A/N: We're getting soo close to the divergence into Cannon Sounds. I can almost taste it. I'm gonna take a guess and say we're less than 5 chapters away. Would love a review. :)

The morning he was meant to travel back to Hogwarts, Devlin woke up early - to pack and to grab a handful of cookies to bring back. Harry made excellent cookies with bits of broken chocolate in them, and Devlin had been craving them at school.

Instead of finding a quiet house, he found Ron and Harry sitting at the kitchen table throwing back something that smelled like Firewhiskey. Devlin would know - the Death Eater's drank it at camp too. Devlin had even tasted some, once - it was pretty terrible.

Harry didn't usually drink the stuff. At least, not at home.

He stood in the doorway, in a set of ridiculously bright pajamas (Devlin wasn't sure what obsession Harry had with cheerful colors, but he had claimed all the milder pairs he owned for school), and paused. They were covered in dirt and they smelled like salt. Ronald seemed somewhat incoherent and Harry was saying something about Severus being "brilliant". Ron, who usually despised the Professor, nodded dizzily.

"Hey, kiddo," Ron said suddenly, spotting him before Harry. "Whatcha doing there?"

"Being the odd one out, I suppose. Since I'm sober."

Harry frowned, probably because the word sober had never been uttered in his house. Harry had a tendency to keep track of Devlin's vocabulary in an almost compulsive way.

"You're a cute kid - even trying to look all dark and scary," Ron said. Either the drink made him more of an idiot than most men, or that underlying smell - perhaps a potion - was aiding in his idiocy.

"What a dangerous thing to call me," he said delicately. Harry laughed - more openly than he usually would.

"You're supposed to be sleeping in, Devlin. You go back to school today!"

"I did sleep. Well. So well I guess I didn't notice you snuck out. I woke up to steal cookies."

"Oh, cookies sound good."

Ronald had a lazy smile on his face.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's had a little more to drink than he should have," Harry said - too quickly.

"Yeah, that's it. So what were you drinking that smells like it's been brewed in a potions lab?"

"Devlin…let me help you get your cookies."

Devlin withdrew his wand - the cabinet opened, the cookies flew down, and he grabbed the whole canister.

"I was only going to steal half. But the price for my silence is the whole thing."

Harry smirked at him.

"Deal."

He took one out and handed it to Ron, though - he looked too pathetically disappointed.

It was then, while leaning close, that he smelled it.

Salt water. And the smell of dank rocks. And Death.

His gaze shot up. He wanted to tell Harry he knew where he had been, but he couldn't. The urge pulsed painfully in his brain, the words throbbed in his throat, and his tongue swelled in his mouth.

He left quickly up the stairs as Ronald thanked him for the cookie. If Harry noticed his odd behavior, he said nothing.

He knew exactly where Harry had been. Grandfather would not be happy.

…had there been a Horcrux there?

Do we know where they are? His sharpness asked. The horror of it swarmed his mind.

OoOoOoOoO

It was not Harry who took him back to Hogwarts. Not knowing he had seen him earlier that morning, Alexandra told him - when he came down at a more reasonable time - that Harry wasn't feeling well. So unwell that she had sent Emma to Molly's house. Alexandra managed a portkey like his Grandfather; she left and arrived on steady feet.

"Are you alright?" She asked, straightening her robes.

"Yes," he said. She seemed to look him over to ensure he was telling the truth; portkeys were more difficult on children, usually. Something about unfocused magic and incomplete magical cores. "I used a lot of them with Grandfather. And flying - that's even more strange."

"Hmm," she said. Harry would be intrigued, but his Mum's way of dealing with the fact that Voldemort was her father was usually to ignore anything interesting he could do. She was fine discussing his (admittedly numerous) flaws.

"You don't have to walk me in," he said, pulling at his knapsack straps.

"On the contrary. There seems to be something about a dueling club that needs to be discussed."

"I can talk to the Headmaster, Mum."

"I'm sure," she said - lips pursing just slightly. Devlin frowned. "Nevertheless, I shall do the talking. You must have friends to meet up with, Devlin. Once your behind the walls of the castle, you can go find them and I'll go talk to Albus."

