"Tell me how." Either way, he didn't want to die here and now, tied up and defenseless. Geoffrey was walking on the edge of a velvet-covered knife. 

 “He doesn’t remember you,” Geoffrey whispered and Devlin felt the fear wash over him again, his brain working in a whirlwind around him to figure out what Geoffrey had meant. He licked his lips, his brain screaming at him to make everything stop so he could think.

Draco Malfoy was beginning to seriously consider using his money and influence to procure a time turner.

“I sure hope Potter has everything covered, because the boy doesn’t think so," Geoffrey said grimly. 

"You're afraid of him," Geoffrey said finally, after spending an afternoon dodging questions about the boy. Dumbledore's brow drew together infinitesimally and his blue eyes widened with with what Geoffrey was sure was fiend surprise. He drew his hands from his lap to settle, steepled, upon his desk. 

"Auror Potter, since you are the overseer, which curse would you like to start with?"

For a moment Potter's face was entirely blank, then surprise flittered by - not like an unpleasant surprise, but like Dubhán imagined his face was like when he discovered how to use a wand.

 Sometimes he thought Potter had chosen to live at Godric's Hallow just to show off.  After all, the house might be well hidden, but Voldemort already knew where it was.

 "There are lots of things people never say," he said, "but just because you haven't said it, doesn't mean you hadn't thought it."

 It wasn't possible. It didn't happen like that. It wasn't cognizant enough to participate in something as intricate as Occlumency.

 He would send him to the same place he had sent the boy. Let the newspapers miss that symbolism. Dubhán was his. This would be much more fun.

He nodded. His only hope was to trick them into thinking he was a normal boy. The mere idea terrified him; because he did not know how to be a normal boy.

 "You said we need to be on the same page," the boy said, coming awake. "I'm trying to - I'm trying to get there."

 He would not think of the possibility that Voldemort had spies here. He would not think of how this would seem like betrayal to his grandfather.

 -Where are we?- He asked, stepping into the sunlight camp.

-My battleground,- the boy said, looking side-long at him through the dirty fringe of his hair.

 You're spiraling in the wrong direction, Grandfather would have said, voice soft and dangerous.

Geoffrey chuckled and rolled on the balls of his heels."I pride myself with owning a great deal of sense." He leaned forward. "Is it your place, little dark one, to name me traitor?"

 Harry was Voldemort's Death, and Voldemort Harry's Death and he thought they each could play the part magnificently. He wondered whose Death he was, in the scheme of things.

 Dumbledore was imposing and softly-threatening (like a velvet covered knife, hidden between layers of robes and magic), but she was certainly as far from 'threatening' as Dubhán had ever known anyone to be. 

 "I had the wand," he said, finding that, in this case, it was easier to start at the end rather than the beginning. Everything at the end he had thought of a million times, had meticulously planned before he had partaken. It was all those things in the middle that he tried so very hard not to even approach.