AN: Thank you to all of my reviewers! I do not own Harry Potter or DGray-man.

In the kitchen at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London; current headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix…

Hermione stood in front of the headmaster of Hogwarts, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. Ginny, also scowling, stood just behind her, and Ron was hovering further back, watching the proceedings with an anxious expression. Dumbledore smiled tiredly at them. "How may I help you Miss Granger, Miss Weasley?" he inquired politely, and then his gaze travelled to Ron. An amused kind of twinkle entered his eyes, and he added; "Mr Weasley?"

"Professor Dumbledore," Hermione said stiffly; "I understand that you wish to keep Harry safe, but we think that this has gone on quite long enough. Harry hasn't even answered either mine or Ron's last four letters. Anything could have happened to him! Or… well, if he has fallen into silence out of choice, I can't really say I blame him. We haven't been able to tell him anything, and we all know that he doesn't like staying with his relatives. At least send someone to check up on him if you really can't afford to bring him here."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, and it suddenly seemed as though his age was finally making more of an impact than it usually did. "I understand your concern and appreciate your worry about your friend, but I'm sure he's fine…"

"How can you be sure?" Ginny snarled in a display of the stereotypical redhead's temper. "Most wizards and witches are 'sure' that You-Know-Who hasn't returned. For some time last year, even Ron was 'sure' Harry had entered his name into the Goblet;" – here, Ron looked down, ears reddening in embarrassment and slight shame at remembered mistakes – "everyone outside of the Order and a few select Hogwarts students are 'sure' that Sirius is an insane murderer. So how can you be sure that Harry's safe?"

Silence greeted the end of her rant. Dumbledore appeared to be at a loss for words.

"Please, Professor," Hermione sobbed, her eyes moist with unshed tears. "Please do something, even if all you do is check…" Dumbledore raised his hand to silence Hermione.

"I have guards stationed around the Dursley residence," Dumbledore told her soothingly. "They have reported no disturbance. But just in case… I will send Remus to speak with him. If he is overly dissatisfied with his current situation, I will prepare an escort to bring him here."

Dumbledore was rewarded by wide, joyful smiles from Hermione and Ron, and a satisfied smile from Ginny, who was looking curiously like the cat that caught the canary. "I knew you'd come round to our way of thinking, sir," she purred, and then she glided from the room.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," said Hermione brightly, and then she skipped from the room, looking happier than she had in months.

"Yeah, thanks Professor," Ron mumbled before striding quickly after his sister and best female friend.

Dumbledore slumped into a chair and stared unseeingly at the door through which three of his students had just vanished. He only hoped that he wasn't making a mistake by inviting Harry here. If Voldemort was to break into Harry's mind… Stop fretting, he told himself firmly. The house is under a fidelius charm, and it will be good for Harry to see his friends again. He stood up and made his way to the fireplace, where he grabbed a handful of floo powder and tossed it into the fire. Stepping into the now-green flames, he called out "Hogwarts!", and then he was gone.

The following day at Privet Drive…

Remus Lupin, werewolf member of the Order of the Phoenix and one of James Potter's best friends, walked up the generic driveway of the Dursleys' generic home. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a blain black t-shirt. His muggle dress-sense was much better than that of most wizards, it seemed. He glanced towards where he knew Mundungus, Harry's current guard, lurked under an invisibility cloak. Sure enough, there were two slight imprints in the shape of shoeprints on the sun-withered lawn. Remus continued to the front door, never noticing the young woman watching him closely through the window of the house next door.

Almost a minute after he rang the doorbell, a morbidly obese young man slammed the door open. "Who're you?" he mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate muffin, not even bothering to swallow before taking another large bite.

