Ever since Wanda had broken into the cold, haunted stone of Azkaban and staged the carefully orchestrated "death" of Sirius Black, Harry had been consumed with a quiet, burning purpose. While the rest of the magical world mourned—or celebrated—the apparent demise of the infamous prisoner, Sirius himself lived freely, roaming the Muggle world in anonymity. His once-matted black hair had been cut short into a rugged crop, his face no longer gaunt but filling out with health and vitality. He wore jeans and leather jackets now, moved through crowds like a ghost, and laughed in cafés, bookstores, and Muggle pubs without fear. It turned out Sirius rather liked the Muggle world.
"Do you know what's brilliant about this place?" Sirius had once declared as he tossed a bag of chips into a shopping cart in Tesco, "No one gives a damn who you are as long as you're not blocking the aisle. It's so liberating not being hunted for a change."
But Harry hadn't allowed himself that peace—not yet. Behind his calm eyes and charming smiles, Harry was working on a mission only Wanda vaguely suspected: to find Peter Pettigrew.
Everyone believed Peter was untraceable, a rat both literally and figuratively. The Ministry thought he was dead. Sirius had given up hope long ago. But Harry refused to accept that. If there was even the faintest chance that Peter Pettigrew still lived, hiding under beds and crawling in shadows, then Harry was going to find him. And he would not stop until he did.
He never spoke of this plan—not to Sirius, not to Wanda, not even to Hermione. In the depths of the Highlands manor, where ancient books and magical relics were stored in private vaults, Harry scoured grimoires and forgotten tomes. His room was a mess of parchment and rune charts, magical components, and handwritten theories. He barely slept some nights, pouring over theories of magical resonance and ancient tracing spells.
It had started with a simple question to Sirius: "Do you have anything Pettigrew once owned?"
Sirius had frowned, thoughtful, then nodded. "Yeah. There's a quill of his, from when we were still at Hogwarts. He used to chew on the damn thing. I've got it locked in my trunk. Why?"
Harry gave only a vague smile. "Just something I'm working on."
With the quill and a few other items—a button from Peter's old robe, a broken chess piece—Harry set to work. At first, every trace spell failed. He relied on names, magical cores, even blood—but Peter was an animagus, and he had warped his magical signature to mirror that of a mundane rat. None of the regular methods could distinguish him. But Harry wasn't a regular wizard.
He began weaving in chaos magic—unpredictable, volatile, but immeasurably powerful. Wanda's teachings gave him enough grounding to avoid disaster, and slowly, Harry began creating something entirely new: a soul-resonant directional talisman. A magical compass bound to Peter's magical essence, one that used chaotic flux to trace animagus deception. The device was no larger than a snitch, a smooth, silver orb with runes carved all over it, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
The day it activated, the runes flashed red and the orb floated to hover in midair, spinning slowly before clicking into place and pointing—ever so faintly—west.
Harry stared at it for a long time.
He didn't smile. He didn't cheer.
He simply whispered, "Got you."
The morning sunlight filtered through the high windows of thr Highlands manor, painting long golden lines across the floor as Sirius Black came bounding down the grand staircase, whistling an upbeat Muggle tune. He was wearing a sleek leather jacket, black boots, and his newly charmed sunglasses that adjusted tint with the lighting. "Harry, America! I'm heading out!" he called, voice echoing.
America Chavez appeared from the hallway, arms crossed, wearing her signature denim jacket over a cropped tee. "You said you were going shopping without me?" she raised an eyebrow, clearly pretending to be offended.
Sirius grinned. "I said I might go shopping alone. But then I realized—what's the point of buying new clothes if I don't have someone to tell me what looks 'too wizardy'?"
"And you're bribing me with shoes, right?" she asked, her tone playful but firm.
"Three pairs. And lunch," Sirius said solemnly. "Even a Lord of an Ancient House must keep his word."
America smirked. "Then I'm in. Let me grab my bag."
