"Harry!"

Harry paused at the voice, feeling his insides freezing. Instinct made his eyes snap to Devlin, a few paces ahead of him, to make sure he was alright. He had frozen too, his shoulders perfectly straight, his hands still tucked into his pockets, his legs stiff but ready to move, and even without seeing his face Harry knew he was afraid.

He clicked the lever on his holster and felt his wand slip into his hand. When he had a firm grasp on the wood, he turned around.

"Fancy seeing you here, hmmm?" Malfoy's face was as smug and smirking as Harry always remembered it being. It wasn't helping Harry that they were standing in a Hogwarts hallway, where they had probably sneered and bickered and maybe exchanged punches before. "Got hit by a silencing hex at work today, Harry?"

Harry wanted to punch him. He didn't. Not because it was the better thing to do. Not because he was too 'good'. Instead it was because he had to show Devlin that matters could be handled without violence. He had to show Devlin that he didn't always hurt 'dark wizards'. He had to show Devlin he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Maybe there was also a bit of a willingness to let Devlin have his own revenge, too.

"No," he said, smiling back. He had never been very good at smirking, so he didn't even try. Alexandra had always told him that no matter what he did, his smiles always looked genuine. "Surprising to see you too, Mr. Malfoy. I hope your business at Hogwarts is going well."

He didn't turn around quite yet. He stepped forward, half turned but half still watching. Closer to Devlin.

"Yes, quite well - thank you. How are you doing? I heard about...the issues you are having a work. It must be-"

"I don't discuss my work in front of my children, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course - but your son isn't a small child - surely he is aware of what the Prophet is reporting-"

"I don't get that rubbish delivered to my house," Harry interjected.

Malfoy tipped his head, as if in acknowledgement.

"Of course, of course. Terrible things they said about you while we were in school. And I can see how they might upset your son; what they're writing now."

"My name is Dubhán," he heard Devlin call from his other side. The boy was standing in the middle of the hall, his arms crossed, his lips tight in a frown, eyebrows furrowed just enough that it made his distain clear. "If you wanted to ask me something, wouldn't it seem far less callow to ask me rather than try to go through Potter?"

"Do excuse me, young Mr. Potter-"

"My name is Dubhán." His face was like ice with a cold flame radiating from within his eyes, more amber in Hogwarts torchlight than at home under the magical lighting.

Harry felt mesmerized by this boy at the same time that he was horrified that he existed. How brave his Devlin had to be; to be standing there despite his fear of and loathing for Malfoy.

"I quite apologize, young man," Malfoy said, smiling. "I will remember next time."

Devlin smirked and Harry thought that maybe he had gotten enough satisfaction out of the exchange that the gleam would disappear from his eyes. Instead he stepped closer. Closer to the danger. Harry felt his heart clench.

"You will remember now. Say it. What is my name?"

For a moment Malfoy looked as if he had bitten into an extremely potent Pinker Berry. Then the expression was gone and a perfectly fake reassuring smile was in place.

"Well, if you insist. Dubhán." Malfoy laughed and turned away to look at him. "Children can be such finicky creatures, yes?"

"Are we quite done reminiscing about our childhoods, Malfoy?"

"Is that what we were doing, Potter?"

"What other reason would you have to stop me, Malfoy? I mean - we don't have anything else in common, do we? Or maybe you wanted to speak to my son? Wouldn't that be a little odd?"

While Malfoy scowled in sourness again, Harry swept forward, grabbed for Devlin's hand, and pulled them both down the hall.

It was only after they were halfway to the Headmaster's office that Devlin spoke again.

"You're almost clever. Not quite, but not entirely lacking."

"I've never heard a boy your age use the word 'callow'," Harry retorted, humorously.

"Grandfather uses lots of words to describe how foolish someone can be. Callow, ridiculous, juvenile, naive, and there are probably more. I can't possibly remember them all. Sometimes he'll tell someone without using a proper word for it at all. 'I honestly think a pixie would have realized that better than you.' or 'If you were just a little less attentive, you would save me the trouble of killing you and do it yourself.'"

Devlin laughed. Harry tried not to picture Malfoy like Devlin probably was - if he allowed himself, he knew he would laugh too. It was better to think of Voldemort's face.

Devlin was startled when the gargoyles stepped aside for him and asked him if they weren't supposed to ask for a password. Harry just smiled. Emma would have pressed, but Devlin didn't, because Devlin knew all about secrets, Harry was sure. The idea made his stomach churn. He felt a little dizzy on the turning stairs.

Albus was in, of course. He had an impressive knack for being where he ought to be when he it would most benefit himself.

"Hello, Harry!" Albus said, looking up from some paperwork with all the appearance of someone surprised to see them. Harry was never quite sure when this was true and when it was an act, but didn't think it really mattered either way.

"Hello, Albus," he said, feeling a little safer this far from Malfoy and this much closer to another strong wizard. "Sorry to interrupt this afternoon. We just had to come for a quick trip and...I had planned to walk us to the disapperation point, but then I realized Devlin had forgotten his cloak."