"I'm Remus Lupin," the wizard replied. "I'm here to speak to Harry Potter…"

Dudley, for that's who the young man in question was, fell backwards, and his mouth gaped open, allowing for the escape of a flood of vile brown sludge. "Y-you're a freak," he stammered, not seeming to realise that the vast majority of observers outside his immediate family would be much more inclined to categorise him as a freak than the man he was labelling as such. Remus raised his eyebrows, but otherwise gave no sign that he had heard Dudley's words. The youngest Dursley turned tail and fled, slamming the door behind him. Remus frowned, and then rang the doorbell again… and again… and again. After several minutes of this, Remus' patience began to wear thin. Just as he was reaching the point of being sorely tempted to use a reducto curse to blast the door from its hinges, the door finally opened once again, this time to reveal a horse-faced blonde.

"What do you want?" she snapped, looking at him like he was a maggot-infested lump of mouldy cheese.

"Mrs Dursley," he began politely, hoping that she would have a better reaction than her son, although judging by her expression that was really not something to be expected. "My name is Remus Lupin, and I wish to speak to Harry…" It was at that point that Petunia made to slam the door in his face, but Remus, who had somewhat expected this, managed to stick out his foot in time to block the door from closing.

"There is no Harry Potter here," Petunia hissed venomously, her arms folded defensively as her eyes betrayed her nervousness. So far as she knew, Harry had had barely anything to eat or drink over the past week, and hadn't been let out of his room at all, even to use the bathroom. Now that the 'freaks' had decided to check on the boy, she found herself silently cursing their decision. She didn't know exactly what would happen if they decided that the boy's condition was unacceptable, and she certainly didn't want to find out. The only thing that she could think to do was feign ignorance…

Remus' eyes narrowed, and a sudden sinking sensation came over him. He knew this was the house; he himself had had guard duty a few times, and he had defiantly seen Harry coming in and out of this house. He was equally sure that this woman was Petunia Dursley; despite the sisters' lack of contact, Lily had insisted on placing a few photos of Petunia around her and James' house in Godric's Hollow. "I want to speak to Harry now," he growled, his eyes flashing angrily. Petunia's resolve wavered in the face of this man's anger, and the sudden aura of danger that seemed to take form around him, and before her conscious mind registered what she was doing, she wordlessly stepped aside to allow him entrance.

"Which room is his?" Remus asked, fixing her with a glare that left no room for argument. Cringing, Petunia resigned herself to co-operation, and gestured for him to follow her up the stairs.

On the house's second story, Petunia guided Remus to a heavily padlocked door with a small cat flap at the bottom. "This is it," she announced, lips thin to the point of being barely visible. She turned away, intending to leave quietly. Perhaps she would get Dudley to the car, pick up Vernon from work for a 'family emergency', and go to America for a (permanent) vacation.

Her plans were foiled by Remus, who seized her arm to prevent her from leaving. Even Gilderoy Lockhart would be unable to mistake his anger now. "Why is it locked?" he asked, and his grip tightened when she didn't answer straight away.

Petunia gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Well, he and Dudley got into a bit of an argument, you see, nothing to drastic, but he came up here around a week ago, locked himself in, and hasn't come out yet." She personally thought her explanation was quite a good one considering how much pressure and strain she was under.

"He put padlocks on the outside of the door and then what? Phased through? Are you saying he's a ghost now?" Remus snarled, sounding surprisingly like Severus Snape in a full potions class of Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter clones.

Petunia froze. She began to stutter, trying to form words but unable to. She became light-headed and dizzy. Calm down, Petunia, she told herself firmly. Just calm down. What's the worst they can do, anyway? Inevitably, an image of Dudley with a pig's tail sticking out the back of his trousers entered her mind, closely followed by the letter informing her of her parents' deaths at the hands of those… those disgusting wizards, Death Eaters. Her panic skyrocketed so that she began to hyperventilate. Her vision swum, and then she fainted. Now the only thing holding her up was Remus' grip on her arm. Glaring at her distastefully, he loosened his grip, allowing her to fall to the ground.

He then pointed his previously concealed wand at one of the locks and muttered; "Alohomora." The lock clicked open. He did the same thing with the next lock and received the same result. Then again, and again, and again. Eventually, the last lock opened along with the door. Remus stepped into the room and found… nothing.

