For a moment, Devlin allowed himself to be tricked by his mind and believe that the mass of emotions was a numbness, blanketing his senses. His mind might play games to ease his mental suffering, he might occasionally comply, but his body operated only on the truth.
The truth was that the turmoil of his dream had dragged itself back with him into reality. Emotions, thoughts, ideas, and the swirl of past, present, and possible future all wound tightly in his body. He wondered why feeling so many things at once always seemed to make Harry stronger - more whole somehow - while feeling at all always seemed to make him feel weak and fractured.
The thought manifested itself in his mind as a metaphor, before he realized it had actually been a realization.
By then it was too late; he was shaking before he could even throw off the covers.
It began in his chest; it always did. It was like a remembered sensation that would spread out from the where the original curse had hit him; haunted tendrils of agony becoming more and more real as they crawled against his skin and sunk into his body - into his veins where it turned into fire.
Fire, fire, fire, traveling through his body and consuming him alive. His veins were suddenly hot wires, the skin around them frigid and painfully numb. He swallowed the hot bile rising like acid in his throat and thrashed around, conscious on some primal level of the soft bed beneath him, and of the other boys beginning to stir. The pain was everywhere - stabbing him in the darkness when he moved, crushing him while he was still. It crawled up his spine, sunk it's teeth into his lungs - tried to make him scream.
No, no, no, no!
'Next time we play, you will scream for me.'
But he wouldn't! Wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't!
Something touched the coolness of his skin and set it on fire, sending waves of pain deep into his marrow. He jolted away from the pressure, his body convulsing wildly as his limbs flailed out of his control. He hit something hard and whimpered, feet shaking against the new hardness, shoulder pressed into it, as his body spasmed. The muscles around his body clenched and snapped back, and clenched again. The nerves burrowed beneath his skin flared and cooled and flared again.
Something clawed at his face and he did not know if it was his own limbs or that of someone else. His eyes were pried open; light and shadows and colors passed through his brain without the ability to process any of the stimulation.
The pressure returned, prying at his jaw.
Next time we play, you will scream for me.
Never never never never never!
He clenched his jaw tighter, consumed by an over-reaching terror that, if he opened his mouth, he might scream. Reality and dream and memory consumed each other, whirling viciously and living vicariously through each other, inside of him. In moments such as this one, Devlin could never be absolutely sure wether it was a seizure or the true curse. Whether he was six, or seven, or eight, or twelve. He must never scream.
His eyes were opened again and there was blackness above him and then his mind was filled with ice water and when he opened his mouth desperately to breathe, the water filled him from the inside. He thrashed desperately, his limbs clawing at the water surrounding him. The water sunk into his body, into his veins, like an ice-cold fog that put out the fire as it went. There was a blackness around him, lifting, lifting, lifting, until he was above the water. He gasped for air, throwing himself away from the something that tried to cling to him, weighing him down.
His mind was full of raw fear, making his thoughts feverish in a way he had never quite experienced in reality.
He was in the sea, his little island up ahead. He swam desperately toward it, treading through the water all the while very much aware of the demons he had banished to live there. There was something dark following him through the water, and he swam faster with terror. He clawed at the small bit of sand until he had hauled himself up onto it. The something dark something pulled itself up onto the sand, too.
-I do rather think you could exercise some limitation on your imagination, you foolish child.-
Severus Snape's robes were heavy with sea water and dusted with sand where they touched the little island. Devlin, curled on his haunches, looked up at him. He was very nearly naked here - weak and exposed and fractured - but found a pair of underwear clung to his waist. He couldn't be sure if they had been there, before he realized Snape was in his mind.
Snape crouched down, his robes encrusted with more sand and barely contained on the tiny little dot of land. Devlin did not respond
-What is this place for?-
Snape's hair was moulded to his scalp, pulled back toward the nape of his neck from how he had risen out of the water.
-Why are you here?- Devlin asked. His voice was light and smooth; nothing like the sharp tone his Grandfather preferred.
Snape looked around for a moment, his dark eyes even more stark against his cold skin.
