I want to give big thanks to the one reviewer. As a writer I'm not dependant on reviews. This story is in my head, so I write it down. But I also admit it would be nice to know if you liked this story (or really hated it, either way). I mean, there are have been over 200 unique visitors to this story, but only one of you reviewed. Surely this statistics aren't that bad! Surely more then one of you has an opinion of this story? So please leave a review!
I changed some things up in this chapter, so I may have to edit it one last time before I'm totally happy with it. Still, I ran spell check and gave it a read over, so it should be fine grammatically speaking. If you see any mistakes, please let me know.
ETA: Apparently I didn't hit "save" when I re-added the scene brakes. Sorry about that. All fixed now. :)
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Four: The Trick
"You have to get him out of there." Geoffrey sighed. "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 was even aware of why Geoffrey was so protective; perhaps he was familiar with Werewolf culture. Whether Potter knew that much about Werewolves or not, Geoffrey found himself reacting as if he did; he tipped his head up, exposing his neck, as he answered. The act of understanding and submission went right over Potter'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 many 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 out of the camp; it would notify the Dark Lord."
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He was exhausted and still pacing, when a hand, at last, landed on his shoulder. Instantly, he knew it was not his Grandfather. It was Geoffrey. Only Geoffrey laid his hand down with such a human weight to it. Grandfather, when he was not angry, touched him as if were a china doll of great expense. He turned around. He wanted to hug the man, but found himself beating his fits onto Geoffrey's chest instead.
"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, nor did anything to stop him; he lifted the child up and put him, standing him on his bed, so that they were eye to eye. Something in his eyes stopped the child.
"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 grab hold of it again.
"Where were you?" He asked instead, fixing Geoffrey with a challenging stare. Geoffrey kept Dubhán's gaze for a moment, but only a moment.
"I cannot tell you." Dubhán growled.
"Grandfather promised he would not send you anywhere tonight." Geoffrey wished he could let the child continue to shift the blame, but he cannot. If Dubhán blamed The Dark Lord, he would comment to him. The Dark Lord's awareness of his absence was to be avoided at all costs.
"Your Grandfather did no such thing. I betrayed his orders to stay here with you." Dark and curious, Dubhán's eyes turned on him.
"But you cannot tell me?" Geoffrey shook his head slowly, waiting with baited breath. "Are you asking me to keep a secret, Geoffrey?" His tone is light and friendly. If it had come from anyone else, Geoffrey would have shaken his head and replied with a quiet, negative, demur. Coming from Dubhán, Geoffrey knew it might be a game – a bait to expose his nervousness. Geoffrey nodded.
Moment's passed in silence. "I had a nightmare...will you stay with me?" Geoffrey nodded again, fearful that the child had not given him any firm answer, yet unwilling to seem as such. Geoffrey seated himself on the edge of the child's bed and watched him quietly. A small hand, warm from the blankets, laid itself on top of his. "I won't tell him, Geoffrey." Geoffrey smiled softly and took his hand, brushing the tiny fingers as the boy fell into slumber.
When Dubhán's breath had settled and he was firmly asleep, Geoffrey drew himself up and moved to the chair near the bed. Now he only had to wait for Voldemort, and hope, beyond anything, that his Master was not able to sense betrayal like Geoffrey could fear. It was dark and silent; the perfect atmosphere for brooding about his potential treason. He was traitor; he had taken the step from consideration to action. He found no pride in it, as he might have expected, only cold, dead, fear.
What would Dubhán think of him? He could picture the child yelling, screaming, fighting back tears he never allowed to fall and then turning his eyes upon him. Those eyes would not be filled with hate, not with fright, nor even desperation but rather, disappointment. He had trusted, he trusts, him. He would loose the only person who had never hurt him, since his arrival.
He wondered, in the child's mind, if he blamed his father, the great Harry Potter, for not coming and getting him, or his mother, the one who tucked him in and kissed his forehead, for forgetting him. He wondered if he remembered either of his parents beyond vague sensations. He wondered what Potter would think of a child who had only stepped on a broom in a trial practice of escape from hismen.
