Potter stood there for a long moment, breathless and wordless, and so seemingly lost that all Dubhán could think of was the first day they had met; when Potter had stood the same distance from the bed, with the same shocked unknowingness written across his face.

"What do you mean, Devlin?" He had asked, voice soft. Dubhán had thought he was probably feeling the same thing Dubhán had that first day: knowing and not knowing and wondering if he wanted to know.

But Dubhán knew this was not something he could fully disclose to Potter. After all, what was he supposed to say? This is the boy I killed.

No. He wasn't stupid. But he had already been foolish - telling Potter he knew him - so now he'd need to explain.

"You buried a boy. You thought he was me. I didn't know but...I've been wondering since I saw the article if this boy was him."

He tried to hand the photograph back, to relinquish the control and responsibility, however symbolic and actually useless that would be. Potter was frozen.

"How did you know him, Devlin?" There was no judgement that he could see. No anger. No disappointment. The horror and assumption was pure and clear.

I killed him.

But there was not much else he could tell him.

"There were no children there, sir," he said, imploringly. "Then one day there is a boy sitting in the living room, sitting on his hands - looking like he'd been crying. I tried to talk to him - but Bellatrix told me not to."

"Why?"

"She said he was a Mudblood. I didn't know what that meant. I didn't like Bellatrix, so I asked the boy if he knew. But Grandfather came into the room and answered for her. He told me what a mudblood was and that it meant he didn't know what a wizard was - but he was one himself. Then he told me Bellatrix was right - the boy wasn't worth my attention. He dismissed me back to bed."

Potter sucked on his bottom lip.

"Did you see him killed?"

Yes. I did it in the worst way I possibly could. I killed him. He suffered.

But no - he hadn't actually seen the boy die.

"No."

"Then how can you be sure this is the same boy?"

Dubhán looked at the picture again - Potter had never taken it from his hands. He couldn't be certain; he didn't remember the boy well enough, but if it wasn't the boy, then it was a boy chosen to look distinctly the same.

"Does it matter if it's him?"

Potter's eyebrows quirked.

"Yes - since you're-"

"No, I mean - does it matter if it is the boy? It is a boy - a boy, at the very least, chosen to look like the boy."

"Or maybe it is just a boy-"

"He's been killing your Auror's - not little boys."

Potter frowned at him.

"You like to call him a monster, but children really don't interest him that much. They cry and he hates crying. Someone killed this boy to send you a message."

"Someone?" Potter asked, incredulous that it could be anyone beside Voldemort.

"I don't know that it was him. This boy - he doesn't really have a value - why kill him?"

"To send a message lik-"

"You already know you buried the wrong boy. You already know the facts. These aren't facts. This is meant hurt you - to make you feel something that isn't fear. He wouldn't think there was something worse to make you feel. If this is him, then the idea was someone else's."

Potter looked at him. Not like he was a little boy. Not like he was disturbed. Not like he was simply unaware of who Voldemort was. Not as if the wool had been pulled over his eyes.

"Devlin-" he was surprised to hear the name. He had half been expecting Potter to call him Dubhán, because the look he was giving him wasn't the look he would give a normal boy.

"You believe me. You know I'm right."

"I don't know-"

"I just told you!"

Potter made a quieting motion with his hands.

"Shh - Emma is asleep, remember? I don't know anything because I haven't the proof yet. I'm a detective, Devlin - everything is a theory until it becomes the truth. Your idea is a very good theory."

Partially pacified, Dubhán nodded.

"Now - I'm going to get some sleep. I'll have to go into work early. Do you need a calming draught before bed?"

He shook his head, not because he was calm, but because the draughts made his head fuzzy and he wanted to be able to think right now. Potter tucked him into the bed and went to the doorway.

"Remember you don't control him, Devlin," he said as he left.

Dubhán already knew no one controlled Voldemort - they only whispered suggestions and hoped they suited his mood. The sharpness rose and stretched and agreed.

He fell asleep thinking of the boy, but his dream started with a different boy.

He was dreaming of escaping by the wooded edge of the camp and this time he managed to break through the wards. Everything was silent in this dream and pitch dark. When he broke through the wards he found himself not in the woods but in Harry Potter's house - the living room to be specific. His hands were too-small. There was a toy dragon in one of them, and he was slinking towards a closet that did not reside in the living room now. It was large inside and as he closed the door and settled in it was with a sense of anticipatory glee in his chest.

