Yeah, I know it's been a while. It is extra long though. :)
She will tell them.
It was a constant thought that followed him like a ghost over the next few days. When he would close his eyes, all he could see was her. Blue summer dress, unravelling braid, brilliant blue eyes.
She will tell them, and then they will know.
Her mouth, wide and screaming, struggling wildly.
The inevitableness of it hung around him like a dense storm cloud, stabbing him with lightning when he least expected it. He would find his breath caught in his lungs and his whole body frozen. Like right now.
"Devlin?"
Somehow he found the will to move his eyes and catch Alexandra's gaze. Her eyes, as brilliant blue as the girls, gazed at him with worry that made his frozen body wish it could squirm.
"Devlin - it's time to go."
He meant to say something, but instead of words there was only a squeak from his traitorous vocal cords. Potter was looking at him now, too - green eyes narrowed and sharp, looking for what was causing him to act so strangely.
She had always done this too him. From the moment he had seen her until the moment he had done it too her, he hadn't felt right. Even afterwards there had been a lingering sense of difference that he had meticulously worked to cover up, becoming more and more aware of how he looked and acted and moved and spoke and breathed and blinked and-
"Devlin, come on - you can hold my hand."
Potter could make his voice lack all worry - presenting a carefree facade, but he hid it from his voice only for it to escape into his brilliant green eyes.
Just that morning a white owl that Potter had called 'Junior' had come to peck on Sirius' kitchen window, alerting Potter to the fact that there were messages waiting for him at home. He had sighed and proclaimed that they should all really go home, regardless. Sirius had pouted and Geoffrey had looked curiously at them all, but especially at him, searching his face for his reaction. It had only been Geoffrey's eyes on him that had made him be so careful to look like nothing, nothing, nothing on the outside. Inside he was fear, dread, doom, chaos, screams. She had told her parents and they must have written Potter a letter.
He jerked away from Potter's too-gentle grasp.
Her eyes, wide with fear. Her chest, heaving up and down. Her lips, quivering.
"Don't touch me, I didn't say you could!"
His voice shook the otherwise quiet of the room. His magic pulsed against his skin, like a feverish chill that wouldn't stop. Potter frowned - a small expression that meant so much. For a moment Dubhán couldn't understand why he looked so hurt, then it came swarming into his mind, like the images of girl. He had given Potter reason to believe that he was growing fond of him. That there was a connection - that there could be a connection. And as much as the sharpness in his head urged him to make Potter hate him - reminded him that it wouldn't hurt as much when Potter knew if he already hated him - there was another more buried part that shot up to reassure.
"I don't like being touched like that," he said, his voice more appropriate. Potter seemed to shake himself, and then he was nodding gently, withdrawing his hand.
"Sorry - I forgot," Potter said, his voice almost breaking. As if he could see something that Dubhán didn't want him too - as though maybe he already knew something.
I wanted you more than anything even before I knew you.
He reached out and grabbed Potter's hand. He knew the man would hate him for what he was, but maybe there was a chance he'd still love him too.
"Let's go."
There was a triumphant grin on Potter's face that Dubhán wished he would have the decorum to hide.
oOoOoOo
No letter.
He stood frozen in the kitchen as Potter handed one of the letters to Alexandra "from the Goblin's".
She hadn't told.
He felt almost dazed with the unexpectedness; As though he were walking on the edge of Grandfather's velvet covered knife and it was only a matter of time before this freedom wore itself away to reveal the blade beneath.
"I'm hungry, Mum," Emma whined, her eyes shifting to the cupboard that Alexandra kept the biscuits hidden behind.
"You just ate dinner," Alexandra replied, a bit of awe in her eyes. Sirius had joked that the child must have spent too much time around Ron, although Dubhán as not yet certain what that meant.
"Just one cookie, Mum?"
A flick of her wand and there were two cookies settled upon plates at the table. Her eyes went back to the letter.
"You may have one too, Devlin," she made sure to say, perhaps seeing his retreating figure.
He shook his head, still feeling dazed, still picturing the flutter of her eye lashes as they grew large in surprise, when she had seen him.
"No," he said, and turned to leave.
