— — — — — —
With the still-sleeping Scabbers in hand, Tom stepped into his private pocket dimension.
The potion he'd brewed was nothing complicated—a simple mix of Draught of Living Death and a touch of Lifewater. But the Lifewater was particularly potent, which made the awakening process a little tricky.
To save time, Tom went with the most direct approach.
"Crucio."
The balding rat began to twitch uncontrollably. After about thirty seconds of convulsions, the creature stirred awake—but Tom didn't stop there. He increased the curse's intensity, watching coldly as the rat squealed and spasmed. After another few seconds, its body swelled and twisted grotesquely, finally reshaping into a short, plump, bald man with a filthy face.
If you'd ever wondered what "gross" looked like in human form, Peter Pettigrew was the answer. The fact that this man's Animagus form was a rat almost felt too merciful.
"S-stop! Please, stop!" Pettigrew shrieked in pain, voice sharp and desperate. Vines coiled up his body, pinning him tightly before the glow of the Cruciatus finally faded.
Tom conjured a tray of biscuits and a jug of milk, sat down, and began eating calmly, giving Pettigrew time to recover.
By the time Tom finished his snack, Pettigrew had stopped shaking. He lifted his head, forcing a pitiful smile onto that greasy face. His voice was thin and wheedling.
"Tom... I—I'm not a bad person. My name's Peter Pettigrew. I'm a recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class."
"Oh?" Tom set down his cup. "Sounds impressive. So why are you hiding as a rat in Hogwarts?"
"Because... because I have a terrifying enemy!" Pettigrew's voice trembled. "His name is Sirius Black. He's—he's one of the Dark Lord's most vicious followers! He murdered my friend James!"
"I've heard a lot about that," Tom said evenly. "Hagrid told me all sorts of stories. I know about Black. He's been locked up in Azkaban for years—might even be dead by now. So why keep hiding? Why not come out and enjoy your hero status?"
Pettigrew's face twisted with mock distress. "Because some of the Death Eaters escaped capture! I had to stay hidden to avoid being hunted down. You don't understand, boy—the Dark Lord and his servants were monsters!"
Tom tilted his head. "Funny. I don't believe a word you just said. Maybe I'll hand you over to Professor Snape and let him decide what to do with you."
Pettigrew's face contorted, but deep down he was elated.
Snape, of all people! He knew Snape—they were colleagues once. Partners, even.
Snape had leaked the prophecy to Voldemort, and Pettigrew had supplied the address. Their teamwork had been flawless. It wasn't his fault the boss couldn't kill a baby.
"Well, if you insist," Pettigrew said quickly, his beady eyes darting. "But showing up like this might cause panic, don't you think? Maybe... maybe you could give me the antidote first? Let me move around again?"
He still felt weak all over, his voice trembling as much as his hands. Transforming again was impossible in this state.
"No need to bother," Tom said with a smile, raising his wand. "I'll take care of it for you."
A flash of light—Pettigrew's eyes rolled back, and he slumped over, transforming once again into a shedding rat.
Not an Animagus transformation this time, but a forced Transfiguration.
Tom slipped the rat back into the glass jar, left his pocket world, and walked straight toward Snape's office. He didn't bother knocking politely—he knocked. Hard.
A few seconds later came Snape's irritated snarl.
"Whatever it is, it can wait until morning! I'm trying to rest."
Good. He was in.
Ignoring the tone, Tom twisted the doorknob. Unfortunately, the door was locked—and he might've twisted a bit too hard, because the entire lock came off in his hand.
Snape stormed out of his quarters, wand raised, face thunderous. He stopped short when he saw Tom standing there, holding his doorknob like a peace offering.
Tom blinked. "..."
This was... awkward. He had come here with good intentions.
"Levicorpus!" Snape snapped, fury breaking loose.
The spell crackled against Tom's skin, fluttering the hem of his robes before dissipating harmlessly.
Tom smiled. "You are using fake spells, or what?"
"Riddle!" Snape's voice was tight with rage. "Are you trying to die?"
Magic flared around him, black robes whipping in the air as his patience ran out.
"Wait, wait," Tom said, holding up his hands. "Professor, bad habit. I didn't mean it. Just—calm down. I really do have something important to tell you."
"I said whatever it is can wait until tomorrow!" Snape's scowl was darker than a raven's wing.
"Can't. It's urgent."
Something in Tom's tone made Snape pause. He glanced down the corridor, then grudgingly stepped aside and shut the door behind them.
"Talk," he said. "And make it worth my time."
"Well..."
Snape's instincts prickled. He immediately took two steps back and braced himself against his desk.
Because that smile—that infuriatingly innocent smile—had just appeared on Tom's face.
And in Snape's experience, that smile was always the prelude to a blood pressure spike.
"Actually," Tom began, glancing around the room, which contained almost nothing of value, "that Halloween night in first year... when your collection mysteriously disappeared? That was me."
Snape froze. "...It was you? Not Quirrell?"
Tom looked at him like he'd just asked if owls could swim. "Quirrell? He was busy prowling the forbidden corridor. Why would he waste time robbing you?"
"I knew it..." Snape's lips trembled with fury. "A dragon heartstring, a sphinx eye... half the ingredients missing from my stock were used in your Strengthening Potion!"
Tom raised an eyebrow.
So the greasy old bat had figured out some of the formula. Not bad.
"Riddle," Snape said, voice shaking, dark mist rising off his shoulders, "do you honestly think I'm too weak to hex you? You dare come here and boast about stealing from me?"
