A scene between the Ministry and Sirius has been added to help the flow. The interrogation has been modified lightly, as well as the beginning of the scene at Sirius' house.

Today, he looked less like an old lion and more like just an old man. Harry had tried to convince him that his statement could be taken in their kitchen at home, but the Minister had refused. There had been a discussion, which had sounded more like a subtle argument, about protocol and reporting and 'appearances'. It was Damian who took him by Portkey 'directly to the Auror offices'. When he appeared Harry was already there, watching nervously from just a few paces away. He left the Minister's side for a moment, rushing to be next to him.

"It's alright, Devlin," he said, kneeling in front of him. His hands ran up and down Dubhán's arms, trying to be soothing. Damian's hand on his shoulder slipped away, but the man stayed firmly behind him. "Remember how I said you might have talk to them without me? I can't go with you, but Uncle Ron is going to come along in just a moment, alright?"

He nodded. Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what has to be done.

The sharpness growled in his head, sweeping away the image of the screaming boy withering on their lawn and replacing him with a feeling of nothing, nothing, nothing. He would not think of the possibility that Voldemort had spies here. He would not think of how this would seem like betrayal to his grandfather.

The old lion led him away from Potter - down a hallway. There was a man waiting in a room - nervous looking and settled in front of a pile of paperwork. They sat him down in the white-walled one-door room and he looked across the table at the man.

"I'm Vincent," the man across the table said, sending him a cursory smile that Dubhán thought would falter in a moment or so. The man seemed almost hesitant, looking at the papers again and again as if they would reveal some questioning tactic that he hadn't thought of before. Perhaps they did not train Auror's in how to question children, or perhaps, more likely, the Auror was weary of questioning his boss' son about what was sure to contain the question of Harry Potter's ethics.

He frowned.

There were three chairs in the room, one in which the man sat, one in which he sat, and one next to him - empty. Uncle Ron will be along in just a moment.

"He said Ron would be here. I'd like to wait for him."

The man nodded and fell silent. His attention went to his papers, pulling things out of a folder and settling them into piles atop the table. There was a stack of pictures, rested somewhere between them of which Dubhán could only see the first: a picture of the man Potter had killed. He was thankful the mask was still in place, although they would probably expect him to identify the man for them.

Ron came in just a moment later, dressed in his uniform, and settled in beside him.

"Shall we begin?" Vincent asked, a little more confidently. Dubhán did not say anything. The questions were coming whether he gave permission or not. The sharpness struggled to stay atop his bad thoughts. "Walk me through what happened, Mr. Potter."

As he had suspected, they hadn't really needed his permission to begin.

"It's Devlin," he said, because that was far better than Potter.

"Certainly, certainly," the man said, without really looking up.

"Where would you like me to start?" Dubhán asked, trying to delay the inevitable. Trying to decide what to do.

"Uh - this morning should suffice," the man said, nodding absently - looking at his papers.

He took a deep breath, aligning the facts in his head, re-naming the people so that he was sure to call them the right things. He wondered who Vincent worked for. But surely he would already be punished - he had saved the boy - surely making a statement would only cost him slightly more. Surely facts were not betrayal. Surely he knew they would have taken Dubhán's wand. Taken away his chance to rebel. Surely...

He shook his head. His thoughts jangled around in his head in continued chaos.

"I woke up. I got dressed in this ridiculous shirt and these pants and slipped on these shoes. I went downstairs. My dad had cooked breakfast. An owl came. He put it in his desk and gave the owl some bacon. Emma and my mum woke up. We were eating when the wards went off."

"The wards went off. What did your mum and dad do?"

Ron snuck a hand onto his shoulder to make him pause.

"Vincent, I'm going to ask you to rephrase that question. Surely you didn't mean to have the boy describe the Potter's response plan to their wards going off..."

Vincent's eyes widened and he shook his head, pushing spectacles up on his nose.

"No, no!" He said. "Rather I meant - did they know who was out there?"

"No."

"Did you know?"

"No," he said, with a little more force.

"How did you come to be outside with your father?"

"I ran after him."

"Why?"

Dubhán paused.

"I don't know," he finally said, trying to demand his hands stop shaking.

"Who saw the boy?"