He wandered up the stairs, down the hallway, and opened the door to the room. It was the same as when he had left for the ball. The same as it was all those years ago.
It will be alright, Devlin. It was never alright.
His chest was tight and his head pulsed and he just wanted to feel nothing, nothing, nothing, but somehow he couldn't manage. The mere idea that they would know...
And now he knew that the velvet had been his own self control wearing away and this was him; sharp and potent and angry.
He tore the sheet off the bed and onto the ground, pulled down every drawing that had been there for years, dumped out all the waxy drawing instruments. He smashed and tore and raged.
The single emotion felt foreign in his chest, suffocating and freeing all at once. He stood amongst the chaos that he had created and for one moment - just one - he felt as though he could actually breathe.
He had done this. It was humiliating while gratifying - a mix of reactions that made his head pulse and his vision kilter.
Potter was at the door now, his eyes wide with startle. He was speaking, but Dubhán couldn't understand the words. The sounds traveled to him like sounds traveling through water. His vision pulsed and he was reminded of when the blonde man had held him in this room, his arm digging into his throat.
"Devlin?" This close, Dubhán could hear him. Or maybe he simply knew the movements that formed his name.
"Everything is the same. Everything is the same - except me. I'm not the same."
Potter's eyes darkened with something that Dubhán didn't have the energy to identify.
"No, you're not," Potter said, his words muffled by the ringing and pounding. Potter stepped further into the room, moving delicately over the toys to sit on the bed. The sheet was ripped off the mattress and the blanket was on the floor. Harry Potter looked odd, sitting amongst Dubhán's battle ground of toys and paper and blankets.
For what seemed the first time, Dubhán actually allowed his mind to picture the battlefields with which Potter was probably far more familiar. Harry looked around curiously, his hands hanging lank between his legs, his shoulders relaxed.
"We bought you this blanket as a compromise. Emma had just been born and you wanted all of her new things - including her pink fairy blanket - so you and I went to Diagon Alley and this was the 'big boy' blanket you picked out."
Harry lifted the blanket off the floor, folding it easily to set it atop the bed next to him. The fact that everything was the same had everything to do with Harry. He hadn't let Alexandra change anything since Devlin's kidnapping. Once, she had wanted to paint the living room a pale green but Harry had begged her not too, because if they did, it wouldn't look the same as in the pictures they still had of Devlin.
Alexandra and he were different in that way; she wanted thing to change to mark the change, while Harry wanted them to stay the same to leave it unmarked. As long as things were the same, Harry could imagine, late at night, that it had never happened. In the end, it had been Harry who had been less able to cope and so Alexandra had given into his coping methods. He had never imagined it would be stressful to Devlin.
Guilt twisted in his stomach.
"And those dragons - oh you used to love them. Sirius bought them for you and your mother hated them, because they made noise. You used to set them up in the living room. They terrified Emma when she was a baby - but in a facinated sort of way."
Harry still remembered that during the first raid on their house, when Devlin had only been three and Emma just a tiny baby, how Malfoy had stepped on a dragons tail that had been left out and it had bit at his heel.
Dubhán felt the pounding in his head beginning to disperse.
"But you're right - these are toys for a little boy, and you're not that boy anymore. Emma has grown out of all the toys she had before you were kidnapped - and when you came back it should have been the first thing I did to change things. I'm the reason it is all the same," Potter admitted. "Last year your mother begged me to paint the living room a pale green but I begged her not too, because then it would be different from when you were taken."
Devlin was looking at him, that pained and empty expression still frozen across his face.
"But you're here now and I don't need that anymore." He smiled softly as he withdrew his wand. A flick of it and the toys were put away. Another and the paper had stacked itself nicely on his desk. He stood up and flicked it a third time to make the bed.
Now it looked all the same again, and Dubhán felt his head pulse in panic.
"What is your favorite color?"
Dubhán was startled by the question. Potter had been talking and talking, but he hadn't required anything of him. Somehow he had expected the first demand for information to be a why, because it probably seemed improbable that he had done this just because he didn't like the colors or the blankets anymore. Yet Potter had seemed to understand, even with Dubhán's lack of information.
