A/N: this is the last chapter before we make a major jump in time and I start having to write all over again! I have about 50 pages written after this chapter, but there is a small gap I have to fill in. Please send me lots of encouraging reviews! :D
Remus is staring at him in what he thinks is an inconspicuous way, over the top of a book. Sirius is blatantly watching him. Zee is scuffling at the sofa, trying to dig under the piece of furniture to the kneazle beneath.
Finally Devlin has had enough and rescues the poor kitten.
"He'll get used to you, Emity," Devlin says softly, scratching the kitten that has already clung itself to his shoulder.
Mmmmine she purrs, rubbing her head against his cheek.
"That might be one reason you don't get along though," he whispers, sitting back on the sofa. Zee jumps up too, but he seems to have little problem with the kitten when it is in his master hands. He lays his head in Devlin's lap and instead just watches the kitten. Devlin thinks Zee's eyes are the only eyes in this room not directed at him. Well, and his own eyes, of course.
oOoOo
Devlin knows something is wrong. He wonders if the last seizure had been the last straw and now he is officially 'mad'. He wonders if it is just the change in environment, which makes him both stressed and comfortable at the same time. He wonders many things, but he knows, in the end, something is just 'wrong'.
His wolf shouldn't have this control over him. He never has before. He's never said things Devlin hadn't wanted said. They'd worked at a team, for the benefit of each other. He didn't understand. What was more, his wolf almost never 'took over' except for immediately after the Cruciatus Curse or sometimes after a seizure.
He sneaks down the stairs and into the living room. He can hear Remus and Sirius in the kitchen. Zee, on the sofa, looks up and see's his approach. His tail wags.
"Hush," Devlin whispers, making his way to the fireplace. He reaches up to the mantle, stretching his hand and standing on his tiptoes to be tall enough. His fingers brush by the jar of floo powder. It's no use; he's not tall enough.
He's just about to turn around and find a chair, when something that should have been obvious, occurs to him. It resounds in his head, in his grandfather's voice.
'You're a wizard, aren't you?'
So he makes the jar come to his hand and he brings it down to his level to open it up.
"Whacha doing?"
Devlin freezes and turns slowly around to see Sirius standing at the sofa, patting Zee's head. He stays silent. To say anything would be stupid.
"Devlin?"
He magic's the jar back up onto the mantle. He begins to walk past Sirius, but the man grabs his hand.
"Let me go!"
"What were you about to do?"
"I said, let me go."
"Devlin, please, talk to me."
"Let me go."
"No."
One word answers were never good. That's what Voldemort would say when he was at the end of his temper; Devlin shrinks back a little, trying to pull his arm free.
"Sirius?" It is Remus. Devlin turns toward the werewolf, hoping for rescue. Geoffrey always found a way to rescue him from the worst of the punishments.
"He was trying to go through the floo, Remus!"
"Oh, Devlin." There is sadness in the werewolf's eyes. Yet it doesn't seem like he'll rescue him, either.
"Let me go, please," he says softly, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. Tears are no good.
"Not until you tell us what's going on."
He wants to disappear. He doesn't know how to act. He just wants to be somewhere he understands. He wants his mum or dad or even grandfather. Someone he understands. Sirius is such a wildcard. He whines and argues with Remus all the time. He had been an Auror, when he had been younger.
"Devlin?" He realizes he's fallen completely still, his hard breathing and the fact that he's still standing, the only way they must know he's alive.
"Let go," he croaks, sobbing now.
"Devlin, please talk to us."
Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Just do what has to be done.
"I was only going to call my Dad," he says softly. The hand lets go of his wrist. He draws his hand back quickly, to his side.
"Why didn't you just ask us?"
"I didn't think I needed too."
"Have you ever used the floo here before?"
"No."
"It doesn't work for underage wizards."
"I didn't know." He scuffs the brown carpet with his shoe.
"If you had come to us, we could have helped."
"Alright."
He starts walking away.
"Devlin?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you, er, want to call your dad?"
"You just said if I'd asked you, you could've helped. I didn't ask you."
"But we know now, so we can help…"
He still hadn't turned around. He just didn't have the energy.
"That's not what you said."
He can see Remus looking intently behind him, probably at Sirius. It is one of those regards grown-ups share between themselves as they worry about the stupidity of a child. But Devlin isn't stupid, he's just cautious; it's not his fault these people aren't clear. They say 'you should have' but they don't hold you accountable for not doing whatever they wanted you to do.
