The sharp crack of Apparition split the air like someone had just snapped the world's largest rubber band, and suddenly their damaged living room went from "cozy disaster zone" to "Ministry of Magic convention hall with serious anger management issues."
First through the interdimensional doorway of bureaucratic fury was Barty Crouch Sr., who materialized with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested he'd been practicing his entrances in front of a mirror while muttering things like "Fear me, criminals!" and "Justice will be served!" His robes were so perfectly pressed they could have been used as a cutting instrument, his thinning hair was styled with the precision of a military operation, and his expression carried the particular brand of righteous fury that only came from believing you were about to arrest someone really, really infamous.
Right behind him came Albus Dumbledore, and James had to blink twice because the great wizard looked like someone had just told him that Hogwarts had been turned into a Muggle shopping mall. His usually twinkling blue eyes were sharp with something that might have been panic mixed with professional embarrassment, his silver beard was disheveled enough to suggest he'd been running his hands through it, and even his colorful robes seemed somehow less vibrant, as if his wardrobe was having an emotional crisis in sympathy with its owner.
"Where is he?" Crouch demanded without so much as a "good morning" or "sorry about your exploded house." His wand was already drawn and he was scanning the room like a hawk that had just spotted a particularly plump rabbit. "Where is Sirius Black? We have reports that he was seen at this location engaging in terrorist activities, and I want him in custody immediately."
James exchanged a glance with Lily that clearly said, *Oh, this is going to be fun.*
"Good morning to you too, Barty," Amelia Bones said with the kind of dry delivery that could have started forest fires. She was leaning against what remained of their bookshelf like someone who'd already figured out that this situation was about to go sideways in spectacular fashion. "Perhaps we should establish what actually happened here before we start arresting people based on what I'm guessing are some truly fascinating preliminary reports."
"I know exactly what happened here," Crouch snapped, waving his wand around like a conductor having a nervous breakdown. "The traitor Black betrayed the location of the Potter family to You-Know-Who, resulting in their deaths and the tragic orphaning of young Harry Potter. We're here to arrest him for murder, treason, and probably jaywalking, then arrange for the proper placement of the child with his closest living relatives."
James Potter stepped into Crouch's line of sight with the casual confidence of someone who was very much alive and only mildly insulted by reports of his own demise.
"Well, that's a fascinating theory, Barty," he said conversationally, his silver-flecked eyes glinting with the kind of amusement that usually preceded someone getting verbally demolished. "Just one tiny, insignificant, utterly devastating problem with your brilliant analysis there."
Crouch's head whipped toward James so fast it was genuinely surprising he didn't achieve liftoff. His eyes went wide enough to use as dinner plates, his mouth opened and closed like a fish that had suddenly discovered it was actually a penguin, and his face went through more color changes than a mood ring having an existential crisis.
"You're..." he managed, his voice climbing octaves like it was training for the opera. "But you're supposed to be—the reports clearly stated—the intelligence indicated—"
"Dead?" Lily supplied helpfully, appearing at James's side while holding a very much alive and completely unharmed Harry, who was making the sort of interested gurgling noises that suggested he found adult emotional breakdowns vastly entertaining. "Oh yes, I imagine they did say that. Funny how intelligence reports can be so terribly unreliable sometimes, isn't it?"
If Crouch looked like someone whose entire worldview had just been hit by a rogue Bludger traveling at terminal velocity, Dumbledore looked like someone whose carefully constructed philosophy of life had been fed through a paper shredder and then set on fire for good measure. The color drained from his face so completely he resembled a portrait that had been left out in a particularly enthusiastic rainstorm.
And James, with his newly enhanced divine senses still humming like a cosmic tuning fork, automatically catalogued every magical signature in the room. Which was when he noticed something absolutely fascinating about the wand in Dumbledore's trembling grip.
It wasn't his usual Wand.
The magical resonance was completely wrong. This was another wand—admittedly a very nice wand, probably handcrafted by Ollivander himself—but it was trying very hard to pretend it was something infinitely more significant. Like a street performer doing a really convincing impersonation of Merlin.
