The wolf and his pup

The pack stands as one

Dumbledore strode calmly through Little Whinging Surrey, his hands held loosely at his sides and his violet robe billowing behind him. The light in the lamp posts died with every click of his deluminator. Eventually, the old man reached 4 Privet drive, the home of Vernon and Pentunia Dursley, Harry Potter's closely living relatives. Dumbledore had decided to check up on Harry himself, as Mrs. Arabella Figg, the woman had explained that she had not seen Harry, and - mostly - because the Potter vault had been emptied without his permission. The goblins had refused to explain why the vault had been emptied, stating only that his relative moved the money into a seperate vault for his own wellbeing. Dumbledore had suspected that that 'Fiar Potter' had sonething to do with it.

The old man walked up the short stone path and over to the door. He rapped his old, bony knuckles on the door and waited. A light flickered on, followed by loud footsteps and a rumble of curses, wondering 'Who the blasted hell would be out this late?'. The door was thrown open, and Dumbledore was met with the enraged, purple face of Vernon Dursley, the husband of Pentunia Dursley Nee Evans.
"What do you want old man?! Do you realise what time it is?!" Vernon demanded.
Dumbledore wiped some spittle from his face with his thumb, "Yes, and I deeply apologise. I am just here to check on Harry-"
"Look, I don't know what you're on, but there is no Harry in this house!" Vernon cut him off.
Dumbledore blinked at him, "I'm sorry but-"
The door was slammed shut in his face. Dumbledore turned away, his face calculating. If Harry wasn't here then where... Greyback! Voldemort must have ordered him to kidnap Harry in case things went wrong. He must've put a glamour on him! That would explain the baby the werewolf was with!

The old man ran out of Privet drive, holding his robe up so he wouldn't slip. He had to get the boy back before it was too late.

The cold, crisp night was silent. The house elves were sleeping soundly in their crates in the cellar, Tom was curled up in the grand master bed, and Saros was cuddled up with his toys, deep in sleep dreaming about whatever the fuck babies dream about. Fenrir, however, was wide awake. He was sat in the kitchen, drinking a glass of ice cold water slowly. The werewolf couldn't sleep, everytime he tried he was taken back there. At differnt periods of time before his father's death. His mother's funeral was the most frequent. Nobody came. It was only Fenrir, his father, the priest and the Undertaker burying her. Fenrir let out a sad, shaky sigh and hid his face in his hand. He gulped down the rest of the water and stood. Fenrir stalked out of the kitchen, scratching at the stubble on his chintrap beard. He stumbled up the stairs, tripping and stumbling twice. The werewolf gripped the banister and his world spun. He gripped his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. A faint swump filled Fenrir's ears, making them twitch. He looked up, his silvery blue eyes narrowed. The werewolf raced up the stairs. He tripped and shifted into his wolf form. He darted up the stairs and over to the bedroom. Fenrir nosed open the door open and crept into the room. Tom was still sound asleep, facing away from Saros' bedroom door. Fenrir crossed the room in quick, quiet footsteps. He was probably hearing things, but he wasn't going to risk it.

Fenrir stood on his hind legs and gripped the doorhandle in his mouth. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. A man in a cloak was stood over Saros' cot, cradling the boy in his arms. Fenrir barked loudly, causing Tom to jolt awake and the man to turn in alarm. The man quickly turned and scrambled out of the window, gripping a now screaming Saros to his chest. Fenrir dove out of the window after him, barking and snapping. The man managed to break his fall by using Wigardium Leviosa on himself, while Fenrir fell onto the thorny rose bushes below. The werewolf snapped at him, and managed to tear off some of his cloak. Fenrir let out a pained yelp as the thorns buried themselves into his smokey-brown fur. The man touched down on the ground beside the rose bushes and instantly broke off into a run. Fenrir dragged himself out of the bushes and darted after him, barking and snarling madly. His body burned as the thorns dug deeper into him, but he pushed on. Nobody was taking Saros. The man was fast, Fenrir could only just about keep up with him. Maybe they had an agility potion in effect? Fenrir didn't care. If he got past the wards, he would lose his pup.