"Actually…I should find Edward. Until they throw me out, I'm part of the team and eh…he said he was going to get special permission to change the meeting day so I could come."

They had begun walking, but Alexandra paused to turn and look at him diligently.

"That is very kind of him," she said, slowly. "Are you good friends?"

"I don't think so," he said, furrowing his brow. "Is there someway to tell? I know we're friendly, because he's fair and nice to me. I know he is okay with me being a werewolf - some people are not. I know he thinks I am worth something to his team. He said I won the space and everyone saw it. Does that make him a good friend?"

Alexandra pursed her lips and furrowed her brow.

"When you were kidnapped in that field over there," she pointed toward the spot, "Andrew, Scorpius, and Maria ran across the field. They decided as a group to seek out Severus Snape - Maria told your father that Scorpius had figured there might be guards looking for people coming to report to Dumbledore. Even though it meant speaking to your father, Scorpius recounted that it must have been a portkey that took you, and Andrew was able to tell him what your last words had been. Maria was sick with worry and terror, but she had gotten them there. Those are good friends. The difficult thing about friends, Devlin, is that you don't know how good they are until they prove themselves."

"I didn't know they did any of that. Andrew told dad what I said?"

Maria must have been so upset.

"Something about not smudging easily…what did that mean, Devlin?"

Somehow they had begun walking again. It was better than standing still.

"When I found Maria she had smudges on her face. She doesn't have scars like me, but even though the smudges are gone…they really aren't. I think she can feel them like I feel my scars - see them as real as I see my scars when I undress. Sometimes, I can feel my smudges too - but I don't smudge easily anymore."

"You never stop getting smudges - just as easily as before. It is just…after awhile, it's harder to see them or feel them."

He supposed that might be true, too. But he also doubted she knew exactly what smudges were. Sometimes even he didn't really fully comprehend. But surely she wouldn't know - she grew up as a muggle, with a mum that cared so much she hid her from Voldemort. She had never been a little child rendered vulnerable by their size. She had never been so weak that she could do nothing but succumb and hope to survive.

"Maria needed to know I would be okay. I couldn't say that to the boy-"

"Felix."

"Yes, to him."

"Is he dead?"

"Oh yes." His mum just nodded. They were almost to the castle now. The doors opened for them. Being that it was slightly after lunch and hours before dinner, the grand hall was empty.

"Go find your friends, Devlin. I'll see you next month." He lingered for a moment, wondering how a regular boy would say goodbye to their mother. "Scoot before I kiss you and a friend sees."

So he did - figuring she had been trying to tell him what a regular boy would do. Sometimes, she buried the information to him like a secret-code in ways Harry never managed. He appreciated it.

OoOoOoO

It didn't matter that he was at Hogwarts; his mind was still on the smell of seawater, cave, and death. He had been seven or eight when Voldemort had taken him and when he had seen the first hand reach out of the waters - grey, shriveled, and decaying - he had been certain Voldemort had finally decided he really was worthless. Voldemort had told him he kept something very special on the island in the middle. Even though he had stood still while men were tortured, he had trembled in front of the pool of water. Half of him had wanted to beg Voldemort not to take him across, while another part had been sure that Voldemort would be even more delighted to force him against his will. He had made Devlin, of course, and Devlin had not been stupid enough to beg otherwise. He had trembled in the boat and swallowed his own bile more than once. At any moment, he had thought, Voldemort could decided to surprise him - tell him he was a worthless little boy with too much blood of the man he hated and too little of Voldemort's own - and toss him over the side.

Voldemort had not left the boat. No matter how hard he had tried, Devlin had failed to hide his terror. Even though Voldemort did not really seem to ever want to harm Devlin irreparably, he never seemed able to help himself from liking anyones terror. In the face of another's fear, he always had to push for more. So he had made Devlin climb onto the rock. He had told Devlin to tell him if he could see a locket underneath the water in a basin.

Of course Devlin had. Of course Voldemort had not trusted him; pushed and prodded at his mind when he was back in the boat, until he was unable to hold it in any longer and did throw up. Voldemort had vanished it with disgust, but he never seemed especially mad at Devlin's pathetic control while he went into his head. Perhaps because he had never wanted Devlin to strive to keep him out. He would have known that if Voldemort acted as though Devlin should have been stronger, he would have strived towards it. Instead Devlin had grown up believing only Voldemort could get in another head, and there was nothing to stop him.

