A/N: I have almost the entire ending blocked out and it is rapidly approaching. Eeep. As in, the battle should either start in the next chapter, or the one after that, depending on how long I decide to make the next chapter. The battle won't be finished in this story; we will go directly into Cannon Sounds.

The realization sat heavy in his mind, making everything race. His heart and his blood and his thoughts. It was nearly curfew, but not quite yet - that made sneaking into the same disused classroom as before, easy enough. Dust had collected once more on the desk he and William had sat at, discussing his father.

Bad memories. Cruel memories.

All things his sharpness had saved him from.

He recalled the green in his sharpness' eyes in his last dream.

He knew no other way to bring him forward without succumbing except for how he began a transformation. So he put himself into that mindset. It was only a moment, a second, where they were both there - equally as powerful and in control. Like two souls passing in the night. They lunged at each other.

He thought of something his sharpness would. It was easier when they were equal.

"Expecto Patronum!"

There was a yank at the deepest part of him, pulling something forward with such force that it left him almost breathless. It leapt from his wand - sharp claws and sharper teeth, coat the same ethereal blue that the vapor and been. And he knew his eyes must be green, because sitting before him, just as if he were in his meadow, was his sharpness.

He was transfixed.

He supposed it made sense on many levels. Another's Patronus' might take on the form they were most familiar with -through their emotions or their personality- but Devlin would never be close to anything else. He was a werewolf. A Patronus was also a protector, a guardian, and that was exactly what his sharpness had always been. His shield from pain. His instincts when in danger. His protector from the mental burdens. And when Devlin had killed the Auror, something of which it could not do for him, it had instead saved a piece of him. Enough that he could still do this.

He was not a Dark Wizard. His soul was repairable. He just had to be all of him.

It regarded him with an intensity that seemed to burn his skin, almost as though it were as surprised as he. Devlin realized, quite sharply, that he had never looked at himself as a werewolf before. He was bigger than his Animagus form, his limbs taller and his chest wider.

"Is it weird, looking at me?" He asked. Of course, it did not respond. They were not in his meadow, and he could not read it's thoughts.

It simply stared at him.

Devlin put his hand out, and the sharpness came forward, sniffing at his palm. The magic that made up it's form was cool and calming to the touch. Eventually it sat on it's haunches and began to groom itself, as it often did in his meadow or dreams. Devlin wished he could curl next to it's fur.

There was something like happiness still lingering in his blood; it made his head pulse pleasantly and his eyes turn green.

OoOoO

Ginny Weasley still intended to make him wear the yellow hat, apparently. It appeared without comment or forewarning on his head after she made them line up. The Gryffindor's laughed - except for Maria, Taylor, and August, who gave him apologetic looks. They had missed the last two weeks of flying lessons due to weather. He had thought, after all this time, that she would have forgotten. He had been kidnapped, and survived, and come back!

It seemed that Ginny Weasley was not the type of person to forget anything.

That part of him that was farthest from Harry and yet closest to him; farthest from Voldemort and yet closest to him; farthest from Alexandra and yet closest to her, burned to life in his mind, furious at the injustice which the hat symbolized.

"It'll be okay, Devlin," Maria said. Her hair was loosely braided to combat the wind, and her freckles were fading in the winter. Her blue eyes were the same color as his Patronus. For a moment his heart pulsed, his senses heady with delight - but then humiliation broke through. He could tell that, in that moment, his smudges were as clear to her as Maria's had been to him the day he was kidnapped in front of her. The idea that she would see him like that was more than humiliating, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. His stomach plummeted, his insides shook (both with rage and hurt), and for a moment - just a moment he felt at war. Just the realization shook him a little; battling in his chest so distinctly was rage, and humiliation, and hurt, and happiness, and determination.

The scratchy wool of the hat made his ears itch.

She touched his hand, which was gripped so tightly around his broom handle his knuckles had gone white.

He felt like he was burning on a pyre. Like everything inside of him had the possibility of melting into something foreign and new.

She makes us strong, his sharpness thought idly - once more illustrating it's ability to get right to the brunt of their feelings.

He did not kick off when the other's did.

Weasley's lips pursed and she strode toward him, legs powerful, regard as fiery as her hair. Her eyes were a muddy brown. Not sleepy and kind and faithful like Remus', not brilliant and colorful like Maria's, not at war with themselves like his father. Her attention was so on her fears that there was no division in herself - no doubt that she was hurting him.

And he still felt like he was on fire. That she had set him on fire.

"Did you miss the direction, Mr. Potter?"