-Saving you. Why did your wolf not save you?-
Devlin's skin flushed with the acknowledgement that Snape knew his greatest dependancy.
-He couldn't. He can't do magic.-
Snape's head tilted, and Devlin was only half aware how little sense he was making.
-What magic were you doing?-
Devlin looked at him, and even in his mind his thoughts were hazy with sleep and the fall-out of adrenaline and pain.
-I was dreaming of the piece of me that is missing. Sometimes, I can almost feel it. When I dream about it, I can remember what it felt like, before I lost it.-
Snape stilled and his eyes seemed to narrow, thoughts from reality breaking through his subconscious. Devlin could feel Snape's mind more now, like pressure from a distant storm.
-And this missing part…where is it now?-
Devlin frowned in turn. He tipped his head like the pup he sometimes felt he was. What a every odd question, he thought.
Then he remembered the ocean, and the cave, and the old building they passed. The heavy thoughts stirred his mind, fracturing the mental landscape. He could feel himself on the cusp of consciousness; he lunged forward to grab Severus, afraid to leave him lingering in the place he kept all his secrets. Something pulled them down into the depth of the ocean and through the sand at the bottom.
Devlin bolted upright. He was no longer in his dorm room, but in the common room instead, laid out before the fire. Snape was waking, hauling himself up from where he had fallen. Across from them, settled passively on a chair, was Albus Dumbledore.
"Hello, Devlin," he said, smiling in a reassuring way.
Devlin resisted the urge to make sure he was wearing more than underwear and, above all else, made himself breathe regularly.
"Hello, Headmaster," he said. It was strange to wake from a seizure as himself. His joints ached and his whole body felt like it was thawing out. His wolf inched closer to the hairline that divided them, cautionary.
"You gave your friends quite the startle," the headmaster said, infuriatingly calm; examining Devlin as though this show of weakness bore no weight on his opinion of Devlin himself.
"My apologies," he said, not quite sure what else to say. He rose awkwardly to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. Snape was upright now, coming to his feet smoothly - uninjured from a dose of Crucio. Dumbledore tipped his head, as though his choice was intensely interesting.
"There is absolutely nothing for which to apologize, Mr. Potter," he said, his tone that same soft velvet which cloaked his power so well, making one second-guess why they would feel so intimidated by him. "You fell ill, and your friends rightly contacted your Head of house. I am sure, seeing you well, they will be able to return to sleep."
Devlin leaned against the arm of the sofa to remain upright.
"It seems, however, that you may first benefit from a trip to the Hospital Wing," the Headmaster continued. Devlin felt his skin prickle with the beginning of a flush, and immediately thought -nothing, nothing, nothing- to rid himself of the sensation. The flush may have gone before it truly manifested, but the sense of humiliation still lingered like a bad taste. Dumbledore had seen he was weak!
"That will not be necessary," Devlin said and he found, all he needed was the reminder of power, power, power to fall gracefully back behind the curtain, the same he hid behind while he stood before Voldemort. "Have you informed my father?"
The Headmaster tilted his head, and Devlin hated the feeling in the pit of his stomach - that the headmaster recognized his game.
"Should I, Mr. Potter?"
"No," he said; not harshly, but factually. There had been no reason, and he was glad they had not over-reacted and contacted Harry.
"Is there something that has been bothering you, Devlin?" The Headmaster asked, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles. Devlin wished that he could peel back the layers of Dumbledore's mind like his Grandfather could peel apart other people's minds. Devlin simply stared at him, resisting the urge to glance at Snape. He vaguely remembered their conversation in what must have been his head, and he hoped the Professor would save the information to blackmail him rather than spill it to Dumbledore. "Your seizures, I have been made aware, are triggered by stress," Dumbledore continued, serenely, "did you have a nightmare?"
'Nightmare' made it sound so very childish, and Devlin was loathe to label it that even inside his own head. There was nothing childish about it, he thought.
