Chapter Text
Schlick.
Thunk.
Thud.
The body dropped to the concrete.
The killer remained crouched behind the bush, not bothering to retrieve the knife he threw. Glancing at his watch, he counted. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One...
A scream. A shout. A smirk and whisper.
"Showtime."
Amilia Bones was not known to be squimish, but the sight before her was gruesome in ways she had never seen before.
"Creative. Extraordinarily creative, I'll give them that," Moody said distastefully, staring at the remains strewn about before them. He pointed to the largest mound of flesh. "Looks bit like a baby whale, don' he?"
How Moody could see any sort of human shape from the bloodied mess of limbs and intestines, she didn't know.
At three in the morning, Amelia woke up to a Patronus message from her boss. A few minutes later the brunet was drinking Pepper-Up potions and hurrying to the scene of Number Four, Privet Drive.
The place was swarming with muggle police and dogs, along with nosy neighbors whose faces paled upon seeing the lawn. One lady a few blocks down opened the door, gaped, and slammed the door closed.
Two bodies were hanging from the gutters of Number Four, missing arms and facial features. Blood dripped and landed in large puddles. An eye was dangling from the longer of the two corpses. The third corpse was laying flat on the driveway, limbs severed and strewn about the lawn. Its intestines had been wrapped around its throat.
Moody huffed. "Don't suppose the limbs and...whatever that is, spell something, do they?"
"No sir. Not any words, at least.."
"Well, spit it out cadet!"
The muggle officer on scene frowned at the term, but nonetheless answered. "Sir, the remains form an image. It's an odd one, almost looks like a skull eating a snake," he held up a picture with an aerial view. "You don't happen to know anything about what it means?"
Amelia and Moody looked at each other. It could only mean one thing.
Death Eaters.
Severus Snape was having a bad day. First, he found that the Sopophoric beans he was going to use for the sixth years were expired. Then someone dropped Root of Asphodel too early and made hazardous mistake of a potion. The result exploded all over the moron, while also puffing up a mushroom cloud of toxic dust. He had to evacuate everyone rapidly, as well as ensure that the air-purifing charms were functioning.
Some had failed.
So it was up to him, and him alone, to fix it. It took an extremely long time and he was beyond annoyed.
Finally, when everything had been cleared and cleaned up, Albus-too-many-names-Dumbledore waltzed into his office.
And that was how Potions Professor Severus Snape found himself walking into the pristine building of Number Four, Private Drive.
The muggles had done a decent job of cleaning up the bloody mess, but there were a few spots that the wizard noted.
A reddish streak on the banister. A footprint in the sitting room. The indentation wasn't much, but belonged to someone with a size seven men's shoe. Nobody in this house had that.
What was the real interesting part, you ask? Perhaps the set of freshly-washed knives sitting innocently on the counter. There were no fingerprints left behind.
The area itself was modest, but it held an air of strived fancy. The decorations were elegant yet uncharismatic, which told Severus that the owners of the house cared more for asthetics and appearing normal than the inhabitants' wellbeing. Each picture frame on the mantel was evenly spaced, and angled towards the viewer. No dust was present.
Potter wasn't photographed. Why?
The house creaked as it shifted. Snape turned to see that down the hallway, the door to the cupboard under the stairs had popped open. Cautiously gripping the wand in his pocket, he stepped forward and examined the door. He relaxed when nothing jumped out at him, but...
Carved into the inside of the wooden door were the words, "Harry's room" in uneven, wobbly lettering. The outside had a gold-plated lock. Snape's heart thundered as he thought through the implications of what he was seeing.
Inside the cupboard was a small, dust-covered mattress. A shelf with a broken purple crayon, two Native American figurines, and a singular playing card.
The Ace of Spades.
None of what he was seeing made any sense. After all, Dumbledore had assured everyone that Potter was well-taken care of by his loving family.
He backed out of the cupboard and apparated away.