Draco dreamed of time turners while he slept in the filthy cell, glad that they had managed to recruit the Dementor's years ago and utilize them away from the prison. At that moment he was dreaming of turning the timeturner so that he was marching up to Potter's house again.

"The wards are disturbed at that window," he would whisper to his men, just like before. But unlike before, he would smirk, knowing that the brat had in fact been his own downfall. He had always enjoyed picking apart locks and wards, something that had driven Voldemort to test the edges of his patience.

His men would levitate themselves to the window, break the unwarded glass, and slip in. There would be the dog, now barking and clawing and biting at it's metal cage. The boy would startled awake at the sound. This time, Draco would not expect the scream or frown when the boy was perfectly silent. He would march to him like before and grab him. His arm across his throat, his legs dangling off the ground. His little fingers race to his throat, trying to claw access to a necklace. It is all Draco had needed to snap the thing and send it cascading to the floor - an emergency portkey. Potter would throw open the door and Draco would smirk, just like the first time.

"Give him here," Potter would demand, his wand out, his green eyes shining.

"Oh, I don't think so," he would reply, slow and casual, like they had when they were boys. As if they were fighting over Neville's Rememberall. Potter's eyes flash with recognition at his voice

"Draco," he would say, his voice suddenly soft and calm. He would try appeasing to him, speaking about how the boy was four, and Scorpius was four, and they would be going to Hogwart's together. Draco will admit, in the privacy of his dream, that he had almost stabbed the child somewhere recoverable and dropped him the ground - if only so that he could see his face and know immediately it was not his boy. But he does not feel that hesitation now and he thinks his words sound more vicious than they had the first time around.

"Actually, I think the Dark Lord might enjoy meeting the boy," he says savagely, ruffling the brat's hair roughly. His arm around the boys neck tightened. "Maybe I'll even tell him why he'd enjoy meeting the boy."

Because he had known. Even then, he had known. His mother had known the moment she had set eyes on Harry's supposed Mudblood girlfriend in the paper. She had tapped the paper and declared, "she's looks like a 'Max' girl. Just like Eline Max, except for her hair."

Draco, never willing to put things like that aside, had of course pursued the concept. The family had supposedly died in a brutal attack from Voldemort after refusing to stand by him. Tortured and murdered. But the youngest girls body had not been recovered. Of course, that meant little in the Wizarding World where any number of spells could vanish or completely destroy the materials a body was made of.

"Don't hurt him," Harry was saying in his dream, and he turned his thoughts back to the wiggling boy in his grasp again. "It's alright Devlin. It's going to be alright."

In reality he had slipped away with the boy, his wand at the boys head, his mens wands at the boys head. Potter had all but allowed them, because he had of course thought he would get the boy back. Or maybe he just couldn't bear to have the child killed in front of him.

"Daddy is going to come get you, alright? It's going to be alright."

But this time, it was just a dream, and Draco intended to do it differently.

His wand slipped across the boys throat. Warm blood oozed over his arm and down his front. Potter was about to kill him, when he was shaken awake.

"Get up," Gregory sneered over him in the filthy cell. "We have a job to do."

OoOoOoO

He shouldn't have been there. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and even though he knew it was illogical, it felt as though his heart wanted him to be caught. He snuck past the doorframe and over to the bed. Downstairs he could hear Harry and Emma arguing jovially about which Quidditch player was better on whatever team it was they followed or didn't follow together - he honestly didn't pay attention. Alexandra had been reading in the kitchen - where the table was big enough to spread out all her translation work - but he knew she was going to be the hardest to predict because she wasn't down there making noise.

He got to the drawer. All he wanted was his wand holster. Harry had confiscated it as a reprimand when he had said something nasty to Emma after she'd brought up that he liked Maria. He truly didn't think Emma, or Harry, really understood what they were construing, because he didn't like that sort of thing and-

Stop thinking, the sharpness in his head said, almost lazily. It was always far more successful at being one-minded.

He dug in the drawer. He had seen Harry put it here.

Finally he felt the supple leather that was his holster, and dug it out. He took another look, curiosity getting the better. There were pendants in here - probably awards - and papers, and loose muggle and wizard money. And there - in a little open wooden box - was a wad of fabric that almost made his heart stop completely. It was blue and yellow striped with hippogrifs stomping along, leaving footprints and wingbeats in their wake. He reached down to touch it. What was beneath it made his fingers numb.

A picture of him. He was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His cheek was bruised and he knew, beyond what could be seen, that his arm was broken. He had been feverish that entire day, in and out of seizures that had felt like someone were killing him. The healers had been worried the healing potions would not work as well combined with his normal draughts.

Harry should not have had the picture. The Healer had taken it. He had liked the healer, and he knew he would die if Voldemort knew. He had died anyways, since he wasn't one of them. A blood traitor, used only because he was in the tents and Voldemort did not have a penchant for attracting or retaining healers. He had taken the picture from the man with a soft "don't be stupid" and tucked it under his pillow.

Then, of course, he had put it in Geoffrey's robe, because the-

"Devlin?"

