Chapter 130: Voldemort's Shock
"You can't put it like that, Russell," Dumbledore said gently. "They were simply reckless youths, that's all."
"Were they?" Russell replied noncommittally.
A werewolf, a Death Eater, and two textbook Gryffindors—arrogant, conceited, and blind to everyone else.
Of course, they changed later for various reasons. But during their time at Hogwarts, the description fit them perfectly.
"Let's set that aside," Dumbledore said, making no attempt to persuade him. "I'd like you to tell Harry everything. Let him know he still has a godfather—that he's no longer alone."
"Then I can also tell Ron about Peter Pettigrew?" Russell asked. He was rather looking forward to seeing Ron's reaction upon learning that the rat he'd been petting for years was actually a greasy middle-aged man.
"Go ahead," Dumbledore nodded. "I believe Cornelius is already preparing to move on the matter. When the trial begins, you'll need to attend as well."
"No problem," Russell said, nodding in return. "Then I'll take my leave, Professor."
He turned to go—but after only a couple of steps, he turned back again.
"Cockroach Clusters contain far too much sugar for an elderly gentleman, Professor," he added.
Before Dumbledore could react, Russell swept up the untouched jar of Cockroach Clusters and emptied his pocket instead—pouring a colorful assortment of candies all over the desk.
"I brought these back from Soviet Union last time. You can take your time enjoying them."
Dumbledore's gloomy expression instantly brightened. He picked through the pile, selected a chocolate bear, bit off its head—and immediately wore a look of bliss.
"Good child."
Russell left the office, barely able to contain his anticipation. He was eager to see Ron's reaction—perhaps even Percy's expression as a bonus.
"Excuse me," Russell stopped a Gryffindor girl passing by. "Could you ask Harry and Ron to come out for a moment?"
"Of course, Fisone," she said after a brief pause, smiling shyly. "I'd be happy to."
"Thanks."
It didn't take long before Harry and Ron appeared together.
"Russell, what's up?" Ron asked eagerly. The thought of his soon-to-arrive new owl had already lifted his spirits.
"Oh, it's definitely something," Russell said, casting Ron a look of pity that left him confused.
"Come with me."
He led them into an empty classroom.
"There's good news and bad news," Russell said. "The good news is for Harry. The bad news is for you, Ron. Which would you like to hear first?"
"Uh—bad news?" Ron's face fell. "Is… is my owl gone?"
"Absolutely not," Russell said, rubbing his temples. "You can relax."
"Then bad news first," Ron said at once, visibly recovering. In his mind, nothing could be worse than losing a new owl.
"Well, it's not about the owl," Russell said. "But it is about Scabbers."
"Scabbers is still alive?" Ron suddenly looked conflicted. "If he is, then I don't think I should take a new owl…"
"Scabbers," Russell said calmly, "was never a rat."
Meeting both their gazes, he flicked his wand.
A dusty bottle sitting nearby shimmered—and transformed into a rat right before their eyes.
Exactly like Scabbers.
"Scabbers—!" Ron cried.
Before he could finish, the rat's fur bulged, paws stretched into fingers, and within seconds it became a middle-aged man.
"You're saying…?" Ron swallowed hard. "Scabbers was actually a wizard?"
"Yes. His name is Peter Pettigrew."
"I swear I'll kill him," Ron said, his face ashen, fists clenched.
"Ron," Russell added helpfully, "you didn't ever bathe with Scabbers, did you?"
"Ugh—!"
Ron turned and vomited on the spot.
"I'm not clean. I'm not clean anymore."
Russell grimaced and flicked his wand, vanishing the mess.
"Harry," he continued, "Pettigrew concerns you too."
Harry froze under Russell's gaze.
"He was once your father's close friend."
"What? Then why was he hiding as a rat in Ron's house?" Harry demanded.
"Easy—let me explain," Russell said, recounting everything: the switch of the Secret-Keeper from Sirius to Pettigrew, the betrayal, all of it.
"I'll kill him," Harry growled, eyes bloodshot, teeth grinding audibly.
"Where is he, Russell? You know, don't you? Tell me!"
"I'm afraid I've already handed him over to Professor Dumbledore," Russell replied.
Then he smiled.
"Congratulations, Harry. You have family."
"Family?" Harry's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
"Sirius Black is alive. He's your godfather. He's currently in Azkaban, but the Minister is already working to clear his name. You'll meet him soon."
Russell patted Harry's shoulder and left the classroom, giving them time to process.
"I have family," Harry shouted, bouncing with excitement as he shook Ron. "I have family!"
"That's great," Ron said weakly. "But every time I think about Scabbers—"
He retched again.
"How do I thank Russell?" Harry paced the room.
Galleons? No—too crude. And Russell didn't look like someone short on money.
Harry was at a loss.
---
"Professor Quirrell, you keep singling me out like this. People will start to suspect something," Russell said, once again detained after class.
"If I don't come to you, will you ever come to me?" Quirrell snapped, then suddenly switched to a sly smile.
"Didn't master that spell yet, right? I told you—only by learning magic with me can you truly—Protego!"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Russell had raised his wand.
Quirrell's heart lurched. He instinctively cast the Shield Charm.
A split second later, a clear crack appeared on the shield—spiderweb fissures racing outward.
The shield held, but barely.
Cold sweat broke out across Quirrell's back.
If he hadn't reacted in time, he would've died.
"Sorry," Russell said regretfully. "My aim was off. I was targeting your turban."
Quirrell roared in fury—and fear.
"You nearly killed me!"
Yet inwardly, he was shaken. Russell had mastered the spell with no instruction at all. His talent was terrifying.
"That spell wasn't very hard," Russell said casually. "Got anything stronger?"
Quirrell hesitated—
Then Voldemort spoke.
Quirrell's uncertainty vanished.
"Have you ever seen a spell that allows true flight?"
"Oh?" Russell's eyes lit up. Voldemort's personal flight spell—was he about to teach it?
"Of course not," Quirrell shook his head. "Just a demonstration."
He began chanting rapidly—too fast to hear.
Black smoke enveloped him as he leapt upward, hovering briefly in the office.
Then the smoke dispersed.
Quirrell dropped like a stone.
"Oof—!"
He staggered upright, rubbing his back.
"Interested?" he asked.
"Learn it so I can fall to my death when it fails?" Russell replied flatly.
"That won't happen," Quirrell said hurriedly. "It's just that the curse is growing stronger, throwing my magic out of balance."
"Fine," Russell said, holding out his hand. "I'll believe you—once."
"This time, no shortcuts," Quirrell smiled thinly.
"So you want me to do something for you," Russell sighed inwardly. Pity—he's not as stupid as he looks.
"You know the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor?"
"Of course," Russell nodded. So that's it—scouting duty.
"My condition is worsening," Quirrell said. "I'll have to rely on you."
"Fine," Russell agreed easily. What I report is my choice.
"Excellent."
Not long after Russell left, Voldemort spoke.
"When I look at him," Voldemort said softly, "it's like seeing my younger self—cold, ruthless, gifted beyond measure, willing to pay any price for power."
"So we must bring him into your service, my Lord," Quirrell said eagerly.
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(Special thanks to Ronald_Fletcher and Aka4456544566)