He was running, his breath heaving in his chest, his heart so fast and shallow behind his ribcage that he could hardly perceive where one pulse began and the next ended; his body pounded with the weight and quickness of his legs as they carried him further and further into the chaos that surrounded him. There was no turning back now.
Magic pulled and pushed in the air around him, singing the air. Spells ricocheted off the blue of magical shields. The air smelled like sizzling magic, biting at the back of his throat as he dragged in air through his nose. Above him, the nearly full moon loomed ominously and made his head pulse.
In the ill-illumination of the night, Devlin could understand why his father had ordered Auror's outer robes to be changed to white; it was difficult to even distinguish the black of the de-masked Death Eaters from some of the citizen Wizard and Witches dressed in dark colors. Blue would have blended together dangerously in lighting like this.
He wasn't the only child on the street, but he was the only one not screaming. The only one racing into the chaos rather than away from it. Groups of Auror's and groups of citizens were trying desperately to get the children to the shelter of Hogwarts, traveling behind alleys and crumbling buildings up the road to the school.
Devlin tried not to look at them too long and tried not to stay still enough for them to look at him. He had not been given the protection of a mask.
He continued onward at a desperate pace, trying to ignore the brutality around him. He looked past the curses. Past the blood. Past the garbled noises from women and children who had managed to be captured. He tried to pretend the robes on the ground had no bodies beneath them.
He had known it would eventually happen; that one of them would recognize him. The first time, it was a sandy-blond man with crisp brown eyes. He had mistaken Devlin for a normal child. When recognition swarm onto his face, he stopped beckoning to him and froze.
"Devlin Potter," he breathed and Devlin watched him, almost frozen too. He watched as the man inhaled. He watched as he opened his mouth. He watched and he knew the next time he said his name it wouldn't be a wash of air broken by the noises around them, but a yell meant to travel above the ruckus. So Devlin lifted his wand and whispered the only thing he could think. The man fell, ramrod straight, and Devlin dashed away, both from the man and the knowledge that he should have killed him rather than been so weak as to stun him.
Against his better judgement, he turned around. The man was gone. Perhaps a fellow Auror had rescued him, or perhaps a Death Eater had captured him. Devlin cursed under his breath, not quite certain which he preferred or which one better benefited him. Further chaos blossomed behind him as the crack of apperation filled the air like a whip, assaulting his magic. A group of Auror's appeared. Unsure where to go but knowing he could not linger, he raced into an alleyway and hoped it wouldn't be a dead end.
It cut behind the buildings like a thin twisting path. There were gardens and steps and trashcans. No one had their lights on and he wondered how many people were hiding in their basements, terrified. He kept running, his eyes scanning corners and openings and walls; trying to process it quicker than his feet were fast. Logic, strategy and adrenaline compounded in his chest, a dull ache as much as a rush of pure pleasure.
Then he heard it; the shift of ground behind him. His mind raced and rushed and concluded it was possible someone had been following him the entire time. Perhaps one of the Auror's. Surely if it had been his father, he would have shouted by now...
Devlin did not dare to turn around. If it was someone he recognized, he didn't trust himself to see them and not succumb to weakness.
Don't be foolish, he told himself, snarling. There was no stopping now. No turning around. He must do this. He had known it might happen, he told himself, that he might be followed. He had told himself he might be recognized multiple times. He had looked in the mirror before he left and known he looked like a normal boy. It was a dangerous thing to be in the middle of a war zone.
A normal boy would think that in war there was just the black and white, like a chess board. Two sides warring against each other. But Devlin was not a normal boy, and he knew there was always a third. The person who took advantage of chaos for their own means.
He hoped it was a Death Eater. He could deal with it if it was an Auror. He hoped it wasn't someone crazy.
He had experience knowing what crazy people liked to do with children.
His breath heaved in his chest as he demanded his feet to slam against the packed dirt more quickly. In his favor, he was quick. Even against adults, the stamina of his wolf usually gave him a slight advantage. He had long legs to propelled him and a distinct awareness of where he was in space that he supposed he inherited from his father. He swerved into another alley. In his mind he pictured were he had entered and ever turn he had taken. He was must be running parallel to the town. Outrunning whoever was following him was one thing, but he still had to get to the center of Hogsmeade.
The person behind him seemed to track him with expertise, and lunged just as his body turned, exposing his shoulder. Devlin hadn't known he was that close!