As the two headed for the enchanted Muggle car—an old Bentley that Sirius had modified to glide with air charms and enhanced speed—Sirius popped his head back into the foyer. "Harry! We're off to conquer the world of skinny jeans and overpriced milkshakes. You in?"
From the upstairs landing, Harry leaned over the banister. His hair was tousled, and he was already in his enchanted dueling robe, though it had been altered to look like a Muggle coat. His expression was calm but determined.
"I've got something important to do," he said. "You two go. Have fun."
Sirius narrowed his eyes slightly. "Important like homework? Or a call from certain bushy haired witch?"
Harry simply smiled. "Don't wait up."
Sirius exchanged a glance with America, who shrugged. "As long as he's not blowing anything up without us," she said cheerfully, climbing into the passenger seat.
"Suit yourself," Sirius muttered, revving the car with a dramatic roar. "Come on, America—London fashion awaits."
As the Bentley sped down the long gravel road leading out of the manor grounds, Harry stood by the window, watching the vehicle disappear into the forest lane. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the manor, through the hall lined with things Wanda collected all over the world, and descended into the secret dueling cellar beneath the house.
There, resting on an enchanted pedestal, was the tracker—his carefully constructed soul-bound device pulsing faintly with silvery-red light. Harry took a deep breath, raised his wand, and whispered a charm to activate it.
The orb spun once. Then stopped.
The arrow pointed due east.
Harry slid it into a leather pouch on his belt and tightened the strap of his coat. "Today," he muttered, "you're mine, Pettigrew."
Harry stood beneath the early evening sky, the wind of the Highlands brushing against his cloak as he tightened the enchanted shackles to his belt. Though he was only nine and a half years old, there was nothing childish about his posture or his intent. He had trained under Sirius, Wanda, and others. His body was honed, his magical core deep and steady, and his mind sharper than most adult wizards. He was more than ready. This wasn't a mission—it was justice. The man who had betrayed his parents, who had condemned Sirius Black to a prison cell, was alive. And tonight, Harry was going to find him.
He stood outside Highlands Manor, now empty and quiet with Sirius off shopping in the Muggle world with America and Wanda on a two-day trip to Egypt for a particularly cursed tomb. That gave him freedom. No eyes watching. No questions. Just the mission.
He looked down at the magical tracker in his hand—a gleaming orb swirling with red and violet runes. The orb pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, and hovered above his palm, pointing toward the southeast.
Harry nodded. "Lets start from London," he whispered.
With a smooth motion, he pulled his wand and raised it high above his head. The night was silent for a moment—and then BANG! With a deafening crack, the bright purple triple-decker Knight Bus appeared before him, its headlights gleaming and its sign reading: "To Anywhere and Everywhere."
The door hissed open, and the conductor stepped down. He eyed Harry with some curiosity—most passengers were disheveled and panicked, but this boy stood calm, composed, and cloaked in shadows. Though only a child, he looked older—his broad shoulders, tall frame, and magical pressure made even adults give pause.
"Where to?" the conductor asked.
"London. Then from there, as far East as this bus can take me."
The conductor held out his hand. "Ten Sickles."
Harry dropped the silver coins into his palm without a word and stepped aboard. Harry pulled his hood lower and made his way silently to a seat that turned into a narrow bed.
"Hey," the conductor asked, curiously glancing back. "Why the hood? You hiding from someone?"
"Everyone," Harry said softly, his voice carrying more weight than his age should allow.
They didn't ask again.
After a blur of flashing streetlamps, jerking corners, and a brief appearance from a confused old wizard stuck in his teacup, the Night Bus came to a stop in London. Harry stepped off, still cloaked, and checked the tracker.
It pulsed brighter. East.
He boarded again, jumping two more times. The bus roared through city streets, knocked over a trash bin, and narrowly avoided a magical reindeer.
Then, finally, the tracker gave a hard pulse—Here.
"Devon," Harry murmured.
Capturing Peter Pettigrew would be easy—Harry was sure of it. He had prepared meticulously, equipping himself with a set of enchanted shackles forged from goblin-silver and bound with chaos sigils. They were specifically designed to suppress magical abilities, rendering even an the most powerful wizards helpless and unable to use any magic. Carrying an animagus was notoriously tricky—especially one as slippery as the rat—but Harry had anticipated every move the rat might make.