Had Harry traveled across the water full of dead people? Had he been terrified? Why had Ron been so odd?

He hated that he could not ask. Even the urge made him feel sick. The only person he could speak to it about would be Voldemort. He knew he couldn't do that.

He couldn't save Harry.

But he could help make sure it was a fair fight.

OoOoOoOoO

Panic always made his magic burn against his skin, like waves of heat followed by the coolness of a lightning storm; static and ion on his tongue. He had hoped, sort of desperately so, that Edward would be asking them to hurl curses at each other. Instead, he wanted them to think of happy thoughts. To lift their wand and summon a Patronus - a guardian made entirely of their most positive memories. It was so at war with what Devlin was feeling -lost, determined, enraged, terrified- and thinking -the sea, crashing against the rocks, walking death, dark dark waters; horcrux- that he found it an almost insurmountable task to even lift his wand.

He did though.

He scoured his mind. Usually he envisioned his mind as a long black corridor with dark wooden shelves on which rested well-labelled parchments. The shelves were gone. The parchments were piled precariously on either side of him and now he was left simply to rummage through them all. Everything positive seemed to make an avalanche of associated negative memories fall around him; burying him.

Finally, his hands closed around something - a photograph. Himself, seven years old, holding his wand for the first time.

His eyes snapped open, his shoulders tensed and he flicked his wand: "Expecto Patronum!"

There was a tug somewhere deep inside of him. It was as if the magic pulled the memory to the surface of his mind, and he could see it as if he were really there again; taste the sparks and ion on his tongue, see the Dark Lord's parchments lifting from his desk, his hair whipping around his face. The thrill of controlled magic, the value in Voldemort's eyes as he peered at him. Presently his wand emitted a wisp of blue, etherial, vapor. Failure. The tugging sensation, like a yearning keen in the deepest part of him, continued.

He supposed the memory had not been happy enough.

He wasn't sure he had a happy enough memory.

He wasn't sure why, but he growled; low and guttural. He knew his eyes were amber.

He closed them again.

He could hear the cheers of the successful and the groans of the frustrated around him. His magic had failed him. He could count on one hand all the occasions in which it had ever failed him.

Just think. Something happy.

But he could think of nothing.

Memories before his kidnapping delivered a bigger plume of vapor, but nothingcorporeal. He tried to think of Emma, of Harry, of Alexandra, Sirius, Maria - everyone. Nothing worked. Lord Voldemort could not summon a Patronus. Perhaps Devlin couldn't either. Perhaps, like Voldemort, Devlin was now a Dark Wizard.

"It can take some time," Edward said. Devlin felt he would have been more successful if Edward had given them the task of mimicking dementors themselves! It was written plainly on his face that Devlin bore the excuse of childishness. He was too little to ever get this sort of magic to work. Even though he had proven himself. Even though he knew he could best Edward himself in duel, Edward still looked at him and excused him because he was twelve.

Devlin felt too ashamed to even protest and he was very glad when Edward told them they would now be practicing how to vanish an object and make it reappear across the room.

Of course, Devlin got that right, right away.

OoOoOoO

The substance was silvery tones of purple, blue, and grey and thick like honey. It was strange that something so fragile-looking, could have so much power over him. It shifted almost serenely at the slightest movement, disturbing him. The knowledge of what was in there was crisp and powerful - choking him. The details escaped him now, like an fog only accessible through associations he had made.

It almost glowed in the dim lighting.

"Is that a memory?" He sounded fascinated.

Devlin nearly jumped, turning over in his bed with a quickness born entirely from years of terror and secret-keeping.

In the dim lighting his eyes shone like unicorn blood, his hair pearl-colored as though it were it's snow-white coat. Somehow, the sight of him should bother Devlin more, but it doesn't. It is like a wool down blanket has been spread across his emotions.

Lacking rage leaves him exposed to the other feelings; uncertainty, curiosity, caution and attachment. He remembers this boy - small and quivering, covered in his own blood - more than he remembers his terrible father. He remembers that he had been the only child he had met before being rescued.