Devlin's body fell from his control, onto the ground. He held himself, preparing himself for the jar. His breath stayed with him.
It was no one Devlin recognized. His face was covered in blood. When he opened his mouth to snarl, Devlin realized the blood was in his mouth, and on his breath, teeth, and lips. His eyes were a daring amber; the color of a feral werewolf.
Certainly no Auror.
Just the type of person who would find Voldemort an interesting partner, but crazy enough it was possible he was also on his own.
Devlin tried to scramble upright from where he had fallen; to run away again, but the beast smiled maliciously and lunged. Devlin normally associated such grace with himself. He hadn't seen a feral werewolf move with such purpose since he had lived at the camp. He had him on the ground, his hands like claws at Devlin's collarbone, his sharp fingernails digging into the soft flesh of Devlin's neck. Devlin's first thought was these were the werewolves Geoffrey told you to stay away from.
"Hello," the beast said, the words halted and forced. His weight pressed on his sides, holding him in place. He saw Devlin's wand holster and ripped it away, throwing the wand aside. Devlin did not struggle, because he did not want to incite more of this man's desire to dominate him. Best to act already dominated, at least in this moment.
"I work for Voldemort," Devlin said, trying to make his words clear. Some of the fresh blood from the man's mouth sputtered onto Devlin as he chuckled. His disbelief was written callously all over his face, but he smirked and jerked Devlin's sleeve up with an air of mockery; searching for the mark. "I'm not marked! I'm not a Death Eater."
"You are a boy," the werewolf snarled, revealing nothing of his loyalty. "Pity we did not meet on the full moon. Pity I will kill you tonight. Pitiful little human boy. I will make you mine."
Somehow the notion that this werwolf would want to bite him - in human form - had absurdly not occurred to him. The blood around his face must have obscured Devlin's scent.
Pitiful little human boy...
The sharpness shuttered in his head and Devlin felt his reaction and fear like a seizure through his body. He struggled again, arching his neck and pushing upward, to look the beast in the face. The muscles across his back spasmed with the effort, but held taunt under his demand. Suddenly Devlin had an inkling of why someone could be terrified of him, even with his flat teeth.
"I'm. Not. Pitiful." The effort to bring words through his body startled him, but he supposed everything was straining in disproportion to make him look like something other than a crumpled play-toy. The tendons in his neck stood taunt.
The beast chuckled: sputtering and bark-like. He leaned down, snarling so close to Devlin's nose that, if he had so desired, he could have bitten it off.
"Pitiful little hu-" Except the words caught in his throat. The snarl had made him breath through his nose, flaring his nostrils as further expression of his displeasure, and that, combined with his closeness, overcame the blood still messing with his sense of smell. His amber eyes dilated and Devlin felt his own do the same, in response. The werewolf's brow arched and his lips drew back in what was a mix between a smirk and a snarl, conveying his sense of unsettle.
Devlin snarled viciously, sensing that the only way the beast would understand him was if he spoke simply to him in the language he most preferred. He pulled back the lips to show his teeth. "You can't make me yours."
"You are a werewolf." The beast-man had become just a bit more articulate at his werewolf display. He pressed more weight upon Devlin, removed one of his hands and wiped at his mouth and nose. Then he lowered his head to Devlin's neck. His misshapen, artificially sharpened teeth were nearer to him than he preferred. Domination. He drew in a breath through his nose, sniffing him. He took a single finger and reached it toward Devlin's face. He tried to squirm away, unsure what was happening, but there really was nowhere to go. The finger touched his lips, reaching into his mouth. The werewolf brought Devlin's saliva to his nose. Immediately, his pupils had dilated more and his irises sharpened. "You lied," he said.
His lips were stretched to bare his teeth; a warning, alpha, sort of grimace.
Devlin's face contorted in confusion and he snarled again in denial.
"Yes," the beast said, growling; dominance, ownership, chastisement. He pressed hard on Devlin to convey his displeasure at Devlin's supposed defiance. "You are mine. Already!"
"No," he said, struggling with the words. He wanted to say Remus, but, at the same time, felt such knowledge was his and Remus' alone. The werewolf laughed again.
"If I bit you, I would remember. Not many your age survive. What are you, twelve? Half ownership is still ownership, though. I bit your creator." The werewolf appeared to think for a moment. He bent down and smelled Devlin again. "He was a little thing too, small and weak. I was sure he would die. I had meant for him to die."