"Green," he answered, automatically. Potter smiled and flicked his wand again. Suddenly the blanket and sheets were a deep forest green - like his eyes.
Suddenly it was just a little different.
"We'll get new ones later, but will this do for now?" He nodded numbly. "And Devlin?"
He looked up to acknowledge the question.
"If you can't sleep - if you're hurting - you can always come to me, too," he said and then he was stepping softly out of the room and Dubhán knew that he knew about sleeping next to Geoffrey at Sirius' house.
Dubhán changed into pajamas and climbed under the new green covers.
It was morning when he remembered what he should have done the night before. At Sirius' house, with Dumbledore around so often, he had known it was foolish to take it out, but here it would be safer to hide it than to leave it in his cloak pocket.
The book Malfoy had slipped into his dress robes. He slipped it out of his robes, which he had transferred it into, and into one of the drawers. Since it was still shrunken, it was easy to hide beneath all the waxy drawing instruments.
It would be foolish to undo the charms here - he'd wait until he was somewhere with more magic, like Hogwarts, to mask it.
He got dressed. There were no more button down shirts left - had they simply decided to keep them from him? - and walked down to breakfast in a pull-over shirt and slacks.
OoOoOoO
This morning, Alexandra was cooking - eggs with cheese and pastries in the oven. She looked as though she might not yet have gone to sleep, but there was a smile for him ready on her lips and a smile and kiss waiting for Emma. He settled himself at the table, trying and failing to shrug aside the awkwardness he felt being near Potter after last night.
"G'morning," Harry said to him, smiling that same smile he did every morning - as if nothing had happened.
Dubhán stared back him, his chest tightening, because he wondered, just for a moment, if it was possible Harry had been telling the truth back at Hogwarts. That he couldn't hate him. That he was done being used. That he would always want him. Was it possible, if he knew, that there might still be this smile waiting for him the next morning?
Then the flames flared to life - lighting the hallway green. Someone was seeking a connection - meaning they were calling from somewhere that was not automatically 'safe'. The momentary calmness vanished as he watched Potter stand and meander into the living room.
He could already breathe.
She had told.
Panic rose like bile in his throat. Alexandra looked at him oddly. He closed his eyes. They would know. If Potter knew - if anyone knew. Don't think, don't think, don't think!
His heart was pounding in his chest so erratically that he was surprised Emma and Alexandra couldn't hear it along with him. His body shook with it's rhythm.
Potter came back into the room. Dubhán couldn't see his face, yet, but he stiffened with anticipation. When he heard Potter open his mouth, he waited with dread for the anger.
"Hermione asked if you'd call her later - she wants you to look at some Goblin script."
The deflation of the panic was almost too much to take and it took every bit of control he had ever learned with Voldemort to stop himself from being sick. He swallowed hard and turned back to his food. Each bite was like slow-moving sludge down his throat, but it was done quickly, and he excused himself. Up the stairs, down the hallway - he meant to get to his room, but went to the bathroom instead. He tucked himself in the bathtub and drew the curtain.
It was easier to think when there wasn't anything to look at.
He had thought he had done well, but something in his execution hadn't been right - because now Potter was at the bathroom door, asking after him. Grandfather, he thought, would have been fooled. Or perhaps simply not cared. There was no jab of uneasiness at the idea that Voldemort did not care - because Dubhán already knew that. They were all tangled up in his head, but Dubhán's feelings were one thing Voldemort did not appear to concern himself about.
"M'okay," he said, as he huddled in the bathtub, knees drawn up to his chin.
She hadn't told. She hadn't told. She hadn't told.
The mantra should have made him feel better, but instead it made him feel uncertain and fearful. He had counted on her exposing him. The deflation of his certainty seemed to leave room for doubt to plant its seed and grow.
Why?
He knew he shouldn't wonder. He should keep breathing. He should relish in the idea that she hadn't told. He knew he shouldn't think about it - thinking about images like that - making more and more layers to the memory, was dangerous. But knowing he shouldn't, hadn't always stopped him.
"Devlin...there is something wrong. I wish you would tell me."