He was hiding from his daddy. His daddy would be coming down the stairs, telling him it was bedtime - but he wouldn't find him, because he had figured out a great hiding spot.

There was no sharpness in this boys head, but his own sharpness was there with him, watching the scene unfold with a darker kind of uncertain anticipation. Unlike his dream of her, he knew this time he was dreaming. He noticed things that he wouldn't have noticed then: how small his hands were, how big the closet was he was hiding in, how the house smelled of vanilla and lavender and how his hair was damp against his scalp - he smelled like vanilla and lavender. But even this awareness seemed to be slipping away - the dream consuming him.

The anticipatory glee made the boy want to giggle. His daddy would be coming down the stairs, expecting him to be playing with the dragons laid out in the living room. But he wasn't there. He was hidden. The mere idea almost sent giggles cascading through his body. He moved to bury his head in the white robe hung in the closet - his daddy's work robe. His daddy also kept his black shiny work shoes here; he doesn't like to wear them.

There was a creak - just a small noise - but he could hear it in the hush of the house. There was a smile breaking across his face, and he could feel his baby teeth clenching together in anticipation. That was his daddy - looking for him!

The footsteps were in the living room now. He clenched his hands into tiny fists as a fear that seems entirely instinctual was outweighed by the glee and anticipation of his daddy finding him. He was almost shaking with the feeling.

He peeked under the doorframe, to see how close his daddy was to finding him. Daddy was wearing his black shiny work shoes that he hated. He watched him walk around the living room and felt his face crumpling into a frown. He felt that fear fill him again and for some reason the gleeful anticipation, while still there, wasn't quite overwhelming the fear.

Once more the sensations and realizations hit him without the logical reference points. Something was not right, and the sense fills him with a dread. He reached over to grasp at his daddy's work robes, because it was a comforting thought to be close to his daddy.

That's when his eyes saw the shiny black work shoes that his daddy hates so much again - tucked under his white work robe. How could Daddy be wearing his work shoes if they were right there?

His chest felt funny, thinking on the two sets of shoes. His breath caught in his throat and wouldn't come out or let more in. He licked his lips and grasped tighter at his daddy's robe hem to calm himself.

Dubhán felt like he was losing himself in the dream. He tried to jerk the boy into his control - to change the dream - but he was without control. This was a memory. The sharpness waited patiently for his turn.

Then he heard it, the rush of feet down the stairs and the shout. He knew what it was, but he was stuck within the boy who knew nothing.

"Malfoy." That was his daddy.

"Potter." That wasn't.

His daddy said the first spell-word, and the closet was lit a brilliant yellow - like the sun was outside the door. Then the other voice yelled and the closet was red like a cut. There was the sound of a great bang, like his mummy or daddy made when they just appeared. The clash of the spells exploded and filled his head. He hoped his daddy hadn't gone - because he's still here, stuck in the closet.

There was a shout - like someone was hurt. He backed up in the closet and clutched the half-forgotten dragon to his chest.

"Tell me where she is, Potter. It isn't fair she's missing the party - now is it?"

"Never."

"Is she in the basement, Potter? Didn't have time to hide your wards, did you? Tsk tsk-"

"Don't touch her you bastard!" His daddy yelled. "Don't go in there!"

But Devlin knew mummy never hid in the basement. Especially not today. When they play the hiding game Devlin knows all the secret places, and the basement wasn't one of them. The basement was for laundry and adult conversations and sometimes potions - and every once in a while his Uncle Remus stayed over and he slept down there.

Something out there snarled and someone made a guttural yell - and he sure hoped they hadn't made uncle Remus come out, because the thing that was out there sounded scary and uncle Remus wasn't as strong as Daddy. He pushed himself back further in the closet. The ceiling sloped down and he could feel it against his wet vanilla-lavender hair.

Shouts and colors fill the air some more. Fear crippled him until he wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Then everything got quiet for a minute.

"Don't touch her!" His mummy's voice. Emma's high shriek seemed to boom over all the other people's voices and for one brief moment he felt so angry. His mum. A need filled him that was too great to ignore and he yanked the door open and rushed into the fray - looking for the one thing he knew would not fail him - his mum. He wanted his mum to say that about him - to tell everyone not to touch him. She would keep him safe. She was at the top of the stairs - he could see her red hair. There were men near her and Emma was crying in her arms.