It would be easiest to say Potter, since he wasn't ready to admit Potter had shared the photograph with him.

"I don't know." Anything but a complete answer is not an answer worth hearing. His grandfather's demand rung in his head. "I was running toward it, though. I was getting there first."

"Alright, so you are running and then?"

"My dad, he caught me before I ran off the lawn. Before I could touch him."

He hated that he almost needed the mans prompting in order to answer. Hated the uncertainty in his gut. Hated that Voldemort was so far away but still had such control over him. Hated that Potter was so near yet couldn't save him from the monster. He did not want to die.

"Why did you want to touch him, Devlin?"

He clenched his hands together. He should have let the boy die. He should have killed him while Potter fought. He should have let him scream. Should have smirked by his body like he'd smirked while Potter made the rat whither at Hogwarts. He should have seen the eyes watching him and known it was all a game on which his survival depended. Instead he had been consumed by the moment like he had been consumed by that dream last night.

"He was alive," he said and the words left his mouth as if by force. He looked away - toward the right stone wall - the only way he could look without seeing one of them.

The Auror frowned.

"What made you feel he was alive?" He asked as it had not yet been proven - as if they hadn't all seen the boy alive.

"The wards - they were still going off."

The Auror looked at him and frowned.

"How did you know they wouldn't have been on if he wasn't alive?"

He noted how the man hadn't said dead. He hated when people skirted around the word. Hated the proof that they only saw him as a child.

"Emma told me Zee loses his balls under the fence all the time. His balls aren't alive. My dad told me if I touch the wards, they'll go off - I'm alive."

"I see," the man said, making a note. "So your dad stopped you before you could touch the boy. Is that when he left the wards?"

"Yes - to get the boy."

"What happened next?"

"They came out of nowhere."

"People?" He nodded. "What were they dressed in, Devlin?"

"They were Death Eaters - you don't have to ask me like I wouldn't know. There were five."

"Did you see what happened next?"

Now was the moment. He looked at Ron.

"It's alright if you don't remember, Devlin. Sometimes it takes a bit for people to remember," Ron said, reassuringly.

His thoughts swirled and whirled, chaotic and caustic. He felt suddenly trapped in the one-door white-walled room.

What would he say? Who would he chose?

"They fired first," he said, whispering. He wouldn't even know he was speaking, if he hadn't felt his jaw moving. The words seemed to come out of him without his full bidding. "He was defending himself."

He felt numb. Nothing good. Nothing bad. Nothing at all.

"Yes, yes - of course," the man said, seeming to reign in his hesitation a bit. He met Dubhán's gaze. "Don't you think it's possible you were a little frightened and closed your eyes - even for a moment?"

He hadn't been afraid. Potter had made him close his eyes. He had told him too. But if he told them that they would accuse Potter - perhaps hurt him and Dubhán did not know if he could be responsible for that.

To know that Potter would die one day at the hand of Voldemort was different than having a part in killing him.

"No." It had never been hard for him to lie. The facts aligned themselves in his head, to be used and discarded and replaced as he wished. He swept the parts of him with his eyes closed away, to the recesses of his mind. Deleted. Forgotten. Dismissed. He met the gaze. "No."

"Everyone would understand, Devlin," the Auror said, more softly, smiling at him - leaning forward as if they were friends.

"I didn't close my eyes." His voice didn't have the bite he had meant to put there; he was nothing, nothing, nothing. Ron shifted behind him, his hand just a tiny bit closer to Dubhán, waiting to reel him backwards if he started saying too much.

"When I was six he used to pull memories out of his head and make me watch people screaming - watch him making them scream - and he'd tell me that if he wanted, he could make me do that too." The words were tight in his chest, bitter against his tongue, rough against his teeth. The Auror swallowed and looked behind himself at the back wall. Dubhán could feel the magic on the wall - knew behind there was the Minister and probably his father. "I wasn't allowed to close my eyes then and I didn't close them today. I saw. I saw everything."

Ron was silent beside him.

"I just have a couple more questions for you, Devlin," the Auror said, shaking himself. "Of those five men, four were captured and one was-"

"Killed. I know. I saw." He said it partly as an answer and partly as a reinforcement inside his own head.

