and determined as it had been before, although this tone is washed of, and checked for, any weakness and desperation: Geoffrey had found which parent Dubhán got his talent of composing himself quickly from.

"Geoffrey Goddard. I'd shake your hand..." He leaned forward in his chair, showing the binding. "But they are not at my mercy. She seemed to sum him up in one look; deeming him as unimportant – for the moment – and turning from him in favor of Dumbledore. Geoffrey did not hear the conversation; he finds himself to preoccupied with one in his head, a distant, far away one that had not been listened to or thought of for many years. He has caught her sent, and he is suddenly aware of how much Dubhan has remembered this woman.

"Did you hear me, or have they already given you to much truth serum?" Potter murmurs that they have given the man no such thing, but Alexandra's sole attention is on Geoffrey. He'd rather it went back to where it was before.

"My mind was else where." A glare, filled with contempt, presents itself on her features. Geoffrey is reminded of someone else, – who that expression makes her look remarkably like - but he will not speak this out loud, let alone in his head.

"Where would that be?" Her cream colored skirt and white blouse no longer suite her; she is an Auror again, and Order member, an investigator, a fighter: and her wrath has been turned to him.

"On distant memories; which reminded me how much you and your son share in appearances." He is lying, and he is speaking the truth: she does look remarkably like Dubhán, but that had not been where his mind was. The comment extracts its desired pause, its desired willingness to discard the topic, and its desired interest.

"They say the pensive images look like him, but Voldemort is a skilled wizard; he could easily create this look-alike boy. We have Dubhán's body..." She is using him to brainstorm, presenting a challenge without threat, without the issue of betrayal; this is what makes her the Auror she is.

"If he is skilled enough to create a living boy, could he not create a dead one? A mere body?" He is all at once aware of, and willing to, play her game. She inhales sharply – Geoffrey can see the limp body that Voldemort had sent them in her eyes, can imagine the tombstone they had buried it in, can picture her pain as she watched the casket float down into the ground, can sense her guilt as she realizes she might have given up on her son, and yet, the hesitation at following Geoffrey's story and finding herself at the same place, once again – and releases it through her teeth.

"I have to see him," She says, leaning, facing him, against the Headmaster's desk with crossed arms. "I have to know if it is him." She reaches toward the pensive, but Geoffrey stops her.

"No, Mrs. Potter, I'd like to put a different one in for you." She begins to glare, to tell him he will not censor her view, but then she looks him in the eyes, and changes her mind. She nods, and places her wand tip to his temple.

"I sometimes wonder if you read those books to listen to the words, or to allow yourself a peace of mind, with an excuse to be silent and oblivious." He is young; perhaps six, and his fists are clenched at his sides. He stares defiantly up at an older man, green eyes and jet-black hair that is beginning to grey, who is holding one of those thick books that would turn most children running. "Which is it, Dubhán?" The child growls lowly, jutting out his jaw in stubbornness.

"You can't take her from me!" He says softly, powerfully, stone cold and emotionless. Alexandra is witnessing the transition between Devlin and Dubhán: the between stages of childhood and survival. She cannot realize this now; looking upon this child she sees herself in and Harry. "She'll always be my mother."

The memory spun around her, and Alexandra found herself leaning on the desk, not for appearance, but for true support.

She closes her eyes in an attempt to collect her self. "Thank you." She says to Geoffrey, opening her eyes and smiling slightly at him, although it is far from an unshadowed one.

She is considerate and calculating, she thanks only when she sees reason, and speaks only when she desires. He nods.

"Do you know him well?" Beneath the truth to her words is a game she has no problem or difficulty playing; the same Geoffrey had played on her. She will string this concerned, pleased, parent persona along for as long as it works.

"I do. I am his Guard; I spend nearly all day, every day, with him.

Near a bed, dressed in greens and blues; a book shelf, filled from top to bottom with thick, dusty, tomes; a desk, laden with parchments, quills and ink, and a soft, warm, chair, a small figure paces, walking seven steps to the right and four to the left. His raven hair is disheveled, perhaps due to the fact that he woke up and discovered something missing, someone missing. This person was not at the barracks - the sleeping quarters for Death Eaters - or in the room next to his that he often occupies when Dubhán might be sleeping alone in the magical tent that serves as his home.

His green eyes swerve to the clock over his desk, wanting nothing but to move the hands forward manually, and for that to change the real time. Despite his frustration with it, his eyes linger on the time; it is the only thing on his mind.