*Interesting,* James thought. *Very, very interesting indeed.*
"James," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying undertones of shock, relief, confusion, and what sounded suspiciously like carefully controlled panic all mixed together in one emotional smoothie. "Lily. You're both... this is wonderful news. Truly miraculous. But how on earth...?"
"Long story," James replied with the kind of cheerful evasiveness that had made him legendary at avoiding detention explanations back at Hogwarts. "The important part is that we're all alive, Voldemort is extremely and permanently dead, and there are some rather significant corrections that need to be made to the official record regarding exactly who betrayed our location to him."
"Corrections?" Crouch demanded, apparently recovering enough of his composure to sound properly authoritative again. "What corrections? The intelligence clearly indicates that Sirius Black was your Secret Keeper, and his presence here during the attack clearly demonstrates—"
"Barty," Amelia interrupted with the patient tone of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow student, "perhaps you should let them finish explaining their miraculous not-death before you arrest anyone for crimes that apparently didn't happen to people who are clearly not dead."
Sirius, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and wearing an expression of profound amusement, chose that moment to speak up.
"You know, Crouch," he said with the kind of drawling confidence that had made him the unofficial king of Gryffindor swagger, "I really appreciate the faith in my abilities as a criminal mastermind, but you're giving me way too much credit here."
"The reports—" Crouch began again, apparently having gotten stuck on repeat like a broken record.
"Were spectacularly, completely, catastrophically wrong," Lily said firmly, her green eyes flashing with the kind of dangerous intelligence that had made her the most formidable debater in Gryffindor history and the terror of anyone foolish enough to argue politics with her at parties.
She stepped forward, holding Harry with the protective instincts of someone who was prepared to hexe anyone who threatened her child, including overzealous Ministry officials operating on hilariously bad information.
"Sirius Black was never our Secret Keeper," she continued, her voice carrying the absolute authority of someone stating facts rather than opinions. "We made a last-minute change to the arrangement, precisely because we were worried about Sirius being such an obvious target that he might as well have worn a sign saying 'Secret Keeper Here, Please Torture for Information.'"
"So who was your Secret Keeper?" Dumbledore asked, though there was something in his voice that might have been genuine surprise or Academy Award-level acting. James was beginning to suspect the latter.
"Peter Pettigrew," James said, and the way he said it made the shadows in the room seem to lean in closer, like even the darkness wanted to hear this particular revelation.
"Peter Pettigrew?" Crouch repeated, apparently still trying to reorganize his mental filing system. "But surely Peter has been missing since the attack. We assumed he was killed trying to prevent—"
"Peter Pettigrew," James interrupted, his voice taking on harmonics that seemed to resonate in everyone's bones, "betrayed our location to Voldemort. Peter Pettigrew is the reason the Dark Lord was able to find us despite our protections. Peter Pettigrew is the miserable, cowardly, backstabbing rat who nearly got my family killed."
The silence that followed was the kind usually reserved for moments when everyone realizes they've been operating under completely wrong assumptions and nobody wants to be the first to admit it.
"That's..." Crouch began, then stopped, apparently realizing he was about to say "impossible" to people who had just proven that his entire understanding of recent events was laughably incorrect. "That's a very serious accusation. Do you have any proof to support these claims?"
James smiled, and it was the kind of expression that suggested he was about to produce evidence from places where evidence shouldn't technically be able to exist.
"As a matter of fact, Barty," he said with satisfaction practically radiating from every pore, "I do. And it's the kind of proof that would hold up in any court in the wizarding world."
He moved to the center of the room, his enhanced senses reaching out to touch the lingering traces of magic that clung to every surface like invisible fingerprints. To normal wizards, these traces would have faded hours ago—magical signatures were notoriously difficult to detect after the fact.
But James Potter was no longer operating within the normal parameters of wizardry.
Silver light began to emanate from his eyes as he drew more deeply on his divine heritage, and suddenly the air in the room shimmered with visible traces of magical energy. Threads of power became apparent to everyone present—some bright and clean, others dark and twisted with a corruption that made everyone instinctively step backward.
"Peter's magical signature is all over our front entrance," James said, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of someone reading evidence as clear as neon signs. "Recent visits, multiple times over the past several months. His magic is absolutely saturated with Dark Arts resonance—the kind that only comes from prolonged, voluntary contact with Voldemort's inner circle."
