Grimmauld Place shudders under the weight of summer heat, a stark contrast to the chill that seeps into every corner within.
Molly bustles about the kitchen; her brow furrowed as she prepares dinner for the Order members gathering at Sirius's ancestral home. Arthur sits nearby, engrossed in a Muggle device he's trying to understand. Fred and George are huddled over their latest inventions, snickering at some private joke, while Ginny reads by the window, sunlight casting an orange glow on her red hair. In the darkened drawing room, Sirius Black stares into the fire, his expression unreadable. Remus stands beside him with worry lines etched deep across his face.
Upstairs, Ron and Hermione sit in muted silence, their thoughts consumed by Harry—their best friend who has remained alarmingly quiet all summer. The usual letters with complaints about the Dursleys or enquiries about Quidditch scores have been absent since they left Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. An unsettling void stretches out in their place, leaving room for fear to creep in, especially as Dumbledore had forbidden them to contact him unless he wrote first – if you asked Hermione, it felt like Dumbledore was trying to isolate Harry, but she couldn't be sure.
"Something's wrong," Hermione whispers, breaking the heavy stillness between them. She wrings her hands together, her knuckles white against the backdrop of uncertainty. "He would've written by now."
Ron nods, his gaze fixed on the worn carpet beneath his feet. He remembers the last time Harry was silent like this too well—it had ended with an unauthorised rescue mission via a flying Ford Anglia three years prior.
The memory is vivid, as if it had happened just yesterday. Ron recalls the relief that washed over him when they found Harry alive, bruised, shaken and thinner than any twelve-year-old should be.
"It's not like him," Ron mutters, echoing Hermione's fears. His mind races back to the previous summers when letters from Harry arrived almost every three days. But now... nothing.
From the doorway, the sound of soft footsteps draws their attention. Fred and George appear, their faces unusually serious. They'd heard snippets of the conversation, their curiosity piqued despite themselves. As much as they enjoyed poking fun at their younger brother and his friends, they knew better than most what Harry meant to Ron.
"Remember the bars?" Fred asks, leaning against the doorframe. His voice lacks its usual lighthearted tone, replaced instead with concern.
George nods, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, who even does that to a child?"
"We need to do something." Hermione's voice pulls Ron from his thoughts. She's standing now, pacing the length of the room with an intensity that sets Ron's own heart racing.
"But what can we do?" Ron asks, watching her. "We can't just fly there again, even on brooms. Mum would kill us."
"She might," Hermione concedes, stopping her pacing to look at him. Her brown eyes are hard, determined. "But we have to tell someone."
Ron thinks about the letters, about the increasing sense of dread that has settled in his stomach. "You're right," he admits finally. "This isn't like the other summers. He was writing nearly every three days last year. Now... nothing."
The next morning finds Ron and Hermione descending the stairs to find Molly already up and bustling around the kitchen, her face creased with lines of concentration as she prepares breakfast.
"Mum," Ron starts, his voice thick with sleep and anxiety. Hermione stands just behind him, her expression mirroring his concern. "We need to talk."
Molly turns at the sound of her son's voice, her hands stilling on the handle of a saucepan. She takes in the grave expressions before her and nods, gesturing for them to sit down at the worn wooden table.
"It's about Harry," Hermione says, getting straight to the point. Her fingers trace the grain of the table, finding no comfort in its familiarity. "He hasn't written since we left school."
A frown tugs at the corners of Molly's mouth, her brows knitting together as she processes their words. "No letters at all?"
Ron shakes his head, his gaze steady despite the turmoil churning within him. "Not one. And he always writes, even if it's just to talk about nothing."
Her lips press into a thin line, and she crosses her arms over her chest—a protective gesture that does little to mask the worry in her eyes. "I've never liked him being there, not after what you boys told me when you rescued him… and we all saw his bruises that summer; he was covered."
The clatter of cutlery hitting plates is the only sound filling the room as they consider the implications of Harry's silence. It hangs heavy between them, an unspoken fear that refuses to stay buried any longer.
"I'll bring it up during the meeting tonight," Molly finally says, her voice firm despite the uncertainty clouding her thoughts. "Albus needs to know this isn't normal."
The kitchen of Grimmauld Place is a hub of hushed voices and the clinking of tea cups as members of the Order gather, their faces etched with worry and anticipation. The air hums with an energy that speaks to the gravity of their situation, each person aware that what they discuss within these walls could determine the course of the war.