"No," he said, his voice cold and calm. Snape's dark gaze lingered on him from beside the Headmaster; cold and calculating. Dumbledore sighed, making it clear he knew that Devlin was lying.
"Fear has a way of rooting itself into a person's mind, distorting the perception they have of themselves, if they do not halt it quickly."
Devlin already knew that. Knew it had changed him and was changing him, and had moulded him just the same as the man which he feared. How was he supposed to stop something already so entwined in his mind, though.
"I'm not afraid." It was so much easier to deny that it existed at all.
Dumbledore smiled at him still, the curves of his lip sad and disappointed. Devlin thought he would say something more - try to push Devlin into understanding - but instead he simply rose to his feet.
"In that case," he said, pausing to right the many folds in his robes. "Severus, I do believe you will be able to handle the situation by yourself now?" Snape nodded stiffly. Dumbledore glanced at him again, smiling. "I hope you sleep well, Devlin."
When he was gone, Snape turned to him.
"Tomorrow night, directly after dinner, I expect you to at my office where we will finish the conversation we started in that foolish mind of yours. I have told you, again and again, what a dangerous game you are playing!"
His words were meant to wound him - to frighten him. Devlin wrapped his cloak of secrets around him, and found the words could not penetrate them. Snape turned on his heel, his cloak billowing around him.
"Did you often get obsessed over muggleborns, Severus?" His voice was simple and innocent, a nothing, nothing, nothing at the edges that took more mastery to shape than any anger. He watched Snape almost hungrily for the reaction he knew his words would earn. Snape came to a jerky stop, his robes almost deflating around him. His magic tightened in the air, and Devlin could practically smell the blood seeping from the wound his words had inflicted.
He turned his head, the profile of his nose more prominent than the whites of his eyes. There was a sneer on his face and Devlin thought he would have done better than to show his emotion on his face.
"You're playing with fire, child," Snape said. His voice, at least, was like smooth spun silk - giving away nothing.
"Is that a threat?"
Snape appraised him for a long moment.
"Tomorrow, directly after dinner - my office. If you are late, I shall send a Gryffindor Prefect to fetch you."
OoOoOoO
It was only Malfoy and Andrew still awake. They were each in their own beds, pretending the other one didn't exist. Malfoy regarded him silently upon his return. Andrew leaned forward.
"You alright?" Andrew asked, his voice hushed.
"Yes, I'm alright," he said. "I just had a seizure."
Andrew looked as though he had heard of them before and Devlin felt a stab of humiliation - it was something, although not with the same causation, that muggle's must have.
"Were you born with them?" Malfoy's voice whispered in the air, so different from his father that Devlin feels almost-alright until he turned to look at him.
Malfoy's brow was furrowed, his lips pushed and pinched at the edges; the expression of a boy who knew but could not be sure. Over his time away, Malfoy had begun to wear his hair tussled instead of neatly combed back. It retracted from his perfect resemblance just enough for Devlin to be able to look at him without wanting to immediately pummel him. It made Devlin wonder if his words on the train had been realer than Devlin had imagined. Did Devlin really know him? Why did Malfoy look at him and not want to hurt him, like William had? Surely he knew why his father had been killed.
"No," he said. For some unfathomable reason, he answered the boy he had been so certain was his enemy like someone he didn't want to murder.
Malfoy looked away, and Devlin knew that he knew exactly what Devlin's seizure's looked like. Crucio. He wondered if the word reverberated like whiplash in his head too.
OoOoOoO
The world is still; hushed beneath the lull of the shimmering stars and dim soothing light of the moon. The house is in front of him. He wants to call it 'grandfather's house' but such words seem so very out of place. There is a boy on the steps, older than him, but not yet a man. His dark hair falls like perfection, his green eyes like shatterglass, and his lips are lank in an expression of nothing, nothing, nothing.
Their eyes meet, and Tom Riddle frowns.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice is clipped and dismissive and he reminds Devlin of the older years, ill mannered to the small first years unless they have been directly advised to be otherwise. His sharp eyes look at Devlin, but their is something distinctly different, which Devlin cannot place.
