A/N: I hope you can taste how close we are to the end. ;-) I'm a little tiny bit stuck on the actual second to last scene. I'd love some reviews! :D

"I told him." It had sounded better in Devlin's head than it did out in the air. Snape's cool gaze, which forever seemed stuck in the Winter, even though Spring was on it's way, regarded him.

"Pardon?" The one word was drawn out and sharp - a dare.

"I told my father. About my dreams. About the missing part of me. So you can't use it against me."

Severus' head tipped and Devlin waited for the scathing comment that he was certain waited behind the dark eyes.

"Good," Severus said. "Perhaps you're outgrowing this foolish stage finally."

He slid the potion across his desk, but his hand remained even as Devlin tried to grasp it.

"Saturday, my lab - it is time you knew how to brew this potion. I will have some extras for you to take with you."

Because with Spring came the impending trip home. The transition would leave Devlin vulnerable, and Severus was thinking ahead.

OoOoOoO

The first thing his mind acknowledges is that he is laying in the grass, head turned so that he can see the sun-drenched world through the blades of grass. The second thing is that someone is holding his hand. His gaze trails across his hand and beyond; another hand, another arm, another someone laid down in the grass, enjoying the sun drenched world.

"Have you ever really been here?" It is Maria's voice, and it is as if her voice calls forth the details of her face. Her smile peeks at him between the blades of grass and makes him feel warmer than the sun. He turns to smile at her and it comes easily to his face; as if he had been in the middle of a conversation already.

"Does it matter?" His emotions seem clearer and more easy to access here, and he smiles again.

"Why did you come here, then?"

He props himself up on his shoulder to look down at her. Red hair sprawled around her head like flames, blue eyes alright from the sun, creamy complexion with sprinkled freckles. Something about her appearance makes him happy. He knows there is a word for what he thinks she is, but can't recall it.

"Because, you're here."

She laughs, and her hair moves like waves around her face. She is dressed in a beautiful blue dress that is so clean the word 'pristine' comes to mind. She sits up, gravity pressing against her hair and making it fall around her body.

"You have nice dreams," she says, smiling at the world around them.

"Only because you're here," he says, and he moves closer to her. He reaches out to touch her hand; soft, warm, and happiness. It hums in his body, like a cord vibrating at the smallest touch.

She turns to him, smiling, eyes sparkling, and reaches forward to touch his face. This time, there is no glove and her warm, soft hand is against his cheek. The world stills around them as his breath catches in his lungs. His impulsivity pushes him forward, but even in his dream he hesitates. Her thumb radiates heat onto his cheek and he-

"Oi, Devlin! You gonna wake up like ever?" Devlin woke with a start, the curtain to his bed pulled back, Andrew's face peeking through the corner. "Mate - I dunno if you even have time for a shower you're so late! I've been trying to wake you up for at least two minutes!"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." The words fell from his mouth in a rush; he was terribly relieved when Andrew's head disappeared. For a moment longer he was as breathless as he had been in the dream, his pulse racing wildly like it usually did when he was running from something dangerous. His body felt heavy and his mouth dry. And, of course, there was that issue. Not that Devlin had never woken up with that issue before, but he had the distinct feeling that Maria had somehow been the cause. He didn't like that. The idea made his gut squirm. He was certain if she knew she wouldn't like it, either.

OoOoOoO

Devlin could not recall the last time he had seen Harry in slacks and a button up shirt, a nice robe thrown over the ensemble, outside of work. His hair was uncharacteristically neat and his face obviously freshly shaved.

He smiled small and quickly at Devlin as they passed in the hallway, and Devlin simply stared at him in return. Harry didn't even pause, and Devlin had to run to catch up.

"What are you doing here?"

"Some sort of parent teacher conference about your flying lessons. Dumbledore sent a letter. It didn't look like you were in trouble," he paused for a moment, "are you? It was supposed to start a minute ago. I had to rush from a press conference."

Well, that explained the clothing and the hair. Someone else had probably taken care of both. Harry was terrible at cleaning and neatening charms.

