POV Oliver Wood
"He'll definitely thank you, I assure you. It's about… our joint project on the care of magical creatures. We need his pet for observation. He'll tell you all the details himself. It's strictly confidential."
Malfoy was now making his third desperate attempt to convince Oliver Wood, who didn't believe a single word from the Slytherin.
Joint project? Oliver's thought stumbled for a second. It sounded absurd. Percy Weasley and Arcturus Malfoy in a joint project? Sure, Percy was a pedant and a careerist, and Malfoy was a cunning, ambitious, arrogant "Slytherin prince," but it was hard to believe. Something bothered him. Could Percy be interested in an academic study, and Malfoy… well, he didn't know Arcturus personally, but the Malfoys certainly had enough money and influence to sponsor anything, and their nose for profit was legendary. He'd often heard that from his father.
Wood shook his head. No, it was still too strange. And why would he, Oliver, risk spoiling relations with his roommate? Wood generally disliked dealing with Slytherins — too slippery and cunning. At least, the Slytherin Quidditch team was.
"I don't see any reason to get involved in other people's business, Malfoy," he said, now more with a weary sigh than irritation. "And I'm certainly not going to carry someone else's rat around the castle. I have enough of my own worries; I don't need to sour the mood in the room because of a Slytherin."
Malfoy sighed, as if giving up, and even took a step away. Oliver mentally put a period on this conversation, but if only he knew that this particular Slytherin never gave up…
Malfoy suddenly turned around. In his gaze now, there was not only theatrical offense; a challenge could be seen in his eyes.
"I understand," Malfoy said. "Pity. And here I thought you, as a true Quidditch professional and future captain of your team, valued not just house colors, but honesty as well. Is your intuition failing you, Wood?"
Future captain… Wood repeated mentally. The words hit their mark precisely, striking both his pride and his ambitions.
Oliver frowned. The fact that the current captain would leave in the spring to prepare for his NEWTs was known only within the team. Though, some players supported not him, a fourth-year, for the role, but another guy, but that wasn't the point…
How does he know? Or did he just throw words into the air?
"What's your point, Malfoy?"
"The point is, we could turn this… awkward situation into a little wager," Malfoy's lips stretched into a slight smirk, which somehow seemed more dangerous than any grimace. "What could happen to you on the way to the Great Hall? I won't bite, after all. But if I turn out to be right and Percy confirms our project, I'll be satisfied if you simply apologize for your distrust — no need for a public apology. If I'm lying… you'll get my brand new Nimbus 1901. I bought it just two months ago."
Oliver froze. His brain, set on complete denial, suddenly stumbled upon an irresistible temptation — the Nimbus 1901.
The phantom broom in his hands materialized before his inner eye, almost tangible. It was the perfect model — at least for school Quidditch. Of course, a new one was expected soon to reclaim Nimbus's top spot, taken from the 1901, which was only a slightly improved version of the 1900. The 1901 had come out two whole years ago — exactly a month after his father bought him the flagship 1900. It had stung, but the broom served him well. And now he was being offered one of the best brooms in the world, practically for free.
The mind of an honest and generally fair guy resisted. He even intuitively sensed a trap. This Slytherin trick, but the broom was almost secondary now, because his competitive spirit had been ignited… and the burning desire to get that Nimbus 1901…
"You're serious?" his own voice came out hoarse from the internal struggle. "A Nimbus 1901?"
"A Malfoy's word," the other nodded, not looking away. "But if I'm right, you apologize. If I'm lying — I don't think there'll be a problem, and Percy will understand you."
Oliver hesitated. But was this a risk? What risk? In the worst-case scenario — he'd look a bit foolish, running an errand for a Slytherin and taking Percy's rat without permission. But if Malfoy was lying, Oliver would get, in his opinion, the best Quidditch broom. Maybe he could also demand a public admission of deceit from Malfoy.
If, against all logic, this was true… well, apologizing for distrust was a matter of honor. Plus, he'd be helping Percy. Maybe a lot depended on it, and his roommate could benefit from some sponsored project. Possibly.