The hands around his collarbones dug a little deeper at this. The werewolf hauled him up by his robes and tried to pin him against the brick wall.
"I was three," Devlin said, because in werewolf society it was something impressive, and he wanted to distract the beast, just for a second. He snarled as he said it, flinging his body against the man's restraint to hide the fact he was reaching for his second wand. The wand was in his hand and a second later, the beasts robes were on fire. He summoned his lost wand to his hand even as he dashed away.
The alley lead to a field behind the town. There was a small playground in the distance. His feet crunched against the dead pale amber stalks, dusted with snow. Behind him, the werewolf's footfalls crunched as well. Devlin put everything he had into his legs, trying once more to outrun the beast. Then he saw it. Chaos.
It began as distant lights at the edge of the field. The twinkle of magic, being hurled through the air. White and black, in battle against each other. He ran toward the Aurors and toward the Death Eaters, concealing himself in the fray. The werewolf ran too. There were shouts from both sides, but then Devlin saw an Auror pursuing the beast, the name Greyback hurling through the air with his curses.
While running furiously, Devlin put both his wands between his teeth, and transformed into the little wolf. Lean, quick, and small, he raced through the chaos.
It was after several minutes and more close calls, that he reached the center of Hogsmeade. He transformed at the cusp of an alleyway and propelled himself toward the fountain that marked his destination. He flung his arm into the air, pointing the wand. Voldemort had patiently made him practice so many times that there was no hesitation, no fumble, nothing, nothing, nothing except for the singular word and the rush of the magic through his arm.
"Morsmordre!"
The skull appeared first, potent in the air, and the snake slithered up to meet it, crawling into the eye socket. Together, they illuminated the surrounding chaos in hues of Killing Curse green.
For a moment it seemed as though the chaos quieted, although it did not stop. Death Eaters shouted with triumph at their mark of destruction, and Aurors who were not in the throws of a duel turned to identify the perpetrator.
Him.
Devlin.
Without a mask.
His palms felt suddenly sweaty and his blood whooshed by his ears like the crashing sea. At first, he thought it was his mind, ridiculing him with his name, but then he became aware that there was a man to accompany the word.
"DEVLIN!"
It was Harry, rushing toward him. Death Eater's struck at his back. A dose of Crucio hit him hard between his shoulders, but he threw it off without a scream. His breath puffed in the dark cold night.
His breath was heaving in his chest, his body pressing him forward; faster and faster. He was close. Almost there. Almost there.
Devlin didn't dare to move toward him, but he couldn't bring himself to move away. He was frozen. It was like watching himself in his nightmares.
Then there was vapor around him, choking and black, which became Voldemort.
Harry was near now, his Killing Curse eyes bright against the dark of the night. Devlin had always wondered what Harry's eyes would look like filled with the nothing, nothing, nothing that always consumed his own. He had always suspected he would hate it, and now there they were, nothing, nothing, nothing, and Devlin had been right.
"I love you, Devlin," he said, his voice even and calm and suddenly the nothing, nothing, nothing had been revealed for what it was: everything, everything, everything burning hot and liquid in his eyes. Voldemort's face showed his clear disgust. "No matter wh-"
Voldemort's wand flew into his grasp and the cobblestones at Harry's feet crumbled. Harry sidestepped the fresh hole before it managed to consume him.
"I don't think our previous conversation bears unnecessary repetition. I'm sure you remember it clearly, Harry."
The black vapor was choking him, pressing all of the air out of him until he felt small. He felt like bits of particles, or a thin airy vapor, or nothing at all, being pulled and pushed, knowing he was as real as a boy, yet feeling as empty as the air itself.
He tried to force himself to recognize the magic around him; to go with it, rather than against it. He threw aside his imaginings and simply felt out the strings of the magic.
Suddenly he could see the ground below them and feel the tug of the magic, transporting them to their destination.
The house.
When they landed, he could feel the particles of magic that had been carrying the vapor they had become, crackling and regrouping. What he wouldn't do to be able to see magic as easily as he felt it! It mesmerized him, making his mind hazy with his fascination.
Voldemort's arm was slung around his chest, and it was the movement of unhooking himself from Devlin that snapped Devlin out of his daze.
"You must teach me that," he said, his breath a whisper. His heart was still in his chest, his throat dry, his skin tingling.
Voldemort chuckled as he looked around them. It was dark now, the muggle town below still and peaceful. Voldemort stared at it for a moment.