"I guess it depends on who you ask," he said, not sure how to say it. Harry looked rushed, but that smile that was just for Devlin was still there. "I left class without permission, because she was…" he didn't know the word. He knew what it felt like, but realized he had never really been exposed to what it was when someone decided he was his grandfather in every worst way possible. "When she looks at me, she just sees Tom Riddle. I felt it before, but I didn't know it was possible. Now I know - he told me - and…when she tried to keep punishing me for a tiny mistake - not really even! - thing from our first class I told her she was treating me like him."

Harry's brow was arched. Not in disbelief or amusement but with a sense of being taken aback.

"Oh. So…this is going to be a meeting with Ginny? About you?"

"Yeah, obviously," Devlin said, not quite catching the problem.

"Damn. I really shouldn't be dressed like this."

"…what's wrong with what you're wearing? For once you don't look like a homeless muggle." Harry looked at him, confused. "Did I not use that right? Andrew said it once."

Harry actually chuckled.

"I love that even at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, someone like you can pick up muggle stuff." Devlin made no comment. "But okay…um…I have to get rid of the cloak at least."

"Yeah good luck with that."

"There should be a closet on the seventh floor."

"Hogwart's doesn't have coat closets for parents, dad."

What was wrong with him today?

"On the seventh floor they have whatever you want," he winked. "After this meeting why don't we have lunch on the seventh floor? Meet me across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"Yeah, okay Dad," he said.

He turned and went to class.

OoOoOoO

Harry was not a tall man, but there was something in the way that he carried himself, even leaning against the corridor wall, that spoke of power. It was buried, and almost casual, a mere taste of what Devlin knew lay beneath. His hair was still neat atop his head, and he had retrieved the upscale robe. His slacks were pressed, his black shoes shining. Voldemort might even have worn something similar. Devlin kept such thoughts to himself, of course.

Harry saw him as soon as he turned the corner. His face broke into a smile, and he lifted himself off the wall - the same effortless way Tom Riddle had in his dream, the same way Devlin kept hoping he would also be able to, someday.

"Hey," Harry said; and the similarities between Tom Riddle and Harry Potter came to a crashing halt. Too casual. Too intimate. Too much emotion filling his eyes.

"Hello." He stopped in front of his father. In a few years, he imagined, he would be the same height as him.

"Shall we find a nice place to talk?"

"There are really only disused classrooms up here," Devlin said.

Harry winked.

"I'll make a bet for you," he said, grinning. "Imagine somewhere nice for us to talk, and I bet the castle will help us out."

Devlin frowned, but being a wizard, he did not disbelieve. So he thought of somewhere comfortable - books along a wall, big comfortable sofa-

Harry began dragging him up and down the hallway, back and forth, back and forth until…

There was a door.

Some part of Devlin really hadn't believed Harry, because he realized suddenly he should have pictured a completely different place.

Harry opened the door, and they stepped into a replica of his Grandfather's living room at The House.

Of course Harry did not know. He closed the door behind them.

"Have I ever told you that you and I have totally different tastes than each other?"

He said it as if in fascination - the way he acted whenever Emma or he did something that defined them as an individual.

Harry sat himself on the large comfortable sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. Devlin blinked at the scene - Harry Potter in the same place Voldemort would sit and read reports, feet bare.

"Do I still need to go to flying?"

Changing the conversations seemed like the safest course of action. He wished Harry would move, or shift, or stop smiling at him while he sat there. He did not like to think that it was so easy to make him unsettled, but Harry Potter in Voldemort's living room was apparently all it took. He looked around to remind himself there were no doors - this was merely a replication.

Harry looked momentarily wounded.

"Did you really want to quit? I think I settled things down. While I wouldn't expect an apology, I think I helped Ginny better understand you."

"Better understand me? Well that would certainly be easy, since all she saw was him when she looked at me!"

"Eh," Harry said, "and maybe me."

"You?" Curiosity had the better of him, making him swerve off course.

"Yeah, but look - I have been meaning to have a conversation with you," he said. It seemed that he had now deemed his safest option a change in subject. Devlin narrowed his eyes in thought.

"What conversation?"

oOoOo

"What conversation?"

