Disclaimer: Fanfiction, thus not mine, yaddi-yaddi-yadda

Warnings: Gore ahead, folks, I toned it down a bit, but still, you have been warned.

4. Monster

Walter Perry surveyed the scene.

32 years in the police, had let him come across a number of horrible views, but this… Well, if he was honest with himself – and he tended to be – this was not the worst case he had ever worked on. (The rape and disembowelment of five school-aged children in his 8th year working major crimes had that dubious honour so far).

No, not the worst, but still, it was not pretty. In fact, his partner was looking a bit green around the edges.

"Barney," Walter said, "if you could step outside for a moment? We haven't looked at the backyard yet, and the neighbours may have remembered something new."

A nod, and Barney was retreating to the hallway, a hurry in his steps. Walter shook his head. His old partner, Arthur Gibson, had retired the week before, and he had been appointed a novice barely out of school.

Walter looked back at the walls spattered with blood and small bits of flesh, at the body parts strewn about the floor and furniture, and wondered at which point he had become accustomed to the sight of death.

The police had been alerted around five, when a neighbour had visited the house for a tea-party with Mrs. Dursley and found a five years old boy sobbing next to his father's broken body.

The victim, one Vernon Dursley, had been torn apart, seemingly by hand, if the finger-shaped bruises on any chunks of flesh larger than a hand were any indication. Of course, it was probably staged. A human body was tougher than most people realized, and tearing it apart required more strength than the average person had. But Walter had to consider the possibility that it was not.

Looking at the butchery, he really hoped that the handprints were fake.

And that this murder was not the first of a long series.

"Perry? Can you come by?"

Barney's voice, calling from the front porch, brought him back to the present.

"What is it?" he asked as he made his way outside.

Towering a bit over his short partner, stood an old man in a garish tweed jacket, with long silvery hair and a beard worthy of fairy tales. Through half-moon glasses, worried blue eyes locked with his.

Family member? he glanced at Barney, looking for a clue.

"Mr. Dumbledore is a friend of the family," his partner said, with a discrete hand gesture that meant no proof. God, but he was glad he had started teaching Arthur's old code to the youngster. "He's looking for a boy named Harry."

"A friend of the son?"

"His cousin apparently," Barney replied.

Walter frowned. Neither the neighbours, nor the son had mentioned a second boy.

"That cousin, he was living here?"

Mr. Dumbledore nodded:

"Yes, he was taken in by Petunia when his parents died. Have you seen him? Is he alright?"

His frown deepened. He had not spent a lot of time searching for clues, but he had taken a look at the rooms upstairs and only one of them had the feel of a child's bedroom. Well, one room was filled with broken toys and some books, but the bed did not have a mattress, so he was reluctant to call it a bedroom.

He looked back toward the interior of the house. His eyes trailed to the white door of a cupboard under the stairs. Passing it, he had idly wondered why it would need shutters.

Now he had an awful suspicion.

Followed by his partner and the old man, he walked to the small door and opened it.

If the dirty cot and thin blanket were not enough clues, the inside of the wooden panel displayed the words "Harry's room", in faded crayon. Just below the H, a few dark spots were spattered on the wood.

Walter had seen old bloodstains enough times to be familiar with the shade.

"Oh," Barney said in a small voice.

Walter pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

"We'll have to file a report of disappearance," he eventually said, "possibly abduction."

Barney looked at him, painfully out-of-his-depth, and Walter felt a wave of frustration at his partner for not being Arthur.

"You think the murderer might have…"

"I think nothing," he said abruptly, because the old man was watching them with great attention, and you did not discuss murder and abduction cases in front of the victim's family members.

Did the killer knew the cousin beforehand? Then they might be able to work out a motive, which was better than nothing. If the murderer had killed Mr. Dursley as some form of twisted retribution for the abuse that seemed to have been happening, then there was a good chance that the missing child was still alive.

Alive and in the hands of a very unstable individual, who was either strong enough to rip a full-grown man to literal shreds, or sick enough to spend the time and energy to fake it.

But at least, there would likely not be other deaths, unless the killer was really that unstable, or something triggered a new murder.

The old man, who had been silently observing them, suddenly cleared his throat:

"I'm deeply sorry to interrupt, but is there a way to talk to Dudley or Petunia? Your colleague mentioned she was not…"

"She was still heavily wounded and has been transported to the nearest hospital."

There was a bloody spot on the kitchen's fridge, where the woman had been found, barely breathing. From what he had seen of her state when the paramedics at carted her away, she was probably undergoing emergency surgery right now.

Walter hoped she made it, if only to get a description of the murderer.