"Oh goodness - yes indeed. Use my floo, Harry."

Harry went to tug Devlin's arm, but Devlin remained rooted to the spot.

"When he was a boy - why didn't you kill him?"

Harry felt his eyes widen and his breath hitch and he grabbed for Devlin, instinctively pulling him back - closer to him. What the boy was saying wasn't really what he was asking and the true question behind the words tore Harry to pieces.

Dumbledore put his pen down gently in the ink pot, steepled his hands and smiled sadly.

"Because he was only a boy and there are many boys, troubled boys, who choose differently in their life. Tom was not the first withdrawn, hardened, mean boy I had met. His choices later on are what defined him. That once he found acceptance he did not allow himself to feel it. That he allowed fear to rule over him. That he blamed others for what was his responsibility. These are some of the reasons that he became what he is now - but he wasn't Voldemort when I met him and he didn't need to become him, either."

Devlin stood there for a long time, his eyes on Fawkes who was a tiny crumpled looking thing right now, on Dumbledore's desk instead of at the Headmaster himself.

"What has he got to fear? He can make his fears go away with a wave of his wand. Everyone says he is fearless. He says he is fearless."

Dumbledore smiled. He leaned forward and the sad smile returned.

"Then why does he fear losing you?"

Devlin knew the answer, but he pushed his lips together, intent to keep the words inside. Because we're tangled up in his head. The answer itself proved that Voldemort wasn't afraid of losing Dubhán, although there was the tiniest nag at the back of his head that whispered he was missing something.

OoOoOoO

He dreamed of the field again, except this time he was at the edge, looking into the woods that had seemed so far away before. Behind him the grass was swaying.

She was there and he realized she was escaping, except this time she ran away from him without the tiniest look of hesitation. There was a look of fear on her face as her feet carried her away from him. When he turned around, a thestral was there to greet him, bat-like wings curled against its back, reptilian skin pulled tight against it's face.

He reached out to touch the beast and it turned to vapor beneath his fingers. Swirling and curling in the air, the vapor suffocated him, until he awoke once more. On his feet, in a room full of Death Eaters.

He could hear it sizzling through the air, pushing gravity and particles and matter aside to reach it's aim - him. A spell as yellow as the sun. He felt that fear wash over him - the first fear of death that he had truly understood.

"You idiot!" He heard someone shout, before there was a weight on his back, pushing him forward, away from the yellow spell. He was on his knees now. He was looking at the floor. For a moment his body pulsed with terror that he should be in the same position he had been that night when the monster had whispered crucio. Then the weight knocked him off his knees and his face was buried in the dirt.

He could hear it sizzling in the air above him, pushing gravity and particles and matter aside as it missed it's target. The room was hushed. The weight lifted. He breathed but somehow couldn't bring his body to move. The yellow light and the fear flushed across his body and mind again.

"Foolish pup," someone said, plucking him off the ground as if he were a loaf of bread and putting him on his feet. It was the werewolf from the tent. His eyes were a sharp amber, his pupils tight and narrow. The hands on his arms were firm.

"The rules are no one enters!" The brown-haired man who had shot the yellow spell shouted. His voice sounded cruel but his eyes were full of fear.

"Have you no sense?" The werewolf asked the other man, rising to his feet. A hand remained on him, tight and controlling. "Have you no brain between your ears?"

He was dragged along with the advancing footsteps.

"When we're practicing raids, no one is allowed to enter the Headquarters," the man repeated, with a steadiness that Dubhán had admired at the time.

The werewolf growled and made to say something else, but then the door opened to the tent. Wands rose into the air like a salute, except for the werewolf and the man who had sent the yellow spell sizzling through the air.

It was 'the Dark Lord'. The wands fell to the wizard's sides and there was a murmur across the room 'my Lord'. The werewolf gripped him less firmly but the hand remained. The other man stood very still.

Dubhán had waited for Voldemort to see him. For the anger. For the crucio that he could still feel the ghost of across his skin - that he feared endlessly would come from that wand once more if he did the slightest thing wrong.

He saw and he strode over. The moment the Dark Lord's hand was on him, he felt the werewolf let go.

"What happened?" He asked, except Dubhán hadn't had the sense that he was asking him.

The room was hushed. He saw the wizard, out of the periphery of his vision, shutter.

"He sent a curse at the child, my Lord," the werewolf said.

Dubhán wondered why the werewolf hadn't told the Dark Lord that he had been the one to rescue him, but perhaps it was not quite good to have rescued someone like him.

"I see," Voldemort said, his voice a whisper that sent fear up Dubhán's spine. His long fingers reached out to touch his chin and lift his face. He knew Voldemort was looking for damage, but there wasn't any. The fingers stayed, while his other hand lifted into the air.