"Do you know what happened before the man died?"

Sometimes Voldemort used Truth Serum; Dubhán had watched it being administered before. That was how he felt now - as if the Dark Lord himself had lifted his chin, pulled open his jaw, and deposited the whole vial of truth serum. in his mouth. Except, of course, he wasn't telling the truth.

"Yes. They were fighting. I couldn't keep track of which was the man that died and which was the other man, but one of them shot a red light, then a yellow and my dad stopped them both with his shield. He got one of their wands-" Dubhán could recall the pale blue of the spell behind his eyes and the sharp shout "-and captured that man. The other man was better than the rest. Faster. Stronger. He sent a green spell at my dad-" He would leave it up to them to conclude that it was the killing curse "-and he jumped out of the way, just in time. He sent ropes, but the other man dodged. I didn't recognize the next couple spells. They were both too good. The Death Eater lunged and my dad was between him and the wards and that's when he killed him. I saw him fall down."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The Auror nodded, shuffled his papers, and then asked: "Now the boy - did you know him?"

"No."

"You seemed very concerned about him and one of the Healers' reported you saying something about him 'becoming nothing' - can you tell me what you meant?"

"I just wanted him to stop screaming," he said, a bit defensively. The Auror frowned.

"And the potion-"

"He'll not be answering any questions about that or more about the boy, Vincent," Ron interrupted. "Harry gave permission for his statement to be taken about the fight, not about what occurred after the man died."

After another quiet argument that very much resembled the one he had just witnessed between Harry and the Minister, they moved past the potion and onto the photos.

Vincent slid the Death Eater who had been killed across the table.

"You expect me to know his eye?" Dubhán asked, sliding the photo right back to Vincent. The piercing fear that was seeping into his brain made his answer quick and brash. "That's stupid."

"I have one without his mask," Vincent said, almost chuckling. He dug through the pile and lifted a new one up. The background was metal. The Death Eater had short hair that was a shiny brown, pale green eyes, and a crooked nose that looked like it had been healed with rudimentary tactics once or twice.

Dubhán knew who he was - a werewolf whose bed was right across from Geoffrey's. 'Brikson' if he recalled correctly - although it was possible the name was only a nickname. He had stared at the man's face while waiting for Geoffrey, well enough to recognize it almost instantly. He slid it back to Vincent.

"No idea. It's not like I met lots of them, you know. It's like you lot think I have some scrapbook in my head."

Vincent didn't choose to deign that with a response. He slid another photo, this time with the faces of the other dead men, all lined up. This time, he truly didn't know any of them, which he thought was a little odd. He had spent four years at the Death Eater camp - how could he not know a single one of them?

He shook his head, slid the picture back. The other photos were of wands-

"I'm nine. Faces are one thing. Do you honestly suspect I pay enough attention to identify pieces of wood?"

tattoos-

"Do you think I've seen all of them naked?"

This comment seemed to disturb the man enough that he began to shuffle his papers back into one stack as his lips settled themselves into a permanent grimace. Dubhán, who had lived for four years around grown men who cared little to protect his ears from any manner of adult speech, could speak of many things casually. He frowned and filed the reaction away as peculiar but perhaps telling. Vincent dismissed them moments later. Ronald led him out of the room.

"Let's find your dad," Ron said, leading him further down the hallway. Dubhán tried not to think too heavily on the name Ron had chosen to use. In fact he was trying very hard not to think at all, but the thoughts were catching up, bombarding him.

He noticed little paper planes up above him.

"Those are messages. We charm them to be paper airplanes here," Ron said, when he caught him looking at the endless line of them above their heads. The door they were meant to go to would open just an inch and close again. Some doors, which Dubhán suspected had been warded for privacy, had a crowd of planes waiting impatiently outside.

He was reminded sharply of the old piece of paper tucked inside his cloak at home that proved Harry had never given up on him. Was that why Dubhán had protected him today? Had he been supposed too? Had Potter told him to close his eyes so that he wouldn't have to protect him? Why had Potter bothered? Why had he obeyed?

Because he was more used to following orders than not.

He trudged after Ron down the hall, feeling stiller and stiller inside the longer they walked.

Don't think, don't think, don't think!