Devlin thought he would say something scathing about Potter, because Devlin knew he would not respond to Devlin's childish request, but instead he motioned to Devlin with his hand and led them inside.
"Tomorrow is the end of Winter Holidays," Voldemort said offhandedly, as he removed his cloak and motioned for Devlin to do the same. The little elf came and took them. The statement should have been a dull, inconsequential one, but instead it clung to the air almost ominously. Devlin wasn't quite certain what to make of it, and yet, he knew he should make something of it, because Voldemort was staring at him.
"I did not know," he said, his safest bet.
Voldemort tipped his head.
"Of course you did not." He tipped his head and peered at him more closely. "Your face has blood on it."
"I ran into a crazy man," Devlin responded, evenly. Voldemort's brow crumpled.
"Indeed. Although, as I predicted, you did manage not to die. Go clean up, after which you can explain to me who this man was."
OoOoOoO
The next morning, when Devlin came down the grand staircase, he paused with confusion. There was a man he did not recognize, standing next to a trunk that was not his own. The man smiled at him, dirty blond hair, striking blue eyes, charming smile. He was holding a vial in his hand and wearing Grandfather's cloak.
"Take this," the man said, his voice light and pleasant. Devlin took the vial hesitantly, peering at the man. He sniffed the open vial, grimacing at the smell. Polyjuice.
He looked up.
"Where did you take me when I was seven?"
The man he knew must be Voldemort smirked.
"The shore," he said, tone full of cruel humor.
Devlin drowned it without further question. It was not the first time he had ever taken it, and he was very certain what he would look like - what he always looked like when he took it. Dirty blond hair, shining blue eyes, mischievous and innocent smile.
Voldemort smiled at him and on that face, it almost reached his eyes; or maybe Devlin just wasn't used to decoding the minuscule details of this mask.
"Go to the kitchen - the house elf has something small set aside."
Devlin did not question him. He did not think it necessary, nor advisable. For all he could see, he might actually be getting away from here, and whether that was back to Hogwarts, as it appeared, or simply a change of scene, Devlin was not intent to argue!
OoOoO
He tempered his relief with the clarity of suspicion as they traveled to Kings Cross. They had taken a portkey into a small, empty shop near the station. The one man there, a muggle, looked as though he were under the influence of magic, and didn't notice them at all.
Voldemort had transformed his cloak into what his mother might have called a blazer, and Devlin's had been made into the same. Whenever Voldemort created muggle clothing, Devlin noticed it was always a bit dated, or at the least more formal than less formal.
All too soon, there were children around him.
The platform was terribly busy. Voldemort paused by the archway, his hand reaching out and gripping around Devlin's elbow.
He looked at him, as though he were tracing something he wished to remember. Then he slipped something into Devlin's pocket. Devlin did nothing more than flick his gaze in acknowledgment.
"Do not be a foolish boy, Devlin," Voldemort said, very softly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as a consequence. "Should you deem it absolutely necessary, I am sure you can find some way to contact me."
Devlin really wasn't sure how he would, but he nodded nevertheless. Voldemort let go of him and motioned to the archway and Devlin took this to mean he was to go on by himself. He stepped through the stone wall, into the magical platform beyond. The Hogwarts train was steaming. Devlin found himself smiling. He hauled his trunk up and found an empty compartment.
Do not be a foolish boy.
A normal boy would spring from this empty compartment and seek out the comfort of his friends, but Devlin mastered this urge. He had no interest in a scene on the train, when Voldemort was most likely to be watching him. Neither did he have any interest in defining his closest friends so absolutely for his Grandfather. So instead, he sat quietly and read the books in his trunk. They weren't course books; Voldemort must have known he had all of those already. They were books about more advanced subjects, some of which Devlin knew he should not have visible outside of the Slytherin dorms.
After a while it began to pour. Devlin watched the windows, tracing the small rivers down the glass pane. He plucked a hair, but it was still blond. Voldemort might have given him a longer lasting polyjuice, but even so, it would wear off soon. Eventually, the rain cleared and the train slowed, and Devlin felt a sharp bite of anticipation.
He waited until the hall was quiet outside to step out, the last in line. If someone realized they had never seen him before, they didn't think enough of it to be suspicious. Outside the ground was wet and the air fresh, but Devlin couldn't properly appreciate the freedom, for the ache in his gut. His eyes were glued ahead, his heart fluttering in his chest.