Lazily, as it were so inconsequential that it didn't even need his visual focus, he lifted his wand to point it at the other wizard. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the man's eyes widen and his body tense with fear. The werewolf was very still next to him. Everyone around the room seemed to have frozen. Perhaps time had frozen.

"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort whispered in that same deadly tone. Time had been reborn, like a Phoenix emerging from it's own ash (Dubhán could almost remember seeing it, once). Voldemort eye's never left his own, but Dubhán was not staring at him; his eyes were stretched to their peripheries. Watching the man drop to the ground. Watching him as he became still too quickly. Watching him as all the fear vanished from his body. Watching as he didn't get up.

The man was dead. He was certain.

He hadn't screamed or shivered or felt any fear. He had immediately wondered why Malfoy couldn't be still forever too.

"Someday you will be able to make men fall down and never get up."

He awoke to the warm lap of the dogs tongue across his cheek. The dog was whinging softly.

The wand was in his hands, heating up between the bed sheet and his chest. He shoved it back into the holster that was always around his wrist and launched himself out of bed.

He ached all over. His joints throbbed hollowly and his stomach burned. He twisted his neck and was rewarded with the pleasant feeling of it coming partially unknotted.

It was the full moon today; he could feel it in his bones. He was more sharpness today and less boy.

The dog whinged again and it was then that he heard the faint sound of beep, beep, beep, down the hall.

All at once, he felt more like the boy and less like the sharpness of the wolf. He went to the door and yanked it open. The man was just throwing his white over-cloak on.

He hadn't spoken to Harry for the last few days. It was harder to be civil and not speak his mind when he was closer to the wolf and farther from the boy and the betrayal of the way the man had simply dragged him, without asking him, to the mind-reading traitor still stung.

The man noticed him as he shifted his weight against the wall to give a final tug at his right boot.

"Devlin," he said, a little startled.

"Is the red-eyed man calling you again?" He asked softly, and it was only after the words left his mouth that he realized he'd used the sharpness' name for Voldemort rather than his proper title. Potter seemed a little too frazzled to pinpoint the slip-up, but Dubhán knew he would probably realize it later. He clenched his jaw to keep the flush of pink from his face as the feel of the failure, however small it had been, rushed through his chest.

His head pulsed with an ache that he only felt when he was more wolf and less boy.

"Devlin..." The word seemed full of hurt and longing and love and sadness and need and want and wishes and heartache and worry and terror and guilt and- "I don't want you to think about this - about him - please don't worry."

"He won't stop," he said to the man, firm and so clear that he hoped the man would understand. The words felt strange across his tongue, like all words did, this time of the month. He fought to find the right ones to finish the thought. "He will keep calling you until you give me to him."

"He's always calling me, Devlin. He called me all the time before he'd even met you - called me all the time while he had you - and now he's calling me while he doesn't have you. Even if he had you - he'd still be calling me."

The sharpness wasn't sure what to say. The man swept forward, landed a kiss into his hair and said softly, "it was nice to hear your voice. Be good. I'll be back in a couple hours."

OoOoOoO

This time the body had been dropped in a small park, surrounded by muggle houses in London. They'd had to do some tricky business with the Muggle police, Harry understood. But that had all been done before they called him, because it wasn't until they had seen the Auror badge still pinned to the body that they had known it was one of Voldemort's doings again.

This time, they hadn't moved the body when he got there, although it was covered in a cloaking charm, hiding it from the cameras.

"What's the name?" He asked, once he had stepped under the privacy bubble that two other field Auror's were in, waiting for him.

"We're running tests. It's a girl. She has 'Fox' carved onto her chest. We don't know if it's a last name or-"

"Adrienne Fox," Harry interrupted. She had been on the force longer than himself and been captured on a raid four months after Devlin's kidnapping.

Arden eyed him, his head slightly tipped.

"Are you sure?"

"Let me have a look-"

"There isn't very much to look at, I'm afraid," Arden interrupted. Harry clenched his jaw at the anger and unfairness of this all consumed him.

"Starved, beaten, etc - the same as Joseph?" Harry asked, looking at the cloaked body just yards away.

"Well, yes - beside the other differences one would expect because of the gender."

Harry's jaw clenched again as he nodded stiffly. Yes, that was to be expected. He was sure they had made the fact as plainly clear as possible before sending the body here.

"He's getting closer," Arden said. Damian, another Auror who had once lived in America, shifted nervously. Harry didn't ask for clarification. The first body had been sent to the Ministry, where Harry worked. This body was nearer to his home than the Ministry. Would the next one appear near the Burrow? Outside his own home?

Arden left without another word to wrap the body up - the Ministry photographers were done and the Auror's had probably already submitted their Pensieve memories of the scene.

Damian lingered behind, fidgeting with his wand.

"Boss," he said - a nickname Harry had picked up that he only tolerated because he wouldn't tolerate other authority titles. "They're writing up papers to summon the boy."