The threads of magical energy hanging in the air began to coalesce into recognizable patterns, painting a picture of visits, conversations, and betrayals that left absolutely no room for doubt or creative interpretation.
"Here," James continued, pointing to a cluster of particularly nasty-looking dark traces near their ruined front door, "is where he Apparated in three hours ago. Here's where he stood while he gave Voldemort the exact layout of our cottage, the timing of our usual routines, and probably our favorite breakfast cereals. And here..."
His voice grew darker, carrying undertones that made everyone present straighten with sudden alarm.
"Here's where he cast the spell that temporarily disrupted our ward stones, creating a fifteen-minute window when Voldemort could approach without triggering any of our defenses. Convenient timing, wouldn't you say?"
The evidence hung in the air like an accusation made of light and shadow, impossible to deny and damning in its absolute clarity.
"That's..." Amelia stared at the magical traces with the expression of someone who had just witnessed the laws of physics politely excuse themselves from reality. "How in Merlin's name are you doing this? This level of magical signature analysis requires specialized equipment, trained curse-breakers, and laboratory conditions. It's not something individual wizards can just perform, especially not hours after the fact."
"I've been doing some... extensive research into advanced defensive magic during our time in hiding," James replied diplomatically, which was technically true even if it left out some rather important details about divine consultation, cosmic essence integration, and a stepfather who happened to rule the underworld. "You'd be amazed what you can learn when your life depends on it and you have access to really good reference materials."
"Research," Dumbledore repeated, his blue eyes sharp with the kind of analytical focus that had made him famous throughout the wizarding world for seeing through deceptions and getting to the heart of mysteries. "What kind of research, James? This appears to be magic operating on a level that transcends conventional spellwork entirely."
James met the older wizard's gaze steadily, his silver-flecked eyes reflecting depths that definitely hadn't been there before his evening of cosmic character development and divine family bonding.
"The kind that keeps my family alive when everyone else's carefully laid plans fall apart," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made everyone present understand this was not a topic open for further discussion, cross-examination, or philosophical inquiry.
Before anyone could press for more details about his mysterious research methods, Sirius cleared his throat with the kind of diplomatic cough that suggested he had important information to contribute to the proceedings.
"Right then," he said, stepping forward with his hands raised in a gesture of complete cooperation, "since we're establishing the truth here and clearing up all these delightful misunderstandings, I'd like to make a formal statement under Veritaserum, if necessary, that I was never, at any point, the Secret Keeper for James and Lily Potter."
"You're willing to submit to Veritaserum questioning?" Crouch asked, his tone suggesting he was still trying to mentally reorganize his entire understanding of the situation but was beginning to accept that his original assumptions might have been not just wrong, but spectacularly, embarrassingly wrong.
"Absolutely," Sirius replied without the slightest hesitation, flashing the kind of confident grin that had gotten him out of trouble at Hogwarts and into trouble everywhere else. "I'll swear on my magic, submit to any truth detection spells you want to throw at me, take a magical oath, and provide a full account of everything I know about Peter's suspicious activities over the past year. Hell, I'll even let you examine my memories in a Pensieve if that's what it takes. Because unlike certain rat-like individuals we could mention, I have absolutely nothing to hide."
"And," he continued, his expression growing more serious, "I have quite a lot to reveal about Peter Pettigrew's recent behavior that, in retrospect, should have set off every alarm bell from here to Scotland."
"Such as?" Amelia inquired, pulling out a quill that began taking notes by itself.
"Such as his sudden interest in Dark Arts texts that he claimed were for 'academic research,'" Sirius said, making air quotes with obvious disdain. "Such as his mysterious absences that he explained as 'visiting his sick mother' despite the fact that his mother died three years ago. Such as the way he kept asking oddly specific questions about James and Lily's security arrangements and daily routines."
"You didn't find any of this suspicious at the time?" Crouch asked.