He could feel the sharpness in his head, prowling across his thoughts - lunging at his nightmares and tearing apart his doubts.

Harry was arguing with the Minister over something called a 'Hot-Spot' in a room at the end of the hallway, which was empty right now.

"He doesn't know anything," Potter was growling, obviously trying to keep his temper. His face was still covered in blood, his lip still busted, and there was a spot along his jaw that was surely going to turn a nice purple if he didn't do something about it soon.

The Minster spotted them first, turning his head to smile at them. Potter seemed lost in his not-quite-rage and opened his mouth to say more, but then the Minister made a silencing gesture. Dubhán watched, facinated that even though his general impression was that these men couldn't stand each other, they seemed to listen. It was such a different dynamic from Voldemort's rankings that even trying to fully contemplate it gave him the beginnings of a headache. Or maybe that was just the fact that he had just defended Potter over the Death Eaters.

"Are you going to bring the boy to the healers?" The Minister asked, eying him curiously.

"No," Potter said, still a low growl. "I'll bring someone trusted to our house."

The Minister gave a curt nod.

"Of course. I assume you will want to check on your little girl now," he said, as if he would expect nothing less of Harry - as if he didn't begrudge him his ties with his family. Harry nodded, swept forward at the same time that the Minister swept away.

"Have the report on my desk by tomorrow morning, Mr. Potter," the Minister said, as he walked out of the room. Potter nodded, even though the old lion couldn't possibly have seen.

"Let's go," he said to him, urging him through a door that lead into another hallway.

Potter lead them to his office. Ron left once they were securely inside. Potter was apparently thinking more clearly than himself, because he finally took the moment to clean up his face. Dubhán had to admit the man wasn't half-bad with healing charms. The almost-purple blotch by his jawline all but disappeared, the gash in his lip turned into a faint pink line, and the dirty rubbed itself away.

"Don't want to scare Emma," he said, almost absently - checking himself over as though he were well-used to this routine. Dubhán wondered how often he did this. How many Death Eater's had he killed? How many had he roped and sent to the Ministry alive? How could Dubhán have been so unaware? Where were all these Death Eater's that Dubhán did not know about.

He wanted to ask Harry. Wanted to know if the man knew how many Death Eater's there were - but if he did that it would reveal with certainty how much Dubhán thought he did know.

How many times did Potter encounter Death Eater's that knew Dubhán? How many times had he been close to them telling what Dubhán had done?

He wanted to keep it all secret from Harry. Even when Voldemort got him back, his greatest wish was that Potter would never know. He thought if those green eyes looked at him like they had looked at the Death Eater today, that he would die inside and turn into the nothingness that was always waiting for him.

He had simply been lucky, once more, that that Death Eater had been so much better and that Potter had killed him over the others.

Potter was shuffling through papers at his desk, "just a minute, Devlin" he was saying, but Dubhán's mind was going quick and fierce around him, replaying the battle in his head, reassessing the fighters, recalculating the timing and distances and strengths as realization dawned like quick-fire in his stomach.

"We need to talk," he said numbly and it was only after Harry was near him that he realized he had said the words aloud or that Harry was listening at all.

"Sure," he said, calmly - like a man who thought Dubhán had seen something he shouldn't have. Like Vincent when Dubhán had talked about seeing the men naked. But that was not the sort of thing Dubhán needed to talk about - he didn't need to be reassured about the fight or the death or the fact that Harry had been hurt. He needed Potter to tell him - for him to know he wasn't right - that Potter hadn't just protected him.

Dubhán nodded, because he knew as well as Potter that this wasn't the place.

"Can we just leave?" He asked, and Potter nodded and drew him slowly and nicely over to the fire. The room was lit green and Dubhán found himself involuntarily jerking back.

OoOoOoOoO

He hadn't really been thinking about where they were going. He should have known, but he didn't.

"Devlin!" Sirius said, helping him to his feet. It was only a moment before Harry was coming through too, quick to fall, faster to spring to his feet. There was a shriek of joy and Emma came barreling out of the hallway and into the room, throwing herself at Harry.