Damian's light blue eyes bore into him. He had left England after being bitten by a werewolf in Voldemort's first uprising. When Harry had taken over he had heard about people leaving because the Ministry wouldn't allow 'beasts' to work and Harry had set about changing things - spurred on at first by the ill-treatment that he had seen Remus suffer through. Damian had always had a fond spot for Harry and especially Devlin and Harry sometimes thought he looked at Harry like an uncle (a nice one) would look at his nephew.

He was revealing confidential information. Giving Harry a heads up. Harry closed his eyes, just for a second, and nodded.

"Thank you."

"I don't know when...but soon. They spoke about today but...I reminded them of the boys condition..."

Harry would be eternally grateful for that. To have Devlin ripped away while he wasn't there, on a day when he was probably feeling terribly ill - any parent would be grateful. He nodded again.

"I won't let it happen the way they want," he said.

"I know. We all told them that."

Harry nodded again, and exited the privacy bubble.

OoOoOoO

It was quiet at the house. Alexandra poured over books in the same way he did: with such an intense focus that almost everything disappeared around her. Looking at her, he could see why Grandfather had often accused him of choosing to 'lose himself' in books.

A clock in the kitchen reminded her of parts of the day in which she must participate - mainly breakfast and lunch. When the clock rang she would stretch, look up, find him, and smile. Then she would ask what he would like to eat.

He didn't mind, so much. Words felt strange against his tongue. His head pulsed in the way it only did when he was more wolf than boy in there. His skin tingled with goosebumps that he tried to tell himself were only in his head. His muscles and nerves felt tight and painful. When he was the wolf, he felt more of the remnants of the curse - crucio.

He had wanted to ask Harry this, but he now saw that Harry was going to be terribly busy. Grandfather was having his fun and Dubhán would need to move forward on a slightly different path.

"When is Emma's birthday?"

"In March."

Perfect. It was sometime in December, since it had been October when he was taken and two moons had passed (well, almost).

Alexandra was staring at him as if she were waiting for him to reach some obvious conclusion - but what it was he could not tell.

"I want to make her a present."

She settled back in her chair for a moment.

"Why?"

"So she'll remember me."

She began to shake her head. Dubhán interrupted.

"You can say all you like, but you can't promise anything and...she didn't remember me. I want her to remember me."

Alexandra settled a considering regard on him.

"What do you want to make her?" She asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.

"A necklace," he said, "I think."

She smiled.

"We could buy her a necklace, Devlin," she offered. Devlin thought for a moment.

"I wanted to make it do things." He judged his words carefully, partaking in the conversation just as much as needed.

"May I ask for an example?"

Once more, he paused to consider his words carefully. He knew he couldn't tell her the truth, that although the truth was innocent in-and-of itself, it told too much about his plans and loyalty.

"Change colors, or have a flower - something that would make it special."

"Sounds very nice. Why don't we order some catalogues today? It's easier to alter something that is already there."

Except that wouldn't address his issue.

"I wanted to practice the charms."

"Of course. Would you like some help?"

Not taking the help would look suspicious, so he shrugged.

"I suppose."

All he needed was for the wards to grow used to a bit of his magic so that he could unshrink the book.

OoOoOoO

There was a note attached to this body as well, except they only found it when they brought the body back to the Ministry and turned her over. Harry felt like Voldemort was 'getting closer' in all regards. Closer to the proximity of his house and closer to him emotionally. The words were carved onto the body's back, using the same dark curse that had made Devlin's 'snake'.

He had stood above the corpse for a long while, staring at the burned flesh.

Return what is mine to make this game end.

The other Aurors spoke of how to stop this as if there was a fate other than death for these captured Aurors. As if they could find them all. As if this wasn't war.

All Harry could think was that maybe this was nicer for them. Fox had been held as prisoner (raped, beaten, starved), for more than two years. There had never been anything but her death waiting for her at Voldemort's hands. He had kept her alive to use her at his convenience, not with any intention of letting her live. As Devlin might have said, she was not like him. This woman's only value to Voldemort was her death.

Harry knew this could be much worse; knew that if Voldemort had promised to return the prisoners alive for the price of the boy, that Harry and Devlin would be in a whole different level of shit. He hadn't.

Voldemort did not bargain with life. He bargained with death.

Harry found himself staring at Fox and wondering if Devlin's value to Voldemort was deeper than just the information the boy may or may not know. Did Voldemort value the boys life for reasons other than revenge? Did the boy more than interest him? What did the boys blood mean to Voldemort? Harry was skeptical that it meant anything - otherwise why hadn't Voldemort shown the same interest in Alexandra?

Why had he kept the boy alive?

This isn't about me. It's about him. I'm just here because we're both tangled up in his head.

The words still sent a shiver up his spine. He hadn't told them to Alexandra yet. She was the only one around that made him such a coward.

Harry knew this could be much worse; knew that if Voldemort let the world know his true level of interest in the boy, that Devlin's life would be in dire jeopardy. Harry wondered if he wasn't the only one terrified at the idea.