In the end, the thought of the Nimbus tipped the scales. Competitive spirit, the logic of a future captain, and simple, raw desire to possess a magnificent broom merged into one.
"Alright," he grunted. "Fine, I'll go get Scabbers now. The broom's worth it. But if Percy so much as hints that there's no project with you… you'll not only hand over the Nimbus, but also admit publicly that you tried to deceive me."
"Agreed," Malfoy extended his hand without hesitation.
Oliver shook it firmly. The Slytherin's hand was cool.
"I hope your wallet is ready for such a blow."
"I hope your pride is ready for an apology," the other retorted with a slight smirk.
Releasing hands, Oliver turned sharply and strode towards the Gryffindor tower, feeling Malfoy's intent gaze on his back. Now everything was simple. He just needed to take the rat to Percy and get confirmation of his words — false or true. Maybe it was a trap baited with a broom, but why was he so confident in his rightness? A person couldn't lie so convincingly, believing his own words. And to give away an expensive broom for some rat…
Though, considering the Malfoy wealth… maybe they really didn't count money? And he, Oliver Wood, had just taken the bait. But he was sure he'd reel in not himself, but Malfoy himself. With a Nimbus 1901 model thrown in.
***
I stood aside from the flow of students and watched Oliver Wood's shoulders disappear around the corner. Inside, the cold and anxiety that had reigned just minutes ago were replaced by joy — I'd even say euphoria. The Marauder's Map was no longer in my hands. My trump card had been stolen, leaving me with only one desperate attempt to turn the tide of a game that seemed already lost — but no!
A joint project… it was almost funny that such nonsense had worked. And he, damn it, had taken the bait. Wood wasn't a complete idiot, but he'd bitten on the Nimbus — though that was merely the consequence of a brilliant ploy.
Of course, he wanted the Nimbus 1901. Despite the Wood family not being poor — even comfortably well-off — constantly buying the very best broom just didn't make sense. After all, it was a fairly expensive item, and gifting such a thing to a child was pointless, no matter how much he played Quidditch.
But I couldn't have bribed him even with ten such brooms — he was too honest and fair. And his broom probably wasn't that bad. Yet my trick had overshadowed even his Gryffindor distrust of a Slytherin.
So, I had a chance, literally hanging by the thread of his competitive spirit — essentially a professional deformation of almost any athlete. He was used to taking risks, trusting his intuition, and betting everything on victory. I had offered him a wager, having previously mentioned that he could effectively become Quidditch captain.
Funny as it was, persuasion combined with hitting the right spot gave me a chance to do everything before Dumbledore's potential opening of the Marauder's Map, where he might accidentally notice the name Peter Pettigrew.
The entire Black inheritance. The title, influence, wealth, access to the family library — which was the key to a vast amount of knowledge and a possible way to tame and control the curse — all now rested on a bet with the Gryffindor Quidditch team's keeper. Absurd, truly.
So humiliating for the House of Black… but life is a funny thing, fond of jokes.
Now came the second, no less incredible part of the plan. Steal the rat. And do it right under Wood's nose, on the way to the Great Hall, in full view of potential witnesses. And do it in such a way that this stubborn, observant, stocky fourth-year didn't suspect a thing until the right moment.
My brain, already exhausted by the morning's shock and rage, worked at its limit, burning away the last traces of fatigue.
I mentally ran through possible scenarios when I saw Wood returning. In his hands was a small, worn cage from which came a pitiful squeaking.
I stepped forward, adopting an expression of slight self-assurance.
"Found the main subject of the experiment, Wood?" I asked, nodding at the cage.
"Found the suspect, for now," he cut off, but there was no longer the previous animosity in his voice. Now there was only the desire to win the bet. "Let's go to Percy. We'll sort it out in front of everyone."
"Of course."
We moved. My plan depended on three things: Wood's blind spot, an athlete's reflexes, and whether I could strike up a conversation that would fully capture his attention.
