A/N: I know reviews aren't everything, but I really would appreciate some feedback... I going to be looking for a Beta reader soon...now I just have to find out how you do that.
I home you enjoy the story. For those who might be disappointed about so little interaction between Voldemort and Dubhán, don't be, this story will consist of both future meets and flash backs. Bye, have fun!
Everything went white. It was like looking into a blizzard: images infused with dusty snow that obstructed him from seeing even his hands clearly. Then Harry realized it was his glasses... he shook them clear.
"Ana," He took the six year olds hands, "You have to stir the batter slowly." He showed her, hands over hers, until he was confident he was not going to be looking through floured glasses, confident both because she seemed to understand, and he had mixed the flour in.
"Do you think Mommy will like our cake?" Her red hair was pulled back in a rather pitiful braid, seeing that it was Harry who had preformed the task, and her small face was flecked not only with freckles, but now also with flour. He held in a laugh.
"If we don't burn it." He told her truthfully, brushing off his jumper and spraying the room, again, with flour. "And we clean up...she'll be really mad if we don't clean up." Ana had stopped stirring, and now stood on the stool with her arms crossed; a stance she had acquired from her mother.
"Like last time Daddy?" Her brow was raised: she was teasing him. "When you forgot to set the timer and the cake came out black?" He grinned, grabbing the timer from the counter and waving it playfully at her.
"I've got the timer now! It will come out white this time, I promise." She giggled, and handed him the bowl.
"You pour it into the pan, 'Kay? I always spill it." He grumbled at her, for which she grinned back, and took out the round backing pan.
For a strange hour or two, he thought nothing about Dubhán. In later reflection, this felt both relaxing and worrying. He will not forget or give up on his son again.
Geoffrey feels as if he has accomplished the impossible: he is in two places at once; split between a person who is smiling and carrying on a conversation with Dubhán as he brings book after book to him and explains his interest in it, and the person who knows it is only a matter of hours, minutes and seconds before he will never see that smile again, before he turns a child's life apart in such an upside down manner that he fears Dubhán will never be able to see straight again.
Geoffrey claws desperately at the ground, at his last remaining rope, as he moves over to the register to purchase the books, Dubhán beaming at his side as the shopkeeper rings up the items, is paid, and then shrinks the books into a neat, small, box that he hands to Dubhán.
"Are all of those yours, son, or do you have an older sibling going to school?" Dubhán shakes his head.
"All mine sir. I like to read." The man nodded knowingly.
"I can see that. Well you take good care of yourself and the books."
"Of course, sir. Thank you sir." Dubhán said, tucking the package carefully into his pocket, and running over to meet Geoffrey at the door.
Geoffrey cannot help but cave into he child's wish for ice cream, not today. He indulges the child with double servings and they talk pleasantly, carefree, about the books he has purchased.
"I can't wait to read that one on the Philosophy of Magic. Actually, I got a few on that topic, because it's supposed to vary, and I want to get an idea of it from all angles. Where do you think magic originated from?" Geoffrey shakes his head in amusement.
"I wouldn't even attempt to answer that question, Dubhán. You will have to ask your grandfather." Dubhán looked disappointed from a second, but then brightened, moving on to his next subjects of books: potions.
Certain tenseness always accompanies the act of Apparating; the muscles tighten as if they can hold each other together by sheer strength, and hands grasp for anything anchor them. This was not, however, the kind of tension Geoffrey felt Dubhán experience, still held against him, as he opened his eyes not to the camp, but to an office.
"Geoffrey, I think we made a wrong turn, better get out of here before someone notices." His voice is forcefully light, yet he speaks what he believes is truth.
"Hold on Dubhán." Dubhán relaxes for a moment, convinced, perhaps mislead, that Geoffrey is regaining the energy to transport them again.
It is only a matter of moments before the door opens, of which Dubhán cannot see, and Geoffrey holds him still, revealing Harry Potter, whose attention is so raptly focused on a report that he jumps into the air, curses, and then drops his papers across his feet when he looks up to find his seat. Habit leads him to cast silencing charms, and locking spells across all of his walls, and ceilings.
"Hello." Geoffrey said. Dubhán shrinks back into Geoffrey, even though Geoffrey seems to know the man.
"Geoffrey," he whispers urgently, "get us out of here. He's an Auror!"
"Is that him?" The man whispers hoarsely, taking a shaking step forward, hand held out like a blind mans cane.
"This is Dubhán." Geoffrey answers careful, taking a step away from Potter as he feels the small body shake against him. He gives Potter a significant glance, and then Geoffrey moves so that he has Dubhán's shoulders in his grasp and is looking in his eyes. "I cannot hurt you, Dubhán, nature would not allow me to. I can only do what I sense is best for you: best for your survival and healthiness. I..."
"Take me home Geoffrey." His tone is cold and demanding, a perfect replication of Voldemort's. Geoffrey shakes his head.