He stayed perfectly still and closed his eyes. He had learned long ago that grandfather seemed only able to see what he had seen, not feel what he had felt - so it was safe to feel if he wasn't looking. He couldn't cry, though - Grandfather could see that and then he'd ask - and asking would mean Dubhán's doom.
Harry and Alexandra thought he cowered in fear of Voldemort - thought the man controlled him, but neither of them knew him very well. Geoffrey had more than once called him a fool for 'testing the limits', but Dubhán rather thought Geoffrey wasn't half as aware as he thought he was.
"Devlin..." Potter was worried.
"I said I'm fine!" He shouted, instead of the truth. His magic swirled around him. Potter had made to open the door, but it slammed shut with the magic's pressure.
He wasn't sure if Potter left or simply fell quiet, but he didn't care much either way.
Every day that she didn't tell he felt more and more like he should tell. It was a foreign and frightening desire - to confide in someone with such a potent truth. It would be a disaster.
"Devlin...would you please-"
"I just wanted to take a shower!" He shouted. "Do I have to ask if I'm allowed?"
"No...of course not. The thing is, I don't hear the water, Devlin." There was humor in the voice - like it wasn't sure how else to sound. Sometimes the men, right before they broke, liked to joke. They would spit out their blood and say foolish things to Voldemort. Maybe they just hoped to die sooner.
Dubhán turned on the tap. Water flooded him from above, soaking the back of his neck, shoulders and back. His clothing felt heavy and confining. He let the hot steaming water race down his body. Let his clothes get heavier and heavier, until they felt like a weighted blanket, keeping him in reality. It was a subconscious reminder that he had better be willing to settle for the consequences of his thoughts.
Why hadn't she told?
If he were in the same position, he wouldn't have told, just because it would have made him appear weak - but he wasn't a normal boy and he was almost absolutely certain she was a normal girl.
He found the whole incident playing through his mind, his eyes shut tightly because what Voldemort couldn't see he hoped he couldn't know. It was a dangerous gamble, just thinking of it all. Dubhàn was almost certain Voldemort knew his deepest darkest secrets; it was only a sliver of remaining hope that kept him protecting them at all. The faintest possibility that he was right had always been enough to make Dubhán persist at something as seemingly futile as keeping the truth from the Dark Lord.
Why hadn't she told?
Why? It made his mind buzz and come to life, jumping and tumbling from possibility to possibility. The hot water burned at his neck, dripped down his hair, and rolled softly down his hidden face. "Why" had always been his favorite word, even if it sometimes got him into more trouble than might have preferred. It was a simple word, short and direct and yet so demanding of attention. Why? It made one think - a powerful thing for a word so small.
He would learn later that for all his brilliance he lacked the ability, perhaps through lack of practice, to easily put himself 'into another's shoes' and so the whole process of figuring out what might be preventing her from telling was tedious and frustrating. He ran through each movement, word, and expression that they had shared.
And then it struck him. A threat, utter out of his own fear.
'If you tell them anything about here or about me, they'll find you and kill you and I'll let them, because they'll be killing me, too.'
He opened his eyes with a snap.
Could it possibly be that she was still frightened for her own life? But surely, as a normal child, she had taken for granted the protection that her parents offered. Surely she had been foolish. Surely she had been like every other child they-
He looked up sharply, the shower streaming harshly down onto him.
Killing me.
Could she be concerned for him?
He turned the tap off. His clothes were cold now, his hair plastered against his scalp. He expected to find the hallway empty, but instead he found Potter there, leaning against the wall.
He didn't say anything about his clothing, and Dubhán didn't say anything about him waiting there - but the raised eyebrow and the concerned gaze were enough for him to partake in the silent communication. He glared and swept down the hallway, into his room. Potter didn't follow.
OoOoO
There was an owl, settled at the window - looking at him. He moved the food around on his plate, intent to ignore the animal incase the letter it was carrying was about her. His heart had been hammering in his ears all day.
"Daddy, there's an owl!"
If Emma were anyone else, he'd want to hurt her, but she wasn't, so the thought didn't occur to him at all. He did, however, stop breathing as Potter went to retrieve the owl.
