He was running, his breath heaving in his chest, his heart so fast and shallow behind his ribcage that he could hardly feel it, his body pounding with the weight and quickness of his legs as they carried him closer and closer. He ran past the little shops, paper spiders and straw-men faded and slumping. He ran past the children that were muted and almost-not-there. He was almost there, almost there - he could hear the screaming now.

He did not pause to hide behind the hedge, because it was not there. The gate was gone. The yard was opened and the grass short, Zee's little house sat neatly beside his favorite flower bed. He rushed through the door, broken on it's hinges.

He passed by the green-eyed man's body, knowing who it was but knowing what he had always known - he would never be allowed to keep him. His heart stabbed with a pain far worse than a curse as he took the wand from the man's cold hands. He stumbled over rubble and up the stairs.

He turned right instead of left and found himself surrounded by torn and plundered bears, princesses, and pink things. His mother was there, her body thrown in front of Emma's. Voldemort's wand aimed at her chest, telling her to step aside. She wouldn't, of course - she felt those things Devlin never could. Emma cowered behind her, crying.

Green.

She fell, her hair falling with her, like a halo around her head.

Voldemort, the monster again, took a step forward - his wand raised. He seemed to know, without turning around, that Devlin was there.

"You knew what would happen if you broke our agreement, Devlin."

He awoke screaming, his body thrashing desperately against something invisible. When he bolted upright, released from the chains of sleep and nightmares, it was to see Voldemort, once more charming, watching him. His deep brown hair was mussed, falling like a short curtain right above his eyes. It curled at the very edges, just enough to create a unique wave, like Devlin's own. His dark green eyes, like looking into a mirror, bore into him. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed. The four fingers of his wand hand, sat atop his opposite forearm, were stained by something dark. His mouth was set in a considering line, and his bare feet peeked out from beneath his lounge pants.

He seemed, in that very moment, so very human. More like Harry than Devlin appreciated. Except, Harry would have woken him.

"Are you quite done, now?"

Devlin breathed shallowly, trying to rein in all of his physical reactions to the nightmare. Only a dream. Only a dream. Only a dream.

"Yes," he said, biting down on an apology. "You could have woken me."

Why he hadn't hexed him to make him shut up, Devlin still couldn't quite understand. It had never stopped him before.

"Sometimes nightmares are our brains way of teaching us a lesson it believes we have not quite grasped. I would not have wanted to hinder such an important experience."

Devlin resisted the urge to wipe at his brow.

"I'm told speaking of such things is sometimes...helpful." But his tone did not suggest encouragement for Devlin to want such a foolish thing, and Devlin shook his head silently. "Good. Now, do try not to have another self-lesson until I have completed the brewing of your potions. How many have you left?"

At Devlin's furrowed brow and probably clear shock, Voldemort sneered.

"You have had a supply you have been taking, have you not, foolish boy?" He advanced, his strides long and heavy, until he was next to the bed, leaning his great hight over him as further intimidation.

"Yes," Devlin said - complying as quickly and simply as he could. "I just-"

"Believed I wanted to kill you?" He pulled back a little, a mockery of hurt spreading across his face but missing his eyes. "My, my - perhaps you have been listening to Potter. Why would I kill you, Devlin?"

He looked at him, his green eyes boring into him, taking in all the weaknesses Devlin had to show right then. Devlin shook his head, hating it.

"Why would I keep you alive - have you any better idea of that?"

Devlin did, of course - but he wasn't sure how wise it was to make Voldemort aware of his motivations. He was not completely sure Voldemort himself was aware of them.

"Because you and I - we're alike."

Voldemort chuckled. Then he stopped abruptly and he looked at Devlin for a long moment.

"Because you are mine."

OoOoOoOoO

Devlin's head was rushing, his breath heaving, his vision dancing, and his heart pounding; by comparison to all of this, his blood felt as though it were moving sluggishly through his body.

He fell almost clumsily onto the grass, just managing to look up through the thick blades and aim his wand. He took the moment, because he knew it was only one moment, of managed distraction to scramble back up to his feet.

Voldemort advanced upon him, his strides large and powerful, his eyes hungry and eager in a way Devlin didn't think even his eyes could be. But who knew - if Devlin wanted him to look like that, he could probably manage.

He spat a curse and the fear of blisters across his skin had Devlin scurrying out of the way.

"You've fallen out of practice," Voldemort hissed. "I remember how quick you used to be, if nothing else."