As we walked, we gradually approached a place where we could turn and slightly shorten the path through a darker, more unpleasant corridor. For these very reasons, no one really took that shortcut — it was only slightly shorter to the stairs, but easy to get lost in and generally unpleasant.
"Speaking of Quidditch," I began, as if casually, just as we neared the desired spot. "Did you follow the championship this year? Scotland vs. Canada? My friend Cassius claims the Scots lost solely because their brooms were Nimbus 1901 models. He says if their Seeker had a brand new Cleansweep 90, he'd have caught the Snitch and turned the game around."
Wood, as I'd thought, perked up. First, I was talking to him like a friend, which was strange; second, I'd abruptly started talking about Quidditch, but the sports topic was his weakness, and doubting a team's technical equipment was like a direct challenge to his expertise.
"Your friend apparently doesn't know much about Quidditch," he retorted, and familiar, passionate notes entered his voice. "It wasn't about the Nimbus. I agree that currently the 1901 model is third in speed and, say, fourth in maneuverability, but it's the best in stability. The problem was their tactics. The Canadians simply overwhelmed them defensively, and their Seeker couldn't breathe. And the Nimbus at speed…" He gestured with his free hand; the hand holding the cage lowered slightly.
I nodded, interjecting comments, keeping the conversation going, but my entire being was focused on the cage. Imperceptibly, we turned into the less crowded corridor, and the ongoing breakfast meant minimal chance of meeting other students. He knew this route, so he didn't even question our turn, absorbed as he was in the conversation.
I immediately spotted a place where I could pull it off. Near a tall, narrow display case with dusty trophies, the lighting was even worse, and the shadow from the case fell on our side.
"…and this new thing, the Cleansweep 90," Wood continued, growing more engrossed. "It's a total disgrace. Supposedly the fastest broom currently, but they say it falls apart mid-flight, and it drifts badly. And yet many claim it's the Nimbus killer… yeah, right. I know a guy who plays professionally; he got one — after a couple of months, the fittings started creaking, like rust was eating them. At high altitudes, the magic behaves…"
At that moment, I tripped. I tried to make it as believable as possible, but I don't know how it looked. My body lurched forward; I instinctively threw out a hand for balance — and my palm, by chance, landed on the edge of the display case.
"Careful!" Wood flinched, his hand reflexively jerking to grab mine and help. But the hand holding the cage loosened for a moment, shifting it slightly aside, into the shadow.
The thinnest application of telekinesis — and the simple latch on the cage opened. At the same instant, Pettigrew's body, that of a light rat, was blown from the cage by telekinesis. Despite resistance from the magical energy within the Animagus, which never disappears, I managed to eject the comparatively small and light body from the cage; had Pettigrew been in human form, I couldn't have done this due to resistance multiplied by human weight.
Thus, I managed to hurl the rat from the cage with unexpected force, like a small furry projectile. It flew a meter and a half and slapped onto the stone floor.
All this happened in less than a second.
"Damn!" Wood swore, torn between supporting me with one hand and the escaped animal. He glanced at the cage, then at the rat scurrying into the darkness.
"That way!" I shouted sharply, straightening up and pointing to the opposite corner of the corridor from its movement, where there was a blank wall. "I saw it dart behind that statue!"
Wood lunged in that direction, leaving the cage on the floor. I stepped into the shadow where Peter Pettigrew was writhing in panic. In the gloom, his beady little eyes glittered with wild, animal terror. He darted about, not knowing where to run.
There was no time for ceremony. I waved my wand, directing it from within my robe folds so the beam wouldn't be visible. Petrificus Totalus did its work — and the rat froze in place, stiffened mid-pounce.
I bent down, grabbed the cold, motionless ball of fur, and shoved it into my inner pocket.
When Wood, having found nothing, turned back to me, his face was twisted with frustration and dawning suspicion.
"There's nothing there," he muttered, looking at the empty cage, then at me.
"I must have been mistaken in the gloom," I spread my hands. Inside, everything ran cold, but the best defense is attack. Or, in this case, sincerity. Controlled sincerity. "Damn it, that blasted rat… um… Listen, Wood. I owe you a confession."