"Severus says he has time to see us tonight," Harry said, looking at him and smiling in an encouraging way.
"Why tonight?" The words left him quickly and sharply.
"You're obviously shaken up, Devlin," Alexandra said softly - kindly. But the look on her face was one of deep worry - more worry than he thought his perhaps odd behaviors warranted. Sometimes he suspected that they both ruffled through his mind on a regular basis, although he was always careful not to look into their eyes. Like how Sirius had known he'd been having nightmares a week ago, or when they had known he'd had a headache at Sirius' house when he hadn't told them.
If he could learn to protect his mind, he'd be able to stop them. And escape. Perhaps before she told. If he could get to Voldemort first - if he could reinsert himself and prove his loyalty, then it was possible Voldemort would believe him over her.
"Devlin?"
"Let's go," he said, standing. His food was untouched, but he thought that might be better, in the long run. A full stomach during a torture session, was tempting fate more than was wise.
Potter frowned and exchanged a look with Alexandra.
"I'll take him," Potter said, and there was firmness in his voice that he hadn't heard Potter use with Alexandra before. Commanding. Worried filled the green orbs. Alexandra sat down again, relenting. She rubbed at her temples and not for the first time that day, Dubhán wondered if she had truly slept.
"Go get your cloak," Potter said softly.
Dubhán left the book in the drawer - having the memory of taking it with him moments before his mind being invaded was something only a stupid person would do. He swung his cloak over his shoulders and went down the stairs to meet Potter.
Potter had on that leather jacket again and those rough blue trousers that Dubhán had a pair of upstairs. Jeans - Dubhán remembered almost everything, even things that were of little use.
They floo'd directly into Snape's office.
OoOoOoO
The office was empty, but the door had been left open to the classroom beyond. Potter hesitated at the threshold, grimacing, before he finally stepped through. Dubhán followed in his wake.
There was a sharp glinting knife in Snape's hand. The smell of boiling mint, licorice root, and fennel filled the air. Snape was slicing and crushing Cardamom seeds on the table with a precision that facinated Dubhán.
"You're early, Potter," Snape growled, without looking up.
"You used to always complain I was late," Potter replied, humor lacing his voice even as his overall posture made Dubhán aware that he was nervous.
"I did not complain. I reprimanded you for not being on time. This is the very same thing."
He lifted the cutting board off the table to add the seeds, stirring thrice. Dubhán watched his every movement - from the speed of his stirring to the exact way he was holding the spoon.
"Well - would you like us to wait in your office?" Potter offered. Snape looked up for one moment.
"That is exactly what I would like," Snape said.
Potter motioned for them to retreat to the office, but Dubhán didn't move.
"Come on, Devlin," Potter urged, a whisper by his ear.
Dubhán stayed very still. He squared his shoulders and breathed in deeply.
If this man was going to tear his mind apart within minutes, then he wasn't going to retreat to another room just prior and show himself as weak.
"Children," Snape murmured, but continued to work. It was moments later that he set the cauldron to simmer and stepped out from behind the table. The room smelled strange and breathing in the fumes made him oddly calm and resolute.
There was a wand in his slender hands already, held exactly like he had held that blade moments ago. There was an errie calmness about him that Dubhán knew well - the same calmness that surrounded Death Eater's while eating dinner and torturing a muggles.
"Try not to scream this time," Snape said, a caustic smirk turning his lips upwards and for one moment Dubhán saw the entirety of the Death Eater in his narrowed eyes and advancing steps. "Legilimency!"
Try not to scream this time.
Setting him up. The man was trying to set him up - putting images and sounds into his head so that he'd be thinking about that night.
Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what you have to do.
He swallowed hard and tried to picture those soldiers inside his mind again - but instead he just found himself alone on a battlefield, facing Snape. They stared at each other, each on a hill, a valley below them. A fog swirled and curled in a slow wind that brushed by Devlin's face with a soft howl.
Down below in the valley the mist swirled and curled until it was a boy with dark hair. The boy was on the ground, sprawled out and scrambling away from a something that was too dark and too foreboding, made up of thunderclouds and darkness, to see clearly.