Devlin remembered too, and he cursed Molly's cooking, Alexandra's studious demeanor, and Harry's belief that he should just be a regular boy.

Voldemort popped and then reappeared in front of him, his wand pointed at Devlin's head.

Checkmate, his gaze seemed to say with a deathly quiet.

In the face of Death Devlin always seemed his most capable and vicious, lashing out against his greatest fear. So he lashed out here, taking advantage of the fact that Voldemort liked to savor the look of defeat on his opponents face while he washed in the glow of his own triumph. Devlin had only one move and he chose to use it quickly and without flare. He did not take the time to aim his wand and waste the breath to utter a spell that would simply be blocked; he used his wand like a muggle sword, pushing it into Voldemort's gut. A blood boiling charm burned Voldemort from the inside. Of course, his glory was short lived. Voldemort quickly brandished his wand and within a moment Devlin was lifted into the air, magic tightening around him until he felt like he might pop like a balloon.

"Wipe the smirk off your face," Voldemort said, all at once chiding and deadly; Devlin couldn't be sure which he was more of, and therefore exactly how he should reply. So he decided to be himself.

"No thank you," he said, forcing the words through his squeezed lungs. "I'm quite proud of myself."

"Proud of losing?"

"No. Proud of what I managed to accomplish, despite the inevitable end result. Or did you really expect me to be able to beat you?" He tried to breathe in with some dignity, which was harder than it seemed. Voldemort smirked, as if he was well aware of the painful lengths Devlin was going through.

"True," Voldemort said, releasing him. He crumpled onto the ground, dragging in the easy air.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Why do you look like this?"

Voldemort turned to him, regarding him over the papers, correspondences, and maps which he often read at breakfast. His green regard was heavy with suspicion and yet hungry with curiosity and self-assurance. Voldemort liked talking about himself, usually - although Devlin knew he was slipping and sliding on the edge of a knife.

"Because, I have decided to make a strategic change which requires some political charm."

"Do you like it?"

"That is an odd question, child."

But they both knew it wasn't. Devlin knew he only said that to see if Devlin would refute him - to see if Devlin was as intelligent as he both suspected and disliked. He wanted Devlin to be sharp and analytical, but then he didn't want him him to analyze him.

"Aside from its strategic potential, of course. It also brings you closer to what you hate the most."

Voldemort tipped his head, leaning across the table.

"And what exactly, do I hate the most, child?"

He used the word child mockingly - always mockingly - as if smash Devlin just a bit more down into the mud of uncertainty and fear. But Devlin had never deluded himself of this fact; he had known he was a child and the knowledge did not scare him.

"I haven't forgotten. I've never forgotten. So why look like him, if you hate him so?"

He could feel the edge of the knife slicing through the velvet under which it hid. He was treading on deadly ground.

"I am not him. Looking like myself brings me no closer to what I left behind. My prior...appearance was due entirely to the magic I used to strengthen myself. Appearance means nothing to me, although it does mean a great deal to the foolish."

Devlin looked like him.

"It's a little creepy, to be frank," he said, injecting some uncertain humor into his voice. He rolled his shoulders. Voldemort sneered at him and tapped the table with a long finger - demanding he finish the thought. "I mean - we look exactly alike. Not a little. Not a lot. Exactly. It's a bit creepy."

Voldemort chuckled.

"Is it the same, looking at me?"

Voldemort tipped his head thoughtfully at him, considering.

"You do not look exactly as I did when I was a boy." He paused for a moment, seeming oblivious to the doubt written across Devlin's face. His eyes seemed to trace the contours of Devlin's face. "Your cheeks are more full. Your hair neater than mine as a boy. You are even possibly a bit taller than I was at your age."

Sometimes, when Voldemort made such human comparisons, it was hard for Devlin to remember to look in his eyes and see the emptiness. To see the anger without an ounce of sadness. To see the cruelty eating away at him. If anyone from that orphanage were here now, they would be screaming in a corner.

"Would you like to see what I looked like as a boy?"

Devlin knew he could not say no, just as strongly as he knew he would not want to say yes. So he compromised; took another bite of food and nodded.

OoOoOoOoO

"It's blue," he said, suspicion clouding his choice of words. Voldemort pressed his lips into a thin, annoyed, line and said hmmm as an answer. It was not, however, a real answer. It was blue. It had always been purple from the moment he had handed Devlin the first vial. The one left in his backpack was a deep purple. This was blue, and half the size. "It has always been purple."