"Why did you want to call him, Devlin?" Now Remus' brown eyes are on him again.
He shrugs.
"I just wanted to talk."
About how something doesn't feel right. About how I think I'm going mad. About the boy I bit.
He walks away before either of them can say anything else and trudges back upstairs.
He wonders what Emma is doing. She's probably playing with Freddie. He'd like to be playing with Freddie, because then he wouldn't be thinking about this.
But they don't trust you. They probably think you'd hurt Emma if they weren't around, or hurt the other kids.
He wouldn't.
But you've bitten a kid before!
And now they knew that. It was so shameful. Even in normal werewolf circles, it was disgraceful to have bitten a minor. If Geoffrey knew…
He crawls into bed and pulls the covers over his head. Inside his warm cave, he whispers the most powerful silencing charm he knows. Only then, does he cry.
The first thing he hears when he wakes up is Emma's feet running up the stairs and then her voice as she shouts his name from the top of them. He curls in deeper to his bed. If he comes out, she will fill his ears about how wonderful the day had been and all the people she had played with and all the homework she has to do. He'd like to be doing homework. He used to have tutors and classes and essay's to complete on time or else. He used to keep as busy as possible, but now he had nothing to do.
He ignores her knocking and he sighs in relief when the shout from upstairs reaches his ears: "Emma, come back downstairs!"
He drifts off to sleep again, trying to figure out, based on Emma's homework, how far ahead of her he was.
The next time he wakes up, it is to someone knocking on his door again. He pulls the covers closer to him.
"Devlin, it's Dad. Dinner is almost ready."
He should answer, but he doesn't.
"Devlin?"
He finds himself being mad at his father, even while he feels so mortified. The only thing that both parts of him agree on is staying under the covers.
"Devlin, I'd really like to talk…"
He screams into his blanket, the silencing charm making the sound reverberate loudly under the blanket. He doesn't know how to feel and all that not knowing is making him feel like he'll explode.
'You did so well last night,' his grandfather had murmured the day after he'd bitten the boy. He'd smiled because he couldn't remember a damn thing. It had been weeks later that his wolf had shared the memory with him. Perhaps it had been weeks later that he could share memories with him. Devlin isn't sure. Everything from those early days is a swirl of pain and fear and uncertainty with brief moments of pride and joy at feeling a mediocre of value and safety.
He feels sick to his stomach at the memory. His screams turn into sobs. He barely notices when his door opens and someone cancels his silencing charm. He falls still when a weight settles onto the edge of his bed and peaks his head out from under the blanket. His father is sitting there, his hands folded on his lap, fiddling with his wand. He isn't looking at him.
"You're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice scathing.
"You're not supposed to hide that you're hurting."
He flops back down, hiding his face from his father.
"Devlin, we need to talk."
"I don't want to talk to you now."
"When do you want to talk?"
"Never!" He tries murmuring a silencing charm again, but his father swishes his wand and it is canceled.
"No more silencing charms." He sits up so that he can glare at his father. "If something is bothering you, come talk to an adult."
Another glare.
"I heard you tried to call me today," he says softly, kindly.
"I lied."
"Excuse me?"
"I wasn't trying to call you."
His father's eyebrows rise up.
"Then what were you doing?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, it does. You know it does."
"I was gonna call Professor Snape."
"Why?"
"You can't make me tell you."
"No, I can't."
"Not even if you used the curse."
"The Imperius curse?"
"Yeah. I know how to break it."
His father is looking at him with admiration.
"There are a lot of fifth years at Hogwart's who can't do that."
"Yeah well, I'm good at magic!" He's aware his voice is a little louder than it needs to be, but somehow he isn't been able to stop its volume.
"You're more than good at magic, Devlin," his father says, his eyes going back to his wand. "You have a control over it that is sometimes startling. Sometimes I look at you and I wonder if I'm in the same room as the next Albus Dumbledore, or Voldemort, or Grindelwald."
"Or you?"
His father's green eyes turn to him, startled.
"Oh no, you and I are different. I don't have the control over my magic like Albus or Voldemort does. When I was little, it would save me from things, like my cousin chasing me, or when my Aunt gave me this hideous haircut, my hair grew back. Or one time, I'm told, she was about to put this disgusting sweater on me, and the sweater just began to shrink."