"I'm dreaming of you," he says, and cannot bring forth indignation or defense. The world of dreams swallows and soothes him, and he can find no fault in this dream when it is far more peaceful than his others.
"Why?" The word is accompanied by a tilt of the older boy's head. It is sharp and obstructive; meant to block out any other thoughts Devlin might have had in order to attend to this threat.
"Maybe because I was wondering if you were ever not a monster."
Tom Riddle frowns - like a man's expression bestowed upon an unruly and unintelligent child.
"I never was."
And Devlin frowns and he wonders; if this answer is a reassurance of his own or because, somewhere in himself, he must know that Voldemort is incapable of seeing himself as the world perceives him.
"You're a murderer," he says, because this is only a dream, and the softness around the edges of his mind makes him impulsive. "You are a dark lord."
"Neither of those is a monster," the boy-man points out, his face tipped in bemused humor at Devlin's shortcomings. "You're a murderer too."
The words clarify that it is all a dream beyond doubt, but they also begin that rush of feeling back into Devlin's mind. The soothing softness of the dream vanishes like clearing fog. Instead of becoming vaguer the dream becomes more detailed. His meadow materializes around them and the house seems so lonely in the very middle of the great expanse of green, without the tiny town down the hill.
He can see each blade of grass now, and the individual strands of Tom Riddle's hair. He narrows his eyes at Devlin, and instead of stepping away, Devlin steps forward, intrigued with his own creation of young Tom Riddle.
"Have you killed them?" He asks, remembering that the other boy hadn't denied being a murderer.
"What does your mind hope to give you by this blatantly biased reassurance, Devlin? Are you convinced yet that I was ever different? Or do you now believe I was born this way?"
Tom Riddle rose from the stairs. His body is tall and lanky, but with a grace Devlin admires. Perhaps his self-conscious hopes someday he will be like this.
"Are you afraid of me?" Tom Riddle asks, his smile all at once vicious and charming. He advances again, strides long and steady. His hands are tucked neatly into his pockets, somehow adding to his threatening disposition.
"Yes," Devlin admits, and the word even surprises himself. Tom Riddle stops, his lips frowning, his head tilting. His brow furrows down and for a moment his face is something, something, something and Devlin does not know what to make of it.
"Fear is for lesser beings than you and I," Tom Riddle says.
"You are afraid too," Devlin says, and he takes a step forward, finding he can flow just as gracefully as the teen before him. "You are afraid of death"
"And you are not?" The words are hurled across the distance between them; lips drawn back in an unhidden, vicious, snarl.
For some reason this display does not make Devlin more afraid; he had already measured the danger and known this was there.
"No," he says, and it surprises him again, because when he is awake it is all he can think of. Tom Riddle snarls again, his face distorted in anger and displeasure and fear.
Fear of Devlin.
He lunges at him and-
Devlin staggered backwards reflexively in his sleep, hitting his head on the headboard of the bed.
OoOoOoOoO
The halls had smelled like dust, which made his eyes itch terribly, and now breakfast felt like crumbling sand on his tongue while his hand shook around his cup of pumpkin juice. His head hurt, like sleeplessness compounded with too much magic depletion.
Something was wrong.
He stood up, his mind lagging and refusing to properly process the visual stimulation and making him kilter dangerously. He steadied himself, his thoughts feverishly on the fact that something was terribly wrong with him. For some reason, he had to bite down on a bout of unreasonable laughter.
He had made it into the hallway, his muscles so weak that he felt like he must be wading through chin-hight frigid water, when suddenly his vision righted itself and his muscles snapped back into gear. For a moment all he could do was lean against the cold stone wall and breathe.
"Devlin?" It was Maria - he could practically taste her scent. He turned slowly. He knew how terrible he looked by her reaction; pursed lips, widening eyes, swallow. "Are you sick?"
Her voice was small, almost delicate. He wanted to refuse her an answer. He wanted to turn back time. He did not want her to see him weak.
And yet, it felt so good when she did.