"No," he said, softly. There was a tiny smile stretching at his lips - bemused and annoyed all at once. It covered perfectly his anger at this injustice. It happened so often - being judged as someone he was not - that he knew the feeling like he knew his own voice. And he knew. Now he knew.

She peered at him with annoyance - a disobeying, unruly, boy. Except, she saw more than that. She saw more shadows in him than there were. Maybe he had doubted it before - wondered if she saw the truth, but now he knew.

He could cast a Patronus. It was rejuvenating. Healing. Exhilarating. He was not a Dark Wizard. He was more whole than Tom Riddle - at least the one she remembered.

"Then why are your feet still on the ground?" Her brow was arched. His lips pursed. Her muddy brown eyes on him, forced and strained and wanting so desperately just to look away - to pretend he did not exist.

In that moment, he could see all her smudges as clearly as he saw Maria's.

"Because I am wearing a hat which I do not deserve." Lord Voldemort could not cast a Patronus, he would not have saved that boy, he would not have left that Auror alive in Hogsmeade. Devlin was like him, but Devlin was also unlike him. He recalled Dumbledore's words, and it fueled the feelings of injustice.

She seemed taken aback, but did not acknowledge that she understood.

"The hat is staying. Do you not recall why it is there?"

"I know exactly why it is there." He said, with meaning. He twirled his wand and looked up at her. He was tall and lanky, and almost the owner of that effortless charm and grace - almost. He knew who he looked like, although he was sure the bright yellow hat ruined the whole charade. "It is there because when you look at me you do not actually see me. You see him."

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing. She raised her hand and pointed at the sky - a silent command.

"I don't take what I don't deserve unless someone has a wand to my head," he saw her swallow, and thanked his father for those words. Although he wasn't sure how Harry would feel about him using them this way. "Where is your wand?"

"I do not threaten children, Mr. Potter. I do, however, take points and give detentions."

"Take the hat off, or I will go to the Headmaster. I am not him, and I will say the same to the Headmaster. I will say what you see when you look at me."

"I see you, Mr. Potter."

Devlin laughed - just so - and he saw her jerk away.

"How did it feel - when you realized you had misjudged him? Did you feel foolish, did you feel naive? You're compensating - I understand - but there is such a thing as swinging too far in the opposite direction, Professor. I am not him, and you will feel very foolish for treating me as if I am."

She scowled.

"If I were treating you like Tom, Devlin - my wand would be pointed. I am not treating you like him. I am teaching you to be considerate of others and to have some empathy!"

Her eyes were narrowed with anger and determination, but he saw a flicker of self-shock spark in them, too - at the admittance.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he said. He stepped closer. "I've done bad things. Terrible things. But I have also risked my life to do good things. I have saved people from Lord Voldemort. Saved them from the Death Eaters. Saved them from the torment of nothing, nothing, nothing. I may be like him in some ways - I know I look like him, I know I speak like him, I know my magic works like his - but I am also unlike him. I have given you no reason to believe I need to be taught how to be considerate to others or that I lack empathy."

He tore off the hat and dropped the broom.

"And I am sorry for you that all you can see is him when you look at me. I am sorry that I hurt you, that I make you feel little and weak and vulnerable. I know how that feels."

And he walked away, a war in his belly, a fire in his heart. She did not even call after him.

OoOoOoOoO

Part of him wanted to run from his declaration of self-worth. It felt so at odds with what he typically allowed himself to feel and present to the world. But her eyes had looked at him and seen none of it, and the blindness had pushed him to make her see even a flicker of it in him. Still, it pinpointed his lack of loyalty too well for his comfort.

He fingered the coin. Was it too late? Had he made his move too soon?

It would be easy enough to sprint away from he castle, to grasp the coin firmly and whisper the word: Morsmordre.

He let it slip back into his pocket, and walked through the Grand Hall. If there was one thing that was always the same about him, whether he was Devlin, Dubhán, The Little Dark One, or his sharpness, it was that he always followed through on his threats.

The Gargoyles peered at him almost curiously when he stopped resolutely in front of them. Eventually, they stepped aside and Devlin stepped onto the spiral staircase that brought him to the Headmaster's door. He had never been here willingly and that felt a bit odd. It felt even more odd that Dumbledore's words had played such a role in how he had just felt.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore began - clearly having put aside some work and probably knowing it had been Devlin on the stairs. "Is something the matter, child?"

He paused, not sure how to begin.

Feeling injustice and responding to injustice, he was finding, was very different from speaking about injustice. He wasn't sure where to start that would not make him feel weak and whiney.