Well, not absolutely nothing. There was the bed and the other furniture and a bookshelf filled with muggle books, but no Harry, no Hedwig nor her cage, none of Harry's school things. The bed was still rumpled from being slept in, and the pillow was covered with… dried blood?!

Stalking over to the bed, Remus made a sweeping motion with his wand. The pillow glowed with a deep blue light that caused him to clench his fists. It was defiantly blood. He practically ran out of the room, but then came to a stand-still when he was just out the door. Pointing his wand at Petunia, he said; "Enervate." Immediately conscious, she sprang to her feet and made to flee down the stairs, but was stopped by the tip of Remus' wand barely an inch in front of her face. "Where is Harry, and why is there blood on his pillow? Tell the truth, Dursley, or I'll use magic to make you!"

Cowed at the threat of magic been performed anywhere in her "perfectly normal" house, Petunia spoke up. "He woke us up around a week ago, making an unholy racket at an ungodly hour in the morning. The brat's completely ungrateful!" The intensity of Remus' glare increased, and Petunia flinched before continuing in her annoyingly shrill voice; "So we; that is, Vernon and I; came over here to see what was going on, and there he was, his forehead bleeding." She became silent, apparently feeling that she had said enough.

Remus' eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he could detect no falsehood in her eyes, and considering the unique properties of Harry's scar, the truth of her story was certainly plausible. Remus turned to glance once again at the blood-stained pillow. "That sure is a lot of blood for bleeding out of just his scar," he muttered. His earlier sinking sensation had by now metamorphosed into a feeling of physical sickness.

At this point, Petunia couldn't resist butting in with all a regular gossip's tenacity. "His scar?" she inquired rhetorically. "You mean that ugly lightning-shaped thing? I never said that was bleeding now did I?"

He whirled around to face her, practically snarling. "What happened?" he growled furiously. Petunia backed away, stammering, too frightened to actually form a coherent sentence. With one last glare at the cowering woman, he disapparated with a sound like the cracking of a whip. Petunia promptly fainted once again.

Remus, meanwhile, appeared out of thin air at Diagon Alley's apparation point. Frown still in place, he began to pick his way through the crowded streets. The mass of people crowded in on him from all sides, forming something similar to an oppressive, turbulent sea. It seemed that the Alley was especially busy today; normally the crowds were a lot more manageable than this. His eyes passed briefly over the many colourful shopfronts advertising their wares through various means, but such displays had long since ceased to induce any emotion in the now-jaded werewolf, and so he continued to pick his way through the crowd with never a second glance at that which he had once looked at with wide-eyed wonder.

Eventually, he reached Flourish and Blots which was much less crowded than the street outside. A bell jingled lightly as he opened the door, announcing, to those who cared to listen, the entry of another potential customer to the store. He walked down an aisle of books on divination, heading towards the counter. When he was about half way there, however, a snide voice called out unnecessarily loudly; "Well, if it isn't Dumbledore's pet werewolf?" A blond teenager adorned in expensive black robes had just stepped around a corner. It was pureblood Hogwarts student Draco Malfoy in all his immature, petty glory.

Almost instantaneously, all of the people within hearing distance turned to look. Remus met their stares evenly, not allowing himself to be intimidated by the hostility that most of them were radiating. A well-dressed woman placed one hand on the shoulder of both of her children, and hurriedly led them out of the store, glancing back anxiously every few steps. "Mummy, why are we going? You promised to get me the latest edition of Quidditch Through the Ages," the girl asked, confusion and hurt evident in her voice.

"Not now, sweetheart," the woman cooed, sending Remus a scorching glare that belied her tone. "I'll send for it through Owl Post, I promise. In the meantime, I'll get you a strawberry and vanilla ice-cream instead, OK?"

"OK," she replied brightly, but then her brow furrowed in a small frown. "But why…"

"There are monsters out and about. I wouldn't want you getting gobbled up." Her tone was as poisonous as her words.

Remus barely kept from wincing. Such reactions were nothing new to him, but they never ceased to wound him. Draco smirked triumphantly, looking as smug as a nymphomaniac after a threesome.

