The Devil Doesn't Have Horns

by M_yh_m

Summary:

After a brutal attack on Privet Drive Number Four - Harry Potter is declared dead. With the Mundane and Wizarding World believing he is dead, Harry finds new start life with a new brother. But not everything is so simple and some scars are deeper than skin deep. Now he must ground himself in a world where monsters wear human faces - and magic is not the answer.
Will Graham lives a quiet life in Wolf Trap Virginia working as a professor for the FBI. He loves this quiet life, until he finds himself of kilter when he is confronted with a younger brother he knew nothing about. All seems to be going well until he is called on to consult an ongoing case for the FBI and Will finds it hard to balance reality and fantasy.
Hannibal Lecter has always enjoyed his simple single life. Never having an urge to share it with anyone. He enjoys his life of peeling back the layers of the psyche of people and killing the rudest of pigs he comes across, he is content with how life is going. That all changes though when he's called in by the FBI to help keep one of their agents tethered in reality, and he finds himself drawn the the agent and his younger brother.

Notes:

All mistakes are my own

Please be aware of the Tags

Chapter 1: The Attack

It was the crack of thunder that startled Harry Potter awake. The summer storm had rolled in soft and gray late afternoon and now raged in earnest, rain drumming on the roof, lightning flashing white through the edges of his curtains. 

Sweat clung to his hairline as he slowly blinked away the little sleep he had managed to get. Harry sat up in bed, reaching out blindly to shove his glasses on his face. He turned his head, glancing at the clock that in bright red numbers blinked an angry red. 1:00 blinked back at him lazily - a sign that at some point the power went out. 

Harry would not be able to get back to sleep. Not that he cared as lately sleep had become infrequent and always ended up with him waking up with his heart racing before he was fully conscious. Nightmares haunted him every time he closed his and kept spitting him back out. Every time he closed his eyes he’d be back in that damned graveyard with Cedric, or in the Ministry unable to save Sirius. 

He’d only been at Privet Drive for a week since the end of turn, and already it seemed too much and not enough. Strangely though, Harry didn’t want to be anywhere else. Not at the Burrow, not Hogwarts or even another place that Dumbledore had offered or the Weasleys had begged for him to stay at. Harry had refused, he’d cling to the cold, familiar misery of the Dursleys’ house over somewhere else. 

Lightning briefly illuminated the peeling wallpaper and the stacks of Dudley’s old broken toys that he’d never truly gotten around to getting rid of. He rolled over, eyes gritty and tried to find a different position in his rickety bed that would allow him to wait out until Aunt Petunia saw fit to send him out to do chores - when a feeling of dread overcame him.

The house was silent.

Usually at this hour, Uncle Vernon’s snores would echo through the house, rattling Harry’s chest like distant cannon fire. Or Dudley would be up and whatever video game that had caught his fancy would be just loud enough that Harry could hear it through the walls. Tonight, though, there was nothing - just the rumbling strom, and a silence that pressed on all sides.

He sat up, trying to hear anything. He knew that Uncle Vernon and Dudley were going out to go to Aunt Marjorie’s home, and had decided to leave rather early in the morning. Maybe that was the cause of the silence. Aunt Petunia had driven nearly everyone mad with her worry as she fluttered about the last day or two about them leaving. All to make sure that they were prepared for the trip. 

But something screamed inside of him that it was wrong.

He stumbled out of bed, bare feet brushing the cold floor as he crept to the door. Harry hoped that as he got closer, he would be able to hear something - anything that could shake this feeling of wrongness away. Holding his breath, Harry pressed himself against the door.

Then he heard it - a muffled, broken sob. He flinched away from the door as if burned. He waited for a heartbeat then leaned in again, his heart thumping in his ears. Had he imagined it? 

No. Someone was crying. The sound was faint and wet, like someone was trying to muffle themselves. Harry’s stomach twisted. Who could it be?

Now seemingly melding with the bedroom door, Harry could hear the faint sound of someone rummaging through things. The hairs on Harry’s arms stood up. Were they being robbed? But why? The Dursleys weren't particularly rich, most things were bought at a discount and oftentimes slightly used. Harry knew this only because he was raised in the household, and Aunt Petunia often had fights with Uncle Vernon about it. 