It sounded like an accusation, or maybe that was just Harry's guilt, making him read into Devlin's drawn brow and narrowed eyes. The room was lit almost delicately, the sofa deep and comfortable (and expensive). There were books lining the walls, and a deep mahogany desk over there that looked like it belonged in a study. There were papers on it. Every little detail that Devlin had drawn together. It all spoke of his expansive experience and brilliant mind. Harry devoured the knowledge it gave him.

"Aren't you going to sit? This is the place you wanted to be," he tried to laugh. Devlin's shoulders tensed - had that not been true? - but he sat across from him on a chair.

"What conversation?" He asked again. Like his mother, he could sense the weight of emotions and importance in another person's regard; clearly he did not believe this predicted something positive.

"I want to talk to you about the war, Devlin."

Devlin breathed out almost delicately, as if some doom settled at his horizon had dissipated somewhat.

"Does mum know you want to talk to me about the war?" A look of accusation settled on his face and Harry almost felt like rolling his eyes in exasperation. Devlin acted as though he did not regularly try to wheedle information out of Harry!

"No. I didn't come to Hogwarts to have this conversation - I stumbled upon its need."

Devlin leaned back, looking at him with a tipped chin. He really was a handsome boy. People often told Harry that he was good looking, but Devlin was truly handsome. Sharp and charming with an air of potent charisma - all things Harry had never even dreamed of owning as a boy. Harry has had plenty of years to think what if and in no scenario could he ever picture himself being like Devlin. He was simply different from his son in that way.

As much as Devlin claimed, heart wrenchingly, to be unable to understand love, to struggle to feel what other's felt - he managed social interactions with a glibness that often baffled Harry and left him disconcerted. Alexandra was probably right about Harry needing to have those kinds of conversations with Devlin - girls were bound to be getting interested in him soon. Whenever he had thought to broach the question, though, he would recall the first time Devlin had seen Alex and he kiss - how baffled Devlin had been by the gentleness. And that, of course, brought up what his childhood experiences must have been on the subject.

"Voldemort and I were both orphans," Harry began carefully. He stared into his son's eyes and did not flinch at the associations to Tom Riddle he drew; those deep deep eyes, that magic, potent and present, those refined brows and sharp features. "We both found out before Hogwarts that we could speak to snakes and neither of us knew what our talent meant to the world we had yet to enter."

Devlin's brow twitched. With anyone else he would be leaning forward with falsified openness, but he did not fabricate his emotions with Harry anymore - an accomplishment Harry felt the utmost triumph about. Devlin's face was closed with thought, an impenetrable barrier up to save himself from the unknown. And how he looked like the little boy in the dark orphanage room! Sometimes, inexplicably, Harry's heart ached for that boy too in a way he never imagined it could have.

"We never knew much about our parents. We were both condemned for our magic as children," Harry paused to look at Devlin again. "When I was a boy I never thought of Voldemort as a child - merely as the monster he had become. He was singular, stagnant, an entity rather than a human. There was no past or future to him, only my terrifying present. When I met a piece of him in the Chamber of Secrets, a handsome teenaged specter, the fact that he had a past hit me. All our similarities washed over me - from our appearance to our history. Both orphans. Both ridiculed growing up. Both without knowledge of our heritage. They haunted me. As I got older, Dumbledore forced me to think of how he had become him. The similarities seemed to vanish - even from the start, I thought, I had clearly chosen to use my magic in a more responsible way."

Devlin's face was guarded and Harry could fathom a small portion of his thoughts. His own similarities. His own 'irresponsibility'.

"That, however, was merely another youthful endeavor of the opposite effect - I had convinced myself before we were alike, and now I had convinced myself we were different from the beginning. But the last one stuck harder, I clung to it with my life. Then you came into my life. So tiny and fragile, fitting in the crook of my arm, but full of magic. So full of magic that you startled us sometimes - because our magic had never been like yours. Your magic was proactive and fiercely defensive of you. My own took action only when necessary, and it was, for the most part, protective. My magic protected me by removing me from bad situations and by fixing things that were done to me. Sometimes I dreamed of being bigger and stronger and physically stopping Dudley from hurting me, but my magic never hurt anyone else. It never made me better when it fixed me, just the same. Just Harry."