And of the missing child. He had not checked but he was pretty sure he would not find pictures of this 'Harry' in the house.

He sighed.

Cases with kidnapping rarely ended well.

Ѻ

Albus Dumbledore was scared.

This did not happen often, and he did not like the feeling one bit.

The Dursleys had been attacked by a muggle murderer, who had taken Harry Potter with them. But it could not be a muggle, because there had been traces – faint, oh so very faint – of dark magic on the scene.

It reeked of Death Eater work, except it could not, because the blood wards should have prevented any wizard with ill intentions from nearing the house, even less so entering and harming its inhabitants.

But Harry had been kidnapped, and no magic Dumbledore had attempted so far had so much as pointed him in any direction, which made no sense, because nothing short of powerful privacy wards – or very dark magic – could have deflected some of the methods he had used.

So, Dumbledore was afraid.

He was afraid for Harry, of course, the boy was barely a child, he must be terrified, he could be hurt.

But he was also afraid for his plans, because no matter how difficult it was to morally justify them, he needed the boy to be alive and at Hogwarts in six years.

Fawkes trilled reproachfully, but he ignored him. The phoenix was merely responding to his feeling of guilt, and Dumbledore did not need another weight on his mind right now.

He had to focus on finding Harry, before it was too late.

Should he reform the Order? Rely on their eyes and ears? But where to direct them? England was big and he only had so many people to help him scour the ever-widening number of possible locations.

He could inform the Ministry, he thought, but it would mean acknowledging his mistake, his carelessness. The scandal would be enormous, his standing in the Wizengamot would plummet – leaving more power to the likes of Malfoy and his ilk – not to speak of his already declining credibility in the public eye.

But only the aurors would have enough pull to really search through all of England and have a decent chance of finding the kidnapper before he slipped from their fingers.

And each day he wasted holding on to his pride, was one more day Harry could be killed… or hurt to the point of uselessness.

With a bone-weary sigh, he knelt to his fireplace.

"Amelia?" he asked the green flames. "May I step through? I have grave news to share."

Ѻ

The bike's engine was purring between his legs, a deep rumble that gave Remus the impression he was riding a big feline instead of a machine.

Sirius was all over the motorcycle, from the flashy design of the metal shapes to the feel of the wards themselves. Faint traces of the man, lingering in the enchantments, in the steel, whispers of past friendship lightly brushing his skin, soothing, as if something in the machine could spy the twisting mess of emotions roiling in his guts. His fingers clenched around the handles, a faint growl stirring at the back of his mind.

Moony was back, it seemed. This was oddly reassuring, in a twisted sort of way. He snorted. Did he truly feel so lonely that he would welcome a monster back? Pathetic. He ignored the disgust on his tongue, the bitter loneliness that whispered 'yes, come back, please, I'll forgive anything, as long as I'm not alone'… Tingles of magic against his palms, smells of honey and musk, and a faint grin that said so much without a word-

He shoved the half-formed memory away, biting his lip until the salt-rust taste of blood brought everything back to pained clarity.

Deep breaths.

Gods, he was a mess.

He pulled himself together – as best as he could for now, when every heartbeat was just shoving memories of Sirius at him – and glanced at Harry – safe, cub, ours – as he had done so every five minutes since he had started driving. Tucked inside the vast side-car, the boy was still peering around at the landscapes with an air of wonder and a small smile on his lips.

A knot loosened in his gut. At the back of his mind, a quiet vibration, like a growl that was more a purr. Moony was back, but the wolf was not leaking its usual rage and hunger onto him.

Harry, Remus realized. They both wanted him safe, and that was enough to hold the wolf at bay. For once, they had a common goal.

It rattled, like something that really ought not be, but having an ally, even if only in his mind, was reassuring.

Another glance at Harry, who was shifting around in his seat to look at some receding feature of the landscape, and Remus thought that he could get used to it.

To address more practical matters, Harry needed a scarf, before he caught a cold. Driving in daylight was fine – and even then, mid-spring was still often chilly – but they were probably going to keep through the night. Remus was happy that he had remembered enough transfiguration from his school days to turn Harry's threadbare T-shirt into a thick and warm jacket, and one of his socks into a sturdy helmet (that still smelled faintly like footwear).

Finding good clothes for Harry was going to be the next priority. Well, after finding decent food and shelter.

And making sure no one took his cub away.

Ѻ

Remus is an emotional wreck, and it's surprisingly hard to write without going overboard. Though, from my point of view, we're already far past "overboard" and down the railing 300 meters deep into the sea.

On Dumbledore. He makes a fascinating character to write, especially when one refuses to let his motivations excuse his actions.

Also, meet Walter Perry, random OC who we might see more of later.