"This isn't boasting," Tom said earnestly. "It's an apology. Back then, I was just a clueless first-year who'd stumbled across a rare potion formula. I didn't have access to any of the main ingredients. But thankfully, your... generous sponsorship gave me a start."
"You call that sponsorship?" Snape let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "If this is your idea of an apology, why wait until now? Were you hoping to drive me into an early grave and take my job as Head of House?"
Tom froze.
Huh. That was actually... an interesting idea.
"I should've waited until seventh year, then," he muttered under his breath. Unfortunately for him, with only the two of them in the room, Snape heard every word.
"Sectumsempra!"
"Finite Incantatem!"
Their spells clashed midair, dissolving into a faint breeze that brushed Snape's cheek. His expression hardened.
Tom was still Tom—always favoring flashy, impractical spells—but Snape had to admit, the boy could now easily deflect his attacks.
"Head of House, why such a temper?" Tom said with mock helplessness. "You're acting more like a hot-headed Gryffindor than a Slytherin."
"I'll make sure Granger hears that compliment," Snape said coldly.
"No need," Tom waved it off. "She's already agreed with me before."
Snape glared.
Tom continued, "The only reason I didn't come clean earlier was that I hadn't found a proper gift to make up for it. But now I have."
"What kind of 'gift'?" Snape asked suspiciously.
"Come with me. Let's talk in Dumbledore's office. Saves me from having to explain everything twice."
Without waiting for permission, Tom turned and walked out. Snape's curiosity got the better of him—whatever this boy was planning, it had to be good, otherwise, he wouldn't reveal everything.
The two of them climbed the stairs together, Snape following just behind.
On the way, a few unlucky students who happened to be wandering the corridors became collateral damage. Snape, still seething, unleashed a barrage of point deductions. By the time they reached the seventh floor, every house had lost at least a few dozen points.
Tom slowed a little to match his pace. "By the way, Professor, you were gone most of the day. No classes. Did you go to St. Mungo's?"
Snape's tone was flat. "Yes."
"Trying to find a cure for the victims infected by the mutated vampires?"
Snape gave a curt nod.
"Any progress?"
"I'm a potioneer, not a miracle worker," Snape snapped. "You can't expect results overnight."
Tom nodded knowingly. That, at least, explained Snape's foul mood.
The stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office stepped aside as Tom raised a hand. As Tom passed, it muttered quietly, "Riddle, send that gloomy one away later. I need a word with you."
Snape's expression darkened. Even the statues were against him now?
Tom just smiled and stepped onto the moving staircase.
Inside, Dumbledore was poring over ancient tomes, frustration etched across his face. There were no records anywhere of vampiric infections like these.
It wasn't just about the patients in the hospital—the real danger was the source. Where was the vampire that started it all? And were there more out there?
As the gargoyle opened the way, Dumbledore looked up, puzzled, and waved his hand. The oak door swung open just as Snape and Tom arrived to knock.
"Headmaster," Tom greeted cheerfully.
"How rare to see you two together," Dumbledore said with a wry smile, motioning for them to sit. "Every time I see Tom in this office, it's either good news... or very bad news. For the sake of my old heart, I hope it's the former."
"It's good news," Tom said, pulling out a glass jar. Both Snape and Dumbledore leaned forward as he tipped it over, letting a plump gray rat tumble onto the table.
"This is...?"
Tom tapped it with his wand. In an instant, the rat morphed into a short, balding man—Peter Pettigrew.
Snape shot to his feet, eyes wide. Dumbledore leaned forward sharply.
"Peter?"
"Riddle," Snape demanded, "what's going on here?"
Tom recounted everything—Pettigrew's sob story, his excuses, his claim that Sirius Black had framed him.
When he finished, Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a long look. Both of them saw the same doubt mirrored in the other's eyes.
"Tom," Dumbledore asked quietly, "you don't believe him, do you?"
Tom shook his head. "Not really. I've heard Hagrid mention, uh... certain history between Professor Snape and the Marauders."
Snape's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists, and a dangerous spark flickered in his eyes. That was not a pleasant chapter of his life.
Tom grinned. "So, whether Pettigrew's telling the truth or not, I figured I'd leave that to you. Consider this my peace offering, Professor. We're even now, right?"
Snape ignored the jab, voice low and cold. "Dumbledore, this isn't right. I'll need... unconventional methods."
Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Use Veritaserum, then. You have some, don't you, Severus?"
"I always carry it," Snape said. His eyes never left Pettigrew. "Riddle, wake him."
Tom pointed his wand lazily. A glowing orb drifted from the tip, landing on Pettigrew's forehead. Dumbledore's eyelid twitched.
That wasn't a simple Rennervate—that was a modified Legilimency pulse, the kind that could rip at a person's consciousness. Overkill, to say the least.
"Perhaps... a lighter touch next time," Dumbledore coughed diplomatically. "Three drops of Veritaserum should be enough. Then we'll—"
He didn't get to finish. Pettigrew's eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused.
Before Dumbledore could say another word, Snape strode forward, grabbed Pettigrew by the jaw, and poured the entire vial down his throat.
Tom blinked, tilting his head toward Dumbledore. "You said... three drops?"
Dumbledore sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
.
.
.
I planned to post 10 chapters, but the last 2 weren't finished, so expect them tomorrow along with the usual daily update. That means 4 chapters tomorrow