Harry carefully made his way back to his bed, avoiding the floor boards that had a habit of squeaking. He wasn't going to be able to help stuck up here in his room. Harry couldn't save them just like he couldn't save Cedric or Sirius, the Dursleys had a higher chance of living than Cedric or Sirius did. 

Time seemed to drag on, what felt like hours were mere minutes as the clock indicated - when a high pitch scream broke the silence. Harry jumped, green eyes wide as he stared at the door. That sounded like Aunt Petunia. What faintly sounded like a fight came through the door.

Harry glanced at the barred up window, he had no way to escape. But more horrifying, how come no one was coming to check up on them? Someone must have heard the screaming that was happening, and yet not one curious neighbor.

It dawned on Harry, the only way that no one was coming to check was if there were wards around the house that wouldn't allow sounds to escape. That meant that whoever was attacking was magical in some nature.

Harry's heart plummeted to his stomach.

Harry eyed the door. That had to be impossible right? Professor Dumbledore told him that there were Order members watching the house.

He turned to the window, climbing into the desk. Yanking it open it jammed only allowing him to slip his hand through. Uncle Vernon had ensured that there would be no more owls that could get to the house. The bars on the window had been there since he’d gotten his first letters about Hogwarts. All owls had slowly been rerouted to Mrs Figgs. And now, this fact would cause him not to be able to get any help. 

Tears gathered in his eyes, would he risk it? Yelling and hoping that an Order member was standing close by? Who was it to say who was downstairs? He was, of course, just being foolish. There would only be one option that would dare come to here - with an effort to hurt him or those around him. 

Harry slipped off the desk, hopelessness choking him. He didn't even have his wand to protect himself. Harry had barely been able to hold his wand since the Ministry. It was another cruel reminder of how useless he was. So it had joined his schoolbooks being locked underneath the stairs. 

Harry hadn't before gone without a fight, and today would be no different. Regardless of how awful he had been feeling, he refused to die in this hell hole. Harry looked around the smallest room of Number Four, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon. Regardless of the broken toys, most of them didn’t seem as if he could make a weapon out of it. 

It was then that Harry remembered the broken rung underneath his bed. There were several, of course. Dudley had done his best to make sure that the bed that Harry had inherited from him would be as uncomfortable as possible. 

He inched his way underneath the bed, being as quiet as he could. If it all went to plan, he’d at least have something to defend himself against whoever was downstairs. Harry tested a few of the rungs, hoping at least one of them would be loose enough that he’d be able to get it. More so, he hoped it would be able to be used as a proper weapon. 

Once one broken rung was safely in his hands, Harry laid under the thin blanket that he was only allowed to have. The springs of the bed dug into his side, and Harry's heart was racing. The screaming had stopped and he tried not thinking about what that could mean. 

The stairs began to creak under heavy footsteps as tears finally escaped his eyes. His chest felt heavy, and every breath caught in his throat. Harry tried to bring stop the shuddering cries that built in his throat as the footsteps stopped in front of his door.

The stranger let out a loud crazed laugh - it was deep, deeper than even Voldemorts. For a split second, shame filled Harry as he thought of the stranger facing the many locks on the bedroom door with the small cat flap. 

The door had provided little defense even with the locks, and the thud of the door falling to the side rang in Harry’s ears. Harry squeezed his eyes tighter closed. He couldn’t even imagine what kind of beast would have been able to rip the door off its hinges. 

He’d only get one chance. The man could not figure out that Harry was awake or aware of him, as the wooden rung would be his only defense and he had one chance to surprise the man.

The heavy footsteps stopped at the foot of the bed, the air filled with a scent that was bitter that caused Harry to wrinkle his nose. He was barely keeping in the strange growl that seemed to build up in his throat. Something about it was causing an urge to leave or fight, and his gums ached.

Unexpectedly, a large hand grabbed his ankle and Harry was yanked off the bed, falling to the feet of the stranger. He whimpered when his head fell on the floor, and he just let out a pitiful whimper. Harry realized too late that the pull caused him to let go of the only weapon he had.

"Well well, what do we have here?" A man's deep voice said.

Through watery eyes Harry gazed up at him. The man was a large, vicious-looking man with matted grey hair and whiskers. He had pointed teeth and long yellowish nails, adding to his bestial appearance. The nails dug deeper into Harry's ankle and Harry let out a strangled growl.