There was a checkpoint. Four Auror's were manning the station. A murmur worked its way through the crowd and the reason for them became evident through the whispers. They were there to check students for contraband. To prevent another kidnapping. To discover anyone who might have had a connection or be a spy. Extra attention seemed to be going to the older students.
Time seemed to pass slowly as his gut twisted and the crowd squeezed around him, pressing him onward, toward the Aurors. Before he was ready, he was there, and an Auror was staring at him.
"Name, house, and year," the Auror said, his tone flat, as though he were making a statement rather than asking Devlin a question. His eyes were on a piece of parchment, attached to a clipboard.
Devlin drew in a breath, as though to answer, and licked his lip. He fingered the edge of his school robes. The air halted in his lungs, staling and fermenting until it turned sour and burned.
The Auror finally looked up, observing him. His eyes traced Devlin's face, the way someone only would if they knew they could compare something to a match. His sheet must have pictures.
He wouldn't find this blond, blue eyed, innocent boy there.
Devlin couldn't lie.
Why should you? He asked himself. He was under the influence of polyjuice, not glamours. Voldemort had never intended for him to play someone else for long; he had probably simply not wanted to cause a scene at the station. Or he wanted to make Harry Potter look foolish, by slipping you in under his nose, caught only by some lowly checkpoint.
The man hummed impatiently. Devlin fidgeted. He wanted to ask for Harry Potter, but he had no idea who was watching.
He felt like the little boy who had been stolen and given back to Harry Potter all over again; confused, overwhelmed, and terrified of his freedom. There was a part of him, small and frequently squashed, that just wanted to be done. That part of him yearned for Voldemort; for knowing what he was supposed to do. Sometimes, it was easier when one knew they had no control.
"Look," he said, but the man cut him off.
"Look isn't a name, boy. Give me your name. I don't have time for anything else."
"Look," Devlin said, a bit more sharply. The Auror's eyes were on him, narrowed in a glare. Devlin's face began to itch. "I'm Devlin Potter."
The Auror looked at him for a long moment, his eyes glued to Devlin's face.
"You don't look like him," he said, the casualness of his voice to cover up the dangerous undertone.
"I know," Devlin responded, trying to keep his voice low.
"Randall, keep the line moving!" Another Auror said, perhaps flustered by the amount of students still to be checked in. "They really should have given us more officers for this job."
Devlin could imagine the shortage they must be experiencing with the attack in the town below and all the damage control that would need to be done. Perhaps Voldemort had hoped to sneak Devlin in undetected. For a moment Devlin felt stupid; he should have run in the opposite direction. Surely his father was at the crime scene below.
Randall ignored the other man while Devlin reminded himself he wasn't going to be foolish.
Slowly, Randall withdrew a small coin from his pocket and began to tap it against his clipboard in a rhythmic beat. The Auror who had told him off looked up and his eyes widened, but he said nothing.
Randall returned the coin to his pocket. Devlin could only assume it was some sort of communication device.
"Step this way. I've informed a teacher of your joke shop contraband. One of them will be here momentarily to pick you up and bring you to the Headmaster."
Devlin admired the system. The man waved his wand and Devlin felt a weight enter his pockets.
"While you're waiting, put it all on the table behind me."
Devlin stepped behind him - away from the crowd, to empty out his newly filled pockets. Things he recognized from Freddie's dad's shop came out of his pockets in fist-fulls. When he found the tiny wrapped box from Voldemort, he hastily shoved it back inside. It was only a moment before Severus Snape, his cloak billowing ominously, came out to retrieve him.
His sneer was sour and ill-concealed.
"A Slytherin," he said, looking at Devlin's tie. The expression clearly detailed how embarrassed Devlin should be to have been caught - to not have been clever enough. His eyes flickered the table, spotted with 'Devlin's' contraband. Snape's lip curled in distain. He reached for Devlin as though he couldn't bear to stand there and be mortified any longer. As his fist grabbed at the back of Devlin's robes, his eyes scoured Devlin's face; as though trying to find something familiar. Devlin wondered if he knew or if Devlin would have to tell him. Finally he hauled him away from the crowd.
"Do you know who I am?" Devlin finally asked, as Snape dragged him up the green lawn toward Hogwarts. Carriages passed on the far left. Snape turned to him sharply. The darkness cast shadows around his eyes, but his hooked nose was clearly visible. His nostrils flared as though Devlin had just said something infuriating.
"At the beginning of the year I was nearly convinced you were not as dimwitted as your father."
