This was actually supposed to be part of Chapter One, but it didn't copy over, soo….
As always, I own nothing from the original Harry Potter series.
Chapter Two – Memories Make the World Spin
Pensieves allow memories to be brought out of the individual and temporally rewritten in a format viewable to many, but Pensieves are also designed with Realistic-Recollection magic, which means they mimic the remembered environment to give a neutral point of view. Harry blinks into the dim lighting and waits for his eyes to adjust.
"We're in the Dark Lord's study." Geoffrey's voice twists into the air and hangs there unnaturally.
Deep greens and lighter grays play across the room like a forest in the full moon. He grabs hold of the comparison and saves it for the next time he is fighting Voldemort. Wouldn't he like that, that his decorating reminded him of werewolves? But flashes of sharp colors, scattered around the room in the form of pillows, books, trinkets, and magical artifacts, save Voldemort. They remind him, instead, of the scales on a poisonous snake. He will still use the first comparison.
"I'd never been in the room before; when Voldemort sent me to meet Dubhán here for the first time being alone with the boy, I knew it was heavily warded. He's five." Pensieves do not keep magical auras or telltale hints, but years of Auror training have him skimming the room for the signs of wards and spying spells, anyway. He doesn't find them.
He finds something else; green eyes, swirling with gold, peek over the rim of a book from the darkest corner of the chamber. He follows their gaze and finds himself face to face with another Geoffrey Goddard. Devlin's eyes are half human and half wolf, more the latter then Harry remembers them being, but Geoffrey's are entirely amber. He stares into them with fascination. There is something strange in the eyes, something which does not belong.
"Why do you stare at me, so afraid and so uncertain?" Devlin has answered his unasked question. There is fear in Geoffrey's too-wolf eyes. Fear a wolf should not have. Fear that is too-human. It is always fear, cold, haunting, and crystal clear, which makes Harry realize how human others are. He hates it when Death Eaters show that kind of fear. Hates it because he knows he needs it; he has to remember that humans make mistakes.
Voldemort is not human because Harry has never seen him afraid.
"The Dark Lord has assigned me to be your guard. This is why I stare at you." Geoffrey's voice is neutral. Harry knows that voice; it is the voice of realization: the understanding that there is no right or wrong way to deal with the current situation. It is, he knows, a painful realization.
"That's smart of you, Geoffrey." The boy turns back to the book; Harry has watched the boy read from the time he merely commanded the foreign words into his own stories. He knows the boy is only hiding behind the pages. Geoffrey, seated far across from him, fiddles with his wand. His mouth opens and closes.
"I don't understand, Dubhán." Geoffrey is a man clutching at many fragile hopes. He wonders what he hopes to accomplish by trying to understand the child's words.
"It's smart of you not to tell the truth, or to lie. Lying earns trouble, but the truth wouldn't do you much better, either. It's smart of you to choose something else, then. People can tell when your lying or telling the truth, but can't be certain when you're doing neither." The words make him swallow hard. They are not words Voldemort has taught him. They are not words pain has taught him, although pain might have reinforced them. They are words his own father told him. Never lie. Never tell the truth. Never, ever, tell someone what they ought not know.
It had been less then a year after he had been bitten and Devlin had just begun to understand the differences between him and others. Specifically that he could hear far better than a normal human. He had taken up eavesdropping and Harry, tired and forgetful, had not remembered to put a silencing charm around his study one night. No matter what the other Order Members had suggested, Harry had never been able to bring himself to even do so much as consider Obliviating his own son.
Now he hears the words and wonders about their implication. People torture for information and don't stop until they get it. He watches the boy turn back to his book and hopes beyond hope that Devlin forgot the rules to their little game.
Green and gold swirl and transports them into another memory.
He focuses immediately on the green and gold eyes once more. There is a power, a control, which surrounds Devlin, even in the Pensieve; it is not the aura of anger and power that surrounds Voldemort, or the withholding, almost shy, power that wraps around Harry and rarely reveals itself in full. No, it is somehow different; it surrounds the boy and seems to reflect off of him - a mirror reflecting back an illusion of calmness and certainty. But it cannot be real. No child is that calm and composed in front of a monster. And Voldemort is a monster.
Voldemort, clad in black robes and his red eyes shining from his thin face, takes a step toward Devlin. Harry admires Devlin's control, focus, calculation, and strength. He doesn't flinch when Voldemort's hand reaches forward and tips his chin up.
"You look better. The Healer assures me you'll make a full recovery." The hand leaves the child and Harry feels a superficial sense of relief.
"Yes, Voldemort." He speaks in a plain, flat, emotionless voice, but something sparks in his and Voldemort's eyes. As if the brief reply had held some silent taunt. Voldemort clenches his jaw. He looks angry. Harry takes a step forward, even as his brain tells him how useful it will be. He is in a memory.