The man let out a laugh, "On the cusp of presentation, huh boy? And by the stench in this room you're gonna be a small useless omega." The man spit out the last word as if it was poison.

Anger overcame Harry. "Omegas aren't useless!" He thought of Hermione who had presented as an Omega last year and was just as smart and brilliant with magic as normal. Even Charlie Weasley was an Omega and had a job working with dragons. He wasn't useless.

The man sneered, "Only good for breeding." Then the man gave a cruel smile, showing off his yellow fangs. "You won't be even that useful. The Dark Lord has sent me to deal with you. But first I'm going to have my fun with you. Just like I did with your family downstairs. The most useless betas I've ever come across. Despite the woman's insistence to protect you. Almost had me fooled she did, til I smelt you. I made sure to rip her lying tongue out."

With his free foot, Harry kicked the man. He let Harry go enough for him to lunge onto his bed, fingers scraping along the blanket until they hit the wooden stake.

"You dumb bitch!" The man spit out, reaching out and tangling themselves into his hair. Harry turned quickly and blindly stabbed the man. The man screeched in pain jerking away from Harry. Using the small window he had, Harry leaped off the bed and ran towards the door. 

Harry had barely made it out of the room, when the large hand of the man slammed his head into the hallway wall.

He did it once more, and Harry went limp, whimpering in his throat. He felt dazed and started blinking blood out of his eyes. He was dragged back into his room and thrown on the floor. Looking up he saw that his makeshift weapon had landed itself in the man's left eye, though not deep enough it seemed to kill him.

The man fell on top of Harry, claws digging into his right arm and twisting it until a nasty snap sounded in the room. Harry screamed out. The man was saying something but Harry could concentrate on it. Harry curled up on his side, trying to protect his injured arm that the man hadn't let go of.

Harry threw his hands around, desperate to keep the man off and away from him as the man began ripping at his clothes. Harry wasn’t stupid. Despite what Snape liked to think. There would only be one reason such a man would begin ripping at his clothes, and Harry was determined to avoid that, even as his broken arm screamed in pain. 

The man gave a deep growl - a strange, inhuman sound that had something in Harry freezing. It was just long enough for the man to have ripped his pants off. The man had called Harry an omega. And bile climbed up his throat, as a bitter numb acceptance overcame him. Harry was going to die - but not before being raped. 

His thoughts went to the small pile of unopened letters in the desk drawer. Harry had promised himself he’d answer them - just not today. And already a week has passed. Ron would also be presenting - and Sirius had been an alpha. Harry had been too young to take in the scent of Sirius, but still he could remember the faint scent of cigarettes and leather. It was strangely comforting. Now, it is gone. Just like Sirius.

A small ripped stuffed animal caught Harry’s eyes. It was a simple small lion, the mane missing along with one eye. He remembered when Dudley had ripped it apart when Harry had dared touch it. 

Harry snapped to awareness as the man gripped his jaw in a painful hold, nails digging in. "Look at me bitch." He was roughly shaken as he became aware of the burning pain down between his legs. He became painfully aware of the man's large penis penetrating his body. A whimper was all that could escape his throat.

Harry looked at the man in the eyes - or rather the eye, as the left one was closed, with blood flowing from it. The man had at some point ripped out the offending rung.

Harry's throat was burning and horribly dry - and he became aware of someone screaming. Then, suddenly he became aware that it was him who was screaming. Had he been screaming this whole time?

The man bared his teeth, his larger alpha fangs looking far too threatening. With his only good hand, Harry pushed at the man's face but a large hand pulled his hand away. The man's other hand tangled itself into his hair and jerked his head to the side bearing Harry's slowly developing scent gland. The man's fangs pierced the skin, and Harry screamed so loud he could taste blood in the back of his throat.

It was all too much for Harry and he became limp, if what the man said was true then Harry was presenting as an Omega and there could be a small chance of him bonding with the man. He didn't want that, the man had not yet moved from his throat and with a rumbling growl tore away from him. Through watery eyes, Harry was sure he saw that the man held a chunk of his neck. 

The man began thrusting, and the burning pain began again, though with his floating head Harry barely felt it. Harry was aware of the man digging his nails into Harry's thigh and running them down his leg, but the pain was barely registering. It seemed to take forever before the man was finished, he said something but Harry couldn't make it out before he left.