"Of course I found it suspicious," Sirius replied with the kind of patient explanation usually reserved for very small children. "But Peter had been our friend since we were eleven years old. When someone you've known for over a decade starts acting strangely, your first instinct isn't 'clearly he's betraying us to the Dark Lord.' Your first instinct is 'maybe he's having personal problems' or 'perhaps he's developed an interest in genealogy.'"
"Perfectly understandable," Amelia said diplomatically. "Betrayal by close friends isn't something most people anticipate or prepare for."
"Exactly," James agreed. "Which is why Peter was such an effective spy. Nobody suspects the quiet, harmless friend who's always been slightly overshadowed by more charismatic personalities."
"Speaking of Mr. Pettigrew," said a new voice from the doorway, "I believe I can provide some assistance with locating him."
Everyone turned to see a figure that absolutely none of them had expected—tall, elegant, and carrying himself with the kind of quiet authority that made mountains reconsider their positions on geological stability. He was dressed in impeccable black robes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and his dark eyes held depths that spoke of ancient wisdom and considerable experience with situations exactly like this one.
Also, he was probably the most attractive man any of them had ever seen, which was both distracting and slightly unfair to everyone else in the room.
"And you are?" Amelia inquired with professional courtesy, though James noticed she straightened her robes and checked her hair in a gesture that was probably unconscious.
"A consultant," the newcomer replied smoothly, inclining his head in a gesture that managed to be respectful, slightly mysterious, and vaguely dangerous all at once. "I specialize in matters involving death, souls, and individuals who make spectacularly poor decisions about both. I believe I may be able to provide some assistance with your Peter Pettigrew situation."
James had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as he recognized the familiar power signature. Trust his stepfather to show up at exactly the right moment and provide help in the most dramatically mysterious way possible. Also, "consultant" was probably the most diplomatically vague job description in the history of professional introductions.
"What kind of assistance?" Crouch demanded, apparently deciding that if his morning was already full of impossible revelations and reality-defying magic, he might as well hear all of it.
The consultant—Hades, though nobody else needed to know that—smiled with the kind of expression that suggested he was about to make everyone's job considerably easier in ways they wouldn't fully understand until much later.
"The kind that comes from having access to investigative techniques that transcend conventional magical law enforcement," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that made everyone present pay attention whether they wanted to or not. "I can locate Mr. Pettigrew regardless of where he's chosen to hide, what disguises he's adopted, or what protective spells he thinks will keep him safe. I can provide evidence of his activities that will satisfy any legal standard you care to apply. And I can ensure that he remains available for questioning until such time as justice has been properly and thoroughly served."
"That's..." Amelia paused, clearly trying to decide whether to be suspicious of this mysterious offer or grateful for assistance that could solve what was shaping up to be an extremely complicated case with international implications. "That's a remarkably generous offer, Mr...?"
"Pluto," Hades replied smoothly, and James had to cough to cover what was definitely a snort of amusement at his stepfather's choice of pseudonym. "Rex Pluto. I'm something of a family friend."
The irony was apparently lost on everyone except James, who was beginning to appreciate his stepfather's sense of humor on an entirely new level.
"Right then, Mr. Pluto," Crouch said, apparently deciding that if his carefully organized morning was going to dissolve into chaos anyway, he might as well make it productive chaos. "If you can indeed help us locate Peter Pettigrew and gather legally admissible evidence of his treasonous activities, the Ministry would be extremely grateful for your assistance."
"Consider it already done," Hades replied with the quiet confidence of someone who had just been asked to do something well within his professional competencies. "I should have him located and in custody within the hour. Traitors rarely hide as cleverly as they think they do, especially when their motivations stem primarily from cowardice rather than intelligence."
"How exactly do you plan to—" Dumbledore began.
"Trade secrets," Hades interrupted smoothly. "Let's just say I have access to investigative resources that operate outside normal magical detection methods."
Before anyone could ask more questions about his mysteriously effective investigative techniques, Dumbledore stepped forward with the air of someone trying to regain control of a situation that had slipped well beyond his carefully laid expectations.
"While this is all very encouraging," he said, his voice carrying its usual grandfatherly warmth despite the obvious stress lines around his eyes, "there are still important questions that need to be answered. James, you mentioned that Voldemort is permanently dead. How can we be absolutely certain of this? The Dark Lord has returned from apparent death before, after all."