Dubhán stared at the six year old boy who seemed unable to see them, feeling his own heart clench, then at Snape.
-That's you- Snape said quietly, his voice eerie as it echoed in the mist, like a penseive memory. They shouldn't be able to hear each other so clearly from this far away, but Dubhán had the feeling that time and space didn't play by normal rules, here.
He didn't answer, not because he did not know, but rather because he did not want Snape to be certain that what he saw was actually the truth. Everything seemed to move slow and methodical here. He found his thoughts to be clearer and more logical, disinhibited from his body.
The boy in the valley was scrambling away from the dark monster.
-Show me more?- Dubhán could sense that it wasn't entirely a request. Already Snape was stepping forward, closer to him. As his feet moved closer a bridge began to build itself above the valley - leading Snape right to him.
He was nearer now, close enough to reach his hand out and stroke some of the mist on Dubhán's side.
'You're worthless'
The words rumble out of the foreboding dark shadow below, loud and clear despite the distance.
It was when the dark shadow withdrew a knife that Dubhán knew Snape had to leave, right then. The panic inside of him swirled into angry determination.
-Leave, now- Dubhán said coldly. Here his voice came as a low hiss and for a moment he thought perhaps Snape hadn't understood, but there was recognition flashing in the man's eyes when they met his own. He didn't move. Dubhán knew it would have to behim that made the man leave.
Dubhán stepped closer, over the bridge. It remained steady beneath his feet. There was a moment where they stood right before each other, but then he moved past Snape - closer to the traitor's 'side' of this battlefield. Like chess.
His feet were soundless and his steps weightless. He turned around to regard Snape, but the man remained, having turned to stare at him, on the bridge.
Dubhán plunged his own hand into one of Snape's mist-memories and twisted mercilessly.
There was a red-headed girl in the valley now, and a large tree, and a boy, dressed so oddly he could only be a Wizard trying to dress as a Muggle.
The bridge shattered in Snape's moment of panic and even as he fell into the valley below, Dubhán was grinning with triumph.
Just like the memory of himself, the memory boy and the memory girl don't appear to be cognizant of them at all. Dubhán stood on his feet with an ease and lightness that was unnatural, and stepped closer to the two children. They were his age. Clearly the boy was Snape (it was, after all, his own memory). The girl was beautiful; red-hair falling in soft waves around her face, framing bright green eyes and a brilliant smile. There was a lily-flower in her cupped hands.
Snape had rushed to his feet, far less weightless and far more in a panic. He strode toward them, stopping in front of the the girl and boy and peering oddly at Dubhán, who stood next to the girl - trying to figure out who she was.
-You look like her- Snape said, the words sneaking unbidden from his mouth. He looked like he had swallowed poison afterward. Dubhán quirked an eyebrow at the comment, but then the valley was spinning out of focus around them and the stone walls of the castle spinning into focus. There was Severus, the real one, standing before him - tall, dark, and imposing. He looked like he'd just been pinched by a very annoying pixie, or drank a sour headache potion.
Dubhán's tongue itched to say something scathing, but instead he merely lifted himself to his feet (why was he always falling?) and placed himself firmly in front of the potion Master. He hadn't forgotten that Snape had kept his secret last time.
"Let's try that again," Snape murmured, still looking at him oddly.
"If you please," he said and then it happened. It was in the millisecond before the Legilimenecy hit him that he saw Potter, sitting off to the side, watching him.
It was enough to throw him off kilter and allow Snape to enter easily.
Dubhán was on his knees, on the ground. Grass swayed around him. Severus was standing on the other side of the valley once more. The wind whipped at his dark robes, making his dark hair swirl around his face. He looked menacing.
-Why bring me here again?- His voice floated across the valley, clearer to Dubhán than it ought to have been. Dubhán got to his feet.
-Is this something I am doing?- He asked, his voice a hiss that somehow Snape understood.
-It is your place,- Snape replied quietly, looking around with an air of confusion and bewilderment. Then suddenly his dark orbs searched out his green again, a glint of clarity and certainty in them. Like a wolf that has caught the scent of a trail. -You're trying to hide something from me, but you don't know how, so you're hiding, instead.-
Dubhán looked around with a new focus. He had never been anywhere like this before. The question still remained where, exactly, this was.