"My magic doesn't do that."
"No?"
"I don't think it does stuff unless I make it. Except…maybe when it thought I was going to go mad that one time…"
Harry smiles softly.
"See, that's why we're different. I couldn't have ever 'told' it to save me. There were plenty of times that Dudley caught me, or Aunt Petunia gave me hideous clothes, or someone called my parent's good-for-nothing-drunks, but I didn't always disapperate, or change the clothing, or blow the nay-sayers up like a balloon."
"Did you ever blow someone up like a balloon?" He asks incredulously.
"Oh yeah, I did!" He smiles sheepishly. "Don't tell your mum I told you that, though. She'll think I'm feeding you inappropriate ideas."
"Why'd you blow them up?"
"Well, it was my Aunt Marge, and she said some pretty nasty things about my mum and dad. It just got to be too much."
"Oh." He looks away. "Does Mum really think you shouldn't tell me that stuff?"
"Yeah, but I think all mum's are like that."
He shrugs.
"I wouldn't blow someone up, you know." He looks away at his hands.
His father laughs awkwardly.
"I didn't think you would."
"I wouldn't hurt anyone that wasn't hurting me…"
"I don't think that of you either."
"Then why don't you trust me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why won't you let me do things?"
"What did you want to do?"
"I'm smart, you know."
"Oh, I definitely know that."
"I'm good at spells and essays and almost everything."
"Amazingly so, yes."
"Then why don't I get to do any of it? I used to have tutors, you know. I used to write three or more foot essays."
"I er…I figured you probably wanted a break. Your mum and I didn't want to push you. And you never told us that, either. We didn't know."
Devlin frowns.
"If you wanted to have tutors, we could do that. If you want to write essays, that can be arranged…although I really did think I was doing you a favor not asking you to do that while you were still adjusting…"
"So, I could go to Emma's school?"
Suddenly his father looks away. He purses his lips.
"No."
"Because you think I'm stupid or I'd hurt someone!" He accuses.
"No, that's not why."
"Then why not!"
"Because there are something's that even your mum and I can't change for you, Devlin. No matter how much we want to…we can't." He swallows hard. "You're not allowed there."
"Because they know I was around Death Eaters?"
"No, although I'm sure if I argued with them again, they'd try to bring that up too. It's much simpler than that, and far more unfair."
Devlin is looking at him intently, his eyes wide and anxious and still a little accusing.
"You're a werewolf and even today, the stigma…they won't allow it. Hogwarts is the only school in Europe that has ever allowed a werewolf to be taught inside of its walls."
"So…it's not because you think I'd hurt them or Emma or try and escape or because I'm stupid?"
He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath – a very deep breath.
"No."
"Did you ask them?"
"I asked them. I tried to use favors. I threatened to go public… but the Headmaster just sat me down and said: "don't force it. You may get what you want, but he won't get what he needs."" He sighs. "And he was right. You might have gotten in, but many children would have been told to stay away from you, and most parents would argue and threaten…and you wouldn't have gotten what you needed. What any child needs out of a school situation: a non-judgmental atmosphere, a nurturing environment, a fair playing field…I couldn't give that to you there. I can't give that too you. Even at Hogwarts, people will avoid you, but at least by that time, lots of kids are thinking for themselves…"
They look at each other for a long moment.
"Is it like that everywhere?"
His father looks at him, his regard intent and searching. He hadn't expected to see such uncertainty and confusion in his son's eyes about this subject. Was it possible Voldemort had sheltered him from the stigma?
"Yeah, it is."
"Everyone will be afraid of me?"
A deep breath, "Not everyone, but a lot of them."
"No one has ever been afraid of me for that, I don't think…" He bites his lower lip. "Maybe there were just other things to be afraid about."
"I'm so sorry, Devlin."
Devlin shrugs. He's never really thought of himself as scary for that reason. He knows he is capable of things that other children aren't. How many nine year olds can perform the Imperius Curse, after all? He knows the knowledge puts him in a position of power, of some sorts, but he had never thought that without all his training and tutoring and time with Voldemort, that people would have still regarded him with this uncertainty and fear. Would everyone look at him like Professor Snape had looked at his wolf?
They have every right to be afraid…you bit that boy.
He swallows hard.