There were men in his living room. Men he did not know - dressed in black cloaks and wearing masks that made them look like it was time to trick-or-treat. He paused in the sea of them.

That's when he saw it.

It was green. Like his daddy's eyes. Like the powder makes the fires. Like the impossibly green plants that grow under the guidance of his daddy's friend Neville. Like the earrings his mummy has.

It was green. He could almost hear it - sizzling through the air, pushing gravity and particles and matter aside to reach it's unintended aim - him. He felt fear wash over him, but he did not know why he was afraid. He liked green. Green was his favorite color. Mum said it was because it was the first color he could say that people understood. Devlin said it was because his eyes were green.

He didn't know why he was afraid but the fear in his mind poisoned his body and he couldn't move. His Daddy was there - green because he could see him through the green light - running and pushing and shouting, but he can't understand what he' was saying.

He can't move.

He wanted to close his eyes, but the fear wants him to see. So he sees. He sees it come closer. He hears the woosh as it is almost against his skin. It will hurt, he thinks.

Then something pulled at his shoulder. Too hard. Too tight. His body exploded in pain. He was yanked to the side by only his shoulder. His back slammed against the wooden floors and the impact made him cry out. The green light was rushing above him. The thing that hurt him was still there - long snout and amber eyes.

The room shook. Or he shook. Maybe they both shook.

Something was going terribly wrong. He could feel it in him - in parts of him he's never felt before. His body tried to shake it out, but the thing was sticking to him - to his mind, to his tummy, to his teeth and hair and - everything.

Chaos reigned around him. His daddy was covered in colors, painting his blue shield. Mummy was at the top of the stairs still - he could see her if he stretched his eyes until they hurt. She was making pretty lights with her wand, making men fall down. Emma was screeching.

The thing above him was growling, pacing above him. For a moment all he could see was the things furry belly.

A dark man came near them and the giant thing lunged at him. The man fell down. It was then that the thing came back for him.

"No, no, no," he begged it, as it's mouth came close to him again. But it didn't listen. It sunk it's teeth into his shoe. It began to drag him like Emma dragged her blankie around the house. Only much, much more carefully than Emma was with her blankie.

Chaos continued around him. The thing had let go and for a moment all he could see was it's belly as it stood over him, snarling at something. Everything was getting very hard to see. The colors of the spells seemed to mute and fade and the sounds around him became one continuous stream of loudness.

He was in the hallway - next to the stairs, when the thing put him down.

His head was pulsing, and his eyes didn't seem to want to stay open. His head fell to one side. He could see the shoulder the giant dog had bitten. It was red now because the dog had cut him. It needed his mummy to put a bandage on it - he wanted one with a flying broom and one with a snitch. If he could get mummy she'd make it all better.

The thing nudge him just as he was about to fall asleep. He yelled out. The thing huffed and made a whimpering noise. He wanted to flinch. He wanted to run. His body knew both were impossible right now.

The world came and went, but the sound of the front door being blown open, awoke him before a nudge from the giant dog could. He could see their feet more than their faces as they stormed into the house. Black shiny boots, white cloaks swishing at their feet. The giant dog backed up as they came closer, whimpering. He thought they saw the dog before they saw him. They had paused at the opening to the living room. The man in the front crouched down - still a doorway away from him - and he could see it was uncle Ron - red hair and brown eyes.

"It'll be alright, Devlin," uncle Ron said, then he was moving his hands in the air, and two people raced across the doorway opening and over to him. They're faces were pale and their eyes wide and he wondered if his cut looked worse than the time he smashed his finger in the door - uncle Sirius had looked at him like that for a moment, then.

Uncle Ron moved his hand again and the rest of the black-boot white-cloak people raced into the living room. The hallway was lit in pretty colors.

"Put him to sleep before something happens," one of the men said, eying the giant dog. He had the oddest sensation that they were more afraid of him then the dog who had bitten him.

When he awoke it was into another dream - in a dark room. The floor and ceiling and walls were the same dull stonework and there was a brown-haired, brown-eyed, freckled boy cowered in the corner. The only thing to break the pace of the stonework was the door - iron and heavy. Immovable. Somehow he knew he'd already tried, although he can't think quite right.