Severus strode forward, toward his side of the valley. He made to touch some of the mist - that they both knew by then were memories. Dubhán felt fear grip, not inside of him, but all around him.
Down below in the valley there was a boy again. Dark hair and green eyes, with a wand in his hand. Behind the boy is Voldemort - dark and shadowy like the last monster had been. The boys arm was shaking.
'You must mean it, little dark one.'
The whispered words shouldn't be clear. No one should hear them, except they are, and Snape has.
The wand stopped shaking.
"Avada"
-STOP!- Dubhán shouted.
The misty figures turned into thunderclouds. A roar and a howl fill the valley and the figures disappear in a flash of lightning. The wind slapped against Snape and Dubhán's faces in harsh gusts.
-Leave, now!- There was a glare on Dubhán's face now, an anger in those green eyes, a coldness in that regard, that hadn't been there before. Severus hadn't thought he'd see it on that face.
It was like looking at Voldemort mere moments before he tortured someone he perceived to have overstepped their welcome. Severus had experience with this regard and kept the gaze, even though his body wanted nothing more than to turn away and retreat. The boy must make him. The boy must learn.
-Make me,- he said. Those green eyes came to him, cold and intense, but not without feeling. It was only because he would not allow himself to look away that he saw the child's eyes flicker and turn amber.
A bolt of lightning struck him hard and for a moment he could not see, feel, or breathe. He found himself breathless in his office once more, the child stood before him with his own eyes closed and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The many vials of potions that lined the back of his office were shaking, making a sound all too familiar to the rumble of those thunderclouds.
Potter was standing off to the side, his intense green eyes as well as his wand aimed at Severus - waiting for something to happen.
"If you could control your mind as well as you do your magic, we'd be done here," he drawled, crossing his arms. Potter sent him a glare in defense of his child, but Snape ignored the regard, because when Potter is being a parent he can never look him in the eye. The child himself appeared not to have heard Severus' words at all.
Then he opened his eyes and it was only because Severus had been waiting, looking directly at the closed eyelids, that he noticed at all; they are amber. A second later, they were green again.
"If even a single one of my jars suffers any damage, I will hold you accountable - accidental magic or not."
The boys eyes shifted upwards and for a moment there was a look of wonderment on his face that was all his grandmothers. The jars stopped shaking. Lily would have apologized, even though she might also have been giggling, but this boy offered him nothing.
"You should try and figure out why you can manage enough focus to do that but not Occlumency," Snape said, sounding more scathing than he had intended. Potter's green eyes were still on him, the same way Lily's eyes would have been on him if she had ever seen the way he spoke to her son. He hated Potter's eyes for that, now - making him see Lily's accusing glare out of the very face that he had treated in ways she would have hated.
The boy regarded him intently, but not as intently as he had in his mind. Did he understand that Severus didn't mean the jars, but instead the show of power and concentration in his mind? To be able to achieve that level of manipulation in ones own mind, and to be able to force upon another persons mind that false reality, but to be unable to preform the the rather simple act of Occlumency (in comparison), was baffling to Severus.
It was as if the boy only thought to react and defend when the attack was extremely obvious. Was he simply very powerful without an ounce of intelligence? But no, Severus knew the boy was extremely intelligent. Yet his mind was so easy to enter. Even Potter had put up more fight. He didn't mind Severus' presence in his mind, which was disturbing in and of itself. Usually the sensation itself was so unusual and disturbing that the other mind would naturally fight a little.
Severus looked up sharply, into the green eyes. Suddenly he knew the answer and couldn't stand that he hadn't seen it sooner.
"I think you're doing really good, Devlin," Potter said softly - trying erase the worry on the boys face. Words Lily would have said to Potter himself, if she had been around while Severus was teaching him Occlumency.
"Thank you Mr. Potter, but I am currently teaching your son. Your only job is to make sure I do not kill him, as you obviously think I might considering your presence. You are not to speak and are especially forbidden from offering your opinion." The words are harsh. Snape didn't think he would ever be able to see the face of James Potter and speak in any different tone.