"It's alright," he mumbles through his suddenly dry mouth. This is just another sacrifice to make sure everyone is okay, like staying with Voldemort no matter what to protect Emma. He shouldn't let anyone trust him.
He hears his father give an extended sigh.
"It's not alright, Devlin, it's unfair and unjust and I wish I could fix it all for you."
"It's not unfair," he says softly, his voice calm and empty. He's resigned himself to this new discovery. Now he understands why no one trusts him. It's because he can't be trusted.
"Of course it is!" His father says, his voice defensive. Devlin keeps his eyes on his own hands.
"They're right to be afraid of me," he continues, trying to keep his voice above a whisper.
"What?" His father leans forward, so that Devlin can see his eyes out of the corner of his own eyes. "What are you talking about, Devlin?"
"They're right to be afraid. That little boy, he was afraid of me. He was so afraid. He trusted me, and all I did was get him killed."
"People have every right to be afraid of an unmedicated werewolf that could harm them – absolutely. But there is no reason to be afraid of you."
"I'm not normal. You said yourself that my wolf isn't separate like other werewolves. Maybe there will come a time when I am so angry that I can't stop him."
"You're wolf isn't entirely wolfish either, Devlin."
"I couldn't stop him then. That boy begged begged me. He screamed my name. He screamed for his mum. He screamed that he'd be 'good' and that he wouldn't be a 'muggle' anymore. He screamed just for screaming, without any words. None of it stopped me. I bit him."
"You were not given Wolfsbane, Devlin."
Devlin begins sobbing.
OoOoO
At dinner Devlin moves his mash potatoes around with his fork, sculpting them into pyramids and mountains and other things that are more entertaining than simply eating them would have been.
"Devlin, are you alright?" His mum asks softly. He supposed his dad hadn't told her about his sob-fest earlier. He makes to meet her eyes, but at the last moment, lowers them to his plate again. He can't look her in the eyes.
"Yeah, fine," he mumbles, trying to sound certain. Inside part of him withers at his cowardice and another parts begs her to see past his falsehood and make him tell.
"Alright," she says instead, eyeing his father, who simply shrugs. He's a mystery to them. They're afraid to push him, prod him, or otherwise stress him out. A long silence passes over the table. Finally Alexandra and Harry start talking about work and fill in the silence.
He is just about to bring a piece of mash potato to his mouth, when he catches sight of Emma, staring at him.
"What are you lookin' at?" He asks, a bit defensively. Sometimes her stares are downright creepy because the eyes are so innocent, yet she seems to know things about you, just from staring.
"Are you alright, Devlin?" She asks softly.
He growls a bit.
"Didn't you hear me say I was to Mum, a minute ago?"
"I heard," she says slowly and patiently, like she's talking to someone who just can't see the sense in her words, "but I think you were fibbing."
She was staring at him again and he feels his heart quicken a bit at the possibility that she would see everything. He didn't want her to understand.
"I'm fine," he says again, hoping to alleviate her concern.
"I don't believe you," she says, tipping her head and regarding him with such love and kindness and innocence that it confuses him.
"Why?" Part of him clings to the possibility that she knows and she will tell them. That he won't have too.
"Because you don't look okay," she whispers, leaning forward. By now Mum and Dad have gone quiet, regarding both of them.
"I'm fine."
"You've been acting weird," she points out, her eyebrows quirking.
"Maybe I'm just weird," he defends, putting the forkful of mash potatoes in his mouth.
"Maybe you're sick," she says, as a comeback. Her eyebrows quirk again.
"I'm not one of your dolly's," he says "stop trying to mother me!" He isn't sure why he's angry with her. Moments before he had wanted her to know, but now the mere idea that she sees he is falling apart frightens him.
"I didn't say you were!" She says loudly, pouting at him.
"Then stop saying I'm not okay when I said I'm fine!"
"Then stop acting all weird!"
"I'm not acting weird!"
"Yes you are! You are! You are!"
"Stop it!" His plate of food flies into the air and soars across the room, breaking into pieces as it slams into the cupboard. The food explodes and everyone is sprayed with mash potatoes and chicken.
Emma looks taken aback. She is staring at him with wide eyes.
"Erm, that was interesting," Mum says, and swishes her wand to clean the mess up.
Devlin can feel himself slipping away. It's like Crucio without the pain. Once more, his wolf catches him and keeps them there; keeps them from slipping into the darkness that is dangerous, dangerous, dangerous!