Molly steps forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if holding onto some semblance of control amidst the chaos. Her voice, usually filled with warmth, now bears a sharper edge, cutting through the murmurings like a knife.
"Albus," she begins, her gaze fixed on Dumbledore's calm exterior across the table. "There's something we need to address concerning Harry."
Dumbledore inclines his head slightly, the candlelight reflecting off his half-moon spectacles as he regards her with quiet attention. Around them, curious eyes turn towards Molly, sensing the urgency behind her words.
"It's been weeks since he left for Privet Drive, and we've heard nothing from him," Molly continues, her fingers tightening around one another. "This isn't like Harry. He always writes to us during the summer."
She pauses, allowing her words to sink in. In the silence, Dumbledore remains unfazed, his expression unreadable behind those twinkling blue eyes. But there is no mistaking the growing unease among the others, their concern palpable even in the dimly lit room.
"You remember three years ago?" Molly presses on, her voice steady despite the tremor threatening its resolve. "When the boys found him locked up, beaten and bruised?"
Her question lingers in the air, heavy and unyielding. It's a memory none of them can forget; how Harry arrived at the burrow, thinner than before, his glasses askew and shirt hanging loosely off his small frame, showing hand-print shaped bruises. And beneath it all, the unmistakable marks of neglect—a stark reminder of the world that awaited him outside Hogwarts' protective embrace.
A shudder passes through Minerva McGonagall at the recollection – Molly had shown her the memories to prove her point. Her lips press into a thin line, her features hardened by the grim reality facing her student. She has borne witness to the boy's growth over the years—from a timid first-year lost amid ancient halls and towering figures, to a young man carrying burdens far beyond his age—yet every time she thinks of him returning to that wretched house, her heart clenches. His first letter was addressed to the cupboard under the stairs, and she dreads to think how small the smallest bedroom is.
"Molly is right," she finally says, breaking her silence. Her voice is firm, the Scottish brogue lending weight to her statement. "We must ensure Harry's well-being, especially after everything that transpired last term."
McGonagall's reference to Voldemort's resurrection and Cedric Diggory's death sends a chill through the room. They are reminders of the danger lurking just beyond their doorstep, waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike.
"I believe there may be more going on at the Dursleys'," she adds, meeting Dumbledore's gaze with unwavering determination. "Harry should not have to suffer any further abuse, not when he needs our support most."
For a moment, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, its rhythm echoing the tension coiling tighter within the confines of the kitchen. Across the table, Sirius Black's jaw tightens, his fists clenched against the worn wood. As much as he despises being confined to this house, the mere thought of Harry enduring another summer with the Dursleys fuels a rage he can barely keep at bay, and he would do anything to have Harry under the same roof.
The severity of the situation settles upon them, layering fresh worry atop old fears. Even Mundungus Fletcher, who rarely takes anything seriously unless it pertains to his dubious business dealings, wears an unusually sombre expression.
"Then it's settled." Molly's declaration slices through the mounting dread, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We must check on Harry immediately."
Albus Dumbledore remains composed behind his half-moon spectacles, fingers steepled before him. His gaze sweeps over the gathering, each face etched with concern mirroring his own. Yet there's a flicker of something else—a battle waged within the depths of those blue eyes, where knowledge and power often blur into an indistinguishable grey.
"The Dursleys have always been... challenging," he begins, choosing his words carefully. Despite the doubt creeping into their midst, Albus knows that divulging everything about Lily's protection charm could risk exposing Harry to more danger. Even walls can listen if enough magic is applied. "But we must remember why Harry needs to stay with them."
His explanation hangs in the air, unanswered questions swirling around it like unseen wraiths eager to tear away at its fragile seams. In the shadows, Remus shifts uncomfortably. He has kept watch outside Privet Drive more times than he cares to count, never once catching sight of Harry through those curtained windows.
"Moody and I haven't seen any movement from Harry since school let out," Remus says, cutting through the thickening tension. "Something isn't right."
A murmur of agreement ripples through the group, followed by the clatter of mugs set down too hastily—the sound slices through the unease, sharp as the fear gnawing at the edges of their resolve.
Sirius Black pushes back from the table, chair legs scraping against stone in a harsh counterpoint to the anxiety pulsing through the room. Every muscle in his body screams for action, for the chance to do more than sit idly by while his godson suffers.
"I'll go myself if I have to," Sirius growls, fists clenched tightly at his sides. The statement carries the weight of a promise—one born from loyalty and love, tempered by years spent battling forces threatening to pull them all under.
