Oh, instincts are misleading.

Spoiler:

Damien was obviously not properly prepared for the promise of changes during the peculiar phase of puberty. Sure, he had been through the period of confusion, then embarrassment, of supposed physical alteration to his body, as seemingly explained by his mother. She had, he remembered, been rather excited about what he has come to resent. Puberty did not treat him well. Damien looked at himself in the mirror, trying to pick out the signs to an invitation to manhood. There was hardly any. His face, or head, seemed to retain the shape of his boyish days. He was still a boy, but a teenage one at that; and he thought that it would signify the sort of change that he had seen in the other boys at school of his age. Damien's searching look turned into a deeply-set scowl, proof of the over-used expression on his tender face. Then, he turned away from the mirror violently, and launched himself back into bed.

As if his tiny frame was not sufficiently depressing, the physical changes occurring to his life during this age of puberty was the punch-line to this one sick joke. As he lay in bed with a hand beneath the back of his head, Damien sighed. He did miss his mother. Even so, he could not allow her to see him anymore. She had betrayed, not only him, but the expectations of her Pureblood family. How could he ever forgive her when, even when he had been so patient with the years, she refused to see the mistake she had made in marrying that Muggle-born? The boy was tired of waiting. Then, too, he got tired of waiting to be useful. He was supposed to learn to be great, somehow. Damien had thought that his father would have done it for him, many years ago, when he returned to the d'Eaths at the age of eleven. Pity that Lorcan was too busy skirt-chasing and money-making.

Not that the boy could complain about the latter. In fact, it seems, something odd was happening. The power that was typically invested in the other more Ancient families of Pureblood seems to have given the nouveau d'Eaths an entree to the slice of Elitism. Of course, the d'Eaths can never be like them. They had hundreds of years of history and establishment. The d'Eaths can only take joy in the present situation. A slight smile tugged at the sides of Damien's lips. This he could content with. Years of struggling to establish himself as someone to be reckon with might just pay off, what with the new family situation that the other Slytherin students must learn about, sooner or later.

At that, Damien sat up in his bed, moved to the edge, slid off it, and out of his room. It was fantastic here, at Alistair's. He could have his own space, away from the siblings he could not stand to be in the house with all the time. He could read uninterrupted here, eat when he desired, choose to do anything he wanted at any part of the house bar his brother's room ... Best of all was really to be living with Alistair, the man he had moved on to after Athena's disappearance, looking to him for the sort of guidance he had earlier sought from Athena, and at the earliest, had thought his father could provide. There was a type of contentment that the boy found here. He was not happy, no. Merlin forbid he ever felt happy. He thought he could not; it would be very unbecoming of him. Of course, he would not have admitted it all to be teenage angst. No. It always had to be more than that.

Damien was contented. Toast and juice in each hand, he strolled past the front door and stepped out into the garden. In the open! Damien was in the light of day! True, there was barely a sun in the ever so grey skies of Britannia. It was a feat, however, that the boy was not to be found in a dark corner, brooding as if his life depended on it. No, he was out now, lounging in the garden, with birds singing in the late morning, and the fresh slight breeze of air making its presence known to his pale skin. It was not a week until the start of the new school term. The boy had arrived a week ago at the invitation of his brother. He liked the fact that he did would not have to get cosy with a crowded Hogwarts Express just to get to the Castle. No, he would arrive at Hogwarts with dignity, and with clothes still crisp from fresh ironing, unmarred by the crease it would likely suffer from the pushing and squeezing with the rest of the student population.

Milo had been looking for his younger siblings. The older ones made him nervous- they had grown up learning not to like him, and they had six years of hearing the tales of his being blackballed from the family. The younger couldn't be bothered to know much of a stranger they'd never met. Before he had disappeared off of the face of the earth, seemingly, Milo had met most of his half siblings. Now was the difficult job of searching them out and feeling out the elder's thoughts.

Milo did not want his father to know of his return. Naturally, he had established himself in his aunt's home again, but only temporarily. The couple was retired and could not be bothered to care much for him. The two, despite their Dark affiliation, did not judge nor criticize him for his desertion. They were from his mother's side however, and a large streak of indifference ran through the lot of them. His father's side, however, surely couldn't be too forgiving.

Milo had found Damien. Some clerk at a Quidditch shop remembered a d'Eath boy and had pulled up store records to give him the address. If Milo remembered right, Damien was the one with the muggleborn stepfather; he would be a good choice to speak to. Milo also remembered that Damien had been a bit of a grouch, but the boy had only been ten at the time. Surely, the frown had turned upside down since.