"You told me that a boy born with love could never really lose it," he said, finding himself more cautious than he had told himself he would be, on his walk here. Dumbledore nodded kindly. "I thought a lot about those words and when Edward taught us the Patronus charm in the Dueling Club, it was those words that made me keep trying. My magic never fails me - it is always here, on my skin, waiting for my slightest want. I kept trying though, and I did produce a corporeal Patronus. My grandfather cannot do that."

"That is magnificent Devlin! What a truly wonderful feeling such an accomplishment must have left you with."

He said it as if he might have believed just that worthy of Devlin's visit - rejoicing in his success as if it meant something directly for himself. His blue eyes were alight, his wrinkled face split into a smile. Fawkes squawked happily.

"When Professor Weasley looks at me, she doesn't see me. I knew it the first time she set eyes on me, but I didn't understand how or why. Now I know. And nothing I do will persuade her that I am not Tom Riddle. He hurt her, and I bring out her smudges. She feels like she must better me, but I do not need her bettering. Her humiliation. And I do not need to fix her. Or offer her any kind words to sooth her hurt. She's my teacher, and she's supposed to look at me once and see him and then get to know me just like Professor McGonagal did. Just like you did. Since she cannot - I would like to drop flying."

Dumbledore slumped back in his chair, most of the cheer vanishing from his face. He was still, and strong, and his magic wrapped around the silence in the room.

"You are quite right - it is not your job to fix the wounds another has left. And it is your right not to be judged by your heritage. I cannot comment yet on what has transpired, although I would like to hear your perspective, I will also need to hear hers."

Devlin sat himself resolutely in front of Dumbledore.

"You'll need my head of house here, won't you?"

"Is that concerning to you?"

"I want him here." Dumbledore blinked, as though taken aback - his brow furrowing infinitesimally.

"I am not sure I have ever heard a Potter request Severus' presence with such resolve," he said, almost absentmindedly. Devlin said nothing, choosing to draw away from Dumbledore's obvious curiosity. Perhaps Dumbledore did not even know. But Devlin knew.

So Dumbledore called for Severus, noting it was a free period for the Professor.

"It may take him awhile," Dumbledore said, his face clearly illustrating that Professor Snape may entirely avoid the chore if possible.

But Devlin knew that he would come - quickly. He had promised he would torture Devlin with life, keep him there. But Devlin knew that was only half the truth; he was torturing himself.

He wondered what it was like, to feel love that deeply - that it could change your entire character, if only to a select few.

He came a few minutes later, cloak billowing, sneer cutting into his face.

"You called, Headmaster?"

His eyes flickered to Devlin - full of cutting annoyance and the promise of harshness, clearly thinking Devlin had done something foolish.

"Devlin would like to lodge a complaint against a Professor."

Snape's brow grew down for a moment. Perhaps, for a fraction of a second, he thought it was him. But Dumbledore said nothing more, and Snape must have concluded it was someone else.

"Who? And for what foolish reason?"

His eyes were on him again, scouring his face for purpose.

"Devlin?" Dumbledore asked.

"When Professor Weasley looks at me she doesn't see me. She see's Tom Riddle. And she treats me differently in class, insinuating that there is something wrong with my judgements. She told me today that she's trying to teach me to have consideration and empathy. I do not, in actuality, lack those - and have done nothing in her class that would insinuate such. Once, I flew faster than she'd have liked. Even before that, she looked at me like I was him."

"Do you understand why?"

"Yes. There was a diary, and she was possessed, and Tom Riddle - or a part of him," he looked at Snape while he said this, being careful, "made her open the Chamber of Secrets. He almost killed her. My father rescued her."

"I am sure you became aware of this past through one of your father's many heroic-"

"My Grandfather told me. He wanted me to know how to get to the Chamber." Devlin looked at the headmaster. "I haven't been there."

Severus was silent for a moment.

"Fine. We can write up the complaint. You are aware there will be a meeting between Weasley, myself, and at least one of your parents?"

"Alright."

Severus stared at him, as though such an idea should be ridiculous.

As he strode forward and sat down, Devlin heard him mumble.

"I hope Potter has the good sense to send his wife."

And they began to fill in the official form.

OoOoOoOoO

"Devlin!"

He turned to see her - red hair disheveled from flying, brilliant blue eyes latched onto him. She was still, as if she weren't sure he would stay or choose to run from her. His heart pounded and pulsed, and after a moment of not moving at all, he walked toward her.

"Are you alright, Maria?"

"Yes!" She said - almost exasperated. She pushed some stray hairs out of her face, revealing her furrowed brow. "I was coming to ask you that. What happened in flying? Professor Weasley even reprimanded Freddie for asking after you! Are you alright? Did you get hurt? Did you get in trouble?"