"Enough," Dumbledore commands, though his voice lacks its usual authority. His gaze meets Sirius' eyes, acknowledging the depth of concern etched into every line of his godson's face. "We cannot risk exposing ourselves or Harry by acting hastily."
The tension in the room shifts, unease giving way to anticipation. Each person present knows the gravity of what hangs in the balance—their fight against Voldemort, yes, but more than that, the life of a boy who has become central to them all in ways they never imagined.
Dumbledore rises from his chair slowly, the weight of decision pressing upon him like an unseen hand. His next words are deliberate, chosen with care yet bearing the unmistakable imprint of command.
"Remus...Severus." Both men stiffen at the mention of their names, eyes locked onto Dumbledore's figure. "You two will find out what's happening at Privet Drive. But do so discreetly—we don't want anyone getting wind of our movements. And let me be clear¬ – unless Harry is in grave danger, he must stay put."
Remus's brow furrows, questions dancing behind his amber eyes, but he nods in understanding. Severus remains still, his expression unreadable behind the curtain of dark hair framing his sallow features.
"Albus—" Molly begins, only to be silenced by Dumbledore's raised hand.
"I know your concerns, Molly," he says softly. Yet there's steel beneath the gentleness, a resolve forged in fires she cannot begin to fathom. "They are shared by us all. That is why we must proceed with great caution. Severus, Remus - prepare to leave at once."
A ripple of tension spreads through the room as Severus and Remus rise from their seats, each man's gaze hardened by years of war and personal animosity. The idea of them working together seems almost laughable—two sides of a coin forever at odds. But there's an urgency in the air now, a shared understanding that this mission is about more than old grudges.
As they turn towards the door, neither man speaks. Their mutual disdain hangs heavy between them, yet both move with purpose, driven by the unspoken agreement that Harry's safety takes precedence over all else.
Severus's robes billow behind him as he strides down the hall, while Remus follows at a distance, his steps measured against the uneven rhythm of his own heartbeat. In the silence left behind, those remaining can only wait—and hope that whatever is happening at Privet Drive does not mark a turning point in a war that has already taken too much.
The journey from Grimmauld Place to Little Whinging is swift but fraught with the same tension that marked their departure. Severus and Remus appear side by side in Mrs Figg's living room, the sudden crack of apparition startling the cats into a flurry of hisses and arched backs.
"Be quick," Severus snaps, brushing cat hair from his robes with a look of distaste.
Remus merely nods, his focus already shifting to the task ahead. With one last glance at the squirming felines, he opens the front door, stepping out into the fading light of day.
The walk to Privet Drive is short, but every second stretches taut with anticipation. As they approach number four, the street is eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Every window along the row of identical houses glows warmly except for one—the smallest bedroom in the Dursleys' home.
"Let's get this over with," Severus murmurs, his voice barely audible as he steps towards the front door. Remus, ever watchful, follows close behind, every sense attuned to the slightest sign of danger.
The knock echoes through the stillness, reverberating off the walls of Number Four Privet Drive. For a moment, there is no response—only the quiet tick-tock of an unseen clock counting down the seconds. Then the door creaks open, revealing Petunia Dursley's gaunt face etched with apprehension.
Her gaze flickers between the two wizards, recognition flashing in her eyes as they land on Severus. "You," she spits out, her voice trembling with disdain. "What do you want?"
From the shadows, Severus regards her coldly, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. "Is that any way to greet an old neighbour, Petunia?" He steps forward, causing her to retreat instinctively back into the house.
"I'm not here for pleasantries," Remus cuts in, his tone firm yet laced with urgency. "We need to see Harry."
Petunia's lips thin into a tight line, but before she can protest further, Vernon Dursley lumbers into view, his face reddening at the sight of unexpected guests.
He locks eyes with Vernon Dursley, whose bluster seems to have deflated under the weight of this unexpected confrontation.
"What's all this ruckus then?" he blusters, eyeing Severus and Remus with undisguised hostility. "Who are you people? And what do you want with our nephew?"
Severus's sneer deepens, a dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "We're from the school," he says smoothly, taking perverse pleasure in the Dursleys' growing discomfort. "And we have reason to believe something has happened to Potter."
Confusion and fear wrestle across Vernon's features, replacing his initial bravado. His meaty hands grip the edge of the door tighter, knuckles whitening under the strain. Beside him, Petunia stands rigid, her breath hitching as she processes Severus's words.