Before leaving, he adjusted his appearance with practiced precision. He morphed his face until it matched the old photos of James Potter—high cheekbones, angular jaw, and a roguish smirk that came naturally. Then, over his brow, he shaped a jagged lightning bolt scar using his morphing ability, a subtle but powerful symbol. He topped it off with a pair of round glasses—not just for disguise, but because they were some of his most powerful enchanted tools. The lenses were laced with intricate runes that let him see in pitch blackness, detect magical wards, trace active enchantments, and even shield his mind from legilimency.
Harry tugged his hood low over his altered face and a wave of his wand, he murmured, "Disillusio." Instantly, his body shimmered and vanished from sight. Another flick of the wand cloaked his broomstick, and in silence, he kicked off the ground and took flight into the chilled evening air.
The ride was long, but peaceful. The countryside spread out beneath him in a blur of green pastures, mossy hedges, and snaking rivers. The wind whipped against his robes, but he leaned forward, eyes on the tracker bobbing beside him. The enchanted orb pulsed brighter the closer he flew, casting a faint red glow over his gloved hand.
Finally, the tracker jerked downwards, vibrating like a beating heart. Harry slowed, hovering over a dense patch of trees. Nestled beyond the clearing was a crooked house that looked like it had been built by a drunken architect with a fondness for stairs. A modest cottage formed the base, but layer after layer of oddly angled rooms and mismatched towers had been added on top, giving it the look of a chaotic game of wizarding Jenga.
"That's got to be it," Harry whispered.
He drifted closer and lowered himself behind a cluster of hedgerows. From here, the magical defenses became visible—silver wards strung like spiderwebs, clinging to the outer walls. One shimmered just inches from his face.
Harry raised his glasses. With a faint pulse, the lenses began analyzing the spells. "Anti-displacement, perimeter shock, low-level disintegration… amateur stuff. Probably self-set. Definitely not goblin-grade."
Still, breaking through them could trigger alarms. And he couldn't risk Pettigrew bolting.
He crouched low in the grass, brushing a hand over the hilt of his wand and whispering, "Silencio," masking even his breathing. Then he waited, the tracker steady in his palm, watching the glow of candlelight flicker from a crooked third-story window.
Harry didn't rush. He had learned long ago that patience often brought better results than reckless action—especially when hunting prey as cowardly and cunning as Peter Pettigrew. He circled around to the far side of the twisted property, moving through overgrown brambles and hedges that hadn't been tended in years. Every time he checked the tracker, the glowing red orb pointed unwaveringly toward the center of the cottage. No matter which angle he approached from, the signal held steady. There was no doubt in his mind—the rat was inside.
But charging in now would be a mistake. If Pettigrew had even the slightest inkling of Harry's approach, he might escape or trigger defensive curses—or worse, revert to his animagus form and vanish through a hole in the wall. And Harry wasn't about to let all his preparation go to waste.
He glanced around the area with his enchanted glasses, and noticed more odd-looking houses spaced far apart along the narrow countryside road. Slanted chimneys spewing greenish smoke, fences lined with softly glowing stones, mailboxes that clicked shut when stared at—signs unmistakable to any wizard. This was a magical neighborhood. Quiet. Isolated. Just enough wizarding presence to avoid detection, but not enough to raise suspicion.
"I've got time," Harry murmured to himself, brushing a leaf off his cloak. "You're not going anywhere."
With that, he turned from the crooked house and made his way back into the trees. He didn't need to act tonight. The location was marked in his mind, and with the Knight Bus, he could return in a blink. Better to come back prepared—with a full plan, at the right time, when no one could interfere or notice. It was already late, and Harry didn't want even Sirius or Wanda suspecting what he'd been up to.
Within the hour, a sharp BANG echoed through the still night air as the Knight Bus appeared once more, and with a quiet step and hood pulled low, Harry boarded. His mission was only beginning.