Sometimes he was still surprised that Maria liked him enough to be worried about him. It occurred to Devlin that Maria did not have a free period after flying (and neither did he). Maria did not like to break the rules, and took even a mild reprimand from Professors harshly. Had she truly been worried about him?

"I'm alright," he said - first. She visibly relaxed. He reached out and gently guided her toward an alcove. "Do you remember me saying I look just like my grandfather?"

"Yeah," she said, nodding. Her lips pinched the way they always did, when such topics were brought up. For a brief second, he could see her smudges again, and she was the little girl, and he was the small boy, too afraid to save her while they were there.

"Grandfather hurt Professor Weasley. When she looks at me, she only sees him. I told her it was unfair, and she got mad. I walked out of class. I'm going to have the Headmaster speak to her. I might not be in flying anymore."

Maria bit her lip. Her brow wrinkled and something in her brilliant blue eyes dimmed.

"I like you in flying," she said, shoulders rounding. Her hand fiddled with her bag strap. "But you do already know how to fly well, so it's not like you need to be in the class. I'll miss you, so I hope you and Professor Weasley can work it out."

His heart was feeble in his chest.

"We have other classes together, and we see each other all the time."

"But we don't do things together. You're in a different house, and I'm not the kind of person your grandfather would want-"

"You are my best friend," he said, fiercely. It was one of his greatest truths. If someone tried to hurt her he would protect her just as doggedly as Emma. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I don't want him to hurt you."

"I know."

He could tell she did know (how couldn't she?), but there was something else, something shadowed and small and uncertain, that lingered in her expression. Devlin did not know exactly what it was, but he did not like it, and he wanted it gone.

OoOoOoO

"I wanted to say thank you." He turned around at the desk - not his desk, nothing was his anymore - to look at Harry Potter. The words had sounded so foreign to his ears that for a moment he second guessed that he had said them at all. "The necklace - I think it really meant something to Devlin."

The name was like a breath of fresh air and his body angled itself so that he could more clearly see Harry Potter, eager.

"I'm glad," he said, softly - he always spoke softly, these days. "It was, however, mostly Remus' idea."

Harry shrugged as he stepped into the room, looking around. Over the years it had remained fairly barren, but Geoffrey could tell the moment Harry's eyes found Devlin's picture. There were several of them, stuck to the wall with the bit of magic Geoffrey could exert without triggering the wards, and without a wand, of course. Potter stepped forward. They were all from memories. His eyes were transfixed.

"Where did you get these from?"

"From memories. I did barter for this one - with Remus - for the idea of the present. I did not intend to cause you offense."

Harry did not offer him reassurances or condemnation. His eyes were on the youngest of the photos.

A tiny boy, skinnier than he ever would be again, dressed in grey slacks and a button up shirt, rolled at the sleeves. He was smiling up, at Geoffrey, laughing.

Harry stared at it longer.

"You can make a copy of course, if you would like."

For a moment Harry seemed like he would dismiss the idea, but then he nodded and pulled out his wand. A moment later he had a duplicate in his hands, being tucked into his robes.

"I think he was almost seven then. Not seven, certainly - for he did not have a wand."

"Sometimes, I still can't imagine he was ever happy there."

"We find happiness where we can," Geoffrey said. Harry nodded.

"I came here to ask you a question about werewolves."

Geoffrey arched a brow, surprised. It was the sort of question Granger might have come to ask. Potter did not seem very academic.

"What about, Mr. Potter?"

"When you brought Devlin to the safe house the first day and then Remus came…you attacked him. You told Sirius you had known Remus had bitten Devlin."

He nodded, curious and cautious at the same time.

"Can you tell more? For instance, do you know who made Remus?"

Geoffrey frowned.

"If they were both in the room with fur on them, I would be able to know who belonged to whose blood."

"What about in human form?"

"It is harder, but not impossible. It was easier to connect Remus to Devlin because they were both in the room and they were both scared. Sweat makes it easier. But that is the maker and the made, and I had ample opportunity to memorize Devlin's scent, which made recognizing the similarities in Remus' easier."

"So…you couldn't tell, from Devlin, who made Remus?"

He was so used to answering whatever trivial question they have for him, that it is easy to push aside his desire to ask why he is being asked. But the desire is there, nevertheless, and for a moment it brings him back in time.

"Not from him just standing there, no. I would need to be close. I would need more than his sweat. I would need body fluid."

"Like blood?" Harry seemed a little worried, and Geoffrey's curiosity grew. He tipped his head.

"Not necessarily. There are others."

Potter's eyes grew wide for a moment and then narrowed quickly in an attempt to hide his concern. Certainly, there were not that many others, and one in particular would be especially disconcerting to think about.