"Because," James said, his silver eyes beginning to glow with inner fire as he drew on knowledge that came from sources considerably more reliable than wizarding textbooks, "I didn't just destroy his body this time. I destroyed his soul fragments—all of them. The Horcruxes that kept him tethered to this world like some kind of magical parasite are completely gone. His soul is whole again, and whole souls cannot survive the Killing Curse. He's as dead as any mortal can possibly be."
"Horcruxes?" Crouch repeated, his voice carrying the kind of horrified fascination that came from hearing about magic so dark it made regular Dark Arts look like children's party tricks. "You're telling us that You-Know-Who actually created Horcruxes? Multiple Horcruxes?"
"Six pieces total," James confirmed, his voice carrying echoes of divine authority that made the statement feel like absolute, unquestionable truth. "A ring, a diary, a cup, a locket, a diadem, and a fragment he carried in his own body. All destroyed. All reclaimed by the natural order that he'd been violating for decades."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually accompanied revelations that completely redefined everyone's understanding of how dangerous their recently concluded war had actually been.
"Six pieces," Amelia breathed, her sharp mind immediately grasping the full implications. "His soul was fractured into six pieces. That's not just Dark magic, that's... that's an abomination against the fundamental laws of existence itself."
"Exactly," James agreed, his enhanced perception picking up the way Dumbledore went very, very still at the mention of six Horcruxes—the kind of unnatural stillness that came from realizing that someone else knew secrets you'd thought were safely hidden in your own mind. "Which is why he could return from apparent death before, and why he absolutely will not be returning this time. When your soul is whole and complete, death is final. No loopholes, no magical workarounds, no dramatic resurrections. Just... over."
"And you're absolutely certain that all the Horcruxes have been destroyed?" Dumbledore asked carefully, his blue eyes sharp with an intensity that suggested this answer was considerably more important to him than casual curiosity would warrant.
"Completely and utterly certain," James replied, meeting the older wizard's gaze with steady confidence. "I felt each one break. I watched their connections to his soul sever one by one. There's nothing left of Tom Marvolo Riddle except a corpse, some very unpleasant memories, and probably a lot of paperwork for the Ministry to sort through."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, though something in his expression suggested he was processing implications that went well beyond the immediate good news of Voldemort's permanent demise.
"Well then," he said finally, his voice carrying its usual calm authority despite the morning's numerous revelations, "it appears that the war is truly and completely over. This is indeed cause for celebration throughout the entire wizarding world."
"Speaking of things that should be returned now that the war is over," James said, his tone casual but his enhanced senses picking up the subtle tells that indicated Dumbledore was preparing to make a strategic exit, "there's one small matter I'd like to discuss with you, Professor."
"Oh?" Dumbledore inquired, though his grip on his not-quite-the-Elder-Wand tightened almost imperceptibly.
"My family's Invisibility Cloak," James continued with the air of someone making polite conversation about borrowed property. "I believe you've been keeping it safe for us during these dangerous times, which was very thoughtful of you. Now that the threat has passed and we're all safely not-dead, I'll be coming by Hogwarts tomorrow to collect it. I'm sure you understand—family heirloom, sentimental value, that sort of thing."
For just a moment—just a fraction of a second that most people would have missed entirely—pure panic flashed across Dumbledore's features before his usual serene expression reasserted itself with the speed of someone who'd had decades of practice controlling his reactions.
But James, with his enhanced perception and divine-level ability to read people's emotional states, caught every micro-expression, every tell, every sign that this request was causing the headmaster considerable distress.
"Of course," Dumbledore said smoothly, though his voice carried undertones of strain that suggested he was very much not looking forward to that particular conversation. "Family heirlooms should indeed be returned to their rightful owners without delay. I'll... I'll have it ready for you when you arrive."
"Wonderful," James replied cheerfully. "I do so appreciate it when things are returned promptly and without unnecessary complications. It makes everything so much simpler for everyone involved, don't you think?"
The implied threat in that statement was subtle enough that most people would have missed it entirely. But Dumbledore, with decades of experience in political maneuvering and reading between the lines of seemingly innocent conversations, understood perfectly that James Potter now knew considerably more about his recent activities than was comfortable for anyone involved.