Severus's lip curls in disgust as he takes in their stunned silence. "I see your intelligence remains as limited as ever."
Just then, Remus's gaze flickers towards the hallway, drawn by something unseen. He steps past Severus, crossing the threshold before anyone can protest. His nostrils flare slightly, picking up on an all-too-familiar scent—one that sends a jolt of alarm through his veins.
"Blood," he murmurs under his breath, following the faint trail until it leads him to a spot on the carpet near the cupboard under the stairs, with the door completely missing. The stain is a few weeks old, but to Remus, it might as well be a beacon.
He crouches down, his fingers brushing lightly over the dried patch. Then, lifting them to his nose, he inhales sharply. Even with the passage of time, the metallic tang is unmistakable—Harry's blood. But there's something else too... an underlying note of infection.
Rage bubbles inside Remus, hot and fierce. Turning back towards the living room, his amber eyes meet Severus's black ones, reflecting a silent promise of retribution.
"Three weeks ago!" Dudley blurts out suddenly, making everyone in the room jump. "Two people came for him three weeks ago!"
With a swift flick of his wand, Severus casts a wordless Legilimens spell on Vernon. The man's eyes glaze over as Severus delves into the caverns of his mind, sifting through the debris of mundane memories for any trace of Harry.
The images come at first in flashes—mundane fragments of office work, television programmes, and family dinners laced with underlying tension. But then, nestled among them like a dark gem, he finds what he is looking for: two figures knocking on the door three weeks ago—a man with sleek blond hair and an aristocratic bearing, a woman by his side whose pale face betrays concern despite her stoic demeanour.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.
Vernon's memory unfolds before Severus, playing out the scene with vivid clarity. Petunia, barely able to whisper, watches as Lucius strides past her, inspecting the house with disdain and demanding to know Harry's whereabouts.
Narcissa's keen eyes lead her to the cupboard under the stairs, where a dark stain hints at Harry's suffering. Vernon's feeble protest is drowned out by the Malfoys' quiet authority. Lucius's wand slices through the air and the cupboard door shatters, revealing the small, bruised figure within. The sight is enough to make even the hardest heart flinch, but Lucius's expression remains unreadable.
Narcissa kneels beside Harry, her wand tracing an intricate pattern as she chants a healing spell. For a moment, Lucius watches, something flickering behind his eyes before he turns away. Vernon and Petunia hover in the doorway, their familiar bluster extinguished by the unexpected visitors' power. Dudley, usually quick to laugh at Harry's misfortune, hides behind his parents, his wide eyes fixed on the scene.
"Move," Narcissa commands, her voice slicing through the tension. Vernon stumbles back against the wall, a large man made small by the force of her presence. Petunia watches from the doorway, her thin fingers clutching the fabric of her dress as guilt and fear war within her.
A flicker of blue light escapes the tip of Narcissa's wand, knitting together Harry's broken skin. Lucius moves through the house with purpose, summoning Harry's belongings before disappearing with a loud crack. Moments later, Narcissa stands, Harry cradled in her arms. She follows her husband, leaving the Dursleys staring after them in stunned silence.
A chill runs down Severus's spine as he withdraws from Vernon's mind. His black eyes snap open, meeting Remus's questioning gaze across the room.
"They took him," Severus grates out, each word tasting like ash on his tongue. "The Malfoys. They saved his life, from what I can tell."
Remus stiffens, his own shock mirrored in Severus's hardened expression. For all their differences, both men understand the gravity of this revelation. The implications hang heavy between them, settling into the corners of the room like unwanted guests.
"But why?" Remus breathes, disbelief tingeing his normally steady voice. "What would they want with Harry?"
Severus doesn't answer immediately; instead, his gaze drifts back to the spot where Harry had lain just weeks before. Despite everything—their turbulent history, the bitterness that still clings to the edges of his thoughts—he can't ignore the fact that it was Narcissa's magic that saved Harry from dying under the Dursleys' stairs.
"Perhaps they have their own agenda," Severus suggests, his tone laced with cynicism. His eyes narrow as he studies the room once more—every crack and crevice carrying echoes of Harry's suffering. "Or perhaps they simply couldn't ignore what was happening here."
The implication hangs in the air, a silent accusation that twists Remus's stomach. He knows all too well the Order's failure to protect Harry from the Dursleys' abuse. The guilt is a familiar weight, pressing down on him like the summer heat outside.