He wondered what both parents would think of a child who despised their very jobs. He wondered and pondered and brooded so hard and so long, that he didn't notice, half an hour later, the door to the room open and spread a sliver of light onto the bed, and onto his chair.
The Dark Lords face came into view. His eyes, crimson like coals that had succumbed to flames, found Geoffrey in the chair. This was Voldemort, not Tom; Voldemort who only hid himself from one person, and he must have known that person was asleep. For a moment, as he stared at the child, his eyes softened and turned a murky green.
"I did not expect you to be in here, Geoffrey." Geoffrey rose slowly from the chair, walking into the hallway as the Dark Lord held the door open.
"Dubhán had a nightmare." Voldemort's eyes went again to the child, visible through the slightly ajar door and then returned to Geoffrey.
"Did he speak about its contents with you?" Geoffrey shook his head. Again, those crimson eyes traveled to the black hair and pale skin hidden under a downy blanket.
"I see..." He closed the door carefully. "You may go then." Geoffrey nodded quickly, swiftly walking down the short hallway and to the front door. He would sleep in the Barracks tonight; he had a sense that his Master wanted him nowhere near that building.
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"Morning Geoffrey." This was Dubhán's constant greeting every morning. It had only changed once in the four years Geoffrey knew him, and that was the curtailing of 'good'.
"Good morning, Dubhán." He watched the child button up his dress shirt and come over to the bed to tie his shoes. "Why are you so dressed up today?" Dubhán glanced at him, blinking twice.
"There is no need for school clothes today, my tutors are all apparently busy today, all day. I suppose Grandfather is holding an important meeting."
"I see. What do you plan to do, then?"
"Wait until lunch, when I will attempt to have Grandfather see my side of the argument about visiting the book store."
"He has told you it is alright to interrupt his meeting?" Geoffrey did not want to turn up on Voldemort's bad side.
"No. He didn't say anything about such matters. He left a note that said he, and my tutors, would be in a meeting all day long." He finished off the laces, a perfect bow. "Besides, the Guard's will scowl at us and lift their wands if I am not permitted." He managed to say this without sounding put upon.
"Why do you wish to visit the book store?" He looked around the child's many, cramped, bookshelves for emphasis.
"I've run out of books."
"You've finished reading them, you mean? You can't have run out of them," he sweeps his hand across the direction of the whole wall bookcase, "you have at least a hundred."
"Yes well, I've finished reading them all...twice. I could even, dear Geoffrey, recite quite a few, if you like. What do you think of William Swautherd's Philosophy of Magical Origin. I know up to page 342." He took a deep breath before Geoffrey could stop him. "Magic is a manifestation of energy which the mind gives a certain-"
"Yes, I believe you. I rather think I would not like you to prove it." Geoffrey, trained from a young man to think strategically, could not help but notice that leaving the base by Dubhán's own wish, would be the best opportunity. It would also, however, mark him as clear as blood on his palms, as a traitor. Potter had made no promise to keep him safe.
"You know I would never lie to you." There is a self-satisfied smile on Dubhán's face. It is not a real smile, though.
"Do you believe he will allow it on such short notice?"
"Of course not, Geoffrey. My Grandfather likes to arrange things. It will be a few days. I do, however, have to ask sometime." He shrugged on a clean-lined black robe, classic against the deep green (almost black itself) shirt, as being of Slytherin house. Dubhán was dressing for the occasion; he was manipulating Voldemort.
"I told your Grandfather you had a nightmare last night, when he asked me why I was sitting with you." Dubhán regarded him with a raised, knitted, brow. "I thought you ought to be aware." He did not ask if was alright – he knew better. He was still playing as if nothing had happened, and it was his job to tell The Dark Lord such things.
"Thank you for telling me."
"We never discuss your dreams, Dubhán, but we both know they are painful; what does Voldemort think you are dreaming of?" Dubhán looked away, lifting to his feet and tucking his green-chain necklace under his shirt.