"We have discussed this before, Dubhán; I have asked that you call me Grandfather." The underlying tone hints it will not be a request, next time.
"I'm sorry." Harry clutches at Ron's shoulder; it's all he can do to stop himself from rushing forward and trying to gather the untouchable child in his arms. What does Devlin have to be sorry for? The words remind him of his own childhood. Anger rushes and grows in him. He feels rather then notices as Ron's hand comes to rest on his own shoulder. It is far to close to the collar of his shirt to be anything but a preemptive restraint. "Grandfather."
The words leave the child's lips and Harry looses control. Ron's hand grabs tightly at his shirt and adds pressure to his already burning throat. He stops and shakes himself. Ron does not release him.
"I can stop it, but there is only one more left. It depends on your tastes whether it is worse or not." Ron looks about to call a stop to the showing.
"If you dare stop it, Goddard, I'll use my position to justify the unforgivables." Part of him knows he wouldn't dare, but the other part knows he could get away with it. He's Head Auror, second only to the Minister of Magic (a position, like Dumbledore, he refused).
He stares expectantly before him, noting the werewolf's frown from the corner of his eyes.
The frozen image before them swirls and blends into another.
Devlin is at least six and something and, for once, looks at peace. This does nothing to comfort him.
"So much color and lack of fearfulness – to what do the Death Eater owe the reprieve?" Harry would have simply asked what the hell they were looking at. Dumbledore takes a step toward the long table (most likely several pushed together). It seats at least a hundred guests, all Death Eaters. Harry does not include Voldemort in this count; Voldemort is not a Death Eater. Nor does he include the child, who he hopes, with every magical bead of energy in him, is not branded.
"Dubhán's seventh birthday." Devlin's eyes are closed and his small frame curled between Voldemort's arms at the head of the table. Anger wants him to turn away; parental protection won't allow it. He watches with the strange mixture of emotions as Voldemort's spidery hand cards its way through Devlin's hair.
"Devlin was born in the winter – unless Voldemort has magicked the-"
"I said Dubhán, not Devlin, Mr. Potter." He turns slowly to face the not-so-long-ago Death Eater turned informant.
He glares. Goddard does not glare back.
"Devlin was a little boy who had been raised without fear – Devlin died the moment he was stood in front of Voldemort." The 'v' sticks to his tongue and threatens to come out as Dubhán. "I told you beforehand that I could not say the name. Devlin died and the moment I pronounced his name differently he clung to it."
They are spun into blackness and then out of the pensive entirely.
"Like all new knowledge, the questions it answers lead only to uncertain beginning." Which was Dumbledore's way of saying "this brings up more question then it answers". Harry grins despite himself. The game of translating Dumbledore's elegant speech into common English had been the only good thing he had learned from Snape. He had gotten a glimpse of the Potion Master's coping skill during an Occlumency 'warm-up' and sunk low enough into boredom at a later occasion to use it. He admits to himself that he is now addicted. "I think we ought, Harry, to wait a moment before asking them."
Harry shakes himself back into reality in order to protest. Stop? How can they stop now? They should be making a plan to get Devlin out of there!
"I do think Alexandra would be upset if she were not made aware of this, Harry." He stops the internal rant. Dumbledore is right.
"Yeah, I'd better tell her." Geoffrey can hear the restless murmur of a child in his mind. He knows that name. Dubhán had often whispered it in his dreams. Geoffrey refuses to remember the one and only time he had screamed it.
"Who is this Alexandra?" He breaks away from the memory's grasp and into reality. Geoffrey has a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, just who this Alexandra is. Potter ignores him, shooting him another glare, but Geoffrey needs to know. "Is she Dubhán's mother?" Potter's green eyes swerve to regard him.
"Yes, she is," he says sharply, punctuating the words by turning on his heel and striding toward the fireplace. Foolish, human, believing words and movements will dispel the memories. He had expected better of Potter. "I'll just call her, she should be home today."
He whispers the name of the house beneath his breath: Geoffrey suspects the aid of a few silencing charms. At least he has the sense to protect his Floo connection.
"Harry!" The voice is both quick and calming. "What are you calling for?"
"Where's Emma, Alex?" Across the fire, Alexandra Potter's face falls. He asks it as if he is worried she will overhear. As if someone has died. All she can think of is the late night call from his office about their son. Their son's body. Limp, cold, and dead. Harry has the same look now that he did then.
"She's with Hermione; they've gone shopping." She doesn't wink and mention it is for her own birthday. "Why?" She holds her breath, waiting for the worst.
"You have to understand it is tentative." Harry is always so afraid to get hopeful over anything, she reassures him with a nod. "We're still investigating the matter and-"
"Who is it about, Harry?" She needs to know and he needs to stop beating his very soul into the ground.
"Devlin. We have news on Devlin. I need you to come to Dumbledore's office. We think he may-" Potter never gets to finish.