It was Harry. He was leaning against the doorframe causally, as if he had been there for sometime. He wished his heart would stop pounding.

"I have alarms on my drawer," Harry said, gently. "What were you looking for?"

He shook his head fervently, backing up like he had the first day he had seen this man after all those years. It felt like it all over again. Had Geoffrey willingly given him up? Who had found the photo? Had Geoffrey just recently found it and thought he was asking for Geoffrey to help?

The world trembled around him, colors fading, and there was a roar of blood in his ears. Geoffrey had been right, of course; terror had always made him stronger rather than weaker. His magic danced beneath his skin, tingling in his fingertips. He wanted to run from the complexity and overwhelmingness of the situation, but Harry was blocking his only exit. He clenched his hands, curling his fingers into his palms and tried very, very hard to keep the magic inside. It fluttered across his skin, becoming more intense.

"Devlin?"

Harry was watching him, his expression drawing closed as he realized there was more to this than him sneaking his holster back. His mind was probably thinking of every little thing he kept in that drawer - and he could swear he saw the moment Harry realized that the photo was there too.

"Devlin..." There was a defeat, an uncertainty, a weariness, that came to join everything else that Harry always wore so clearly.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to feel his magic in the air; the comfort that only raw power could provide. He wanted Harry to disappear. He wanted to disappear. His magic shuttered and sputtered against the chains of the wards. Alexandra yelled downstairs, but the rush of blood in his ears meant he didn't hear.

"Devlin," Harry said and he understood because he could see the man's lips. "Devlin - it's alright. Let's talk. You're going to make the wards go off, Devlin."

His body trembled, his head quaked, his ribs shuttered around his heart. His magic was like wasps against his skin, stinging in it's intensity. His knuckles ached and pulsed and spasmed.

Alexandra was in the doorway now, and Harry and she were talking fervently. His magic pushed and tugged and lashed out against the chains around the house. His magic had only failed him once, under crucio. The mere recollection sent his magic into further panic.

Alexandra turned to him, speaking words he could not hear. Couldn't she see his world was crumbling around him? Couldn't she see that he had wanted to desperately to prevent this? He did not want this world to touch the other one. He did not want them to have something of his.

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see that realization on Potter's face. He didn't want Potter to know he had put that photo there. He didn't want Geoffrey to know. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to tell Harry about the healer. He didn't want to-

"Devlin!" Harry was saying, desperately, rushing back into the room. Screaming at him. "It's alright. I already know! It's alright!"

His body trembled, his head quaked, his magic whirled. Harry already knew. He felt his self-will crumble around him.

The magic raced away from him, unfocused and uncontrolled, unable to do what he had needed. Harry stepped forward, and he wanted to scream at his foolishness. But then he lifted his wand, and there was a magic around his own magic, solid and steady, almost reassuring.

"It's alright, Devlin," Harry said.

His own magic was a dusky silver hue when it was intense enough to see, but Harry's was the clear blue of a sky. He stared at it, felt it against his own magic, reeling him in.

"You still want to go somewhere?" Harry asked, but he did not have the strength to answer. Harry approached him slowly, maneuvering through the fragments of his magic still hanging in the air. "Lets go for a walk," he whispered, grabbing hold of him.

He was whisked away, and at last his magic subsided as it felt him leaving as he wanted.

There were in the middle of some woods. Sticks and leaves crunched beneath their feet. The air smelled heavy and savory.

"Come on, this way," Harry said, tugging at his arm.

He moved his body; a heaviness and emptiness had replaced all the magic.

"Did he give it to you?"

"No," Harry said. "Geoffrey didn't."

"Then how-"

"I found it in his pocket." They stepped toward the edge of the woods and into a clearing. The grass was green and crunched beneath his feet. He stood very still.

"I've been here before," he said, softly. He looked around curiously. Harry stepped closer. There was a rush of sound across the field. His sharpness sprinted through the grass, his muscles propelling him faster and faster. Devlin fell to his knees and the sharpness lunged at him.

The eyes snapped open. The world came into focus, full of color. The boys thoughts pulsed in the back of the head, frenzied and fuzzy from being woken suddenly.

The wards around the house shuddered and pulsed and the boy, more able to feel the fluctuation in magic than him, reared fully awake with panic.

Him, the boy thought, the one word like a physical blow to their lungs. The boy felt for the connection to the necklace, and there was a moment of relief in his head as they felt it whole and undisturbed.

The door slammed open. The wand was already in his hand, although of course it never worked for just him. The boy was with him, and for a moment he wondered who was really in control right then. It was always a frightening though to have, because it signaled something truly terrible was happening.

"Get into Emma's room now. You're mum is taking you both."

It was the father. He did not drop his hold on the wand. He scrambled into the hall.

There was a masked man out there, young, lean and bitten. Alexandra had him at wand point, her other hand entangled in Emma's terrified grasp. When he saw him, he bared his teeth and grinned.

"Get over here, pup," he said, and he knew him immediately as Keen, a savage but sane werewolf. Wherever he was, his pack would be too.

"Harry?" It was the mother. She drew Emma close, and suddenly with a simple exchange of gazes, Emma and she were gone. Now it was just Harry and him, and the werewolf.