Devlin frowned and Harry realized with a jolt that Devlin probably did not know who Dudley was at all - but he couldn't swerve now.

"You and I, we're different that way, Devlin. Even when you were two, I knew it. You did not cry, you did not whine. You spoke and you argued and you did. You knew in your little body that your magic would take care of you. Knew it and manipulated it with a level of expertise that sometimes left me breathless. I marveled at it in fascination, defended it often when you would break something, and never once thought of Tom. Alex did not yet know. Once when you were two, Author brought over a muggle toy robot. He thought you, who loved magic, would love this. You froze when you saw it, almost as if you could tell it was foreign and strange. When it moved you did not giggle with delight - you stared it down, your little chest puffing out, your hands curling at your sides. No, you said, and it exploded. I could not repair that robot. There were other times, of course."

Devlin's brow crumbled and Harry realized he did not often spend time telling Devlin about when he was small anymore - he used to hate it and see it as Harry trying to manipulate him.

"I have always loved you. The only person in existence to love you longer is your mum, and that's just because - well she had to learn about you before she told me. I have loved you from the moment I knew there was a possibility you existed. Loved you before I could see you. Loved you before you could hold your head up. Loved you even when all you could do was stare blankly at my face. Before you could smile. Before you laughed. I loved you when you were two and threw fits that made my head pound and often destroyed items you knew were special to me with your rambunctious magic. I loved you when you were three and made jokes, and argued, and believed your opinions to be of the utmost importance. My point is - I loved you before I knew I would forever have to share you, and your mum, with Tom - just as much as I loved you after. He did nothing to retract from how wonderful you were to me. But it did make me think."

Harry drew a breath. Devlin was leaning forward, his interest hungry and dominant.

"Think what?" He said, more a demand than a question. His gaze was hooded, his jaw tight. If he had blinked Harry might have thought he'd say Tell The Truth next.

"I thought of your magic, and I thought of my magic, and I thought of Tom's magic. I thought of my childhood, and Tom's childhood. Both orphans. Both ridiculed and condemned for our differences. They were apparent to our caregivers for very different reasons. My aunt already knew, but did not tell me. His magic was like yours, so there, that I doubt it could have been entirely missed. They thought he was possessed, the devil, a bad seed. It was all the same. It did not matter that the matron at his orphanage called him an odd child, she was calling him just as much a freak as my caregivers had. Children hurt him, physically and emotionally. Dudley and others hurt me - physically and mentally. The difference was our magic. My magic was not proactive - merely reactive and protective. There were times, many times, that I dreamed of hurting Dudley or being bigger and stronger. My magic did not work that way. Mine could not take my want to hurt Dudley - to make him feel as I felt - and use it. Tom's magic - your magic - does. It always has. Your magic is different than mine, and I suppose having you made me consider the fact that he did not purposefully set out to hurt, but that his magic lashed out. His choices, of course, are irrefutable. But I do think our magic played a role in how we coped with our environments."

Devlin had drawn back against the sofa.

"This is his living room," he said off-handedly. "He sits there in the afternoon and reads the mail Bellatrix brings in, his feet up like that, barefoot. He hates shoes."

Harry felt his brow leap up. He looked around, fighting the urge to ask Devlin if he had remembered every little detail.

"How many Horcruxes have you found?"

His head swung back so rapidly that he felt it strain. He swallowed, his tongue somehow caught in his throat while his mind rushed to a halt.

Devlin was leaning back, his regard grounded, his mouth tight, his chin jutted out - and his eyes latched onto Harry with a potency Harry knew intimately from his mother.

"What?"

Barely a whisper, as if his breath had been stolen from him.

OoOoOoO

"How many Horcruxes have you found?"

The words staggered in his mouth, rusted on his tongue, and came out with the unmistakable sting he knew as betrayal. He had not been entirely sure he would be able to ask the question. Voldemort had revealed too much to him, and yet too little. By choosing to inform without context, he had ensured that Devlin could never help Harry find the locations nor inquire about the safety of a specific item; but he had not told Devlin the name and this left Devlin without obligation to protect it.