Milo walked up to the cottage and smiled. Quaint. He paused at the gate to look in. He hoped the boy was happy inside, surrounded by good family. The d'Eaths were much too serious- Milo had not been cut out to be one. He could not pretend to be serious- about relationships, about his allegiances, his studies, his work, his general motivation. The d'Eaths were grouchy adults who had never had fun, happy childhoods. Milo hoped with his whole heart that he would walk in to see them sitting down for a family meal, or all running around like madmen. Something.

He opened the gate and strolled up to the front door, pausing to glance around the yard. A smile of approval accompanied him to the door and, without any fear or apprehension in his heart, the ex-Gryffindor raised his hand and knocked on the wood of the door, ready to patiently await. To see his half-sibling and his extended family was a comfort. To belong would be nice, but trying wasn't bad either.

“That’ll be three Galleons, eighteen Sickles and twenty-two Knuts, please.”

Alistair looked up from his purchases on the counter and met the gaze of the bored-looking sales assistant. She wore her peroxide blonde hair in pigtails with bobbles on the hair bands. She wore her eye make-up in excess and seemed to have a penchant for chewing what looked like strawberry flavoured bubble gum. Alistair raised an eyebrow and handed over the money, gathering up his items that she’d placed somewhat carelessly into a pair of brown paper bags. He checked that everything was in order with a quick glance at the contents of both and then turned away from the lazy teenager, leaving the shop quickly, only stopping to hold the door open with his foot for a rather heavily pregnant looking young woman who already had a pram full up with a sticky toddler. They exchanged quick smiles and once she was clear of the threshold, Alistair darted out into the summer sunshine.

Making his way down the cobbled street, Alistair wished those he ran into a good morning and inquired as to the health of their children/pets. The morning was bright and warm, the wind enough to cool the atmosphere from being too hot to work in. Alistair knew where he was destined to be for much of the afternoon – in the garden digging weeds and planting flowers in the beds that lined the stretch of grass that reached out from the steps of the wooden veranda attached to the back of the cottage. He was looking forward to it anyway and with the sun on his back, there would be no place better. Since Azkaban, Alistair had really learnt how to appreciate the sunshine. There was nothing more he hated now than rain.

Turning down the path, Alistair reached the garden gate to his beloved cottage that he now shared with his younger brother, Damien. However, there was a blight on his lawn, one that was so devastating he thought the flowers beneath the windows would curl up and die at the mere sight of this blight. And don’t you worry, dear readers, this blight does have a name. Milo. Milo Dorsey D’Eath.

Alistair’s lip curled and he pushed open the garden gate, letting it fall shut behind him with a small bang.

“What the bloody hell are you doing on my path!?” Alistair exclaimed with obvious disgust, his face illustrating his dismay. “Get off. Go back to the seedy strip club from whence you came, demon!”

Milo was quite content to remain on the stoop a little while, for the day was warm, the birds entertained him, and the yard was quite pleasant. He only had room for happy feelings on such a day like this. He was sober and ready to meet with his family, hoping for a peaceful existence among them. He rocked on his heels happily and reached down to poke a drooping flower.

And that was when he was verbally assaulted. He spun around in surprise and felt his eyebrows knit together. "Alistair?" The last time he had seen the man, he had been a fresh graduate of Hogwarts, barely a man at all. He had grown up, yes, but Milo was realizing after so much time, it was hard to see his family in the present form, but the past shone through.

What Milo saw in Alistair there and what he perceived to be the present was, more or the less, the same. A headstrong young man with a lot of potential, coddled and swayed by his father. Milo had chosen a path apart from his father, but he had played the perfect son awhile. It was a boring role, one without much benefit besides Lorcan's approval, something Milo had learned to live without.

Milo had not intended on seeing Alistair- honestly, he hadn't been looking forward to it in the least. His smile remained plastered, though it might have seemed strained to someone who knew Milo well. "It is you, isn't it? I was looking for Damien. Why're you getting your panties in a wad already, I just got here." His tone was light and he winked at the younger man. "Good strip clubs are closed in the daytime, Al. Remember that, it's useful information."