"Obviously not, since this is blue. Perhaps you meant to say it was always purple beforehand."

Devlin looked at him, trying to remain calm; to mimic Voldemort's own reaction to this situation.

"Fair enough. In which case, why is it now blue?"

"Drink the potion, Devlin," Voldemort said, smiling the sort of smile that was just meant to make the demand look more appealing.

Devlin looked down at the potion.

"What does it do differ-"

"Drink the potion, Devlin."

"What does it do-"

"Drink the potion, Devlin."

It went against every notion of preparedness and sanity that Devlin had in him. It went against everything that was him.

"What-"

Voldemort was in front of him with a single stride. His wand was drawn. His eyes narrowed.

"Drink the potion, Devlin." The words were soft, slippery, and serpentine. The wand pressed against the edge of his jaw, into the soft flesh of his neck. Devlin imagined a chess board in his mind and hoped desperately he was not committing genocide.

"I'll just throw it up, like I used too." The words felt strange and almost forced and he knew this was what separated him from Voldemort - this ability to look at a human and still speak like a snake. Harry was only cunning and clever when a situation demanded that of him, but Devlin was always a snake.

Voldemort looked at him closely. Devlin twisted his neck - not away from the wand but into it.

"What does it do?"

The wand withdrew and Voldemort considered him for a long moment.

"It rids the world of annoying little boys slowly." He smiled; a flash of cruelty and humor mixing oddly. Devlin stared at him, knowing it was not the truth. "I substituted an ingredient for a more potent one. You are nearly twelve years old. You weigh a significant amount more then when I originally taught you how to brew the potion. Surely whomever was brewing your potion has been upping the dosage. If not, they have been playing a deadly game. Surely they have, and surely they too would soon realize that you had outgrown the children's version. It is quite safe - I've already experiment, since your arrival, on someone else."

"I'm not an adult."

"I am hurt that you think I would risk your life thus. I have not been experimenting on an adult, Devlin."

oOoOoOoOo

Devlin donned the black robes with anticipatory fear that he hid behind a mask of indifference. His heart beat with forced rhythm, a calm that was far from true. When he had buttoned the last button and secured the last clasp, he turned to the mirror to inspect himself. Against the true black of the robes, Devlin's skin seemed paler than he recalled. He was a handsome boy; tall, pale, with large charming green eyes and a head full of beautiful silky dark hair. Just like Tom Riddle.

He smoothed the front of the robes out, nervous; wishing they were the same as last time. Instead they were a smaller version of the robes the Dark Lord himself was wearing. He could not help but feel as though there was a message hidden in the sameness of their robes.

Wishing against the truth he already knew, Devlin glanced back at the bed, but there was no mask. Voldemort did not wear a mask, and it seemed neither did Devlin.

The questioning, curious, anticipatory fear coiled tighter in his gut.

When Voldemort magicked them away, Devlin had been preparing himself for the chaos of war to greet him on the other end. Instead there was quiet, and green grass, and a path made of pale pebbles that seemed to catch the moonlight and glow in the darkening night. Devlin followed the path with his eyes and found at the other end a house - large, old, and heavily warded. The wards caught on them like spiderwebs, but then released them to proceed.

"Remember your manners," he said, his hand heavy on his shoulder, grounding him to this unexpected reality.

He could hear it through the doors: chatter, music, and people.

The doors opened by themselves and on the other end was anything but the chaos of war; champagne, gowns, glowing lights, tables draped in ivory cloths, the spin of dancing, the giggle of women grouped together, the soft whispers of men leaning forward with serious expressions on their faces. Such orderliness threw Devlin aback. Voldemort steered him toward the crowd by his shoulder.

It was a familiar face that found them first. Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes; his gaze found them across the hall.

"My lord," the man whispered, leaning close. "Narcissa and Lucius will be so pleased to see you." Zabini smiled charmingly at them, quick to flick his finger and bring a server over and offer Voldemort champagne.

"Yes, of course. Call me Tom here." Zabini nodded in acknowledgement. "I am sure you already know of my Grandson, Devlin."

Zabini looked at him, his smile so effusively charming and proper that Devlin wanted to wipe it away by saying Yes, I know him, did you know he came to Harry Potter's house? Harry seemed quite content to have him visit. For some reason he didn't.

"Yes, yes. I am glad to see you again. Thankfully under better circumstances, yes?"