"Get over here!" The werewolf snarled.

Magic pushed and tugged and lashed out against the chains around the house, wards being torn, new wards being placed. Anti-Apperation wards began to weave themselves heavily through the air.

-Follow my lead,- the father said, his words slithering through the air. He did not immediately understand, but then the boy pulled and clawed, and brought himself forward.

"Aren't you going to do something, Potter?" He asked, his green eyes flashing and hoping Harry could catch on. They were in a game and they did not yet know who was watching.

"Oh, yes. I am going to do something," Harry said, smirking. His hand shot towards him, magic strong and binding, and he was suddenly pulled behind Harry, at the same time, his wand shot forward, and Keen was suddenly tumbling down the stairs.

Harry shoved him toward the back hallway. There was no exit, but then Harry was lifting his wand, and the wall was crumbling.

"If I say 'come here', you run. Do you hear?" The words were whispered by his ear as Harry pulled him close and they jumped from the second floor. He thought maybe it was all Harry's practice tucking and rolling with the floo that actually helped in this instance. If Harry was quick to sprawl, he was quicker to spring to his feet.

Dubhán felt breathless and bruised and he wondered why Harry didn't use magic, but as soon as the thought had come, he dismissed it. Magic was traceable. They were trying to be as silent as possible.

"This way! Outside!" There was a Death Eater above them, sneering down from the opening Harry had caused. "Remember, don't hurt the boy!"

Harry held his hand in a vice-like-grip and pulled him along - into the yard, over the fence and into the woods beyond. It was just where Dubhán had himself wanted to escape into all that time ago, and that should have been his first clue.

They were waiting there.

"Your Grandfather misses you, little dark one" one of the masked figures said, stepping forward. "Don't be foolish. Step away from Potter and I'll whisk you away before we beat him to an inch of his death."

The figure stretched out his hand. There was a part of Dubhán that wanted desperately to break Harry's grasp on him and reach for that hand. He even knew there was a small possibility he would have, if he hadn't first recognized that voice. Malfoy.

"I do not appreciate your tone," he said, using that voice Voldemort had always liked. Harry tried to tug him closer. "Ask me again. On your knees. Leave off all the unnecessary rubbish. I don't care what you do with Potter but you certainly won't deny me the right to watch."

His tone was flat, his face blank, his lips sneering.

Geoffrey had been right, of course; terror had always made him stronger rather than weaker. His magic danced beneath his skin, tingling in his fingertips. His mind raced, aligned fact and possible future - ready to be used as he pleased.

There was a crackle of laughter that he knew belonged to Bella.

"Our little dark one, giving orders! Look at Potter's face! Look at Potter's face!" She worked her way into the front of the crowd. "I bet Potter doesn't even know what the boy can do!"

"I am not your little dark one. I do not belong to any of you. I am only his!" He could feel his jaw, wide and aching, as he screamed the words at her. Intercepting her, distracting her.

His magic pulsed across his skin like a thousand wasps.

Bella crackled. Malfoy seethed. The wards pulsed with the arrival of Aurors, fighting their way in.

"Get him," Malfoy shouted, pointing at him.

"Come closer, I didn't hear you," he said, and Harry's head snapped in his direction, brow furrowing.

A mob of Death Eater's leapt into action. Harry's magic was a clean blue when it was intense enough to see. In his mind, he fell backwards and the werewolf lunged forward. He put the wand in the teeth and dropped to the ground. He sprinted through the crowd, small and slippery. Under legs, around feet, over spells. Stunners slipped off his fur as werewolf magic raced through his blood. He darted into the forest.

The field was alight with magic, the forest illuminated sparingly as a few werewolves in human form raced after his scent. He turned and sprinted back, simply hoping to lose them in the crowd.

Potter was fighting Malfoy. He ducked behind a bush, transformed, and used a charm to cover his scent (a slippery tactic one learned quickly when guarded by a werewolf like Geoffrey). His followers raced out into the field blindly.

He lifted his wand and pointed it through the bush. One breath to make sure he could. Another breathe to access the consequences. Another to make sure he was ready to submit to them should they come to pass.

"Crucio."

Malfoy fell to the ground, withering in pain. Harry looked around, but the field was covered in the swirl of spells and the dance of duels.

It didn't last long, not because he didn't want Malfoy withering in pain, but because he had startled himself with the feeling of the magic. He sat back, astounded. He thought that if Voldemort had only asked him to point his wand at Malfoy, he would never have failed that particular test. Why, he even thought he could probably make him fall down and never get up. Almost.

He watched, inching here for there to vary his cover, until the battle was over. Harry stumbled through the forest, calling out his name with a desperation and terror.

"I'm here," he said, standing. Harry almost fell onto him, his arms wrapping around his body and holding him as if he thought he would suddenly disappear.

"Oh my God," Harry whispered in his ear. "Don't do that. Don't do that. I didn't tell you to run. That was my job to tell you. Oh my God. I thought I lost you."

"I stayed here," he said, the words muffling themselves into Harry's chest. Harry's breath shuttered and his body trembling. "I didn't really run."