Perhaps, to a normal boy, such words would have fueled an angry response, but Devlin felt nothing except bemusement. He smirked up at Snape, allowing himself to silently feel the power of his growing knowledge.
"That's a yes, then," he said, nodding. Snape growled and mumbled dimwitted child under his breath.
OoOoOoO
Some children were already seated in the Grand Hall, waiting impatiently for their school mates to be checked through and for the feast to begin. They spared him only small glances; enough to see he wore school robes and was being hauled away by his Head of House.
The Headmaster's eyes tracked him through the Grand Hall - blue, hard, and piercing.
"Where are you dragging me?" Devlin asked. There was something lodged in his throat, because he already knew. They were headed to the Headmaster's office.
"Hush," Snape growled, the word kinder than others he could have chosen, his tone more harsh.
"You're taking me to the Headmaster," he said and for the first time, he attempted to squirm out of the death grip on his robes.
"I thought that was plainly clear," Snape whispered in a seethe of air. His hand clenched tighter around Devlin's robes - unbreakable.
"They've called Harry already, right?"
"Harry will be called when we verify you are actually Devlin Potter."
"I am!"
"Yes, you have said." The words were so calm that they were infuriating. Devlin felt annoyance and fear boiling in his blood.
"Didn't the Auror tell you? Didn't he check?"
Snape paused for a moment, his death grip unrelenting. He stared down his hooked nose at Devlin.
"No, he did not. It was implied that you are Devlin Potter, since we set up the coin to be used in the event that an Auror suspected he had found Devlin Potter, but I do believe Potter expressly forbid them from verifying identity beyond matching faces."
Devlin's brow crumbled and the edges of his lips dug into his face.
"Why?"
"Think before you ask me such a stupid question."
Devlin shook his head, confused and terrified that he could not grasp something Snape so clearly thought he would.
"Where were you last night, Mr. Potter?"
The whisper was breathed right by his ear, a swarm of warm air infiltrating his thoughts and sending his emotions into a tight vortex of uncertainty. He drew back, his endless dark eyes scouring his face.
Devlin could find no words on his tongue. His mouth felt rusted and dry and his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth.
"I warned you," Snape said, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowing. His lips pressed together ominously. Devlin's body shook as Snape grabbed tighter to him, leaning in. "I warned you, you foolish boy. I warned you what a dangerous game you were playing!"
Devlin's tongue dropped away from the roof of his mouth.
"I said what I meant and meant what I said then: I don't have a choice! I've never had a choice!" Devlin could feel himself shivering inside and knew it was now or never that he had to steady himself. He didn't quite trust the potion Voldemort had been feeding him, even as he recognized it had not failed him. He wasn't sure why. He hadn't said the truth in years and only then to Harry, but that magnetism that he had always felt toward Snape bloomed in his mind and in his chest and he said: "Except to die, and I can't ever make myself. I'm too much a coward, just like him."
Snape began to drag him toward the Headmaster's office again.
OoOoO
Snape let go of him as soon as they were in the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore himself was already there (by some secret passage, it seemed). His thin hands steepled atop the desk, the robes around his shoulders seeming to swallow him. Dumbledore was imposing, in a soft way; like a velvet covered knife, hidden between layers of robes and coalescing magic.
As always, the Headmaster's Office reminded Devlin a bit of Grandfather's office, except that the contents of Dumbledore's office seemed to have no clear organization, whereas everything in Grandfather's office had a distinct organization. Once more, Devlin had the distinct feeling he might be able to move an object in the Headmaster's office and place it elsewhere and the man himself might never know.
"Child," he said, smiling at him. He looked at him for a moment, silent and seemingly content. Devlin felt anything but content. and decided Dumbledore's contentment must be a facade. Snape's gaze regarded a chair, pointedly, but Devlin ignored him. "It is fine, Severus. I am sure the boy is feeling overwhelmed."
Devlin tried to school his face, afraid it had betrayed him.
"I want my father."
"I am glad to hear that, Devlin," Dumbledore said, smiling, eyes alighting with twinkles. Devlin was afraid to regard him too closely yet terrified to look away and miss a slight of hand or magic. "I have already called him. In the meantime, I have a few questions for you."
He felt his muscles coiling beneath his skin, his own magic coalescing beneath. His blood rushed with his mind. He tried to focus, tried to align past, present, and possible futures in his mind.
