A/N: I'll be going to camp in two weeks so this may be one of the last chapters I post until August, just to warn you. I'll try to finish another chapter, and leave everyone at a good spot, though. I know this chapter had something I needed to fix, but I've lost it now and really don't have the time to search for it, what with packing and what not.
I'd really love at least one review for each chapter...
ON WITH THE STORY:
"Draco, do come in."
There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.
"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.
"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow. He is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes.
"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.
"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."
"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, there only reward is punishment: he tells his Master that it will be done.
Desires are worthless causes...in the end, they don't do anything helpful; in the end, they make things worse. To desire to do something is to be crestfallen when that desire does not happen...Dubhán cannot risk such weaknesses; he learned this when he had wished to go home the last time, when, at the age of four, he had wanted his mother. It was only after he had thrown that desire away, labeled it impossible, and left it to the wind, that he had been able to think about survival.
It was harder when the woman was in front of him.
When she looked up from the letter she had finished to Dumbledore and the one she was beginning for another 'friend', and gave him a secret smile.
It was hard when she asked if he was all right.
It was hardest when she told him everything would be all right.
"Nothing is ever alright." Dubhán whispers to her, and for a moment her secret cheer falters, and he can throw the desire away.
"Sometimes things change." She says, finishing the letters and walking behind him, to where he cannot turn, for he is still frozen, and sending the envelopes through the fire.
On her way back, she sends a slight glance at him, but then deems it better not to speak to him again, or flash him another secret smile, and walks over to Potter, and the brown haired witch who are talking together. Perhaps she thinks he does not want it; he will not ask for it.
Desires are best ignored; otherwise, you're only living for them.
"You have him with you?" Dubhán tips his head, he knows this is Dumbledore, Alexandra, Potter and who he had learned is Hermione, have already called him such, yet Dubhán has never heard the old man's voice before, and he is interested in it.
"Yes, Albus, he's with us, and seems in good health." Potter was not joking, yet he held back any mention of Dubhán kicking him – Dubhán tilted his head in confusion.
"We're checking in with you, on your opinion of what should happen next." Dumbledore surveyed the back of the chair the boy was in, and then the chair, facing him, that Geoffrey was seated in.
"I think you ought to take your son home; your home is as safe, if not safer, then Hogwarts." Dubhán cringed at the very thought, but forced his revulsion down.
"What of Geoffrey?" Hermione asked. "We will need him later, to testify, that is certain...he has shown that he means Dubhán, at least, no harm." Dubhán snorted here, and whispered, far to softly for any over at the fireplace to hear, and, had Geoffrey not been a werewolf... 'He's a traitor.' Geoffrey clenched his hands in his lap, but ignored Dubhán otherwise.
"Bring him to me, I will situate him in one of Hogwarts private rooms. Have you alerted Lupin? He might be helpful in...transportation." Alexandra was already nodding.
"I've ask him to come already, he'll be interrupting our fire chat as soon as he gets the letter."
"Very good, very good." He nodded toward Hermione. "I'll send Ronald and another of our friends over to help with Geoffrey." To Harry and Alexandra: "As much as I feel a certain desire to beg you, like an old relative, to see the boy, I will resist the urge." Harry smiled warmly; Alexandra chuckled.
"I don't want his testimony, I don't need it." Dubhán said, and Alexandra swung around, facing a child that held a power, confidence, surety, about himself and those words. A child that faced her, that was standing. "He's a traitor."
"Hmm, I will not comment on that, Mr. Potter; I will leave you with a notion to ponder on: to who is he a traitor, and what is a traitor?" Dubhán's eyes flashed at the name, and at the riddle Albus had thought it so needful to insert, but he remained passive. "I will see some of you very soon, and hopefully, the others a bit later." The fire dimmed back into its original color.
His eyes are a fawn brown; Geoffrey's a light blue. His eyes are drawn to Geoffrey's, who cannot hold back a slight, reverberating, growl. He frowns, silent and passive.
"You!" Geoffrey has lunged at the man, slamming him against the office wall, pressing his forearm against the man's throat. Dubhán scrambles from the chair he had reseated himself in, although he is at least five feet from the two men already, and toward the back wall. Geoffrey's eyes have gone pale amber; a level of anger Dubhán has never seen him posses in human form.
"Don't even think of getting near him!" Geoffrey growls, and hardly cares that the man has made no move to fight back. Potter, Alexandra and Hermione, have though, throwing stunning spell one after another.
"That wont work." Dubhán says from behind them, and for once that day he is not lying, he is not mocking or taunting them, he is not manipulating or predicting an outcome; he is not angry. "Something has awakened his wolf."
Potter is frantic, pulling at his hair between spells, assuring Remus he'll be okay, to hold on, yelling at Geoffrey, screaming for Remus to fight back. "Come on Remus!" He says, sending another spell to Geoffrey's back.
"We don't know each other, you've mistaken me for some-" Geoffrey's arm against his throat stops the man from speaking further.
"To hell we don't!" Geoffrey's voice is as scathing as a scratch from his wolf claws would have been. "I shouldn't have brought him here! Not if they'll allow you near him." Remus has gone pale, straining to look over his attackers shoulder and to the boy he has only just noticed. "I'll kill you with my bare hands!"
"Oh no you wont!" That is Potter; strengthening the potency of his spells, doubling their speed and notching up their aim. He is going for the kill, if he has too.
Behind him, Dubhán feels suddenly small, suddenly powerless. Part of him knows Geoffrey will die soon, at the hands of Voldemort, part of him wishes the man to die a less painful death, part of him wants to kill him himself, yet, welling up from its beaten place, some part of him cannot relinquish the friendship, the protection, and the care, which Geoffrey had given him. Part of him wants Geoffrey to live; and that part overwhelms him.
"Stop it!" He demands, voice edging on tears. The words stop Potter, Alexandra, and Hermione, the whimpering quality to it, stops Geoffrey. He does not need words; Dubhán could have told him to kill the man while using the right body language and tones of voice, and Geoffrey would have understood him. "Stop it. Don't hurt Geoffrey, please. He...wont hurt the man..." He feels weak, unshielded, brought back into the body of a child.
"Stupefy!" Alexandra extended her wand and Geoffrey stiffens like a frozen log, while another spell keeps him upright. "We wont hurt him, Dubhán, but I have a feeling he can't stop himself." Dubhán felt as if she had charmed him frozen again, too, yet he knew that it was his own weakness, which now freezes him.
"Well, I do think that is my first fight with another werewolf, in human form." Dubhán regard the man oddly, as if attempting to understand Geoffrey's anger with him. Potter rushed to his aid, but Remus shooed him off. "I'm quiet unharmed. Nothing a hot cup of tea can't cure." Hermione had one floating to him before he even finished his sentence. He smiled kindly to her, before his eyes fall onto Dubhán, who, under the gaze, backed up some more.
"I think we had better introduce everyone." Alexandra said, and it was not lost to Dubhán that she had stepped in front of Remus, preventing him from following the same urge Potter had foolishly held. Dubhán was thankful, he did not want to fight a man Geoffrey had been enraged at. Despite his recent difficulties with Geoffrey, he still respected the man's instincts.
"Dubhán - did I pronounce it correctly? -," He nodded, "this is Remus Lupin. Remus, this is Dubhán. That man over there was Geoffrey, Dubhán's guard." Remus glanced at the man, confused, and visibly struggling through the avalanche of information. Remus Lupin...Remus, a voice whispers in his head, a voice that is time-frozen as a child: Mooney.