"I can't Dubhán." He says, moving his hands awkwardly across the small, tense, shoulders in a familiar motion to calm the boy. Today, it helps none. "I can't." Those eyes turn cold now, surging with anger.
"Take me home Geoffrey." This is an order. Voldemort would have followed with a painful dose of Crucio, but even had Dubhán the wand, and knowledge about how, to perform such a spell, he would not have cast it. He detested the spell.
"Do you remember, Dubhán, when you asked me how to make Voldemort happy?" Dubhán shakes his head, even he is subject to fear, and despite Geoffrey's position as traitor; he is the only one familiar and slightly secure, in this room.
"I told you that: you do what you are told. But always pretending, Dubhán, always wondering about why he is kind to you, always... looking for traps behind your back and worry of which side you are obligated to be loyal to, is not healthy. I cannot promise my solution is either; but I could no longer leave you with him. I cannot see a child in you, Dubhán, and every person must be a child first. It is not right for him to take that away from you." Dubhán's eyes brim with tears; tears he will not allow to fall.
"Take me home Geoffrey, and I promise, I won't tell him. Everyone makes mistakes... just take me home."
"I have Dubhán."
"No! NO, take me back to grandfather, Geoffrey! You can't do this too me! You can't! You're supposed to take care of me! I don't like this! I don't feel good here! You can't do this! You can't! You can't! You can't! You can't!" Geoffrey did nothing to stop the accusations, merely waits for the small child to wane into silence.
"Oh, Dubhán, you are confusing tactics. I love you. I, all of Voldemort's werewolves, adopted you into our pack, but I am not your creator. I am a volunteer to that position. Those words hurt me, they hurt me beyond any pain I can ever feel, but...they do not wake that part which you seek, Dubhán." He lifted one of the child's hands to his breast. "You are my pup here, not by blood. They are the same in every aspect, except the one you wish to exploit." Dubhán growls lowly, hunching his shoulders slightly, lifting his child to stare into Geoffrey's eyes. Dubhán had known, below his fear and desperation, that the tactic would not work. Geoffrey had not bitten him.
Dubhán knows many
inappropriate words, a child that has lived in his surrounds cannot
help but hear them, and so long as he does not say them, his
Grandfather hardly cares that he knows them. The word he has
chosen to say, however, is not inappropriate, is not one of the worst
words Dubhán knows; that is not why he has chosen to say it,
quite to the contrary, he has chosen to use this word because
of its appropriateness because of the impact he knows it will
have: "Traitor!"
Geoffrey finally looks away, finally slumps into one of the chairs; finally lowers himself of his high rank and claims Dubhán the winner. Dubhán does not care, he does not want to win anything; he wants to go home, to feel safe.
"I've brought him here, what else to do you want of me, Potter?" Dubhán does not read papers or recent History books, he does not know what Harry Potter looks like, does not want to remember that he did knew the man once. Geoffrey's words mean volumes to him, and he backs against one of the office walls.
"You're going to kill me!" He is aware of his position in the room, of its susceptibility to traps, his also aware of its advantage. He pushes his palms slightly against the wall behind him, unnoticeable to the people in front of him, and prepares for attack. Geoffrey is his only disadvantage: Geoffrey who has watched and assisted in his training, Geoffrey who can warn Potter.
"I want you to tell him I'm not going to kill him!" Potter tone and hitch tells Dubhán that he is genuinely hurt by Dubhán's statement, yet Dubhán feels no need to allow that to effect his opinion, even though he knows there are few who can fool his instincts.
"He won't believe me." Geoffrey covered his eyes with a hand, slumping in the chair and looking pale and sickly. Potter glares at Geoffrey, who takes his hand away, and, lifting his eyebrows and looking toward Dubhán again, says: "He won't kill you." His words are bland and untasteful, he says them because he has been asked to; he knows Dubhán hardly considers them. He is a traitor. A moment passes between Geoffrey's words and all other silence. Dubhán tries to reign in his thundering thoughts.
"I'm eight, Mr. Potter, I'm an underage wizard. Do you agree?" Potter is taken aback by Dubhán's calm appearance and straight-backed posture, such a change from the clear fear he had seen before. Geoffrey is weary of it. Potter nods, and Geoffrey groans inwardly, entirely aware that Potter is walking into a trap. When Dubhán is coldly calm, stiffly polite and examining, he is to be feared. He is not to be answered. He is tiptoeing around you and manipulating you. He is calculating your next step, finding your weaknesses.
"Do you want to ask me any questions about who I am, how I feel, and where I've been?" Potter nods again, smiling, thinking the child has calmed down enough to be reasonable. Dubhán is being reasonable, just not the way Potter wants him to be.
"Are you a real Auror?" He tilts his head, comparable to a muggle child asking a uniformed police officer: 'are you a real policeman?' and Potter nods his head like a muggle officer asked the question by a passing five year old.
"Yeah!" Dubhán holds back a scowl.
"You've just broken the law." Dubhán says coldly.