The boy is begging. Crying and cowering and pushing himself futilely further and further back into the unaccommodating corner. And it is with the last scrap of his mind that he realizes the boy is cowering from him.

He awakes for real in a cold sweat with the sharpness at the forefront of his mind, pushing him back into the world of the waking.

His mind reeled and the sharpness growled and for a moment Dubhán felt lost, pushed below the sharpness instead of standing equally at it's side. A moment later and everything was righted.

The sun was shining through the curtains - morning had come while he had slept - so he went to find clothing. Grey slacks and a pullover blue sweater. There were cuffs at the end of the sleeves that clung to his wrists, making the sleeves slightly poofy. On the front was a Snitch and words in a childish script saying 'catch me if you can.' It would have to do, since there was essentially nothing else left. Feeling somehow ridiculed by the shirt, he slid on his shoes, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out of his room.

The kitchen was empty, but the smell of bacon and hash and waffles filled the air. There was a soft tapping noise and he went in search of the maker.

Potter was in the living room. Not reading. Not working. Not staring into space. He was asleep. There was a pecking at the window and Dubhán realized it was an owl, holding a parcel.

"Sir," he said, standing close to Potter. There was a Ministry seal on the envelope that he could see through the window. "Sir."

Potter stirred. An eye opened. The the other.

"Hey," he said, affably. "I was just gonna close my eyes for a second...guess I fell asleep. What is- oh an owl." Sitting up had revealed the thing behind the noise. He rose without another word, opened the window and took the parcel. The owl nipped at his fingers, begging for food. Harry summoned a piece of bacon and the owl flew onto the back of a chair, eating.

"Oh," Harry said, rubbing at his eyes under his spectacles. He seemed to be trying to force his brain awake, and his brain seemed to be resisting.

"Something interesting?" Dubhán asked, settling himself on the sofa.

"I don't know yet," Harry said. "My men only found the first part."

"But they didn't call you."

"No - not for a letter."

"What did the letter say?" He was truly curious, the feeling humming beneath his skin. 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. This was not one of those times, so he admitted he was jealous that Voldemort would choose to use so much of his energy on Potter rather than on rescuing him. It didn't matter that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be rescued now.

"It doesn't mention you," he said, folding the parcel and putting it in his back pocket. Dubhán felt a surge of annoyance enter into his blood. Well of course it hadn't - it had been for Potter. That hadn't been what he had asked.

"Yes, but what did it say?"

Potter turned to him, frowning.

"We're supposed to be on the same page," he said, in that same delicate tone - somewhere between a gentle reminder and a concealed taunt - that Voldemort had tried to use to charm him as a child and see his own reason.

Potter's face twisted.

"Devlin-"

"I told you a secret last night," he said, rising from his seat to step forward. His voice didn't get louder but he could feel the coldness at the edges, seeping in. "Because you told me we needed to be on the same page. Now you're not going to tell me what he's written?"

Potter's lips twisted in uncertainty.

"He said my surprise was closer than I thought."

"Pardon?" Dubhán asked, because it didn't make sense. Harry sighed.

"Last night with the photo he also sent a letter. It said if I didn't give you to him he would have a surprise for me in the morning. This morning he sent a letter to my office saying the surprise was closer than I thought."

It still didn't make sense.

The sense of it didn't hit while Potter stared at him sympathetically. It didn't occur to him before Emma and Alexandra came for breakfast. He stared at his food, thinking the words over, but the answer was elusive. Voldemort did not speak without meaning.

Then he heard it. So sharp and loud he thought his nerves were being flayed. Potter and Alexandra reacted without real thought. The dishes were banished from the table. The tabletop glowed blue and covered itself in glass. There was a sketch of the house and perimeter, which was a nice happy blue.

"Someone's just touching it - there isn't anything disrupted."

But Dubhán did not feel calm, because Dubhán knew that there were ways to freeze wards.

Alexandra grabbed Emma. Harry raced to the front door. They did not need to discuss things. They knew their jobs. She grabbed for him, her voice lost in the onslaught of the blaring noise and his dawning realization.

He flung himself away from her, staggering, and propelled himself into the hallway. The door was closing behind Potter, but he managed to push through. If the wards weren't supposed to let him through their alert simply mingled with the on-going blare. The grass was green. The sky was blue. The air was fresh and exhilarating.