"Some secrets are better left unsaid." He strode to the door and laid his hand on it. "Are you coming, or shall I speak to him alone?" Geoffrey rose and left the room with him.
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"Harry!" Harry Potter spun around the hallway, meeting Hermione Granger's gaze. He should have expected her to be early, should have known he would not even get the chance to step into his office, when he had asked her to come see him at work. "Harry, are you alright?" She was not asking the question as one friend might to another; she was concerned for him.
He blinked.
That had not been what he had expected her to ask first. "I am; why do you ask?" Her eyes glazed over, as if she were debating whether she should really answer, or if she should, could, go on as if she had never asked.
"You never speak about Dubhán unless it's his birthday; and then Ron is dragging you home drunk." Harry took her hand and they began to walk to his office. He did not know who to respond to that, he wanted to forget those nights, wanted to pretend, for certain, that they would never happen again. He wanted to imagine he wasn't worried Voldemort would somehow get the information that he knew about Devlin and decide to kill his son.
"Has Ron spoken to you?" She narrowed her eyes, now seated in front of his desk.
"No. I asked him to lunch and he said he couldn't leave the office, so I asked him to dinner, and he said he couldn't leave the office. What is going on, Harry?" So he told her, and even his somber concerns could not keep the smile from his face as he told her his son was alive.
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"Goodnight Emma," Harry whispers when he comes home late that night. The girl is already asleep, but Harry places a gentle kiss onto her forehead and stares at her for a minute. Sometimes when he sees her so safe and relaxed he can't help but think of that horrible night. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the image of her little baby face screaming and her hands clinging desperately to Alex's neck and the Death Eater's wands pointed at both of them.
He closes the door softly, trying once more to dispel the memory. Out in the hallway he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Without really thinking he walks down the hallway and opens a different door.
It is painted in blues and greens. On the walls are flying brooms and cartoon creatures. On the bed are stuffed animals. He sits down on the bed and reaches for a stuffed Wolf that Remus had gotten Devlin for his fourth birthday. He holds it close to him.
He often comes in here to sit and think and cry, but today he looks around thinking something different: this room is so little. Would Devlin still like racing brooms zooming on his walls? What about that teddy bear over there? What about the toy dragons?
The pitter patter of feet make him look up. Zee is sitting at the door, wagging his tail.
"Hi boy," he says, his voice hoarse from crying. The dog whimpers softly. He knows this room. He used to sleep here every night. It had been Hermione's idea to get Devlin a dog when, after the attack, he hadn't been able to sleep alone at all. Zee had been perfect and they had quickly become inseparable.
The dog wandered over and climbed quietly onto the bed next to Harry. He was five now.
"He's going to come home soon," Harry whispers to the dog, patting its head. "But you can't be upset if he doesn't remember you at first or pretends not to like you, okay boy?" The dog tilts it's head and whines again. After a while Harry gets up to go to bed, but no matter how much he call's Zee, the dog won't move.
"I know, you miss him too. You can sleep here." And Harry does something he hasn't done in years – he leaves Devlin's door open, because it doesn't seem like such a shrine anymore. Its owner will be coming back.
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"Wednesday we're going to the bookstore," Dubhán says over his shoulder. He has come into the Barracks eating area and the other werewolves that Geoffrey is eating with look up and smile and say quick 'hellos'.
"Can I see the slip?" Dubhán hands over a piece of paper outlining the scheduled event and signed with Voldemort's script. Geoffrey nods and puts it in his pocket.
"Did you already eat?" Dubhán shakes his head, so Geoffrey scoots over and makes room for him. The other werewolves rustle his hair and pat him on the back as they pass. Some even tease him and tell him they'll bite his tail if he bites their ears again on the next Moon-day. Geoffrey doesn't think Potter could ever imagine Death Eaters treating his son like this. 'We don't think of him as Potter's son,' Geoffrey thinks to himself as he watches Dubhán eat some eggs, 'we just think of him as ours. He's part of our pack.' Geoffrey looked around the table and realized that Wednesday morning would be the last breakfast he shared with his pack.
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