Harry's head snapped to him, realization striking sharply across his face even as he breathed: "what?". He already knew. He had already heard. Denial tried to claw it's way into his brain; tried to make him disbelieve that Devlin would be burdened with this, too.

Denial was a silly, useless, childish thing.

Harry Potter wasn't a child.

He was on his feet now, staring at Devlin. Realization and denial at war with each other. His hands shook.

"How many Horcruxes have you found?" Devlin asked again; calmly. It stung just as much the second time, but he would not try to hide. On one hand he felt raw and exposed before Harry, but on another he felt triumph, knowledge, power. Adrenaline rushed into his veins for both reasons, fortifying his foolishness.

Foolish boy, Severus' voice admonished in his head.

"How- did he tell you?"

Mostly the emotion flooding his eyes was one of horror, but there was the tiniest, infinitesimal slice of betrayal there too. Of accusation. That Devlin had known and not shared. That Devlin had made an irresponsible choice, just like little Tom Riddle.

Because, if he had, he would not be a man facing Harry on the battlefield unknowing of what he was doing - he would be a man who had chosen to allow the battle to happen in the first place.

"No," Devlin said. The child in him wanted to rush to his feet like the blood rushing to his brain, but Devlin stopped himself. He forced himself to find that part of himself which was farthest from Voldemort yet closest to him, closest to Harry Potter yet farthest from him, most like his mother yet not like her at all. Each time he looked, it was easier to find. Him. Just him. Whole - all his flaws stitched together with his own sinew. "He did not tell me what a Horcrux was."

Accusation turned to trouble and uncertainty - and pain too. As always, Devlin found uncertainty sat unwell in Potter's eyes; like a great illness that he feared would infect the world.

"Do you know what that even is, Devlin?" Potter's voice was soft and weary.

Hope, like a flickering flame only a breath away from being extinguished.

"Yes," he said. "A Horcrux is an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul. One splits one's soul and hides part of it in an object, by doing so you are protected should you be attacked and your body destroyed."

He mimicked the Professor's tone as perfect as his boyish one could. He could see, by Harry's paling face, that he had hit his mark well enough.

"How- Devlin-"

"Me. I did it. I repaired that memory. "

That power, power, power rushed in his veins.

Harry sat down again, with a flop. His hunched shoulders and uncertain eyes no longer reminded Devlin of Voldemort. Devlin felt something like sympathy creep into the crevices of his mind. To see Harry there, so bewildered, so afraid, so uncertain - it now reminded Devlin of himself, sat right there while Voldemort studied papers at his desk.

"He couldn't do it for you," Devlin said, softer than he had thought he would, "so I did. Is that so terrible? I- can't help you," he nearly choked. Harry looked up. "But I could do this. I could give you the word he never gave me. I realized how important that was to me, the last time we were home - when we said goodbye. I want this to be a fair fight. Not immortality against mortality."

Realization dawned cold and hard in his eyes, wiping out the infectious uncertainty like an expertly brewed draught. Harry knew; it was like a cascade of relief rushed over Devlin. Harry knew that Devlin knew.

And there was only sympathy to greet him.

"Nothing about this fight is going to be fair, Devlin." Harry said softly. "But I will make sure he is mortal."

OoOoOoO

"Mr. Potter…"

It was Patricia, a lower ranking Auror. She did her job well, and his only bias against her was her name - it sounded too much like Petunia. Currently, she had a thick envelope in her hand that could only mean more paper work for him. He barely held back a groan. As it was, he had piles of paper all over his desk…and one chair.

"What have you got for me, Patricia?"

"Arden finished his assessment of Thatcher's house. He sent the paper work found there to Alexandra, per your request," Harry nodded, "and she sent me to you with this sealed folder. She thinks some papers are missing. She said it was urgent."

Of course he had anticipated the possibility, but he had always hoped it was not so. The Ministry did not allow papers to be brought home. Living with a Warder though…Harry knew it happened. The Ministry had unreasonable expectations in terms of work load, and Alexandra often was forced to bring it home. Their house, however, was warded basically as well as the Ministry, minus the security.

He stood abruptly to retrieve the folder.