Like something forbidden and intoxicating. That she looked at him like she did; soft and caring, stiff with worry and anxiety. That these emotions, these things he could hardly ever make himself feel, were something she was giving to him. He wondered if she understood how preciously he protected her image of him as a normal boy.
"I'll be alright," he said, pulling himself away from the wall and forcing weight onto his feet. "I had a seizure last night. I'm just a bit off today."
Her worry writes itself in the winkles of her brow and the crinkled corners of her eyes. Her love, for he can see it, the same all-encompassing caring that his father and mother and Emma feel for him, extends itself into her brilliant blue eyes. Her fear paints itself across her cherry red lips.
And he can practically smell her scent.
Something is not right, his wolf whispers in his mind, brushing by the flimsy emptiness that separates them.
"Maybe you should see the nurse," she offered, moving forward. She reached out a hand to touch him and he felt her warm fingers on his skin as though every nerve in his body was yearning for stimulation.
"I just need to take some more medicine," he said. "I forgot to last night."
She nodded. The doors to the great hall were opening and children were streaming out, getting ready for classes. He lost her in the crowd as she promised to check in on him.
Devlin felt fine. Perhaps it had just been one more consequence of the seizure that the wolf normally felt instead of him. He wouldn't worry about it until after he'd had a proper nights sleep and rested his magic over the weekend.
OoOoOoO
Professor McGonagall was seated deliberately behind her desk when he arrived. There was the familiar air of firmness about her that she did not seem to ever drop. He thought again of how she had looked at him; knowing her mistake could not be undone. He had thought of her while with grandfather, and her firmness had helped him.
He dug two essay's out of his bag and dropped them on her desk.
"What is this, Mr. Potter?"
Her eyes were sharp, her eyebrows arched.
"Two out of the fifteen assignments I missed," he said. He tried to turn away with some dignity.
"Did your head of house instruct you to hand these in, Mr. Potter?"
"I'm sure Professor Snape has better things to do than write up a homework schedule for me, Professor. I'll have another two for you at the end of the week. If you think that will not suffice, please let me know."
Her lips were pursed with something like impatience and bemusement.
"And what of practicals, Mr. Potter? Do you plan on showing me two of those, also?"
Devlin chuckled at her clear sarcasm, and she frowned, as if she had not expected him capable of seeing the humor in her words.
"I could, if you'd like, Professor. I handed in the completed essay on turning a matchstick into needle. I recall being here for that practical. The next was on turning a needle into a nail. Would you mind handing me a needle?" He dug into his pocket before she could respond. "Never mind, Professor, I've got a pebble here I picked up from the courtyard."
He turned the rock into a needle, and the needle into a nail, and sat it atop her desk. His robes flowed around him, in a poor imitation of Snape's billowing black ones, as he spun and took a seat.
He was done hiding his abilities.
Voldemort had already taken away his mask - forced Devlin and Dubhán to combine.
"I'm glad to have you back, Mr. Potter," the Professor said, to his retreating figure.
Devlin hadn't expected the words, but he forced his footing not to pause. Hatred for Devlin, because of his father, was kept at bay in Slytherin only because of his Grandfather. The rest of the student body had become increasingly wary of him since his return. He wished he knew what had been featured in the papers about him.
"Thank you," he said, because not responding would have been terribly rude, and rudeness devalued you in the eyes of others. He took a seat near the middle of the class. He had not expected someone else to choose the one next to him, but that was exactly where a fawn-haired, brown-eyed, freckled and be-speckled boy placed himself, after he hurriedly apologized to the professor for being late.
He smiled at Devlin, and Devlin was startled by how charming the expression made the boy seem. Small and frail, with something about him that made it hard for Devlin to look away.
"Do you have an extra quill?"
Having the combined resources of two trunks, Devlin had plenty of quills. He looked at the boy for a moment.
"Yes," he said, and reached into his bag to retrieve one and offered it silently to the boy, who leaned forward to retrieve the item. His fingers were clumsy, and the feather glided out of his fingers, falling just a couple inches closer to Devlin. The boy reached for it quickly.