Everything goes still. His magic is frozen beneath his fingers. He licks his lips and swallows past his suddenly dry throat.
"Something is wrong," he says softly, with an edge of desperation. "Right now. Something is wrong right now."
Emma is frowning at him, as if she isn't certain where this is going but knows it is over her head.
"What's wrong?" His mum asks, bending down so that she's in front of him.
"I donno," he whispers. He feels every muscle in his body and is suddenly aware of how much concentration it takes to keep him upright. "I donno." Words are even harder, taking precision movements and planning that is almost beyond him.
"Are you about to have a seizure, Devlin?" Mum asks, her bright blue eyes filling his vision.
He debates for a moment and then decides it will be easier to move his head than to form words. So he nods his head.
"I'll get a potion," Dad whispers and dashes way.
"Already," he says desperately, hoping they'll understand.
His mum's eyes go wide and she stands up suddenly.
"Stay here," she whispers and kisses him on his hair.
It's not like he has much choice in the matter. It is either standing or collapsing, but there is no chance he'd move very far. He feels trapped in his own body, his muscles tense like he's under Crucio, but without an ounce of pain. He realizes that he's him, when he should be the wolf. He is always the wolf during these episodes. A shiver runs up his spine and for a moment he feels a glimmer of pain, but then it is gone.
He can smell him before he can see him. He smells like the thick metal of a cauldron. Like herbs and blood and venom. He smells like what Devlin loves and for a moment calmness washes over him.
"Open you're eyes and look at me," Snape orders, his voice sharp and commanding. Devlin obeys; for a moment it is like he is back home with Grandfather. This man does not hug, kiss, or comfort. He fixes things without emotion, even though desiring to fix things like a boy must require quite a bit of emotions to be present in him. Deep in him. Never at the surface. He and Devlin are a lot alike. "What are you feeling?"
His mind has opened up and now he feels like he can at least command his throat and tongue and lips to do his bidding. He feels his wolf at his side again, helping him. They are a team.
"Like Crucio, without the pain."
Emma's eyes are wide behind Snape. Somewhere she has heard that word, perhaps whispered in a hush voice by an older student, perhaps behind their parents bedroom door, before they'd realized she was outside their door. Wherever she has learned it from, it is clear she simply knows it is a terrible thing.
"You're muscles are tense?"
Devlin nods.
"Did you take your medication?"
"Yes," he says.
Like clockwork, his father comes around the corner with the vial, startled to see Snape in his kitchen.
There is a briefest of moments, when he comes around the corner and before Snape turns his head to acknowledge his presence, that Devlin see's the Harry Potter everyone else must see. His wand is drawn in a blink of an eye. His face is not quite harsh, but neither is it welcoming; it looks like a fighters face, anticipating battle.
"Put your wand down, Potter," Snape growls, motioning to his still-poised weapon. That is all it takes for Devlin's Harry Potter to come back. His sheepish smile. His welcoming smile that makes Devlin feel four years old again.
Devlin wonders if it's all a mask, for him. Devlin wonders, for the first time, if Harry Potter and he aren't a lot alike, too.
"Sorry, Snape. I didn't know Alexandra sent for you."
"Humf," Snape says, as way of acknowledgement. A moment passes and then, "Well, aren't you going to give the boy his medicine. I want to watch the effect."
Harry hands the vial to Devlin who brings it slowly to his lips. The whole process still seems more complex than it should, to Devlin.
The potion tastes as disgusting as always.
"Frog!" He cries desperately, wanting the fowl taste to vanish now.
"No," Snape says, his black eyes searching his whole face. Watching him. "It could react with the potion, even minutely."
Devlin nods, even if there is a desperate look to his eyes. The horrible taste lingers in his throat, feeling like acid slowly eroding the tissue.
"How much does he weigh?" Snape asks, turning suddenly to Harry.
"I don't know," Harry says, shrugging.
"No matter," Snape sneers and withdraws his wand, waving it over Devlin's head. He is lifted into the air by an inch or so then settled down again. Numbers appear above his head: 61.
"Now what was his weight when he came to you?"
Alexandra is looking at Harry expectantly, but Harry simply shrugs.
"We didn't get that far at the healers," he says, smiling sheepishly again.