Harry laughed as he caught her, kissing her on both her cheeks and balancing her on his hip as if she were still a small child. Dubhán, supposed, to some extent, she was. It was hard for him to imagine that she was the same age he had been, when he'd been taken.

The sharpness was in his head, in his thoughts, rushing through his body.

Don't think, don't think, don't think! His eyes were surely amber.

But he was. He was thinking of Potter and Brickson, and Brickson saying that he knew all about him, and Potter asking him if he was the only one who knew about him, and the fight and way he had left that man until last, until the others were stunned, until there were supposed to be no witnesses, until-

"Are you alright?" Geoffrey asked, watching him, with that small knowingness still covering his features like it used too. Dubhán felt himself slipping away, the world pulsing with his head. It was almost too much: he had betrayed Voldemort and Harry had surely killed to protect him from the Ministry. "Are you about to start shaking?"

The sharpness rushed through his head again, consuming him. If that wasn't evidence enough, he wasn't sure what would be. The sharpness always saved him. The part that was still him hated that Geoffrey would know - would still be able to predict it before the realization had even truly hit him.

"Yes well - someone get him a potion," Geoffrey said, and then he was walking away, calmly, as if Dubhán had never meant anything to him at all. By the time he would have heard Geoffrey's screaming, he was already on the ground, in his head, trying to convince himself not to scream.

Don't scream, it growled in his ear, desperate for him to obey. It seized control of him, claws and brute strength and waited for him, knowing he would provide the determination. Dubhán was nothing if he wasn't stubborn and determined. Screaming meant death. The only reason he had survived was because he hadn't screamed.

It started in their chest, where the original curse had hit them, it's haunted tendrils becoming more and more real as it clawed against their skin, sinking into their body and consuming them like an angry fire. It was in their head, making them scream in their nightmares, it was in their blood, boiling it. It was in their ears, pulsing and roaring. He shook and felt the sharpness' claws in his mind, trying to keep him there.

Someone was holding him, each touch and pressure on his skin like a knife point being twisted. He wanted to open his mouth and beg them to stop, but the sharpness lunged inside his mind and his mouth shut itself tightly. Do not scream, it demanded, voice frantic.

The sharpness dragged him backwards in his mind until he found himself in the meadow. He was a boy here and he could see him, the sharpness, for who he was - a wolf. The sharpness prowled around him, agitated. His muscles spasmed along with Dubhán's. At the edges of the clearing there was a nothingness that Dubhán knew he could not journey beyond. He was stuck here.

-Don't scream,- the sharpness said, his mouth moving almost humanly. Dubhán didn't. He reached out and the wolf came close enough to touch. His hand buried itself in the wolf's fur, clinging to the anchor, and the sharpness' breath panted hot and moist in his face.

-Don't think. Don't feel. Don't scream. Just do what has to be done,- Dubhán said, facing the sharpness. This was a manta, a ritualized routine, a sacrifice needed to return to life. As always, the sharpness did what needed to be done. He saved them. Dubhán was knocked to the ground as the sharpness lunged at him, pressing him into the green grass.

He awoke with a rush into the boys body. Nerves across his skin ignited and sent him messages he had to remember how to comprehend. His muscles shook, not because of the nothingness, but because he had made them tremble as he found them all - aligning where he was in this unfamiliar body.

"He's awake!" Someone said, loudly but not right next to him. It was like a rush of sound he had to concentrate to understand. He tried to remember that he had done this before - clearly he could do this - as he opened his eyes.

There was a man so near to his face that he knew immediately that he must be on the floor and the man must be on his knees beside him. He recognized him after only a few blinks as the man that had been in his head. Dark hair, darker eyes, hooked nose, with the intense smell of potion ingredients surrounding him.

He should look away, except he wasn't afraid. It was gentler than the Dark Man's - slow and methodical rather than impulsive; perhaps he had meant to surprise him or go into his mind without notice. He noticed. There was a crackle of magic between them; broken and stolen and hot against his skin. It didn't like working for him as much as for Dubhán. The dark eyed man withdrew from directly above him, a curious tilt to his eyebrows.

"What did you do to him?" Asked the same voice who had marked his return to reality. He turned his head to regard the person. It was a man, dark hair cut to just below his tops of his ears, handsome angular face, blue eyes and sneering accusatory lips. With the boy unconscious it took more effort to find the memory of this man in his head - like digging through a forest for a bone in the middle of the night.