"Yes," Devlin said. Perhaps he hadn't exposed the man because his head was still reeling. Devlin felt the chaos now, inside his own mind. It beat against his mind with a viciousness, scattering and clawing - unable to find any ground on which to stabilize.

Tom.

Devlin.

Grandson.

He was not hiding Devlin at all.

Devlin wished that time would freeze, just for a moment, so that he might have that moment in which to comprehend what was happening. Instead, everything kept moving. Devlin felt as if his head had been pulled back by his hair and his neck was exposed for all to see. Weak. Defenseless.

Finally, Devlin and Dubhán would be forced to combine. The mere idea made him want to vomit. The fact that it had already begun made it almost impossible for him to remain upright.

Voldemort was done letting him hide. Done letting him live two lives. Done pretending he had not bested Harry Potter.

Devlin looked just like him.

It would be clear for everyone to see, undeniably, that Harry Potter had married and had children with Voldemort's blood. What would that say about Harry Potter to the foolish masses?

Voldemort planned to use Harry Potter's face as a stepping stone into the political field.

OoOoO

When she slid into the muggle chair across from him, Harry slid a coffee across the table in offer. She declined, of course; she always did. He looked up into her brown eyes, noting how they flickered around the cafe nervously.

"What was so interesting that we had to meet this damn early?"

His voice was still gruff from sleep and he knew he only had a few hours before Alexandra would wake up and wonder why he wasn't there. She would worry, of course, but they both knew that war separated them on many levels. It was never safe to put important information in too many places. Harry was quite sure Alexandra had her own informants, of whom Harry was not aware. If Alexandra understood something best it was strategy.

"Have you actually slept, Mr. Potter? I haven't." She put her hands atop the table, then seemed to think better, and lay them in her lap again. "I don't sleep much these days."

She sounded weary and old and the spark that Harry had always seen viciously spitting in their Hogwarts days was nearly gone. She seemed somehow hallow and bare, sitting before him in a plain jean jacket and black skirt. For a pureblood, Harry had discovered she certainly knew how to sneak around muggle london. Perhaps it was a bit of that 'Catholic School Girl' thing, as muggles would say. She brushed an auburn lock behind her ear.

"There was a party two nights ago. Terribly boring and mundane," her gaze flickered at him, "Except for a guest I hadn't expected."

Sometimes, her idea of what was 'important information' did not rise to Harry's standard, and he sighed, expecting as much here. Her lips pinched and she leaned forward, a bit of that viciousness blooming to life in her eyes.

"Have you lost interest already, Mr. Potter? Do I bore you?" She scowled, reminding Harry that beneath all the properness, she was like a viper. She made to rise from the table. Harry reached out his hand, dancing the dance he so often did with her. He gripped her arm.

"It was a short night for me and an early morning. Please forgive me, Astoria."

She nodded once, as he had known she would and then settled herself once again on the chair.

"There was a man there," she said, swallowing thickly. "He was handsome and he spoke with a quick charm. But I dare say I don't think he interests you as much as his guest. A boy-" his eyes snapped to her own. "I knew it was him, of course. He was undisguised. The man introduced him, nevertheless, as Devlin. This man, who insisted to my mother-in-law that she call him Tom, said the child was his grandson."

Her eyes were on him, as though she were searching him for truth.

Harry tilted his head.

"Interesting," he said, not giving her anything "and I mean that honestly."

She may well have been Slytherin, but she was a Slytherin without much left, and she eyed him with hungry curiosity.

"Is he?"

"I believe you already said you recognized him," he said, drowning the last bit of his coffee.

"Did the man design himself around the child? Were such measures unnecessary? Is your son related to him?" Her eyes scoured his face. "You look as much a Potter as there ever was. My father said as much when he alive. But your child - he looks nothing like you." She tightened her words around him like a noose, trying to make them inescapable.

"You of all parents should know the burden a child bears for mere appearances," Harry said. She cringed, because she knew how true it was. Despite the understanding, she reached forward and grabbed his hand, hoping to prevent him from leaving.

"Is it your wife, then?" She had already made up her mind. "But who would he ever deem worthy to bear a child with?"

He yanked his hand out of her grasp and turned to take his jacket from the back of the chair.

"I had my wife ward your son's bed, by the way," he said, as he threw the jacket over his shoulders. All at once that clever glean in her eyes was gone and the meek women had returned, pointedly reminded of what she had to lose and what Harry had to give.

"Yes, yes. Thank you."