And that James was giving him exactly one chance to make this right voluntarily.
"Yes, well," Dumbledore said, apparently deciding that discretion was definitely the better part of avoiding whatever extremely uncomfortable conversation was brewing on his horizon, "I should return to Hogwarts immediately. There will be much to arrange now that the war has officially ended. Students and staff will need to be informed of the wonderful news, security measures will need to be adjusted, celebratory feasts will need to be planned..."
"Of course," Lily said with the kind of polite dismissal that had made her legendary at Ministry social functions for her ability to end conversations with surgical precision. "We wouldn't want to keep you from such important responsibilities."
Dumbledore inclined his head in farewell, his blue eyes lingering on Harry for a moment with an expression that might have been regret, calculation, or both, then Disapparated with the kind of theatrical swirl of robes that suggested he was extremely eager to be literally anywhere else.
The moment his magical signature completely faded from the area, the tension in the room dropped so noticeably it was like someone had just turned off a particularly annoying alarm.
"Well," Sirius said cheerfully, "that was refreshingly awkward."
"Right then," Crouch said, apparently deciding to focus on the parts of the morning that made logical sense rather than the parts that required extensive philosophical reorganization of his worldview. "Mr. Pluto, if you could begin your search for Peter Pettigrew, the Ministry would be extremely grateful for expeditious results."
"Consider it already in progress," Hades replied with the confidence of someone whose investigative techniques operated on levels that conventional law enforcement couldn't even theoretically access. "As I said, I should have his location confirmed and the suspect in custody within the hour."
"And in the meantime," Amelia added, pulling out an official Ministry form that looked like it had more pages than some novels, "I'll need complete statements from all of you regarding the events of last night. For the official record, you understand. This is going to be the most significant case closure in Ministry history."
"Absolutely," James agreed with the enthusiasm of someone who was genuinely looking forward to setting the record straight. "We're happy to cooperate fully with the official investigation. Though I should probably warn you, it's quite a story."
"After this morning," Amelia replied dryly, "I think I'm prepared for just about anything."
"Famous last words," Lily murmured, and Harry giggled as if he understood the joke.
As the various Ministry officials began organizing their investigation and pulling out enough paperwork to deforest a small country, James caught Hades' eye and mouthed a silent "thank you" that conveyed profound gratitude for perfect timing, diplomatic assistance, and general stepfatherly awesomeness.
His divine stepfather simply smiled with the kind of expression that suggested this was exactly the sort of family crisis management he specialized in, and that Peter Pettigrew was about to discover that some betrayals attracted attention from powers considerably more dangerous than the Ministry of Magic.
After all, some crimes demanded divine justice.
And some families—whether mortal, divine, or wonderfully complicated combinations of both—were worth any amount of cosmic intervention and reality-bending assistance.
Even if it did make the paperwork significantly more interesting.
—
Peter Pettigrew had always considered himself an expert in cowardice. He'd elevated it to an art form, really—the strategic retreat, the tactical betrayal, the perfectly timed abandonment of sinking ships before anyone noticed you were missing. After twelve years of practice, he should have been ready for any scenario involving running for his life while everyone he'd ever known tried to kill him.
He had not been prepared for this.
His rat form scurried through London's storm drains with all the dignity of wet panic, tiny claws scrabbling against slime-covered concrete while his mind tried desperately to process what he'd witnessed at Potter Cottage. The images kept replaying in his head like a broken Pensieve memory, each repetition making less sense than the last.
James Potter—James bloody Potter, who couldn't organize his own hair let alone master advanced Dark Arts—had somehow made the Dark Lord's body simply... stop. Not killed, not defeated through superior dueling skill or clever strategy, but actually commanded Voldemort to die like death itself was taking orders from him.
Peter's whiskers twitched with hysteria as he remembered the way shadows had bent toward James like living things, the way his voice had carried harmonics that seemed to resonate in dimensions that shouldn't exist. The way Voldemort—the most powerful Dark wizard in memory, the man who'd conquered death itself—had looked genuinely terrified before the Killing Curse finally ended him.
