Ch 119
"This is the first 'master' I met while I had amnesia," Peter Pettigrew said as he walked to Percy's side. Percy's face flushed with excitement; he felt honored to have played such an important role in a legendary story like this. Thinking of that, he unconsciously straightened his back.
"If only I had known…" Percy began to blame himself, imagining that this event might have helped him in the future. But Pettigrew interrupted him.
"Oh, your family treated me more than well enough. Besides, you didn't know the truth," he said gently.
"Even though I was only a mouse then, you treated me like one of your own. I must say, the Weasleys raised me wonderfully. Everyone in your family is full of warmth and kindness."
He paused, then added, "I heard you're now Head Boy, Percy? James was the same back then. I believe you'll achieve great things in the future."
Then he turned.
"And you, Ron."
He walked to Ron's side.
"I'm very sorry. Your pet Scabbers will never come back."
"No… no… Merlin, I still can't believe it." Ron stared at him wide-eyed. "The rat that lived in our house for over ten years was an Animagus? And a First Class Order of Merlin recipient?" He muttered as if in a dream.
"Ron, sometimes life is stranger than anything you can imagine. Would you be willing to accept a new pet from me?" Pettigrew asked with a friendly wink.
"Of course—of course I would," Ron nodded eagerly.
"And finally… Harry."
Pettigrew looked at Harry, and a perfectly measured sadness filled his small eyes.
"You look so much like your father. Seeing you is like seeing James again. For three years I watched over you silently, yet I did almost nothing to help."
"May I hug you, Harry?"
"Meow—!"
At that moment Crookshanks suddenly burst free from Hermione's arms and hurled himself at Pettigrew.
"He must have remembered my scent," Pettigrew said calmly. An invisible barrier shimmered around him, blocking the cat's attack. Crookshanks could only slash the air with his claws and hiss furiously.
"I'm so sorry, sir!" Hermione hurried forward, scooping Crookshanks up again.
"Miss Granger, no need to apologize. It's only a cat's instinct. With its intelligence, it can't possibly understand the difference between a man and a mouse," Pettigrew said with a smile.
"Crookshanks is very smart," Hermione replied stiffly, a little offended. "I'll teach him some manners later."
After the interruption, Pettigrew faced Harry once more, rubbing his hands nervously.
"Harry… if you're willing, could I become your guardian from now on?"
"My magic and memories have returned. I may not be as powerful as Professor Dumbledore or Mr. Moody, but I still have some strength. If Sirius ever tries to harm you, he'll have to go through me first."
"Peter, you should go to St. Mungo's for a full examination," Lupin cut in.
"And don't you think this is too much for Harry all at once?"
"You're right, I didn't think it through." Pettigrew's eyes filled with tears again.
"But I'm just so excited—this is James's son. He defeated that man, even surpassed his father. How could I not be moved?"
He leaned closer and whispered to Harry, "The Philosopher's Stone, the basilisk… even remembering it frightens me. Luckily you inherited James's courage."
Harry scratched the back of his head, embarrassed by the praise.
He remembered what he'd heard in the Three Broomsticks: this man had supposedly died avenging his father. Now he was standing here alive. The idea that his father's best friend had spent three years beside him as a pet made Harry's cheeks burn.
Pettigrew seemed to guess his thoughts.
"Don't worry," he murmured, "I'll keep your little secrets safe. Your father and I pulled the same tricks at school."
Harry felt the distance between them shrink.
Click—click—
The photographers worked frantically, flashes exploding across the hall. Tomorrow's headlines were already written: the hero long thought dead returned to protect his best friend's son. Even Fudge's ruined reputation would rise with it.
Only Pettigrew himself knew what he was truly thinking.
For years he had not dared return to human form. The memory of hatred in Sirius's eyes, the fire that could burn everything—those images had chained him more tightly than Azkaban.
Life with the Weasleys had been peaceful. He read the Daily Prophet after Arthur finished it, always hoping to see the words: Sirius Black dies in Azkaban.
But the news never came. Instead, Black escaped.
When he learned that Sirius had reached the Fat Lady's portrait, Pettigrew knew the end was near. He tried to retrieve the Marauder's Map from Filch's office—perhaps it could save him—but he failed.
Night after night he woke from nightmares of a black dog tearing out his throat. Then, on Christmas Day, that bark shattered his last restraint. He fled in blind panic.
What followed was unthinkable.
The cage fell from the ceiling as if it had predicted his path exactly. Malfoy caught him, peeled away his secrets one by one like a demon who knew every page of his past.
Pettigrew had expected trial, prison, perhaps death.
Instead, Malfoy released him.
"You're lucky, Peter Pettigrew," the boy had said.
Then came the plan—meticulous, terrifying in its precision. Pettigrew realized that if he had tried to claim glory on his own, he would have been full of holes.
Malfoy was Slytherin to the bone: ambitious, calculating, ruthless when needed. If it had been a Gryffindor who discovered him, everything might already be exposed.
The boy had caught Sirius first, forced the truth from him with Veritaserum, and only then came for Pettigrew. If Malfoy had wanted him finished, he could have handed him to Dumbledore that very day.
"Since I dared to let you out, I can lock you up again," Malfoy had said coldly.
"Try anything foolish and you lose your last chance."
He even turned his back, leaving the door wide open.
"Copies of your confession are hidden in my home. I even filmed Black speaking with a Muggle camera. Kill me and the letters still go out."
"No—of course I wouldn't do such a thing," Pettigrew had answered with a servile smile, eyes squeezed into slits.
He was grateful he had chosen obedience.
Otherwise, how could he now taste this feeling—
the warmth of applause,
the gaze of admiration,
the glory he had once only dreamed of?