It was as the boy leaned across the table to grab for the quill, inadvertently leaning closer to Devlin's face, that Devlin knew.
The boy drew back, his lips smiling in thanks as his mouth parted to say the words. Devlin wasn't listening. His eyes dilated and watched as the boy's did the same; instinctively and intuitively, beyond either of their control.
Werewolf.
Two blinks, and Devlin's eyes were once more green and his once more brown. They stared for a moment longer, surprised and baffled by the foreign experience of meeting another werewolf their own age.
"Thanks for the quill," the boy said, and turned back to his own work.
Today they were sculpting clay with their magic. Devlin did not need to fake his inattention, although he tried hard to correct it, and they did not linger after class to discuss their sameness. In fact, if Devlin were to give an honest description of both their attitudes after class, it would be that they avoided each other like the plague.
He spent the rest of the day with his mind wandering back to the boy's face.
Devlin had met many werewolves in his short life, but he had never met a boy like himself.
OoOoOoO
He fancied he could hear the Potion Master's cloak billowing three corridors away. He shifted against the cold dungeon wall, finding a less uncomfortable place for his shoulder blade to fit against the wall without his elbow scraping. When Snape strode down the hall, face set into a sneer, strides quick and impatient, cloak a dark shadow behind him, Devlin knew he was expecting emptiness. For Devlin was early - earlier than he knew the Professor would expect. Among many knew tidbits of knowledge Grandfather had bestowed upon him over winter, one was where to find the kitchens at Hogwarts.
"Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, his lips moving gracefully into a disgusted sneer; as if Devlin were a dirty tissue he had found abandoned on one of his classroom worktables.
"Hello, Professor," Devlin greeted. He pushed himself off the wall, emulating the agile movements he admired so much from his dream-Tom, as he smiled the small sort of charming smile that one adult bestows upon another when they are not really friends.
Snape's eyes scoured his face, a knowing on his features that Devlin devoured hungrily. He knew exactly what Devlin was doing. He knew Devlin's capabilities. Knew Devlin's weaknesses. Knew that Devlin was not just a boy. While everyone had been fooling each other that Dubhán was simply an act he had learned for Voldemort, Severus Snape had already known Dubhán was as real as Devlin - a part of Devlin that had needed to exist in order for Devlin pull it forward at all. He had relied on it so much so that it became integral to the rest of his personality. He had known from he moment they had met in the dark hallway of his father's house, when he had brought Geoffrey to see him after Devlin had tried to escape.
If you truly survived because of skill, you would easily be able to adapt to a new set of standards.
Devlin had lived his life with Voldemort adapting to new sets of standards. He had been a little boy who had known nothing about terror when he had suddenly been full of it, shoved down onto his knees in front of the man Britain called a monster. He had crumbled inside of his own mind like the child he had been; quick and messy. It had only been his sharpness, there to take the brunt for him, that had saved them from becoming the nothingness that still surrounded their every thought, kept at bay through vicious bullying. It had been the sharpness who had looked up at the monster, challenging until even it could not stay conscious.
Next time we play, you will scream for me.
His sharpness had known then that he couldn't scream and Devlin had learned then that his sharpness, which he had spent his life trying to ignore, now knew how to translate the new world around them.
And so he had let Dubhán form inside his head; given this part-boy-part-wolf, a voice, a place, a consciousness. That little ugly part of him that he had worked so hard to control when he had been so very small, that had been gently squished by his mother's admonishments, saved him as it joined forces with the sharpness. Dubhán had looked out of his green eyes as a new boy; watching and learning the precarious monster before him. Every expression, every twitch of someone else face, every movement of their body, every word they said, every tone they used, everything was important and pertinent to his survival. Dubhán had allowed Devlin to let go of his expectations and adapt to the game before him so that he did not die. And yet, Devlin's subconscious mind had admitted it was not afraid of death; it was afraid of Voldemort.
"You are early," Snape said, his eyes narrowing as his face was formed expertly into disgust. His cloak came to a stop, billowing behind him, as he paused in front of Devlin.