*What the hell happened to James Potter?*
Water dripped steadily onto Peter's matted fur as he paused at a junction of three tunnels, trying to decide which direction led furthest from magical detection and closest to somewhere he could transform back into human shape without immediately being arrested. His tiny rat brain was operating at maximum capacity just trying to stay ahead of the panic that threatened to shut down all rational thought.
The plan had been foolproof. Voldemort kills the Potters, takes the baby for whatever dark purpose he'd hinted at, Sirius gets blamed for the betrayal, and Peter disappears into a comfortable new identity with enough gold to live comfortably for decades. Simple, clean, effective.
Instead, he'd arrived at the cottage expecting to find corpses and had instead witnessed something that violatedmost of the fundamental laws of magical theory. James Potter—James *Potter*, who'd spent half of seventh year trying to figure out how to ask Evans to Hogsmeade—had channeled power that made the Dark Lord look like a first-year with a broken wand.
Peter's rat form shuddered as he remembered the moment when James had gestured casually at thin air and five separate magical resonances had screamed across the British Isles before going silent forever. He'd felt it through the Dark Mark—five pieces of his master's soul simply ceasing to exist, like someone had reached into the fundamental structure of reality and edited them out of existence entirely.
*How do you fight someone who can do that? How do you run from someone who can apparently rewrite the laws of life and death while making jokes about it?*
A splash echoed through the tunnels behind him, and Peter's panic spiked into pure terror. Every sound was an Auror squad. Every shadow held a vengeful Sirius Black. Every drop of water was someone coming to drag him back to face justice for crimes that were supposed to have been blamed on other people.
He forced himself to keep moving, his tiny claws finding purchase on the slippery concrete as he navigated deeper into London's underground maze. Somewhere in the city above, people were probably already celebrating. The war was over. The Dark Lord was dead. Heroes would be honored, traitors would be hunted, and Peter Pettigrew was definitely, absolutely, completely on the wrong side of that particular equation.
The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he'd genuinely believed he was backing the winning side. Voldemort had seemed unstoppable, immortal, the inevitable future of wizarding Britain. Supporting him had felt like backing a Quidditch team that was already ahead by three hundred points with the opposing Seeker in hospital.
But James Potter had made the Dark Lord's immortality look like a particularly ineffective parlor trick.
*Think, Peter. Think like the rat you are. Where can you go? Who might help you? What options do you have?*
The continental networks were probably already compromised—Voldemort's international contacts would be scrambling to distance themselves from his organization, and harboring a known traitor wouldn't be good for anyone's political health. The remaining Death Eaters would blame him for the Dark Lord's defeat somehow, because that's what Death Eaters did when their carefully laid plans resulted in spectacular disasters.
Maybe... maybe he could find a way to contact the Ministry. Claim he'd been under the Imperius Curse the entire time. Insist he'd been trying to feed them information but couldn't risk blowing his cover. It wasn't a great plan, but it was better than spending the rest of his presumably short life as a fugitive rat living in storm drains.
Another splash echoed through the tunnels, closer this time, and Peter's rat instincts screamed at him to run faster. But his tiny legs were already moving as quickly as they could manage, and the exhaustion of transformation combined with pure terror was beginning to take its toll.
He'd been running for hours. His rat form needed rest, food, and somewhere warm to sleep. But more importantly, he needed time to think, to plan, to figure out how someone like Peter Pettigrew could possibly survive in a world where James Potter commanded death like a household servant.
*Maybe I should have just stayed loyal,* he thought miserably as he splashed through another puddle of questionable water. *Maybe betraying people who could literally rewrite reality wasn't the brilliant strategy I thought it was.*
But it was too late for regrets. Too late for anything except running, hiding, and hoping that whatever power James Potter had gained came with some sort of mercy clause for former friends who'd made spectacularly poor life choices.
Above him, London was waking up to news of Voldemort's defeat. Somewhere in that city, people who'd spent years living in fear were preparing to celebrate.
And somewhere in the storm drains below, the architect of their fear scurried through the darkness, finally understanding what it felt like to be the hunted instead of the hunter.
It was, Peter reflected, a remarkably unpleasant education.
---
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