Gasping, Harry turned to his side, eyes fluttering close. He would get help in a minute. In just a minute.

Chapter 2: The Investigation

Privet Drive was the kind of neighborhood that prided itself on order. All lawns were clipped to military precision - all the same length, and cut on the same day - hedges squared at the perfect right angles, and not a stray leaf lingered on the sidewalks. Each house was a carbon copy of its neighbor, their brick facades and white trim giving the illusion of harmony. Each house, though, spoke of a silent competition of who could present the most immaculate home.

Yet beneath the pristine surface, Privet Drive was watchful. Curtains twitched at the slightest disturbance: eyes peered out, measuring every arrival, every departure, every unfamiliar vehicle. There was a brittle quality to the peace here, as if anything was simply out of place the very illusion of perfection would be shattered. Today, that illusion had been broken, and the normalcy that the residents clung to so fiercely had been shattered but horror.

It was here Detective Antonio Smith stepped out into the weight of the tragedy stripping the neighborhood’s careful facade. All the neighbors, and a few stragglers from others, all stood by watching as the policemen fluttered in and out of Privet Number four. 

Detective Antonio entered the humble dwelling of the Dursley's, blood marring the walls and floor. The front door hung slightly ajar, broken in such a way that it wouldn’t allow him to close it. The air was thick, stale and tingled with copper and something sour - a scent that clung to the back of Antonio’s throat. Each footfall echoed in the silence. 

It was hard to tangle all the things together. The crime scene was a mess - not in the terms of the act itself, but rather the rhythm that had been left behind. Every crime scene had its own rhythm - a story told by the blood splatter, what was left behind, what was broken or not. And while the first responders were quick believed it to have been a simple robbery gone wrong, Antonio wasn't so sure. The crime scene felt a bit too intimate, too personal for a mere burglary. Such extreme violence was rarely done on random strangers. There was clearly a piece missing - something to tie it all together, the

He paused in the narrow hallway, his eyes skimming over family photos that now seemed grotesque in the fractured light, smiles frozen above the spray of blood. Nothing about the Dursleys' home matched the chaos that had unfolded here. It wasn't hard to notice that there were no photos of the young Mr Potter.

In the air was a sour scent that hung in the air - thick and heady, even to the point that Antonio's poor beta nose could pick up on it. There was only one thing that it could be - an alpha on the cusp of a rut. It could explain why things had gotten out of hand so quickly.

He went into the living room, where the bodies of Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley were found. While Vernon had been seemingly killed quickly, Dudley and Petunia had seemed to experience the most violence out of the three of them. They were still waiting on the autopsy results to determine the type of knife used on all three of them, as the photos and officers that first responded couldn't place them.

He turned away from the chaos of the living room, the shattered glass, the overturned furniture - and let his feet carry him toward the staircase. The banister was sticky beneath his gloves, and each step creaked beneath his weight, echoing up the narrow passage. At the top, the hallway opened into darkness, the air even heavier here, thick with the mingled scents of old sweat, blood, and the heady scent of an alpha in rut.

Antonio’s eyes landed immediately on the shattered entry to the smallest bedroom. The door hung at a jagged angle, one hinge clinging stubbornly to the frame, the wood splintered and stained dark with blood. He paused at the threshold, taking in the carnage inside.

Mr. Potter had been found here. The boy had been brutalized to the edge of death, left in a crumpled heap on the blood-soaked floor. At first, responders had mistaken him for another body, as pale and motionless as Mr. Potter had been, until with a small hope, an officer had checked for a pulse, and found Mr. Potter stubbornly clinging on. If they had responded at any other time, the dead counter would have risen to four.

Antonio lingered in the doorway, letting the horror of the scene settle over him. The stench was overpowering - the sickening blend of fear, violence, and something animal. He could almost see the echoes of the struggle: the slashes of blood, the broken furniture, the desperate claw marks on the floorboards.

"Right old mess here," came a voice from behind, pulling him back. Harvey Jenkins, his partner, appeared in the dim light, face drawn and eyes hard.

"Yeah, wonder how they were targeted," Antonio replied, not taking his eyes off the room. "There were nicer and newer looking cars out in front of a few other houses. And a few of them even empty. If you’re going to rob a house wouldn’t one of them be better?"