He tensed, his hand reaching for his wand.
"What?"
"There is no project," I said, lowering my eyes as if in embarrassment. I let my voice sound weary. "I deceived you."
Wood actually recoiled, as if struck. His face reddened with instantly flaring rage.
"You… you slimy bastard! I knew it! It was all a lie! For some cheap joke?!"
"Not for a joke," I interrupted quickly but without aggression, raising a hand in a calming gesture. "There were… reasons. Serious reasons I can't explain. It's not an excuse, I understand. But it's also not a joke."
I paused, letting him process. His fists were clenched, but he listened.
"I'm sorry I had to deceive you, Oliver. Honestly. We chatted for a few minutes… and I started to feel really guilty. You turned out to be an honest and decent guy. I don't often deal with people like that."
He snorted, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Rage began to give way to disappointment.
"So what now?" he hissed.
"I lost the bet," I nodded firmly. "The Nimbus 1901 is yours. I'll get the broom and give it to you after breakfast. And also… about Percy. After breakfast, we can call him together for a talk. I'll explain everything to him personally and take full blame. I didn't want his rat to get lost. I'll tell him I talked you into it and lied through my teeth. You'll be clean with your roommate. And anyway…" I sighed, "I'll compensate him for the rat. Tenfold. So there are no more questions."
Wood looked at me, clearly not expecting this turn of events. His gaze became appraising and noticeably less hostile.
"And why did you need all this?" he asked finally, bewildered.
"Told you, personal reasons," I shook my head, feigning regret. "But it's all stupid stuff. Not worth people fighting over. Okay?"
He was silent for another second, then nodded sharply.
"Fine. You'll give me the broom after breakfast. And with Percy — together after breakfast, we'll talk. And now…" he looked around frantically, "we need to find that damn rat. Weasley will kill me if it's lost."
"Let's search," I agreed, pretending to also start examining the dark corners. "It couldn't have gone far."
We spent the next five minutes in respectful silence, searching nooks and peering under staircases. But Scabbers was securely hidden in my pocket.
"Nothing," Wood concluded after a while, wiping his forehead. "It's gone."
"Alas," I sighed. "Shall we call it quits? Let's meet after breakfast? At the entrance to the Great Hall? I'll be there with the broom and ready for self-flagellation."
"Yeah, sure," he grunted, but his tone no longer held the previous anger. Only an awkward acceptance of the situation. "Fine. I'll wait for you after breakfast."
He cast one last look at the empty cage, picked it up, and, shaking his head, strode towards the Great Hall.
The main thing was done. Peter Pettigrew would soon cease to be a threat to my inheritance. A Nimbus and apologies were a paltry price for that. And Wood… Wood turned out exactly as I'd imagined: honest, straightforward, and capable of accepting an apology if it seemed sincere. Especially if the apology came with a Nimbus. I didn't want to make more enemies, especially after the Answorth incident. And good relations with him could help establish contact with his brother.
Only one question remained: what to do with the damn rat… On one hand, it seemed obvious — kill it — but that would take time, and the body could be found even in the Room of Requirement, which would be an automatic loss. Especially now that the Room of Requirement wasn't so safe. If they'd caught me with the Map, there was a chance problems could arise from it too.
The second option was to release the rat far from school, somewhere… But the problem there was that he might be discovered, or he might expose himself by returning to school.
So, the options remained: either send him far away with a warning, or kill him. This very dilemma had prevented me from getting rid of Pettigrew earlier, and even more so now.
If a year or two ago I'd thought about how to prevent Voldemort's resurrection, now I saw the matter differently. To make my move, I needed space, and that space was occupied by two mastodons who would hinder me regardless. And if I saved Pettigrew, I could hope for Voldemort's resurrection in four years and subsequent events from my future knowledge… at least roughly.
Threaten him with prison by revealing the whole situation, and send him far away with an owl… thereby gaining the possibility of resurrecting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and earning reputation from such an action, or simply kill Wormtail. But where to dispose of the body of a human that the rat would revert to after death…