The idea that Voldemort might be contemplating the same thing - choosing his moves based on Devlin's life - terrified him almost as much.

OoOoOoO

He had been 'good' and now he sat on the stairs, staring at the door - waiting for Potter to keep his part of the bargain. Dubhán lied to others, but he tried very hard not to lie to himself unless he knew admitting the truth in his own head would be detrimental. He did not like bad truths floating around in his head.

Today, he didn't bother to rouse the energy to lie to himself by convincing himself he was waiting for Potter only to hear what had happened with Voldemort.

For one, Potter did not speak of work in front of his children - the claim seemed to be founded in truth. For a second, Dubhán wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what Voldemort was doing. For a third thing, Dubhán was just damn too tired to convince someone as unimportant as himself of anything different than the facts: he was worried Potter wouldn't return.

It seemed plainly clear to him that the odds were against Potter.

People who dealt with his Grandfather generally ended up on the ground. Like marionettes with their strings cut. He hadn't known what a marionette was, before Grandfather had described it like that.

Grandfather had never failed to return from one of his 'trips'.

"What are you doing, Devlin?" She asked, leaning in the kitchen doorframe with a cup of tea between her hands. She blew into the hot liquid.

"Waiting," he said. She stared at him oddly. "I waited for him too, you know."

There were no stairs in their tent back home - just a small, cramped hallway. When he would haul his blankets and pillows into the hallway and sleep there until the opening door roused him was the only time Voldemort hadn't seemed to mind things 'being out of place'.

My loyal little thing, he would whisper into his ear, like a secret just for them and he would pick him up and carry him to bed.

He was pretty sure Potter wouldn't see this as loyalty.

"He'll be home," she said. "But he might be late. Soon-"

"I know," he said, his eyes still on the door. Soon he would need to be locked away in his room, regardless.

"Come take the last dose," she said, turning around to lead him into the kitchen. He didn't bother. A motion with his hand and the glass was soaring into his palm. His eyes remained on the door.

OoOoOoO

The man hadn't made it home before he was locked away, but he knew he made it home hours afterwards.

For a moment he thought he had been asleep, but the sharpness had roused him with an alertness to his thoughts that Dubhán did not posses.

The green-eyed man is back. Because of the Wolfbane it didn't have complete control, but it had more now than it was used to on a full moon. Voldemort had concocted his own brand of Wolfsbane for him to take which always left Dubhán feeling extremely ill and the sharpness even worse.

It was the sharpness that lifted his head, brought them to their feet, and went to pace by the door. It was the sharpness that sniffed at the door, hoping for some clue from beyond it's surface.

Don't leave. Dubhán was slightly panicked. He did not fear his wolf, but the lack of control terrified him. He supposed if he really wanted to fight for the control it would be him who won because of the Wolfsbane, but he did not fight with his wolf.

He felt a growl leave his muzzle that was all the sharpness. Even after so long, Dubhán wasn't sure he would know how to make that sound. Dubhán slunk back, chastised. Neither one of them liked the lack of control anymore. Dubhán sometimes thought his wolf wasn't really a werewolf anymore at all.

There was that same smell of death out in the hallway that had been on the man the first time he had returned and then there senses were invaded by Zee, returning the sniffs from the other side.

"Zee - leave Devlin alone."

The wolf slunk away as well, bored. They curled up on the bed and Dubhán dreamed of the field again. Except this time, the wolf was waiting there for him.

OoOoOoO

The next morning his head pounded in an entirely different way than it pulsed at the cusp of the full-moon. He always felt the oddest the day after the full moon. The sharpness, exhausted, wasn't really in his thoughts. His head pounded again and his brain felt fuzzy and uncomfortable, as if there was a bit missing.

The man was at breakfast. Dubhán did not ask about Voldemort. They had been talking before he'd come in and he paused as the privacy charm shattered upon his entrance. Maybe they'd been talking about Voldemort. Or him.

There were dark circles under the man's eyes and he stared down at his eggs with a level of concentration Dubhán did not think eggs warranted. Dubhán did not know what to say. Once more, he felt more awkward with Harry than he had ever felt with Voldemort. He supposed while he might have been feeling awkward he was terrified instead - or maybe he had simply been too young to feel the odd bite of awkwardness.

"How are you feeling, Devlin?" It was the lady who came to the rescue - somewhat.

"Fine."

Alexandra smiled. Harry stared into his eggs a little longer. Dubhán felt as if he wanted to shake Potter and bring him back into reality. Instead, he said something he shouldn't have.

"Did he keep you late?"

Potter's eyes snapped to his own and he blinked, seeming to wake from some dark sleep.

"No," he said, "work did."

His voice was soft and rasp and Dubhán wondered once if Potter had been crying. Then he brought his hand up to his temple and Dubhán knew that Potter may well have been crying, but he'd also been drinking.