Harvey grunted, stepping around him to scan the room with a practiced eye. "Neighbors said the family was about to leave on vacation."

Antonio frowned, replaying the details in his mind. The scene didn’t fit the idea of a random robbery. The violence was too focused, too vicious, and the choice of target too odd. The Dursleys might have been preparing to leave, but that didn’t explain the brutality or the strange sense of purpose that lingered in the aftermath. The whole thing felt wrong, and Antonio couldn’t shake the feeling that the answer was hidden somewhere in this room, waiting for him to uncover it.

The room was small, barely big enough for the small twin bed and the desk that was shoved under a window with bars on it. There was a large puddle of blood and he had to wonder how the poor boy survived, with white chalk outline where the boy laid.

The cruelty of it all stuck with him - how deliberate it seemed, how whoever had done this had taken their time. The crime scene photographs didn’t capture the sickening intimacy of the violence. It was clear that Mr. Potter had been raped and left to die, it was clear that the attacker had simply assumed he wouldn’t survive. Antonio shifted on his heels, looking around the cramped room. Everything about it - the blood, the overturned desk, the claw marks gouged into the floor - sat uncomfortably in his gut.

He pointed to the window, its heavy iron bars catching what little light filtered through. “What do you think the bars on the window are for?”

"To keep intruders out, what else?" Harvey’s reply was automatic, dismissive. He barely looked up from the stack of crime scene photos, his focus still fixed on the carnage downstairs. As if that was what would unravel everything - and maybe it would, maybe Antonio was in the wrong for focusing so hard on the only survivor.

Antonio turned to watch his partner, eyebrow raised. "But only on this window? That wouldn't be very effective now would it?" He let the question hang in the air, forcing Harvey to look up, if only for a moment.

Harvey barely spared him a glance, shrugging off the implication. "Then it was obviously to keep the boy in. You heard the neighbors - the boy was nothing but trouble." His tone was flat, as if that explanation settled everything, as if a child being locked in his room was just another quirk of suburban life.

Antonio looked back at the bars, unease gnawing at him. There was cruelty in their placement, a message in the way they caged only this one window. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Potter hadn’t just survived a random act of violence, but years of quiet, calculated imprisonment and that the truth of what happened here was far uglier than anyone wanted to admit.

Standing, Antonio shrugged. The bars on the window on top of the many locks on the bedroom door were suspicious. Mr Potter, while having the rumors of being a delinquent in the neighborhood, had no record of one; more alarming was how he disappeared after his eleventh birthday only to reappear during summer break. Had he been the actual intended victim and the Dursleys paid the price?

"I'm heading back downstairs, let me know when you're done here." Harvey said, turning and heading downstairs to see if they had missed any evidence.

Antonio glanced around the room, at the destroyed door, the blood marks and the bars on the window. Something was missing, he knew it and if he could just figure out what it was this case would fly right open.

The bedroom door caught his eye, it hadn't been touched since Mr. Potter had been rescued. It looked like it had been blasted off the hinges, but no trace evidence of explosives had been found. Reaching out, Antonio turned it to one side, and froze.

A symbol was scorched into the wood, something that looked almost like a lightning bolt, jagged and deliberate, right where the locks would have held. He knelt, running his gloved fingers over the charred grooves. It was too precise for a random burn, and there was no sign of fire damage anywhere else on the door.

He frowned. "Harvey, get up here. You need to see this."

Footsteps thundered on the stairs as Harvey reappeared, huffing. "What now?"

Antonio stepped aside, gesturing at the symbol. "Did forensics mention this?"

Harvey shook his head. "No one mentioned anything about a mark."

"Look at it," Antonio pressed. "That's not from any tool or weapon I've seen."

Harvey crouched down, squinting. "Looks like a sigil. Or a rune. You think this is some kind of gang thing?"

Antonio shook his head. "No gangs use this. At least, none that I've heard of." He hesitated. "And did you notice the scorch marks aren't deep, but nothing else is burned? It's almost like it was… branded."

For a moment, the two detectives stared at the mark in shared silence.

---

Antonio paused in the threshold of the hospital room. The space felt oppressively small despite its generous size. He let his eyes fall onto the small body on the bed. For a moment the feeling as if he was trespassing washed over him, like something in the room was warning him.