"I know," Devlin said. He cloaked himself in velvet, and knew Snape could feel the knife beneath. For a long moment the professor simply regarded him and Devlin wondered if he would draw his wand on Devlin.
He opened his door, and looked expectantly at Devlin.
Snape sat himself behind his desk and Devlin sat in from of him, the large wooden desk between them. It all looked very orderly and ordinary. From behind his desk Snape shut his door with an audible click. Devlin felt locking and silencing charms weave themselves across the door and stones, and the sense of ordinariness vanished.
"Tell me more about this missing part of you," Snape said, eying his critically, his dark eyes an endless tunnel in which his bad deeds were ill-concealed.
Devlin had not thought he would jump right to his point, and almost felt disappointed in the professor.
He sighed.
"No," he said, soft, calm, and final.
Snape sneered and Devlin fought down a smirk.
"You are too young and foolish, Mr. Potter to understand how, or to what, you are sealing your fate. You are playing a dangerous game."
"So you keep saying. What's it to you, what game I play?" Devlin prided himself on thinking of almost every possibility. Snape's persistence, and Dumbledore's casualness, baffled him. Snape looked at Devlin alternatively as if he were a germ-riddle tissue or a potion he was hell-bent on mastering; these metaphors were as close to the truth as Devlin had gotten. He tried determinedly to perfect them - to understand the driving force behind Snape's motivations.
"It is everything to me, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his tone crushing, his eyes narrowed into slivers of obsidian. There was nothing in his delivery to suggest Devlin himself meant anything to him. Certainly there was no love. And yet, that word - everything - was to all-encompassing not to be backed by some strong sentiment. Snape could not hate him so strongly, or he would not keep endeavoring to be in Devlin's presence. He could not love him; that much was clear to Devlin. Nor was Devlin's safety pertinent to his survival.
So why everything?
"What do you want from me?"
Snape's palms came to rest on his desk and he lifted his hight onto them, leaning across the desk, eyes narrowed, to look down upon Devlin.
"I wish, obviously, to torture you." His words were harsh and eroding, but in his eyes was that lingering everything. "Do you not consider this torture? Being alive, between all of this? Yes, certainly you do and I plan to keep you that way."
"I'm not yours to keep." On one level the words were simply defiant, but on a deeper level they were simply the voice to the ridiculous; that this man thought he had any claim when three others had much stronger ones. And finally, in the deepest recess of his mind came his father's words from so long ago: he's done being used for anything.
Snape looked at him and for a moment Devlin thought he saw a flicker of pity - but it was gone before he could be sure.
"I'm sure Potter would eagerly agree to both of our words," Snape said. The sneer was not quite as fixed, anymore. "Surely he wants you alive as well, although knowing his lack of brain power, he has probably overlooked the torture aspect - would you not agree, Devlin? Torture does not really interest Potter. In fact, if he were to hear you were suffering so, he might be so inclined as to make some rash intervention."
"He knows I suffer," Devlin said, without really meaning too.
Snape eyed him with the sort of bemusement an adult bestows upon a child who does not really understand the seriousness of a conversation.
"Yes, of course," he drawled, "but does he know you are missing a part of yourself? Does he know how you lost it? Does he know you search for it in your dreams? Does he know there is a sea inside of your head, full of monsters? Does he know of the way your wolf guards you? Has he ever seen the cells in your head, lined with prisoners?"
Devlin felt as though the air had become stale and hot. He stood abruptly. His hands were clenched at his sides, his vision swirling. He could smell the dust again, and it made his brain itch.
His mouth moved soundlessly as he tried to remember what he had been going to say. Snape moved from around his desk so that he was standing right before him.
"Look at me. Tell me who you killed, Devlin."
But he did not look at him. His brain felt hot and bothered, and yet it managed to pull forth one more tidbit of understanding.
You look like her.
Snape had said, when they were once in Devlin's mind. When Devlin had managed to pull forth one of Snape's memories. Awkward boy and red headed girl, picking flowers somewhere Devlin did not know. You look like her.