The Mind Reader's face twitched and he wanted to laugh at the involuntary expression of disgust and frustration and defeat.

"I haven't touched the child, Black," the Mind Reader said, and he focused on the sound of their words, struggling to place each one.

"Can you stand?" Black asked, from all the way over by the door. "Harry's just calming Emma down in the kitchen. She was scared you were hurt."

He tried to scour the boys darkened mind to connect the names to their owners. The father and the sister. He lifted the body to it's feet.

His muscles shook, ill-used to obeying him, and he nearly fell down again. It would have been easier if the Dark Man was standing there, condescending of any weakness - but he was not.

"Don't push yourself," Black said suddenly, moving from the door as if he were going to catch him. He caught himself. "Are you in pain?"

He clawed at the boys unconscious mind to find the word that he would have wanted. I, me, you, yes, no - no. He practiced it in his head for a moment. Yes and No.

"No," he said, the sound odd against the throat he wasn't used to owning.

"Clearly you are lying," the Mind Read said. His voice was scathing - like an exposed knife. He couldn't find the word quickly enough to respond, so the Mind Reader spoke again, voice dissatisfied. "Your body believes it has just been tortured by the Cruciatus curse - you are in pain."

He was always in pain. His mind always fighting against the fuzziness at the edges, his nerves always quick and hot, his muscles more prone to shaking than the boys. It was him who had taken the brunt of the curse for the boy.

"Yes," he said, because to deny it again would only lead to more questions.

Snape tilted his head and approached, invading his space. He wanted to growl. He wanted to lunge at the man. He wanted to show him that he wasn't some weak pup he had a right to control.

You're the boy, he told himself, glancing down at his body and naming the things that made him the boy. Feet, hands, weak skin, bare, clothes-

"Are you listening?"

He looked up from the boys body into the Mind Reader's face. Dark fog encroached upon the edges of his mind, but he shoved back hard, and the room and the other man, came back into view.

"No," he said, breathing a little harder despite himself.

Another tilt. Another closer look. Another suspicious frown.

"Bring that damn Death Eater in here, Black."

"I'm not leaving you-"

"Have you not noticed the child's eyes are pure amber? Have you heard the child speak more than one word? Bring the Death Eater in here. And bring Potter as well."

He saw it happening before Snape wanted, but he couldn't make his mind or the body obey him fast enough. The wand was pointed at his heart, a dead aim. He clawed at the boys mind, urging him to wake. But the boy was still unconscious.

The father came in first and froze at the sight of the wand, pointed at him.

"Do you have the Death Eater, Potter?"

"Are you insane, Snape? Put the wand down."

"I'll only stun him, Potter - and only if he tries to harm me."

Black came in suddenly, dragging the werewolf, dark wavy hair, pale blue eyes, the scent of familiarity but not family. Geoffrey stared at him, his hair disheveled, his body smelling of pain, and he wondered what they had done to him while Dubhán was unconscious.

"Tell me why the boys eyes are amber," the Mind Reader drawled, almost sweetly, to Geoffrey.

"Maybe he knew it would bother you so, Snape." To press his point Geoffrey flashed his own eyes amber.

"A trick," the Mind Reader dismissed. "The boys eyes have been amber for more than five minutes. He has only spoken single words since awakening. He has disarmed my attempts to enter his mind-"

"Haven't you been teaching the boy to do that?" Geoffrey returned, growling. "Why complain at his success?"

Snape made a guttural noise.

"Your incompetence pains me," Snape said through clenched teeth. "Or perhaps it is insubordination rather than incompetence."

The father was frowning, Snape circled him. The father withdrew his wand and he could see it rise to point at Snape - a dead aim. Protecting him. The was a wash of sharp magic through the air.

"Tell me Potter," Snape said, "how long does it take to cast the Imperious curse? How difficult would it be for someone to slip him a potion?"

The father shook his head.

"No."

"How many Auror's were at your house, Mr. Potter?"