Damien looked up from the contents of his breakfast on his lap at the creak of the garden gate, mildly irritated that the serenity of the moment was to be disturbed by the presence of another. Despite the initial response to it, the boy was ready to ease his frown and get on with his business. After all, it could only be Alistair. He needed getting used to that. Unlike his father's house, with the living and breathing of his siblings, House Elves, and the visits of strangers, there was only going to be his brother in this one. Damien almost relaxed. Something, however, wasn't right. No, that wasn't Alistair. Quickly, he amended his quick glance earlier, and squinted his eyes at the more unfamiliar form of a strange man. The boy's jaw had somewhat fallen, impressed at the man's audacity, walking in on private grounds. It was barely a good impression. Damien began to glare at the man now with accusatory eyes. He could not have his breakfast properly now. There was an intruder, and he didn't look like the sort who knocked on doors with wares to sell.

Damien watched as the stranger knocked at the door to the house, an eyebrow raised at how the man could have missed his presence, what with his lounge chair not being that far from the front of the house. Then again, he was tiny, wasn't he? As the boy entertained his sullen thoughts, the sound of Alistair's entrance into the scene jolted him out of it. Damien sat up now, interested in the potential of the following sequence of events. After all, he was beginning to learn of some of his brother's habits. Given his admiration for Alistair, too, the boy was ever so keen to emulate the man's responses and gestures. It was really the sort of sibling worship one might find oneself in. And Alistair didn't fail Damien at that.

The boy smirked at his brother's hostility. Then, at the sound of his own name, switched his gaze back to the stranger. Stranger, however, this man was not. The two men seemed to know each other. Damien could only resort to alternating his attention now between the two, as he endeavoured to make out what was possibly the relation. One thing was for sure, though. He didn't like the stranger. Certainly, this might have begun from the moment his peace was disturbed by someone apart from who he expected to be. Damien was very particular about order, anyway. Even Alistair wasn't spared of it, although the man would receive immediate forgiveness, unlike the strange one standing here in the garden with them now. Damien scowled at the latter, offended by the retort that he was giving to Alistair. He was certainly feeling a bit defensive over his brother. After all, he thought with a mind laced with prejudice, he was family.

"I don't know you," he started with a tone of defiance in his voice. Damien had set his breakfast down on the chair just as he stood up from it. "I don't believe I have any business with you." A teenager's attempt to act all man and grown up. "Do you have the habit of trespassing private grounds without acknowledging or respecting its inhabitants?" Damien put pressure on his lower lip as he jutted his chin out in a show of arrogance.

Time had stretched out like a road that had been punctured by potholes, sending the cars that drove over it ‘belly-up’ depending on the angle that the wheels struck them at. Alistair’s life had been one big hiccup after another but he wasn’t about to complain about the way it had gone. Azkaban had been his wake-up call, a realisation that running round blindly in the name of the Dark Lord was never going to get him anywhere. Though that was not to say he was not still loyal, he just didn’t have the drive for it anymore. One could claim he was lazy – Alistair felt he was old, too old to be running after men that only cared for their own ends and not for those that served them. It was time, he realised, to relax and settle down. That didn’t, however, make him any less irritable or hostile or prone to acts of reckless violence. He was still Alistair D’Eath, mind. Let’s not forget that.

So as Alistair stared at his elder brother, he realised time really had passed, that they’d changed. Alistair knew the feelings he held concerning his elder brother were not complimentary – they never had been – and his paranoia slowly began to kick in, his eyes narrowing at Milo as he tried to deduce exactly what the man was doing there. Alistair honestly felt rather foolish, like a boy, stood there, his arms laden with bags. Yet he still managed to lift his head, his jaw hardening under clenched teeth as he angled his head defiantly, communicating that Milo was not welcome there.

“Damien?” Alistair’s eyes widened, his face losing the expression of defiant disdain as he became genuinely curious, his suspicion intensifying as an accusatory, wary look grew in his eyes. “Leave him alone, Milo. I don’t care if your intentions are well-meaning; you have no right to come looking for him. He’s my responsibility. They all are.” Alistair looked at his brother pointedly. “Now if you’d please leave-”

Alistair’s eyes flicked over to Damien at the sound of the boy’s voice, taking a half-step back as he realised that he and Milo were not alone, that someone else – bar the nosy neighbours – were privy to the conversation. Alistair’s features softened a little at the sight of the boy but that did not dampen his hostility towards Milo. Alistair could not help but smirk at the boy’s words, though.

“Indeed. At least Damien has a sense of propriety.” Alistair commented, winking briefly in the boy’s direction before fixing his gaze back upon Milo. “What exactly where you expecting? A hug?” Alistair inquired scathingly. “He was nine years old when you abandoned ship. He won’t remember you. I’m glad, actually, that he doesn’t.” Alistair lowered his voice now, to a volume he hoped Damien would not be able to pick up on. “How embarrassing would that be for him to be privy, just as I am, to the fact that his eldest brother is a coward, a deserter of a great cause. The Death Eaters still want your head, Milo. I’m not disinclined, either, to put it on a platter for them. Get out of my garden.”