Snape begged for the mudblood's life to be spared.
"You're not torturing me for my father," he said, as his brain began to cool, as his muscles came fully under his control again. The dust no longer made his brain itch.
Snape leaned against his desk, observing Devlin closely.
"This hasn't got anything to do with me," Devlin said, and was surprised how accusatory his voice was. Snape did not deign him with a response, just stared at him through those obsidian eyes. "You don't want to torture me!"
"Then who, pray tell, do I want to torture, Devlin?"
It would be one of those rare moments in which Devlin surprised himself - where he managed to dash around the corner and hold onto the coat tails of the truth and deliver it, even though he still could not quite understand.
"Yourself! You want to torture yourself!" Snape's face, always so expressionless, came to life. Lines from his crumpling brow, from his pursed lips, from his narrowed eyes - lines of emotion. Of reaction. Devlin leaned forward, his heart pounding; wishing he understood enough to turn the knife in the wound he had created.
"Yes," Snape said, the word quiet but somehow rebellious. "Yes, that is correct." He had rearranged his face so that it did not betray him and now he leaned forward too. His hooked nose was less than an inch from Devlin's face. "I am exceedingly good at torturing myself, Devlin. It is an art I know better than potion-making."
Devlin had expected him to recoil. He had expected that knowing would mean he had won.
Instead Snape seemed almost relieved that Devlin had any inkling.
"Now tell me about this missing part," Snape said, voice calm and imploring, but still so empty. Because, like Devlin, Snape did not feel the things other people felt.
"I look just like him, you know," he said. He felt his brow crumpling. Snape eyed him, clearly confused about the leap Devlin had made in the conversation. "No one that knew him can look at me without seeing it. Even Professor McGonagall - she sees him when she looks at me."
Snape sat back on his haunches, allowing him some space.
"And I should hate that. Any normal boy would hate to look like a monster. But it saved me, so I can't. Voldemort didn't keep me alive because I was afraid, or a child, or because my father would have done anything for my life, but because I looked just like him, and he wanted to know what he would have been like, if he hadn't been raised by filthy muggles. He did it all so I would be like him."
Devlin had never laid out his survival quite so plainly, and relief coiled with terror in his chest.
A normal man would say something comforting to him; Devlin realized he had spent enough time around normal people to understand that. Yet said nothing, because Snape, like Devlin, was not normal.
"You are avoiding my question Mr. Potter. Rambling about a Dark Lords idiotic experimental parameters will not distract me. Tell me about this missing part of yourself."
How like them, these two not-normal people, to sneak a reassurance into a demand.
"I do not understand why you are so stuck on the words I used in a dream," he said, trying to bring back the snarl to his face.
"Precisely because you used them in your dream," Snape replied, hard and firm, like a beast who already knows they have their prey targeted and will not be pulled off the scent.
Devlin leaned forward.
"It was just a dream. I have no idea what I meant."
Snape smiled unkindly.
"Do you really think, Mr. Potter, that I do not know the difference between a childish dream and your minds wandering?"
"I was in the middle of a seizure. My head does weird things, then."
Snape leaned forward.
"Curious," he said and for a moment Devlin wondered if he might be able to distract him. "Nevertheless, you were very clear. So tell me what you meant."
"I don't know."
Snape snarled.
"Are you truly going to make me call your father, Mr. Potter?"
Devlin leaned back in his chair and smirked.
"Do, please. My father always believes me, if only because he wouldn't want me to think he sees me as him. So go ahead - he'll tell you to let me out of this damn office this instant."
Snape's lip twitched as he seemed to realize Devlin was right.
"We are done tonight. Tomorrow evening you have detention, Mr. Potter. Directly after dinner, in my classroom."
Devlin sputtered.
"What?" Detentions went on his official record!
"Oh yes - you have many unfinished assignments for my class, Mr. Potter. You will finish them under my direct supervision during detention. I'm sure we'll have many occasions to chat between ingredient preparation."
The door clicked open. Devlin did not look back.