"It is of Draco," he said, and he wasn't sure why exactly he did. The other boys were sound asleep. It was only he and Scorpius who ever have problems sleeping.

Scorpius' eyes widened even as his brow drew down and his lips pinched at the corners.

"Why?" There was no judgement, only curiosity.

"I wanted it out of my head," he said. "It's the day he kidnapped me."

Scorpius drew back.

"Does it feel different?"

"Yes. Foggier. Not as clear."

"Did you…did you do it yourself?"

"No." He did not say who had done it for him. Scorpius looked at him pensively.

"Do you remember…do you remember the first time we met?"

"Of course." He glanced around, but all were sleeping. "The duel."

"I was terrified."

"I know."

"He had said you were the same age as me, but just the look of you seemed bigger."

"You should have stayed down," he said bluntly.

"Would he have liked it if you had when you were losing?"

"No."

"Right."

Devlin frowned. It took him a moment to register that Scorpius was comparing his own father to Voldemort.

"My mum said she saw you at the dance this winter. I told the Watson girl for you - I figured she could keep a secret if you bothered staying around her at all. Why do you like her, anyways?"

He threw the information out there as if it were a casual thing. It took Devlin a moment to remember - the party and Voldemort, looking so much like Devlin would when he was older. The reminder that other's had seen him nearly made him flinched. Then there was the mention of Maria - that Scorpius had reassured her.

He did not dare tell him the whole truth.

"She's stronger than you think," he said. "There is a fire in her the color of her hair."

Scorpius shrugged.

"She was the one that interrupted Professor Snape's class," he said after a moment of thought. "That takes guts. Stupid Gryffindor guts, but guts."

"She's definitely a Gryffindor," he said, laughing. He wished he had seen her fire that day.

oOoOoOo

"Expecto Patronum!"

He practiced in the library, whispered as softly as the rustle of parchment. He tried in empty hallways between classes. He rifled through his memories during the boring portion of classes, trying to find something more substantial than whatever he had last tried. Another dueling class came and went, more students successful, while Devlin's magic failed him again. He tried with happy memories, and angry memories, and even the memory of killing the Auror - thinking perhaps he was broken in some way.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing!

Annoyance quickly became anger, disappointment boiled into desperation. He almost went to Severus Snape - but he did not want the man knowing what Devlin was beginning to suspect; his soul was tainted - discolored black. A Patronus was the epitome of light magic and if he could not produce one that meant he was a dark wizard, surely. What did his soul look like? It drove him crazy. He almost wrote to his father, but he remembered Harry telling him that he had achieved a Patronus in third year, a highlight of his achievements in his mind, and Devlin knew someone as pure as Harry would not be able to help someone like him.

It was that thought pattern, he supposed, which led him to the present. Only Dumbledore would have come further on his list of people he felt compelled to reveal himself to so weakly.

"Devlin," Remus said, immediately recognizing his scent and looking up from his desk. He looked surprised, and Devlin understood why. The wolf in Devlin was his, but Devlin had never allowed himself to get close to him, despite the other's early attempts. Although his wolf felt their connection deeply, Devlin had never quite been able to get over Geoffrey's initial words and reactions to Remus. By the time he had met Remus he hadn't been a pup and he hadn't needed Remus. For whatever time after being rescued from Voldemort that he had sought that feeling of security and solidarity, he had pined for Geoffrey.

"Hello, Professor," he said, stepping in. Remus smiled. Devlin recalled the last time they had spoken at any length - bent over Devlin's clay figurines and comparing James Potter's magical abilities with Voldemort's own with such calmness. Such tranquility that screamed tame, tame, tame. It was so at odds with Devlin's experience of his kin that it often made him recoil from their connection. But perhaps it was to be expected, if Remus had begun his life as a werewolf through Greyback. And to have that scent, that blood in him - that would not have helped him in any way find a pack. Of course, he had probably not sought one.

Surely Remus was a model and inspiration to most werewolves; a prime example of someone who had clung to human life, illustrating how a bite did not erase their humanity.

But it was not Devlin's experience at all. Devlin did not want to pretend that he did not bare the scar, the weakness, or the power.