Alistair had always been desperate to prove himself to their father. Of course, all of the d'Eath males had always been desperate to do so. Their father was Lorcan d'Eath. He was a cherished member of the Death Eaters, a famous entertainer, and though he treated women like disposable baby makers, they all seemed to still have fond memories and feelings for him. He treated his children in a way that made them love him; he told them each was his favorite, showered them with money and gifts at an early age.

Every single one of them was a Death Eater before they entered Hogwarts. Lorcan wasn't a father. He was a breeder for the Death Eaters.

Naturally, Alistair had never liked Milo much. Milo was heir; so when Milo fell from his father's graces, Milo could guess that Lorcan had beckoned Alistair to fill his shoes, and Alistair probably tripped over himself to get there. Milo didn't blame Alistair, he never blamed his siblings. He knew where the fault lay.

Still. Alistair would find out soon. Milo was a tad disappointed he hadn't figured it out by now. If his math was right, Alistair was two or three years older than Milo had been when Milo figured out what it meant to be like his father. Perhaps Lorcan had become more clever. Or perhaps Alistair wasn't strong enough to realize he had been fooled into a way of life that would never benefit him.

Alistair tried to speak and a voice interpreted. Milo turned, spotting the boy there. Oh no. A mini-me. Milo had always liked Damien, and Damien's mum too. He had never been able to see the family as much as he had liked, but it was always a special treat. Milo stared at Damien, taking in all of the changes that occurred from boyhood to the beginning stages of manhood.

His attention was drawn to Alistair and he remained silent, giving Alistair that power he wanted so much as the owner of the property to have his voice heard. He might have authority, but Milo was big brother. Even a brother fallen out of good grace still had power over his younger brothers. It was in sibling code. It just happened that way.

So, with a smile, and a twinkle of his eyes, he turned from Alistair, completely disregarding his younger brother's pomp and circumstance. "Hi, Damien. What your brother Al here was trying to make sure you didn't hear is that you don't remember me because when I left you were about nine. But I think I even stayed with you and your mum awhile- though you were probably four or five. I'm your big brother Milo. Ally here thinks I'm a bad influence. You probably do too, since I have no doubt that Dad has made sure my name was cursed among all of you. He probably added it to his 'How to be a d'Eath speech.' I just wanted to pop in and see you though. Your mum too, but it looks like you left her all on her lonesome for 'bro-time.'"

He looked back at Alistair. "I can leave, but perhaps we can have a little chat. Like adults. You were just barely an adult when I left but I'm sure you've learned that sometimes it is necessary to dine with your enemies on occasion. Though, you're not my enemy, I'll assure you. I'm just not ignorant to that 'EXTERMINATE' look in your eyes," he winked. "You might think me a coward, but that doesn't mean we're not brothers."

Damien was disillusioned with the idea of family. It was just as bad as, if not far worse than, the disappointment of puberty. He didn't, couldn't, find it in him to adore his father, let alone admire him. While the older man had begun to embark on what Damien thought he could learn to be proud of, the boy was still plagued by earlier prejudice against the oldest of D'Eaths. Already, his mother barely made her presence felt in the Pureblood community of families. She had banished herself on her own accord after the mistake with Lorcan before the birth of her only son, and merely returned once to begrudgingly grant the boy, then nine, his wish after her marriage to a Muggle-born. Damien had, since then, been caught in a sort of limbo. On one hand, he missed the relationship with the woman who truly loved him; and quickly at that, since Lorcan was nothing the boy expected him to be. On the other hand, the impossibility of forgiving his mother ensured that he was stuck with his father.

Alistair was, then, the next best alternative to the sort of parental, or father, figure that Damien found himself searching for most of his young life. Perhaps time would see changes. This, however, has been the truth of the matter all this while.

Damien frowned, attempting to see through the confusion of his supposedly younger history. The frowned deepened into a scowl at Milo's mention of his mother. Damien shook his head.

"Don't talk about my mother, you don't know her!" The boy clenched both of his fists, looking far from threatening in his skinny frame, but still very much put into a foul temper. Even when he relaxed his grasps, the boy could only stare at Milo with incredulity. And perhaps, with some reason.