Just ignore them, Moony; it doesn't matter what idiots like them think, anyway, spoke up a voice in his mind that sounded remarkably like his dear friend Sirius Black. He chuckled inwardly at that. With Sirius as his conscious, he was probably doomed, anyway.

Hey, I resent that, whined the aforementioned conscious. Remus replied by obstinately ignoring it. Head held high, he strode up to the counter.

"Hi, Remus," muttered the man standing behind the counter, Gaius Flourish, who just so happened to also be a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Several customers were eyeing the two suspiciously, and a couple of young men began to saunter in their direction, but a firm glare from the brawny, intimidating Gaius sent them scurrying. "Do you want to floo to Headquarters?" he asked in a low voice. Remus nodded silently in reply.

"This week, the fireplace over there is connected," Gaius continued, gesturing to a large open fireplace only a few metres from the counter. "Password's 'The Burrow'." Every week, a different fireplace within Flourish and Blotts had sole connection through the Floo Network to Grimmauld Place, and various passwords were used to gain entrance in order to prevent Order-savvy eavesdroppers (i.e. Death Eaters) from figuring out the location of Headquarters. The Secret Keeper ritual may have prevented them from entering under such circumstances, but Death Eaters hovering around the general area and picking off anyone who tried to go through the front door would certainly be unwelcome.

Remus moved quickly, not wanting to stay any longer than necessary. Quite besides the open suspicion and hostility of the store's other patrons, he had a very bad feeling about Harry, and wanted to speak with Dumbledore about it ASAP. Stepping into the fireplace, he poured into his hand some floo powder from a small bag he had taken from a magically modified pocket in his jeans. The pocket was, through the careful application of spells, much larger on the inside than it was on the outside; a relatively common practice among witches and wizards.

"Where do you think you're going, werewolf?" snarled a heavily-scarred, middle-aged man. Draco was leaning lazily against a nearby shelf, apparently enjoying the show he had started.

Remus merely raised his eyebrows. The man seemed even more infuriated by this, and opened his mouth to say something else.

"The Burrow," Remus said clearly, and dropped the floo powder into the ashes at his feet. Emerald flames sprang up around him, and he was gone before the man had another chance to speak. He was not afraid of being followed; only those who had been told Grimmauld Place's location by Albus Dumbledore would be able to enter through any means, and Gaius would probably stop anyone from attempting to follow, anyway.

He stepped smoothly over the hearth in Grimmauld Place's spacious dining room, and was immediately assaulted by an indecipherable clamour of questions. It seemed that Sirius, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Mrs. Weasley and Headmaster Dumbledore had all been sitting at the long ebony table awaiting his return.

"Quiet!" Dumbledore commanded loudly, and the din of voices immediately dropped dead. One could have easily heard a needle drop onto the floor. "Now… How is Harry, Remus?"

"He's not there," Remus replied shortly, and the concern and anger were clear to be heard in his voice.

The clamour immediately sprung back to life, but one voice sailed rose up to break out of the mass of sound and make itself clearly heard.

"HE'S WHAT?!" It was Sirius. Of course it was. The other voices quieted, not as swiftly as before, but still rather quickly. It seemed that Sirius was going to be the spokesperson. "What's happened, Moony?" he continued to rage, as fierce as the mythical grim to which his Animagus form was so similar. "What's happened to my Godson?"

He paused to take a deep breath, no doubt in preparation for an extensive and ultimately useless rant, but Remus cut him off before he could begin. "His cousin answered the door…" Remus begun. Within minutes he had finished recounting what had happened. Silence clung thickly, oppressively, to every air particle in the room. It was the kind of silence that fell over a forest as hunters passed through. It was altogether less pleasant than the earlier headache-inducing din.

Almost simultaneously, eight pairs of eyes turned to look accusingly at the headmaster. The heavy-hearted old man felt as though he would break under the weight of those stares. Almost despairing, he buried his face in his arms. Unbroken, the ominous silence lingered.