Severus turns away, his cloak billowing slightly as he moves towards the front door. "Keep this quiet for now, even from Albus; tell them that it was two unknown wizards that saved Harry's life before taking him with them," he instructs over his shoulder, his voice low but commanding. "The last thing we need is unnecessary panic."
Remus watches as Severus steps into the dying sunlight, disappearing with a soft pop. Despite the oppressive heat, a shiver runs down Remus's spine. He's left standing amid the remnants of Harry's life—the cupboard under the stairs now just an empty shell, its dark secrets laid bare for all to see. Remus takes one last look around before stepping out onto the street. With each step, the house shrinks behind him—a monument to normalcy hiding a history of neglect and cruelty.
His heart pounds in his chest as he prepares to apparate back to headquarters. The news he carries threatens to disrupt the delicate balance they've maintained for so long. If Harry is truly with the Malfoys...
But there's no time for speculation now. All that matters is finding Harry and bringing him home. As Remus vanishes with a faint crack, the silence of Privet Drive swallows any evidence of their heart pounds in his chest as he prepares to apparate back to headquarters. The news he carries threatens to disrupt the delicate balance they've maintained for so long. If Harry is truly with the Malfoys...
But there's no time for speculation now. All that matters is finding Harry and bringing him home. As Remus vanishes with a faint crack, the silence of Privet Drive swallows any evidence of their presence.
Remus appears in the quiet hallway of Grimmauld Place, his face pale and drawn. He takes a moment to gather himself before heading toward the kitchen where the rest of the Order is waiting, along with the children. His heart hammers against his ribs, each beat echoing the urgency of the situation.
"Harry's gone," Remus announces as he enters the room. The words hang heavy in the air, greeted by stunned silence.
The members of the Order exchange worried glances, but it's Molly who speaks up first. "Gone? What do you mean gone?" Her voice wavers, mirroring the fear etched across her face.
"He was taken away, almost three weeks ago." Remus pushes a hand through his hair, frustration lining his features. "No one saw anything unusual, or if they did, they didn't think it worth mentioning until now."
"What happened?" Sirius Black demands, rising from his chair. His grey eyes flash with anger and concern—emotions that have become all too familiar in recent months. "Who took him?"
Remus looks around the table at the faces watching him, their expressions varying degrees of confusion and disbelief. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he must reveal next.
"Harry was found under the stairs, severely beaten and near death," he says, his voice steady despite the tremor running through his veins. "Two unknown wizards appeared and healed him, then took him away."
A collective gasp sweeps through the room, followed by a flurry of questions and exclamations of disbelief. Hermione clutches Ron's arm, her brown eyes wide with shock. Ginny sits frozen beside them, her freckled face blanched white. Fred and George exchange a look of alarm before turning back to Remus, waiting for him to continue.
"Hang on," Arthur interjects, holding up a hand to quell the mounting panic. "You said two unknown wizards found Harry. Do we know anything else about them? Were they Death Eaters?"
"We don't know yet," Remus lies, avoiding eye contact. "They managed to heal Harry before taking him somewhere safe."
He doesn't mention that 'somewhere' is likely Malfoy Manor—that the boy who lived might now be in the hands of those who once sought to end him. It's too much, even for this group who have seen and heard it all.
"And Snape is handling this?" Sirius asks, scepticism lacing his tone. Despite the gravity of the situation, old animosities die hard. "Let's face it, he's probably the one who handed Harry over to those..."
"Enough, Sirius!" Minerva McGonagall's sharp tone cuts through the tension like a knife. Her gaze sweeps across the room, meeting each set of eyes with steely resolve. "Speculation will not bring Harry back."
But the damage has been done. The seeds of doubt and fear have taken root within the hearts of those present, their expressions mirroring the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.
Hermione's hand flies to her mouth as she chokes back a sob, Ron wrapping an arm around her in silent comfort. Ginny stares at the table, her knuckles white where they grip the edge. Fred and George exchange worried glances, their usual joviality replaced by grim determination. Even Molly, a rock amidst the storm, falters under the weight of this revelation. She reaches for Arthur's hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwine with his.
"Thank Merlin he's away from those Muggles." Ron's voice is barely audible above the murmuring that fills the kitchen, but the sentiment hangs heavy in the air.
"Yeah, but is he safe?" Hermione's words tumble out, rushed and tinged with panic.
"We'll find him," Molly assures them, though her own worry is clear. "We won't rest until we do."
McGonagall rises from her chair, her posture rigid despite the chaos unfolding around her, "Harry needs us now more than ever."