Potter was pointing his wand, summoning the Auror's. He turned to notice him just as Dubhán propelled himself around and past the man. There was a body laid against the wards. Realization pounded like crucio through his body.

Behind him there was a shout and the wards shimmered like glass for a moment, stopping him from touching the brown-haired, freckled boy. Potter came up beside him and pulled him back.

"Get inside," he said, firmly. There was a power in those green eyes that Dubhán had not seen before. A fight like a fire. A strength and knowing that Voldemort's charmless gaze did not provide.

"He's alive!" Dubhán shouted, trying to pull out of Harry's grasp. The man looked at him like he were a broken child out of his mind. Dubhán did not feel broken. He felt real as purpose and power ran through his blood and pulsed in his head.

"Devlin-"

"He's alive! Your wards! Your wards are still blaring! He's ALIVE!"

An ashen hue overtook over Harry's features and he propelled himself outside of the wards to pick the boy up. Dubhán had been ready to do it himself, but watching Potter, he suddenly knew - it was a trap. The surprise was a trap. The surprise was emotional and triggering and it made Potter do something he'd learned not to do as a responsible wizard.

They came out of nowhere, there wands raised, their masks covering their eyes, their muscles taunt and ready for a fight. Potter was still holding the boy, unprepared, wand held awkwardly, muscles unready.

Dubhán closed his eyes.

He couldn't watch. Call him weak. He would live with the ridicule. He couldn't watch Potter die.

When he opened his eyes, tentatively, it was to find the boy thrown haphazardly into the warded zone and to see Potter standing upright.

There was blood leaking from a gash on his face. His eyes were alight, his glasses skewed. His lips tight and sneering. His jaw tight and controlled. Two of the Death Eater's threw a spell in tandem and Potter went skidding across the black muggle-made stone. Dubhán wanted to look away, but fear wanted him to see, so he saw.

Potter struck his wand through the air, beneath him, and suddenly he was in the air - just for a moment - escaping the onslaught of the tandem spells. He came down not-to-gracefully, but if he was quick to sprawl he was faster to spring to his feet.

"In a poor mood today, chaps?" He said, wiping at his mouth. He fired off another curse and one of them men fell to the ground - bound in magical restraints. He had been the easy, uncertain one, and Dubhán could see already in the other's postures that they would be more difficult.

He shifted. A primal urge that had nothing to do with loyalty seemed to well up inside of himself and he wanted to hurt the Death Eaters for hurting Harry. Harry was his.

He tried to press himself against the wards, but they were still glass. He knew to the Death Eater's the house and lawn looked empty - but Potter could see through his own wards.

"Don't move," Potter shouted, seemingly at the four Death Eaters, but Dubhán knew it was for him. "Don't even think about it."

One of them laughed, low and guttural.

"A bit worried, Potter?" One of them taunted, the most cocky and able of them. Dubhán had watched his movements and spells. Somehow he thought he knew him - but with the mask it was impossible to say for sure. "Maybe I should try to calm you down with some stories about your son, hmm?"

Dubhán felt his heart stop. Felt his body freeze. Felt everything leave him through his toes. Potter would know.

"That won't be necessary," Harry said, stepping forward. "Are you the only one out of this despicable lot that knew my son?"

"That's right," the Death Eater purred. "I know all about him."

"I see." Potter struck out his wand and the two men in the back who had been foolish enough to stand close together were suddenly bound by magical restraints, face to face. A second later and their wands were in Harry's grasp.

Now there were only two.

They were better than the other three - dodging and lunging - firing and blocking alongside Harry.

"Close your eyes!" Harry suddenly shouted, after the famous green curse had come mere inches from his chest. The Death Eaters tipped their heads at him oddly for a moment, but Dubhán knew the command wasn't meant for the Death Eaters - it was meant for him. "Do it! Now!"

He snapped his eyes closed, so tightly that he could see stars burst into life out of the oblivion. He had never been ordered not to see. Never been directed to be childish. Never been allowed to feel the fear pounding in his chest. It consumed him now - ragged breath and pounding chest and still quiet thoughts that didn't fit with everything else.

It didn't matter though - he wasn't a child. He knew the sounds. Knew the colors. He still knew what was happening. They were fighting. The colors of their spells penetrated beyond his lids. Was that red a fire or a cutting curse? Was that yellow a breaking or a blinding curse? Then he saw it: green like the grass, like the powder makes the fire, like Harry's eyes. Green like the killing curse. There was a thud and he felt the whoosh of magic even through the wards.