"But blood would be the easiest. And I would need to know the other wolf, too - probably fairly intimately. I would, at least, have had to smell them with my wolf."

"If all these things were to align - you knowing Remus' maker, you smelling blood or something else of Devlin's…then you could know?"

"Yes." Harry pursed his lips. "If I have answered you satisfactorily, may I ask why you seem so worried about this bit of werewolf culture?"

"Devlin seems worried, so naturally I am."

Geoffrey's gaze narrowed.

"Worried about?"

"Do you know Remus' creator?"

"No."

"It is Fenrir Greyback, and now he knows about Devlin. Devlin is worried because of some supposed bad association that others will know about, but I worry because it is never good to have Fenrir Greyback know about you."

"How interesting."

"That's all you have to say?"

"I know of Fenrir, although my wolf has never smelled him. He is a deluded, wounded, ill wolf. He visited the camp once, to choose a raiding party, and I hid Devlin for the duration of his visit. He does not know when his teeth should be flat."

"That is exactly what Devlin said."

"Of course it is. It is a werewolf saying, and he's heard it plenty of times. When a werewolf acts off, or we break up a fight, that is what we would say at camp: your teeth are flat. There is no use in fighting when your teeth are flat. Fenrir will not kill him. He is changed, which means he is not a useless human to Fenrir. Fenrir makes few, because he is brutal. Devlin is strong and brutal and everything Fenrir would want to claim as his pack - and in his mind, he has rights."

"But Devlin-"

"I'm more interested in how the Dark Lord will take to someone else believing they have claim over the boy, then I would be worried. The alpha will get his way, and that is Voldemort."

OoOoOoO

He noticed it first when a couple of students were kissing on the sofa in the common room that night; rushed, fervent, and with their hands beginning to crawl onto each other. It was not this neediness that Devlin had truly noticed, though. Instead, he had noticed that as soon as the boy's hands went to sneak under the girl's shirt, a sharp soft sound slithered out of the ornate metal snake that decorated the sofa's arm. The snake had been made from a dark mottled metal and laid against the deep ornate wood that adorned the front of the armrests, which was surrounded by dark green fabric.

When the snake hissed, the teens jumped apart as if shocked. Students sniggered, as if some had seen it coming and been waiting for a spot of enjoyment.

"It's charmed," Malfoy said. He had apparently been watching Devlin, watch the scene unfold.

"Yes," Devlin said. "That was obvious."

"Then why were you so curious?"

Malfoy had a way of arrogantly pushing Devlin at one moment and acting demure and submissive at others; the changes startled Devlin, sometimes.

"I was more curious about where the charm had been imprinted," Devlin said. Malfoy frowned. Andrew wasn't listening.

"In the snake, obviously," Demi said, and Devlin wasn't the only one who turned to the quiet boy with surprise. All the eyes on him was all the message of encouragement to continue that he needed. "Salazar was said to have owned over a hundred snakes. Supposedly he could talk to them too. He could make them listen to him, too. So he charmed the snake, not the furniture - naturally."

Devlin had known as much, of course. Still, hearing it from Demi made him chuckle. Demi looked at him; as though he couldn't decide if Devlin were laughing at his knowledge or because of it. To be fair, people tended to make fun of him on a regular basis; it had come to light he was a muggleborn like Andrew - with some cousin who had attended Hogwarts already - and sometimes he acted more like a Ravenclaw than a Slytherin. Even though it had been more Slytherin to hide the fact, they were all still children, and Demi had just off-put his ostracization; making it more memorable and more heated. He had made friends with people who now were humiliated they had been friendly with him, whereas Andrew had just never made friends with them at all.

"Naturally," Devlin echoed, "because a Parselmouth is always obsessed with snakes, it seems."

Demi frowned.

"What is a Parselmouth?" That was Andrew, now at least half-listening; Demi's eyes echoed the question. Malfoy tensed.

"Someone who can speak Parseltongue," Devlin said, calmly as he scratched more words onto his parchment.

"That's what it is called - speaking to snakes?"

Demi looked at Devlin and Devlin smiled.

'Yes,' he said, the word slithering and slipping softly from his tongue. Demi frowned, and Andrew laughed lightly - sure Devlin was making fun - while Malfoy swallowed visibly. A couple older students turned curiously. 'The tongue of the snake.'

Devlin smiled his most charming smile.

"Yes, that is what it is called. The tongue of the snake."

Demi's regard was cool and calculated; the same intelligence behind it that Devlin had seen the first day.

"I can make hissing sounds too," Demi said, and he rolled his eyes to make the statement more light. Devlin returned the smile.

"I would imagine so," Devlin said. "That you could make hissing sounds, that is."