Peter Pettigrew had never liked children.
And six-month-old Rose Euphemia Potter was no different in that aspect....except she radiated awareness that set his nerves on edge.
He had hovered before, but one glance from her had stopped him mid-step, and Peter had felt something unnatural coiling around him, warning him off.
Now, as he knelt before Voldemort himself he wondered if every betrayal he ever had done, would be for naught all because a small child.
Voldemort stood before him. Hands clasped behind his back, the Dark Lord's strikingly handsome features belied the chilling authority radiating from him. Eyes sharp, calculating, and impossibly patient, Voldemort's gaze felt like a physical weight pressing into Peter's skull.
"Peter," Voldemort said, voice smooth, deliberate, "I expected to find the usual… parameters in place. One child. One destined to fulfill prophecy. One simple piece in a larger design."
Peter's throat went dry. "Yes… my Lord."
Voldemort's gaze shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the window, the light from outside catching the sharp angles of his face. "Yet there are two. Twins," he paused, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly.
Peter swallowed hard. "I—I… Rose is just a baby in sure she won't...I mean—" he stuttered through his sentence.
Voldemort turned slightly, as though weighing each word carefully before speaking aloud. "Do you not understand, Peter?" He let a long pause stretch, drawing the word out, letting it hang. "This child—the one who should not have been—has disrupted the design. My design. Dumbledore's design. Even the prophecy itself…"
Peter's pulse thundered in his ears. "The prophecy?"
"Yes." Voldemort's voice softened, almost to himself, though Peter could hear every syllable. "Perhaps… perhaps the child has saved even I from falling into Dumbledore's trap."
Peter froze. The words lingered in the air like smoke curling from a candle. He dared not ask for clarification. 'Saved him? How could a child save him?'
Voldemort's eyes returned to him, sharper now, piercing. "She is dangerous, Peter. Beyond your understanding. At six months, she bends perception, instills hesitation, awakens fear where none should exist. She may not yet wield the full power she will someday possess… but her presence alone shifts outcomes. Even mine."
Peter trembled. "I—I… I will serve as you wish, my Lord. I can—"
"You cannot control her," Voldemort interrupted, voice firm. "I've seen your memories. The child is too aware, perceptive, and… cunning beyond her age. She will influence events, manipulate others' actions… and perhaps even decide the fates of those around her."
Peter's stomach twisted. "But she's just a baby—"
"Just a baby," Voldemort repeated, almost as if testing the absurdity of it aloud. "And yet, she may have nullified the prophecy itself. What I had anticipated, what Dumbledore anticipated, may now be irrelevant. Impossible to predict."
Peter's knees shook. He had betrayed before, faltered before, but this—this was different. Even the Dark Lord, handsome and terrifying as he was, had paused. For an infant.
"She will change everything," Voldemort whispered, almost to himself. Then louder: "Observe her carefully. Document everything. And when the time comes… we shall see whether she can be used, or if she must be removed."
Peter nodded frantically. "Yes… yes, my Lord. I will."
As he left the chamber, his mind reeled with the implications. He had feared Voldemort before. He had feared what betrayal would bring before. But now, he realized something more unsettling: the greatest threat—and the greatest unknown—was the child herself.
'And she is already aware of me.'