Dubhán didn't understand exactly why alcohol made brilliant men fools and fools into blundering idiots, or why some Death Eaters who drank became nice and others became mean, or why it made everyone look terrible the next morning - all Dubhán really knew was that when a Death Eater had this particular look, the others would tell him that he had had too much drink the night before and now he was paying the price. It was something the Death Eaters often took a moment to laugh about, when someone came into breakfast look especially down-trodden.

For a moment Dubhán envisioned himself mimicking the behaviors of the Death Eaters with Potter, but then he thought better.

"Work is terribly boring," he said instead, waving his hand; trying to engage him the tiniest bit. Potter arched a brow at him, bemused.

"Yeah?" He asked, smiling just a little. He turned back to his eggs. This time some actually made it into his mouth.

Later, the catalogues Alexandra had ordered finally came in and she settled them across from him during lunch.

"What are those for?" Harry asked. He seemed a little more awake now.

"Devlin is getting Emma a birthday present. He wants to put some additional charms on it, too," Alexandra offered, when he did not.

"Awesome," Harry said. "Now we just have to figure out what to get Devlin for his birthday," Harry added, his voice almost ecstatic. That's when it hit him; what Alexandra had been waiting for him to realize when he had mentioned Emma's birthday. It had been October when he was taken. Two moons had passed. It was December now. Devlin's birthday was Decemeber twenty-first.

There was silence. He could feel their eyes on him.

"Are you seeking hints or something?" He asked, eyes still on the catalogues. Last birthday Voldemort had gotten him his Dragonhide cloak, Geoffrey had gotten him books, a myriad of Death Eaters had gotten him trinkets, and Bellatrix had gotten him his Dragonhide boots (the only nice thing she had done for him that year).

"Maybe a broom!" Harry suggested, his voice far too jovial for Dubhán's favor.

"I do hope not," Dubhán said, making sure his eyes did not lift.

"Hmm...let me think..." But Potter did not end up telling him what he thought, because his watch was suddenly beeping again. "Darn. This won't take as long as last night," he said, rising to kiss Alexandra, who whispered I should hope not, Harry into his ear. He ruffled his hair on the way out but didn't kiss him this time - Dubhán was thankful.

"See ya in a few," he said to him as his fingers left his head and he dashed upstairs to get his cloak. Dubhán thought that the evenness of his strides up the stairs and the perfectly neutral face as he came back to grab a piece of toast were all just masks to hide something that would cause himself to take the chance to become mean or a blundering fool. He wondered what Potter was like, drunk.

It was an hour later that there was a knock at the front door.

Alexandra had gone back to translating something in Goblin script and at the sound her quill froze on the paper. The ink seeped out, bleeding into the paper. Dubhán watched her stillness carefully.

Finally she rose to her feet. The paper was tucked neatly inside the book, the book neatly vanished to the library. Her wand tapped the wood of the table and suddenly there was a picture of the front of the house.

There was a man at the front step. It wasn't Voldemort.

Dubhán felt fear blooming in his chest.

She pulled a small jagged mirror out of her pocket and slid it silently across the table to him.

"Go to your room and lock the door," she said. It sounded like directions Voldemort would have given him and he found his body rising from the chair even as his legs felt weak beneath him. "Call your father with that. Tell him the Ministry is here."

He felt the blood leave his face. He was surely as white as muggle paper. He swallowed and nodded and his feet carried him quicker than he would have thought possible, if he hadn't done this before.

He shut his bedroom door softly as not to attract attention. His wand wavered, but that didn't matter with this spell. He combed his mind for every last locking charm he knew, which wasn't many. Then he turned to the mirror and tapped it.

"Harry? Potter? Harry Potter?"

The surface was foggy for a moment, but then Harry Potter's striking green eyes came into view.

"Alex, this-" The eyes narrowed. "Devlin...what are you doing with your mum's mirror?"

"She said to tell you," he licked his lips, hearing voices downstairs. "She said to tell you the Ministry is here. I think...I think she needs your help."

"Where are you?"

"In my room."

"Have you locked it?"

"Yes."

"Good job. Now look at me," Devlin tried to stop the mirror from shaking in his hands. His knuckles were white around it. "It will be okay, Devlin. This time I can promise it will be. I am coming. Whatever you do, do not make them think of you as dangerous."

He nodded. Potter was gone. The voices grew louder downstairs, until there was one by his door too.

"I know you're in there, child," a deep voice said, sounding hesitant. "My names Damian. You're Devlin. I work with your dad."

"Don't come in! I've got a wand!"

"No, no, shh child - those aren't words you want my friends to hear, alright?" The voice was soft now, by the crack of his door. "You're scared - you're only a child. Now you're gonna tell me if you called your dad or not, alright?"

And that's when he knew - they weren't here for the lady, or waiting for the man - they were here for him. He had known before, but it hit him in that moment like a stunner. The boy flashed before his eyes, the rickety house, the cave by the sea, and she came to him last - her brilliant blues eyes like fire burning behind sapphire.