"I weighed 55," Devlin says quietly. He's not sure why Snape hadn't asked him in the first place. It is, after all, a question about him.
"How do you feel now?"
"Fine." Which was true. The tenseness in his muscles had vanished. His magic was back, buzzing under his skin.
"It is a weight discrepancy. The potion must need to be periodically updated. There is probably a formula for each weight increase. Were you weighed regularly?"
"About once a month."
"Why didn't you tell us your potion would need to be updated?" Snape says, with a slight edge of a sneer.
"I didn't know. No one ever told me!"
"Indeed. It would render you quite unstable, mentally, to be only partway medicated. How very convenient."
Devlin frowns, his mind still a little sluggish, trying to decipher the meaning behind those words.
"Give him two vials tomorrow. I don't like over medicating, but it will have to do until I can figure out the formula. Tell me if anything unusual occurs again."
"Thank you, Severus," Harry whispers, walking with Severus down the hall.
"And Potter?"
"Yes, Severus?"
"Get the boy to a healer. He's been here almost a year."
oOoOoOoOo
He's been here almost a year.
Devlin throw the covers off his head, breathing in the cool air. At the end of the bed, Zee is regarding him with quirked ears. Devlin scrunches up his nose at the dog, and flops his head down. He would have transformed, but then he wouldn't have been able to think so humanly, and part of him doesn't want to give up this train of thought.
He's been here almost a year.
Almost a year - it's almost hard to imagine that it has been that long.
When in that almost-year did you stop calling him Potter and start calling him Dad? But Devlin knows that had happened far more quickly than other things.
When in that almost-year did you start keeping your shoes downstairs with everyone else's? When did you start helping to set the table? When did you start leaving your things around the house?
Devlin pulls the covers over his head again, breathing in the hot air.
When did you give up on Grandfather? When did you start thinking of this as 'home'?
But then he peeks out from under his covers and realizes that he hasn't completely done either of those things. There, sitting in front of his desk, as it has always been, is his backpack. There are always ten vials of his medication inside, extra clothes, the money he has earned from allowance, and the items most important to him. If this were his home, all those important things would be around his room, not stuffed in a bag, ready to be brought with him at a moments notice.
Part of him is still waiting for Voldemort. Part of him isn't thinking of this as home. And part of him is still comforted by these realizations. Yet, all those parts do not equal a whole, and there are other parts, many parts, that are as equally as uncomfortable with this realization.
He feels more clearheaded than he has in a long time, but also extremely calm. He finds himself standing up and walking into the hallway. He is knocking on his parents door before he even begins to realize they may be asleep. He stops knocking. Maybe he hasn't woken them up.
He waits, but no one comes to him.
They would think I had a nightmare, he thinks and the thought unsettles him, because they have never hesitated to come to his aid before.
The total calm he had felt before shatters and he races down the hallway.
His heart is racing. His feet are flying.
"I don't want to talk about it, Alex!"
Devlin skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps, a mere breath away from shouting for his parents.
"You never want to talk about it, Harry. That's the problem. You keep everything in here until it just explodes and then Ron is dragging you home drunk or you're sleeping at work!"
"I've been better!" Devlin hears Harry shout. Devlin has never heard his father shout. He's never heard him angry at all.
"You've been better in front of him which has consequently meant you've been better in front of us, but that shouldn't be mistaken as you truly being better."
"I've been better because of him," Harry seethes. Devlin frowns.
"You've missed dinner this whole week, Harry."
"Because of work!"
"War is your work Harry. Make no mistake - I know what is on your plate. It isn't that you missed dinner so much as, from experience, that is how it starts. You pour your energy into some new crisis at work so that you can forget something and now that Devlin is here, I want to know what the hell you're not telling me!"
"Nothing important."
"If it weren't important, you wouldn't have missed dinnertime!"
"I made dinner tonight!"
"Because I waited! I bribed Emma with a cookie and Devlin with a cheese pastry."
Devlin hears Harry sigh.
"Look, I'm sorry I've been so busy, Alex, but really it is just hectic at work."
"I talked to some friends. The rest of your squad has been home in time for dinner..."
"You called my co-workers?"
"No, I chatted with their wives."
"Merlin, Alex! Even if something is bugging me, I don't have to tell you!"
"You wouldn't be this upset unless you felt guilty for not telling me, which means you need to tell me!"