'I will be in an important meeting from evening until midnight; you are not to come to me between those times. Geoffrey will be watching you.' Those had been his Grandfather's parting words after lunch, rules he knew he could not break. Yet Geoffrey was not watching him...

This missing link might propel some children to think the rule had become null, but, even if this might be so, Dubhán was not the child to push his luck. He tried seating himself on his bed, but could not stay still for long. He could feel a headache building, knew this was dangerous, and yet kept ignoring it.

It was only an hour until his Grandfather came back...

"Where are you supposed to be, say, now?" Geoffrey is still rubbing at his sore wrists gingerly, as he considers the question.

"Watching your son..." He has already betrayed his master, he has already shattered promises: he has only one thing left to loose: Dubhán. He will loose this too, he can see, and yet he is becoming aware of why he must loose him.

"Would someone notice that you've been gone?" He snorts at Weasley's question, further impressed at his thickness.

"Yes!"

"Who? Of how much importance are they? Could you discredit them?" Geoffrey stares evenly into Alexandra's eyes: she is the silver-quick, problem solver of this group.

"No one, in the eyes of the Dark Lord, discredits Dubhán. I could, perhaps, with a very good, airtight, story, plead for his silence."

"Like you were captured by the other side?" Again, Geoffrey laughs at Ron.

"No, he'd be furious with you, he would be worried about my health: he would run to his Grandfather." Dumbledore strokes his beard slowly, pensively.

"Could you have been helping another Death Eater with a project..." Geoffrey, again, shakes his head.

"No. Excuse its bluntness, but my best bet would be to return while Dubhán is alone and convince him how sorry I am and that I cannot yet tell him where I was. We keep many secrets between us...we have an understanding."

"You have to get him out of there." Geoffrey sighed, and in his pause, which Potter considered hesitancy, Potter went for the jugular. "Or we'll send in our own fleet." Perhaps Potter was not as nearsighted as Geoffrey had imagined. He had seen Geoffrey's true fear, Geoffrey's protectiveness of Dubhán...perhaps he had seen it in others...perhaps other had explained to Potter that Dubhán was, in a way, his pup. Whether Potter knew that much about werewolves or not, Geoffrey found himself reacting as if he had, tipping his head up and exposing his neck slightly as he spoke. This went over Harry's head.

"Very well. Give me a week...I think the Dark Lord has an operation he is
attending in the next few days." Potter looked disgusted that Dubhán would be in the environment for any more seconds, but ended up nodding. "And then give me a twenty four hour period after that week to get him to you...I can't Apparate with him...it will notify the Dark Lord."

He was exhausted, still pacing, when a hand, at last, landed on his shoulder. Instantly, he knew it was not his Grandfather, but the person he had originally been pacing for. He turned around, entirely filled with the want to hug the man, but found himself beating his fits onto his chest.

"You left me here alone!" He said, aware that anger kept the more dangerous emotions at bay, and intending, for as long as he could, to keep that anger boiling. Geoffrey said nothing, did nothing to stop him; he lifted the child up and put him, standing, on his bed, so that they were eye to eye. Something in his eyes stopped the child, though just barely.

"I wont do anything to stop you Dubhán; you've every right to be angry with me." But his anger had slinked away already, and he could not net it again.

"Where were you?" He asks instead, fixing Geoffrey with a challenging stare. Geoffrey keeps those eyes, and then looks slowly away from them.

"I cannot tell you." Dubhán growls.

"Grandfather promised he would not send you anywhere tonight." Geoffrey wished he could let the child continue to shift the blame, but to do that would mean Voldemort was to be yelled at by the child, and that would not be to his or Dubhán's best interest.

"You're Grandfather did no such thing. I betrayed his orders to stay here with you." Dark and curious, Dubhán's eyes turn to him.

"But you cannot tell me?" Geoffrey shakes his head slowly, waiting for baited breath. "Are you asking me to keep a secret, Geoffrey?" His tone is light and friendly; it is the kind of voice, from anyone else, Geoffrey would have shaken his head at, because it would have lead to a trap. Dubhán played on this tone; if you could trust him enough to get past it, he knew he could trust you. Geoffrey nodded.

Moment's passed in silence... "I had a nightmare...will you stay with me?" Geoffrey nods again, fearful that the child has not given him any firm answer. Geoffrey seats himself on the edge of the child's bed and watches him quietly. One of his small hands falls onto Geoffrey's arm. "I won't tell him, Geoffrey." Geoffrey smiles softly and takes his hand, brushing the tiny fingers as the boy falls asleep.