"I'm gonna open the door, now. It can't be helped. I won't hurt you. No one needs to be hurt. Your mum will come with-"

"Don't touch her!"

"No, no - not like that, child. She'll escort you to the Ministry. The Minister just wants a word with you, alright lad? Do you know what's been happening? Has Harry told you?"

"No," he said, the word sticking to his throat. The unknowing of this all struck him hard in his chest.

He realized that Malfoy had been trying to warn him - trying to get him to escape. It had been his opening from Grandfather. Dubhán had made some mistake. Done something wrong. Miscalculated something and he was surely being punished.

He racked his brain for every single thing he had done - weaving a web in his own mind. He could picture himself walking precariously along the strands, looking for the connections.

He scrambled to his desk. He tore open the drawer. Inside was the tiny book. A swipe of his wand and the book was it's proper size.

There was no tug of a portkey. No pain. No punishment. No portal to return. No escape.

Now there was only a book. He flipped it over to read the title and his heart pitter-pattered in his chest feebly.

An Interactive Reference for Young Wizard's.

He had asked Grandfather to get it for him for his birthday, but he had refused. Such things only create weak minds, he had said, crumpling up the advertisement Dubhán had brought back from Diagon Alley.

But here it was.

Was it supposed to be a token of apology or was it supposed to symbolize that he was weak?

He opened the book, more than half of him hoping the inside would reveal something the outside had not.

It was blank except for the pre-printed words scrawled at the top of each page in the book: Ask me a question and I shall give you an answer.

He lifted a 'pen', as Potter had called it.

"Kiddo - you alright? I'm starting to undo the locks. Don't be scared, alright?"

Can you help me?

The ink seeped into the paper, just like the advertisement had described happening. He waited for the answer.

I need a proper question, it returned.

He had thought, for a single moment, that maybe the book was not all it seemed. Or that it was as powerful as the advertisement had portrayed. He had thought that it could help.

What would you do if you were about to be taken by the Ministry?

The pen bit into the book, sharp against the paper with heavy-handed anger. Vindictively he had given it a 'proper question' and now he listened, as the man began to disassemble his locking charms, and he watched as the ink seeped into the paper. I would kill them. You, however, are too small and foolish to do that. I did try to protect you from this, child. Foolish boy. Fear is for lesser beings than yourself.

It was more than a book. Dubhán stared at it for a long moment. The words zoomed around in his head. His Grandfather's words.

Close the book, foolish child!

He snapped it shut.

The locks were snapping, the sound like brittle wood being teased to an inch of it's breaking point.

Dubhán was frozen for a moment.

Fear is for lesser beings than yourself.

He knew those words sounded cruel to Harry's ears, but they made him breathe each time he heard them. You are worth something. You are good. I value you. You are still mine.

He would be expected to figure this out. If Grandfather had thought it above him, surely he would have told Dubhán what to do.

In times like these, Dubhán could almost feel the pulse of his thoughts, pushing his heart faster and faster as his body tried to keep up with the onslaught of orders.

Dubhán grabbed for the childish backpack that still sat atop the dresser and shoved the book in. Next was his cloak, then a pair of pants and a shirt. He sent a couple feeble locking charms against the door, not because he thought it would work, but because Grandfather had drilled into his head that the last three spells could be read. He didn't want them to know he had unshrunk something.

Foolish boy.

The familiar chastisement rung in his head.

He wasn't a fool. He grabbed his back-up wand from the bedside table.

The door swung open.

His wand was drawn.

"Don't touch me," he said - not like Dubhán, but like the boy who had first begged not to be cut, except this time it was a lie.

"Easy, child," the man said. A werewolf. He had two wands - he could tell by how his canvas jacket bent oddly at his other elbow. Maybe even one against his ankle. There was, of course, the one in his hand. The man approached. Dubhán tried to still himself - to make himself appear weak instead of a danger as Potter had asked, when suddenly there was a loud noise downstairs and a rush of feet up the stairs.

There was a shout and a bang and a call of: "I told you to get out of my bloody way!"

Then there was a wand, just visible at the edge of the doorway, it's wielder out of view.

"We're friends, so I'm going to ask nicely: back up."

The large man smiled.

"You called your dad, huh?" He took a step back, until his body was in the hallway, where he could apparently see Harry. "'ello boss. Sorry about this - orders and all, sir."

"I understand, Damian," Harry said. "Although I think the trick of calling me into work was entirely too low-handed."

"Wasn't part of that, sir," he said. "But I am going to have to take the boy in."

"Alexandra will be going to my daughter. I will be escorting my son."

"The Min-"

"I know everything you are obligated to say. The men downstairs already told me. It is my right as a parent, no matter my involvement with the case. There is also no need for wands, Devlin and I will come willingly. But first I am going to give my son his medicine."

"Sounds perfectly fine, Harry. As soon as the boy puts down the wand of course."