"I'm going out!" Devlin shrinks back a bit as Harry comes storming out of the kitchen, down the hall and grabs his jacket from a hook, all without noticing the nine year old standing in front of the steps.
Alexandra comes to the doorway and is about to turn to Harry at the end of the hall, but instead catches sight of Devlin.
"Oh, Devlin," she whispers, stepping close to him. "Why are you out of bed, sweety?"
Harry has turned around to see and his whole face has drained of color. He opens the door, sticks his head out, and then seems to steel himself, and turns around instead.
Alexandra already has her arms around him.
He only realizes he's crying when he feels her wet blouse against his cheek.
"It's alright, Devlin."
He shakes his head against her.
"No it's not," he whispers and when he peeks out, he can see his father frozen in the hallway.
"Your father and I were just talking, Devlin."
"You were yelling," he says.
"Sometimes that's how adults talk difficult things out. Like when you get upset with us, but we know you still love us and we still love you."
"I know that," he says, because he does. He hadn't thought they didn't care about each other just because they were yelling. "You were yelling because of me."
"Oh no, baby, we weren't. We were talking about something else."
"No you weren't, because you didn't know what you were talking about because Dad wouldn't tell you."
Alexandra falls silent but Devlin thinks they are probably looking at each other across the hall.
"It wasn't about you, Devlin." She sounds almost confident.
"Yeah it was. It was about something Grandfather made me do, Mum. I know it was, because I know Dad would be afraid to tell you because I would have been mad."
"About something Voldemort made you do?" She asks, her voice soft but unwavering, but her hand is grasping at his pajama top and pulling him against her. He turns his head so that he can breath and finds himself staring into his father's eyes. Their eyes are a lot alike. There is fear and desperation and hope shimmering all at once in those famous emerald eyes, but there is also the remnants of anger and determination and all those things mixed together make Devlin wonder once more today how much he and his father might actually share.
"I bit a boy," he whispers, staring unblinking at his father. He hears and feels his mother's heart quicken. "They locked me in a room with him before I transformed."
"Oh God," she sobs, burying her face and her tears in his hair. "Oh God, I'm so sorry Devlin."
"You buried him," Devlin says, trying to be calm for her. She has to know it all. She has to know everything Harry hadn't told her.
"What?" She croaks, half not understanding.
"They made me bite him so that when they killed him, he would trick Remus."
Her body shivers against him, racked with sobs.
"And they told you that? They told you and then made you do it? Oh God, oh God, oh God."
"I saw the newspaper and that's when I knew. I didn't remember the boy for weeks. I don't think my wolf and I were that close then, you know?"
She pulls him closer.
"It's okay, mum."
"It is absolutely not okay," she whispers, breathing into his hair. Harry hangs his jacket back up and comes over to them, wrapping his arms around Alexandra. "I promise, never again." Her tears are falling into his hair. Devlin breathes in her scent and tries to remember this moment that he knows he can't believe, even if every fiber in his body is begging him to do just that.
Finders keepers, he had once told himself as a little boy, when Voldemort had said 'You are mine, because I took you.' Finders keepers - Voldemort would find him again, because he was Voldemort's. He belonged to the monster with the red eyes and nothing his parents ever did would change that. He had found him once, he would find him again.
Upcoming:
He'd made it in.
He brushes his thumb across the maroon seal for a moment, admiring it's simplicity and meaning.
And even further ahead:
Devlin knows he isn't an ordinary boy.
Voldemort had went about experimenting to see what he himself would have been like and inadvertently created a weapon. A living, breathing weapon that could choose who it would arm.
oOoOo
When he looks up, he is met with gleaming green eyes and perfectly parted hair and handsome aristocratic features.
"I told you that you looked like me, did I not?" The man asks, his words gentle but well formed. The sound of his voice makes you think him intelligent and wealthy.
"Yes," he says simply. He wonders if he should scream. He must warn Maria. He opens his mouth to say something he hopes she will understand, but she is already returning, hardly glancing at the man as she squeezes past him to get to Devlin. She thinks he's just another customer.
A/N: Can you tell why I need some really encouraging reviews? I have to make up all of Devlin's friends and write the sorting and everything, after that is done, I have about 50ish pages written from where the plot really starts going. But filling in the gap is going to be hard, and I'd really appreciate some reviews to get me motivated. :D
PLEASE REVIEW!