Mr. Potter lay motionless on the bed, eyes closed in a medicated sleep. The surgeon didn't give the boy a strong chance to live - the boy's clear neglect made it hard to say that he would survive even with all the help from the hospital. 

There had be a strange air of cruelty that had hung in the empty Dursley home a place where any sign that the boy had ever been there had been scrubbed clean. Antonio wasn't sure if it was that reason that drew him to Mr. Potter's hospital room - or the letter, filled with thin lines and neat hand writing, something that caused the case to open up in a new way. It was a simple thing, yet it had changed everything they knew about Harry Potter.

Harvey was making calls, trying to chase any lead that had the chance to lead to nowhere, but there was a small chance that it may lead to something. They hadn't gotten a name from the letter, but so had managed to get Interpol and the American FBI involved now. All they were waiting for was a small break in the case.

He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion prickling at the edges of his vision. None of it made sense - the strange symbol on the door, the non-existent school records, the neighbors’ chorus of half-truths. The only teacher who might have known something had vanished after intimidating a nurse and being mistakenly told of Harry’s death. The deeper Antonio dug, the more the truth seemed to slip through his fingers.

Sighing, he pulled the battered letter from his folder and unfolded it with care. He glanced at the sleeping boy, his voice low but steady. “I guess you have a right to know this. I’m going to read this to you, maybe you’ll make better sense of it than us.”

He took a seat next to Mr. Potter in a too small chair, 

Dear Petunia,

How do I even begin? I suppose with an apology, though words feel so small compared to the years that have grown between us. First of all, I’d like to extend a humble apology for how James and Sirius acted at the wedding. I know it took a great deal of courage for you to come, knowing how out of place you felt, surrounded by my world and my friends. I can’t express how much it meant to me to see you there, despite everything. Thank you, truly.

How is your husband? I know the cruel joke James and Sirius played might have left a bad taste in his mouth, and for that, I am sorry. I wish I could apologize in person, but I sense that might not be welcome now.

I think of you often, you know. I dream of us as girls - running wild through the fields behind our house, chasing sunlight and secrets until the sky turned violet. Even then, you were always the sensible one, the one who knew when to come in from the rain. I miss those days, and I miss you, Petunia. I miss the closeness we once had, before Hogwarts.

Mother wrote to me. She says you’re pregnant! I hope you know how happy I am for you. I wish I could have been there to congratulate you in person, to share tea and laughter and stories. I have news too: I am expecting. I hope that our children might be friends, that they might share something of the bond we had. I promise I’ll keep James and his wild friends far away from your little one.

But speaking of Mother… have you spoken to her recently? She sounds tired, older than I remember. I worry for her, especially now that Father’s gone. I keep thinking I should visit, but - well, things are complicated. We both know how much she hates to accept help, how fiercely she guards her independence. Still, I worry. I wish you were closer, that we could face this together the way we used to.

There’s something I need to confess, and I hope you’ll forgive me for burdening you. I am with child, but I don’t know if the baby is James’s. After a stupid fight I spent a foolish, reckless night with an American. I wish I’d been more like you, content with quiet evenings and gentle company. I never told James. Only you know, and now I wonder if keeping it secret was a mistake. I’m terrified, Petunia. James was so happy when he heard about the baby. I’m afraid the truth would destroy him. What should I do? You always seemed to know the right thing, even when we were children sneaking biscuits from the pantry.

But there’s more, and I’m afraid it’s even worse. James and I are going into hiding. I can’t tell you everything, not in a letter, but please, Petunia, listen to me: take any offer of help you get, and keep yourself and your family safe. I’m begging you. I wish I could say more, but it would only put you in more danger.

This may be my last letter for a while as I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again. I’m sorry for that, and for everything else. I love you, Petunia. I have always loved you, even when I didn’t show it. I regret the rift between us, and I hope, somehow, that we’ll see each other again. Maybe one day, when this is all over, we can find our way back to each other.

With all my love, always,

Lily

As he finished reading the letter his phone chirped with the special tone he'd chosen for Harvey. "Hello?'

"We've got a name." 

Hope jumped in his chest. Maybe something good will come and finally be easy.

"His name is Louis Graham, a convicted murderer."