"Devlin - drop your wand. I will summon it."

Dubhán didn't hesitate. That was why his real wand was in it's holster, out of view.

When Potter had his wand, the man backed up even more. Harry came forward.

"Hey, Devlin," he said, with that smile. As if nothing had changed. "You packed a bag, huh? Clever boy. Come here, lets have a look. Go fetch your jacket from the hook, yeah?"

He noticed how Harry had said jacket, not cloak and so he didn't dispute Harry with the fact that his cloak was already in the bag. In fact, Harry was pulling the cloak out. He made a noise in the back of his throat. Harry just shook his head and Dubhán wasn't sure why, but he didn't press it. Harry even took the moment to hide it in the dresser.

"Damian?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm making you aware that I am going to summon a potion from the medicine cabinet. Don't let them hit you in the head."

"Absolutely."

Two vials came into the room. Harry pocketed one and the other he uncapped and put before him.

"No shaking today, alright?"

He nodded with fierce agreement.

Potter led him to the bed then ducked into the hallway. Dubhán heard footsteps walking away as Potter returned.

"They gave us a minute," he said, smiling that same smile that he always did - as if he could demonstrate with the single expression that his feelings were always going to be the same. That he would always love him.

"What's happening?" He asked softly. Potter crouched in front of him. Dubhán felt a dread he didn't know how to describe or express or even trace back to its origin flash through his chest.

"You remember what I said about nothing being your fault, right?" He nodded, just so the man would continue. The dread filled him further. "It isn't. None of it is. And they're just being idiots-"

"Who?"

"The Ministry - they want to question you, Devlin," he said at last, his warm hands on his thighs, comforting.

"What do you want me to do?" Dubhán asked and somehow he hoped Potter would say 'be smart' because he would know what that meant, but Potter never said things he understood. Regardless, he asked, because Voldemort hadn't told him anything and maybe Potter would say something that made sense.

"I want you to be polite. I don't want you to say a single word until Hermione is sitting next to you - she's going to represent you. If they ask you things before she is there I need you to say "My dad said not to talk until aunt Hermione got here. If they take me away from you - I need you to be brave."

Dubhán bit his lip.

"Say it for me, Devlin." His hands were shaking on his thighs. Dubhán felt tongue tied. A hand was carding through his hair now until it settled at the back of his head and pulled him forward. Potter and his forehead touched. "You're clever and brilliant and you can do this. I need you to make them think whatever they need to think, Devlin."

"I'll be smart," he said, saying the words he needed to hear. Potter nodded.

"Now, give me your wand. It will be safer here at home."

Of course - Potter had never known he'd had a backup wand and would have recognized the backup as not beinghis. He swallowed, but took it out of it's holster.

"And that," Harry said, motioning to the holster. Dubhán looked at him, shocked. He couldn't remember the last time he had faced danger without it strapped to his arm. "Most nine year olds don't have one, Dubhán."

He nodded. His only hope was to trick them into thinking he was a normal boy. The mere idea terrified him; because he did not know how to be a normal boy.

He unstrapped the holster and handed it to Harry. Both were patiently tucked beneath a floorboard - something Dubhán would not have thought to do. Potter came back to him and offered up a hand.

Normally Dubhán would never have taken it, especially not right before facing something terrifying. But he made a conscious decision to take it now, because wasn't that what a normal boy would do?

Fear is for lesser beings than yourself.

Fear wasn't the answer to this situation.

OoOoOoO

The Auror's were downstairs, lining the hallway. Dubhán counted at least six.

"Didn't they think you were the big man," Harry said in his ear and part of the terror broke away as the compliment sunk in.

They passed by the Auror's, stiff as statues. It took Dubhán a moment to understand why, until he saw Alexandra, her wand aimed at them from the living room. When she was furious she looked like him.

"Who will be escorting us?" Harry asked.

"I will," an Auror said.

"Me as well," another said.

Damian stepped forward and Dubhán knew why he was there. The second man made his heart stop for a second. It was the man from the party - the little girl's father. Harry dug his nails into his hand, bringing him back to reality.

"Sounds dandy. Alexandra will keep her wand pointed at the rest of you until we're through the fire. Then she'll curse each and everyone of you if you don't leave immediately."

They nodded.

When they reached the fireplace Damian came close to him, smiling.

"I'm going to be the one holding you, lad," he said.

"Us, you mean," Harry said. He had cast a magical band connecting them. "I know all the little tricks, Damian. I won't fault you for your orders, but don't mind me if I fight them the entire way."

"Ah, great thought, Mr. Potter," David said from the other side, too happy for it to be anything but false. "Now theres no chance you'll be disconnected in the fire."

Harry nodded stiffly.

The werewolf's hand clamped down on his shoulder and it took every bit of self control he owned not to shout "don't touch me!" or to kick him somewhere where it would really hurt.

Normal, normal, normal, he told himself.

The flames turned the color of the killing curse.