The father wanted to protect him, but there was a hint of doubt - a hint of fear - and he knew suddenly that the father would see testing him as protecting. Geoffrey seemed to have reached the same conclusion, eying him desperately from his slightly limp position in Black's grasp. The alpha begging the pup to behave. Surely Geoffrey did not mean for him to tell Potter. He swallowed.

Snape moved into his space, just the slightest, and he wanted to shout what the boy did 'don't touch me' but the words didn't come off his tongue and instead he staggered backwards.

"Get away from him, Severus," the father said, softly. "If someone is going to check it's going to be me."

Severus backed away and the father came in front of him. His killing curse eyes bore into his amber gaze.

"Devlin-"

He couldn't let them near his head. Couldn't allow that to happen to the boy.

"No," he said, scrambling to find the words, fighting with the urge to bolt away, knowing he was trapped. Knowing it wasn't safe anywhere else. "No."

"It won't hurt-"

"Yes," he said, shaking his head. He felt his mouth drawing back, teeth touching, sound being pushed past his throat and across his tongue; then his tongue jumping up, tapping at the roof of the mouth. Sounds and motions sequencing themselves into words. "It will."

Potter frowned. He swallowed, feeling each muscle coming under his command. He tried to remember the movement of the boys mouth, tried to remember what it was like, listening in on his effortless commands.

"It will hurt. Don't. Don't touch me."

Potter put up pacifying hands, smiling reassuringly.

"Have you ever been tested for the Imperius curse, Devlin?"

He shook his head.

"Well then, I'll tell you - it won't hurt at all, alright?"

And his wand was already aimed. His lips parting. His reassuring smile and his-

Geoffrey pulled him to the ground, away from the spell.

"Foolish pup!" He said into his ear. He could hear Geoffrey's heart beneath him, feel his firm grasp around him. Potter was startling. He thought Geoffrey would push him behind himself - protect him, but instead he pushed him in front of Potter and growled: "Tell him."

He slouched his shoulders, turned his head away from Potter - gave Geoffrey all the signals that he wasn't going to betray his boy - but Geoffrey did not listen. He shook him, grasped at his jaw and made him look Potter in the eye.

"Tell him now."

He made a sound of frustration. Even if he wanted to follow the command, the words were stuck in his head, excruciatingly hard to bring into the world. He had fooled the Dark Man before, but the boy had been awake - hurt but accessible. But he was the sharpness, and they worked together. He would do this.

"No one cursed me," he said, the words more forceful than he had intended. His lip tucked itself beneath his teeth as he tried in frustration to get more words to form in his head. He scoured the boys darkened mind. Geoffrey had still not released his jaw. The father seemed torn between allowing the touch and lunging at Geoffrey to release him. "I am keeping us here. It is my job."

His nostrils flared and he tried to rip himself away from Geoffrey. He felt gangly and unstable and ended up on the floor. It took a moment to remember how to get this body to it's feet.

Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what has to be done.

He rose to his feet, felt the blood in the body pulse with adrenaline - felt the boy answer his desperate call and wake just the slightest. Memories swam into his head and the body began to obey him. This was what he was used to. This was how they had survived the Dark Man. With Dubhán's brilliance and his unrelenting strength against dark magic.

Potter didn't say anything, his eyes going between Geoffrey and him. The Mind Reader observed him from corner of the room, dark eyes piercing.

"I was having a bit of fun," he said to the Mind Reader, hoping it would make the most sense to him.

He frowned, or sneered - he might have even smiled, but he didn't think the man's face could look anything nicer than annoyed. He was used to men like this - hard and unrelenting, sneering and demeaning, throwing about hooked compliments with barbs buried beneath - joking of blood and screams and the last bits of rambling that people made before they stopped breathing.

He staggered forward - shoving past Potter - to reach the Mind Reader. There was something familiar about him, not in his face or his voice or anything of him, but about him. The boy felt it at the edges of his mind and he felt it there too, absolute but indefinable.

"My grass is gold," he said. He could pretend to be the boy. Say the things the boy said. Walk like the boy with the muscle memory he provided. But to say new things, to try and explain something even the boy had never explained - had never even dreamed of explaining - that was different.

Snape gave no expression what-so-ever.

"You want the boy to wake up?" Yes, of course he did. He nodded. "I'll wake him for you, under one condition."