"Can I help you with something, Devlin?" Remus asked, steepling his hands and appearing to humor his formalities. But still, Devlin was aways Devlin if they weren't in class. His eyes were a kind brown, soft and almost sleepy, regarding him as if he were of the utmost importance. There was no wolf there. Devlin faltered.

"You taught my father how to cast the Patronus charm." A question disguised badly as a statement.

"Yes," Remus said, smiling kindly. Devlin took a step forward.

"I tried casting one in dueling class - twice. I couldn't. I can do every bit of magic I have ever wanted to - with a wand or without one. Is it…any different being a werewolf? Is there something I am missing that Mr. Taylor wouldn't know to tell me?"

Remus looked uncomfortable, as he always did when their shared connection was so blatantly brought up aloud.

"Shall I close the door, Devlin?"

He rose from his desk. Devlin tracked with his eyes as he did - slow and careful, lips pursed, eyes no longer sleeping but still so brown, brown, brown.

"Sorry, sir," he said, "I thought everyone knew you were."

Remus frowned.

"Yes, of course," he did not seem entirely pleased or relieved - more as though the knowledge that his condition was so public were a burden he felt at all times. As if someone had stripped him bare and humiliated him for all to see - as if he lived his life on his knees. "I was concerned for your privacy, Devlin."

Devlin's head tipped without much thought, his brow drawing down. He took a step forward, dancing on his feet a little.

"I've already told everyone. All the children whose parents work for Grandfather already knew, and I wasn't about to let them think they could use it against me. And what of it? What would I ever be able to do to them, with my flat teeth?"

Greyback flashed in his minds eye. That was why people were terrified of them.

"That is…a very mature outlook, Devlin," he said, seating himself behind his desk again. He looked weary but impressed. "You are a very brave boy."

Devlin frowned.

"I'm not brave. I am logical. Besides, there are other things they should be more afraid of me for."

Remus, as always, did not seem to want to discuss Devlin's strengths.

"Returning to your question, Devlin. No, there is nothing special of which I am aware. I learned alongside my classmates in my sixth year, back then."

"Can you show me?"

"Show you?"

"Yes - can you cast a Patronus and I can see?"

Remus looked very uncomfortable, his shoulder's sagging, his lip pinching at the corners.

"I do not especially like my Patronus, Devlin."

"Is it like a unicorn or something girly?" The idea of fussing over what your magic had chosen for you seemed silly, although Devlin could see there being an issue if his were, say, a lion.

"No…it is a wolf."

"A werewolf?"

"Ah, no. Just a wolf."

"What's wrong with that? Wolves are loyal and family oriented. You are a wolf."

"Again, you are a brave child, Devlin."

"Is it a wolf because of what you are?" He did not care for the praise. It was foolish and only served to show how weak Remus was in his own true skin.

"Yes. I have met another werewolf and his was the same."

"So my sh- wolf's magic shapes mine?" Sometimes Devlin had to remember that not everyone frequently referred to there own wolf as a sharpness.

"That part of you shapes any animal your magic can take on. It has forever stolen the shape your magic might have been before."

Remus looked as if he thought Devlin should be mad at him, readying himself for a verbal attack. Devlin did not care. He felt comfortable in his own true skin. His sharpness was his protector. His guardian - hiding both the worst of his life and the best of his soul-

His eyes widened with self realization. The dream from Harry's house flashed before his eyes - the nothingness shattering around them. Sharp claws and sharper teeth - and his hands and weak boyish body. And that moment, when he had found him, and he realized what he had wanted was the green in his eyes.

"The sharpness couldn't save me, just part of me, because I still had to be there to do the magic"

The words reverberated with a chill up his spine.

Remus was looking at him, still ready for Devlin's anger. This was their relationship; Remus always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Devlin never able to bring himself to keep assuring him he did not hate himself in the same way the older man did.

He had his answer. At least, he was almost certain he did. It would need to be both of them, because Devlin's light magic was no longer whole without the part his sharpness had saved.

"I guess I just need to practice. I'm not really used to that. But maybe it is just like Edward says; it's complex magic."

Remus nodded approvingly, neither looking relieved at Devlin's lack of anger, nor disappointed. Even Remus did not know what he wanted from Devlin.

"I am sure you will get it, Devlin."

He had faith in him, though - shimmering in his brown eyes.