"Mother only told me about Father when I was eight. " A pause as he watched for the other man's reaction. "We lived with Grandfather before-" He stopped himself, not wishing to dive into the issue of his mother's betrayal. The reference was to his maternal family, who was still very much a part of the community, and whom he had been dying to return to until Alistair offered his abode. "And Grandfather never allowed us to see the D'Eaths." It felt odd now, talking about a part of his past that felt so distant, like a fiction retold, and not really a part of his life once.

Damien eyed Milo cautiously, wary of the discrepancies of what was said. It was when the latter addressed Alistair again that the boy turned, too, for his brother's cue. Who would have thought his quiet morning would turn to this? He was no longer interested in the breakfast that should have been eaten to fatten his frame.

"Yeah I do," Milo said softly, responding to the young d'Eath boy. "I've never exactly been a classic d'Eath- your big brother can atone to that. Your mum is kind, unbiased, loving. She's a good woman. Much better woman than your father deserved." Milo's smile had begun to shrink off of his face. Milo was not a serious man, but such a serious topic, even when touched upon by him, could not be taken lightly.

"I talk about your mother because I dearly love her. She might not be related to me by blood, but- well, do you know when a a pedigree dog mates with a dog that is not, the pedigree dog ceases to be considered pure, because they believe that once they mate, apart of the other dog's DNA becomes apart of the pedigree's. Your mum is a pedigree with some d'Eath mutt DNA. And I just happen to have that same DNA." Milo glanced over at Alistair and said, as though explaining, "We once had a whole cargo ship of these fancy dogs- terrible thing, dogs on a boat."

Milo had always been a tad long-winded but he never regretted it, for he found his own voice to be, well, rather sexy. He smiled. "So, yes. I know your mum. She let me hide out at your house once, when I got dad angry about- oh, there were so many times, who can remember? Sweet woman." His eyes flicked at Alistair, almost accusingly, before resting on Damien. His air was a little frosty as he said, "Tired of living with, I suppose?"

The Sunday sunshine continued to rise in the sky, draping its golden light over the brick and cobble village that was Hogsmeade. Though the cottage was no fortress, it was still Alistair’s home and he did not appreciate the way the perimeter of it was being breached by an unwelcome force. He did not wish to entertain Milo anymore than he already had and so he breezed past the man, kicking open the front door that was resting on the latch with his foot. He caught the door before it banged against the corresponding wall. He took his keys from the back pocket of his jeans, balancing the bags against his right arm and his chest, and tossed into the dish that was perched on the side next to a vase of flowers he’d plucked from the garden the day before. Alistair took a moment to pick off any dead bits of petal before becoming aware of the increasing weight on his arm.

Entering the kitchen through the door behind the stairs, Alistair’s skin revelled in the breeze that brushed over it, freeing it of the oppressive heat that seemed to surround the town. Heaving the bags onto the counter, Alistair quickly put the more perishable items into the fridge. The man then moved on to freeing the fruit from the bags he’d placed them in to set them into the fruit bowl on the kitchen island so that they could ripen up there. Once the food was unpacked, Alistair removed a bottle of flavoured water from the fridge that was peach in flavour and appeared to be something Damien liked if the amount that was left was anything to show for. Then again, for all Alistair knew it could have been him that had been drinking it – which was a more likely reason of the two – but regardless of that he poured himself and Damien a glass, purposely avoiding any show of hospitality towards Milo who clearly assumed much more than he actually knew.

Alistair moved back out into the front garden with the glasses in hand after a moment, being sure to leave the front door wedge open before making his way over to where Damien was. He placed the glasses down on the table the boy had been sat at before moving up behind the lad, placing a hand gently on his shoulder to let him know that it was Alistair behind him and not someone he did not know. Alistair’s eyes narrowed at Milo, his eyebrows furrowing with irritation at the obvious insinuation that the elder man was making. Alistair had not forced Damien to be with him. No, that had been Damien’s choice. Had Alistair had his way then he would have been alone permanently though he could not deny that the boy’s company was nice to have.

“Enough, Milo.” Alistair spoke, his tone firm and not one that would appreciate any challenge from the man he was speaking to. “Cease trying to forge a relationship with the boy via a fabricated association with his mother. That is below the belt and unnecessary; as is, might I add, you coming here today. I think you made it oh-so-very-clear how you felt about our family years ago. To come crawling back is ... pitiful. If you’re going to betray those who trusted you, at least stick to your guns. Don’t suddenly change your mind. It’s even more cowardly than the act itself. Leave the boy alone. He’s my responsibility. You lost that right a long time ago. Get out of my garden, right now. It’s a Sunday. I’d hate to cause a ruckus and disturb the whole village. Just go quietly. And don’t you dare approach him again.”