"In all honesty I believe the problem is not what it would seem. I suspect that the Dark Lord has been using Legilimenecy on you for so long that your mind doesn't seem bothered in the least by the initial entrance. It is only after I am seeing something you do not wish me to see (I know you are hiding something from me, it is plainly clear) that you defend yourself."
He wanted the child to ask what they should do, but he knew he wouldn't. There was only a look of boredom and disinterest waiting for him. The boy was still loyal to the Dark Lord, at least in his outward thoughts. He was not yet ready to cross that line.
"What can he do about that?" Potter asked, looking worried.
He turned to Potter.
"It's simple, Mr. Potter. We're going to change the rules of this little game." At the periphery of his vision he could see a muscle on the child's brow twitch. Potter frowned. "First, I will dive in deeper into his mind - somewhere there must be a layer of his own consciousness that he is unfamiliar being seen and will protect." The boy's feet shifted on the stone floor ever-so-slightly. He turned back to the boy. "This time if you scream, I'll tell Mr. Potter why."
"You can't do that!" He shouted, anger fueling that fear that had been clear to Severus. The boy was hiding something.
"Then, Mr. Potter, protect them! Legilimenecy!"
The child's mind recognized his presence immediately. He could feel the constricting barriers, tightening around him even as he ploughs ahead, being careful to apply the magic in such a way that he pushes the barriers aside, rather than tears through them. This was why the boy's mother chose him. It had nothing to do with his teaching ability and everything to do with the fact that Severus was one of the few people in the world that could 'tear a mind apart' without leaving any marks. It was like being submerged in water, the deeper you go, the slower your movements become.
And then suddenly, with a gasp, he emerged in the boys mind.
There were the hills. There was the boy. There was no mist. There was no green grass. No green trees to their side. No green whatsoever. Everything was shimmering shades of gold, from the wheat-like grass beneath his shoes to the brilliant color of the child's eyes: amber.
-I'm done playing your game.- There was a glint in the boys amber eyes that threw Severus for some reason. His tone was light but not without a sharp edge. -I let you have your chance.-
His chance? His chance at what? There was something odd about this boy, but Severus can't quite pinpoint what it was. This was, afterall, the boy's mind; the slightest memory or thought could drastically change the mood and behavior of his mental projection.
Even his eyes, so purely amber, might simply be from him feeling more feral than usual: small things can over-project themselves in mental landscapes like this.
-I wasn't playing a game,- Severus said, hoping to make the boy talk, to see an opening to dig deeper, to extract some kind of memory.
-Yes you were, and now we're done.-
There was no dramatic flash of lightening or roar of thunder; Severus was simply thrown out of th eboys mind. It was the kind of removal that Snape would expect of Dumbledore, or Voldemort, or maybe Potter (Merlin, he hoped the man had improved, for all their sakes), if any of them wanted to make him aware of his failure. It was not what he expected from a child that had less than an hour ago let him in so easily, or a week ago been unable to throw him out at all without using his wolf. Was the child playing a game with him?
He rose to his feet, resentful and angry to find himself on his knees, and looked up into Devlin's green eyes. He glared, because now he was sure the boy was playing him; there was an innocent almost flustered look on the boy's face and Snape knew it must be false, because moments ago he had been looking at him with that cold calculating regard.
"Well, why aren't you leaving?" He said, harshly.
The boy swayed on his feet, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open as if he had just run a mile.
Severus' certainty wavered.
"What?" He said, blinking as if in a daze. The one word felt odd from the boy and Severus stepped closer to him.
His pupils were dilated and he was sweating. Severus whipped out his wand. A moment later the boy's heartbeat sounded around the room, amplified. Potter looked worried, the boy confused, and Severus swallowed.
It wasn't possible. It didn't happen like that. It wasn't cognizant enough to participate in something as intricate as Occlumency.
"Severus - is something wrong?"
He snapped his gaze to Potter - who would be useless at this as he had been in Potions.
"I'll be fire-calling your wife tonight, Mr. Potter," Snape said.
Severus spent the remainder of the evening trying to shake those amber eyes from his mind.