"Would you like to take a seat?" Devlin shook his head. "I understand. In my youth I too preferred the solid feeling of my feet upon ground." He chuckled lightly. "Are you hungry, child? I could have an elf bring us some food."
Devlin's nostrils flared as realization dawned in his mind. He mastered the urge to answer defensively and instead simply shook his head. Dumbledore eyed him closely. There would always be a part of him that was ready to defend Voldemort, and he was never quite sure why, since it did not feel borne out of fear.
"Are you in any way injured, Devlin?"
"Are you sure that is who I am? Professor Snape said you would have to check."
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly, his robes shifting on his shoulders as he reached across his desk to pick up a small piece of candy and popped it into his mouth.
"Of course, of course. Although, I am already certain you are Devlin Potter, even though the polyjuice is still lingering in your eyes. Nevertheless: on the occasion when you visited the castle with your father and encountered Draco Malfoy - what were the last words I spoke to you in this office?"
Devlin's lips pressed into a thin line and he narrowed his gaze at Dumbledore. Although, of course, this would be the last thing he would ever tell Voldemort about and so a brilliant choice of proof.
"You asked me why Voldemort feared losing me."
Left unsaid and unasked for, but pressing upon both their minds, was what Devlin had said to him: 'When he was a boy, why didn't you kill him?' Devlin could feel his feet, stepping on the edge of that velvet covered knife.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and Devlin pulled together, with effort, that same tempered clarity that he had used just that morning. He must not be fooled. He must not be lulled into feeling secure. He must not be foolish.
Dumbledore held out the bowl of candy to him, but Devlin shook his head.
"Very well," he said, smiling still. Devlin wondered briefly what the Headmaster had looked like, when he was a young man. What had his hair been like? It seemed to Devlin that they might have been very alike; charming, manipulative, and secretive. "I am most concerned about your health, Devlin. Are you injured, in any way?"
A part of him recognized that it might be easiest to say yes, while another part of him was simply mortified a part of him had even considered the option. The largest, or perhaps merely the most dominant part, rose up like smoke inside of him. He straightened his shoulders as the muscles across his face shifted into a bemused smile.
"Did you think he hurt me?"
For one brief second, he thought he saw Dumbledore's brow crumple infinitesimally. A moment later, the expression had been completely replaced with a small, caring, smile.
"In situations such as these, Devlin, I try not to assume anything."
Devlin took a step forward, closer to the Headmaster. He tipped his head, let his lips fall limp and expressionless, all the muscles on his face lax and unassuming. The voice that stretched out of his vocal cords was the one Voldemort always liked best.
"You're lying." Dumbledore made to interrupt him, but Devlin continued, although he wasn't sure why he had started in the first place. There was simply something about Dumbledore, something so alike and yet so different, that made Devlin want to show him every facade he had. "Without assumptions you would not have power. If you truly had no assumption in this situation, then it would be because you didn't know, and that's a curious thing for someone like you to admit to someone like me."
Dumbledore smiled, a little more sharply, a little more there, a little less content. Yet, more certain. Devlin could here Snape shift behind him, his breathing, which had been even, stalling for the barest second.
"Why would that be curious, Devlin?" He said, steeping his fingers again. "Does he not share things with you? Does he not make you feel strong, and mature, and capable? Do you not consider yourself a formidable player in this game?"
Devlin's lips twisted without much thought into a scowl. His hands were on Dumbledore's desk, his shoulders high as he leaned forward.
"Do you consider me that? How strange. He doesn't make me feel strong. He doesn't make me feel capable. He didn't decide to let me live because I was a child, or because my father would have done anything for my return, or even to make a statement - he decided not to kill me because I remind him of himself. We're all tangled up together in his head. Am I all tangled up in your head too, Albus? Maybe this is a talent I have?"
Almost idly, he could feel that he was smiling. Softly sharp, charming, and curious. He wondered how it all looked on his face with the innocent blue eyes he did not own. Dumbledore looked at him for a moment.
"The boy does not understand the game he is playing. I have seen the childishness in his head for myself, Albus."
The sharp part of Devlin wanted to round on Snape, to lunge and prove his power, but the better, more cunning, part of him tipped his smile at Dumbledore and refused to look away; challenging him to believe Snape.
"We both know I'm not the child who hung the rabbit from the rafters," he said, and it felt good to let a little bit of that newly collected and coveted knowledge out into the world. "In fact, when you look at me I don't think he's what makes you pause and keep looking."
Dumbledore just smiled.