There were arms on his shoulders and he opened his eyes to see Harry. His face was bloody, his hands trembling, his lip split. There was a crack in his lens. There were bodies on the ground behind him - he had put them there. Quick and without much fuss. The one who had been most able - the tallest of them all - was looking up. His mask had cracked so that Dubhán could see one quater of his face. His eye was vacant and empty - Avada Kedavra. The four others were all bound and silenced.

Potter had killed someone.

At the recesses of his mind he had known it had to be true, but knowing and seeing were two different things. Potter was searching his face, devastated that he had seen. Dubhán was searching his face, experiencing another monumental paradigm shift.

Potter was a light wizard, but he killed people.

"I'm going to check on the boy," Harry said to him, giving him a squeeze. Dubhán nodded. A moment later there were white-robed men on their lawn. Ronald, Damian, the Minister, and many more he did not recognize.

It was Minister who came to him through the crowd - Dubhán had the sense that everyone else considered him off limits as Harry's son.

"Are you alright, child?" He asked, crouching and looking at him closely. Dubhán could feel some blood drying on his face that was not his own. He stared at him, his words processed in his brain, but his brain frozen in response. He felt like time was speeding around him while he was stuck in mud, trudging along. "Child?"

The Minister frowned.

"Haven't you ever seen someone die before, child?"

"Yes," he said, automatically. That was easy. He felt a sense of accomplishment for having been able to answer a question. The Minister nodded - not with accomplishment of his own, but with a resigned sort of frown - as if he had wished Dubhán had said something different. "But I've..."

The words seemed to escape him. In front of him, beyond the wards, Auror's hauled the live Death Eaters (all but that last of them) up and disappeared with them. The Minister beckoned with his hand and an Auror came to them.

"This is Julius - he's trained in healing too. He's going to have a look at you."

Dubhán did not want anyone to look at him. He did not want anyone to touch him.

"I'm fine."

"You're in shock," Julius replied calmly, his eyes seeming to examine each minutiae detail of him. "Are you in pain? Were you hurt?"

"No."

"I need you to look at me," Julius said, but Dubhán did not. The Minister had left.

He did not talk to Julius and Julius did not talk to him - simply stood by him, watching.

That's when he heard it - a scream. Julius had his hand on his shoulder before Dubhán could run off.

"It'll just be the boy, waking up, Mr. Potter."

"Let me go!" He said, through his teeth.

"The last thing I think you need is to see the boys condition," Julius said kindly. Dubhán was tempted to kick him, but instead he lunged away. Julius fell down, Dubhán ran. He didn't run to the boy. He ran to the house. Down the hall, into the bathroom. They kept vials of his potion everywhere, it seemed. The supply had surely cost them a small fortune.

He pulled one down into his hand and held it against him as he raced outside again. Harry was by the boy, trying to calm him as the Healers tried to heal him enough for transportation. The boy looked around with a frantic delirium that Dubhán knew well enough.

Dubhán stood there for a moment like he had stood while she was made to scream - frozen.

"He's becoming nothing," he said, softly. Potter seemed to hear him even above the boys screams. He thrust the potion at Potter. "Maybe it will save him."

Because Dubhán could already smell that he wasn't the other boy. He wasn't a werewolf. He had no wolf to save him - but maybe this potion would.

"Devlin we don't know if he's a muggle-"

"He's turning into nothing!" There was a desperation to his voice that only she had ever made him feel before. "Can't you see? He's turning into nothing!"

Dubhán knew - knew he was a mudblood, just like the other boy.

Potter withdrew his wand, summoned the potion and above the outcry of the healer, uncorked it and forced it into the boys mouth.

A moment later, he stopped screaming. His eyes moved unresponsively across their faces. Seeing but not knowing. Dubhán wondered almost idly if perhaps his show of caring had been worthless - perhaps he had been nothing already.

The chaos died down with his screams. They were able to heal him and transport him in a full body-bind. Now it was just the Auror's left - some out in the neighborhood 'cleaning up' some on the lawn, discussing the attack.

Damian came to them and Harry frowned - almost sneered.

"Devlin Potter - did you witness this attack?"

It was certainly clear he had, so he nodded.

"I will need to take your statement."