Peter's premonitions never failed him. Rather, he failed himself—getting tangled in various dangerous affairs. More precisely, they tangled him. He'd never climb in himself, but somehow managed getting caught by those stronger. Should've kept away from them immediately. But how was an eleven-year-old boy to know, barely figuring out that if he didn't attach himself to James Potter, he'd end up against him? No thank you. Better working as a yes-man than becoming the object of very painful "jokes" himself.
It wasn't the first time—he'd learned street survival thoroughly once he and Mother were alone. Where Father disappeared they never learned. But money barely covered his debts and renting the most modest housing in a less-than-prosperous neighborhood. So he learned everything fast. And when, barely arriving at school, he saw a familiar picture—reacted almost automatically.
If only he'd known what it would all lead to, would've gritted his teeth and endured like Snape. As a Gryffindor—meaning one of their own—probably wouldn't have gotten it too badly. Then, look, they might've left him alone entirely...
Only the Great Light wizard got to Snape too. Only pretended to save him when actually... owned him like a slave. Oh, lackeying for Potter and Black was far safer and calmer than for the headmaster. Not only did he demand Peter infiltrate the most dangerous organization, but beyond that dragged him everywhere! Compared to him the Dark Lord soon seemed even preferable. At least he was simple as a stick—did the job, got money. Didn't do it—blame yourself. The Lord wasn't stingy with either money or unfortunately punishments.
From the headmaster Peter couldn't expect anything except long speeches during which his consciousness seemed flying somewhere. It made no difference whether his work satisfied Dumbledore or not—the answer was always a long-long speech. Only the content differed. And what to live on, pray tell? Sit on his old mother's neck when he should be feeding her? Feeding, treating, keeping the house in order. And Potter and Black, who used to throw him a dozen or two galleons for useful information, now stopped. When he dared asking Black about it after finishing another matter concerning him, got only bewilderment in response. Then they sent him... to Dumbledore. And approaching Potter after his wife's pregnancy was pointless.
So he didn't have to think long. Mother needed—while her condition hadn't worsened yet—going to St. Mungo's for two weeks. There was no money. After the third "unnoticed" by the headmaster's question about compensation, Peter, shaking like a leaf, told everything to the Dark Lord. And got paid.
We rats are easily trained. More precisely, learn quick and survive well, Pete thought bitterly, rubbing the Mark after first summons.
Money from the Lord covered Mother's treatment and ward at St. Mungo's. Even remained for some house repairs and decent food. Pete wanted to part with former "friends" finally without meeting them. Even started a letter. But Evans... She was normal. Couldn't not talk to her. He went to Godric's Hollow and there got plucked like a chicken again, running into Black and Potter together. However much he kicked, they made him Secret Keeper before he could squeak. Only slipped Lily a note when she finally came out from the child. Wrote that she should be as careful as possible and generally go somewhere to France where the climate's much better for the baby.
In the end, he did everything he could... How he'd hoped to find nobody at the Potters' house when he went there with the Lord! Then all he wanted was—strangely enough—to survive. He shook with animal terror, running, covering tracks, from fright producing such a Bombarda he almost lost an arm himself. And his wand. The finger was nothing. Lucky.
Then the headmaster found him... That's when Peter understood the simple ring-artifact, shield from spells, had a couple more functions. Yes yes, let them find him. Also—won't come off.
What he didn't have to endure in that nightmarish ginger family! But all his pleas for forgiveness went somewhere into void. At least definitely didn't reach Dumbledore's ears. But he knew Mother was alive and relatively healthy.
One thing he could say for certain—when the powers that be have designs on you, better run as far as possible. But his own fear always limited him, making him freeze and go numb. Fear that seemed his companion since childhood. Now the amulet too, meaning running was fundamentally pointless. Yet again he sensed danger literally with his whole body. This was becoming perhaps worse than pain.
His entire being screamed he needed running. But how to leave the cage when in the darkness beyond it two completely terrible eyes glowed so often? No, this wasn't just a cat. Peter was certain. And it was watching him specifically.
Though quite recently life had started gradually improving. Ron, youngest of the Weasley boys, actually started treating him much better. Though as an owner he was something else—constantly forgetting things. Clean the cage. Feed on time. Change water in the bowl. True, when he fed, it was always tasty and plenty. The main thing—gave normal human food. Let him out briefly in the boys' dormitory...
Peter of course could easily bolt from there too. But yellow eyes... And the headmaster at Hogwarts would return him in two seconds. Alive or dead. True, Peter finally had a mature plan. What it lacked—as always—was courage. Never had enough. But now probably would have to overcome his fear of pain. Had to gnaw off another finger. Himself. The rat shuddered from head to tail just thinking about it.
"What, are you sick?" His "owner" stared at him, blinking fluffy ginger lashes.
The rat hunched, his whole appearance showing unwillingness to interact.
"You're going to dinner with me!"
Maybe I shouldn't?
But who asks a rat? Ron Weasley always presented him with facts.
I don't want to, don't want on the table! Is it really hard sticking a piece of something right here?
However much he clung with claws to the pocket, Ron's strong fingers still dug him out.
Being on the table, feeling on skin covered with slightly balding—nerves, nerves!—fur all those looks... What food? He snatched the closest piece and readied diving back into the pocket.
"Look, Weasley, even your rat understands bringing animals on the table where everyone eats isn't acceptable," that very dangerous girl commented. Granger.
Her again! And again that studying looks. Even the bespectacled Potter looks like I gnawed his Potions essay. I'd bet my tail they suspect something. Oh, this bodes ill. No, gotta run for sure!
The behavior of "owner Ron's friends" more and more convinced him they knew something. Most likely about his animagus form that would soon come to light. That the headmaster would protect him from Azkaban—Peter didn't even hope.
That very night the rat, eyes squeezed shut, took his front paw finger in his teeth.
Suddenly thought: Only three will remain. But three fingers—main thing on a living paw!
And he desperately clenched his teeth, jerking his head to twist the thin joint. Barely holding back a squeal. Then fell off the bed barely breathing and licked the wound. Streams of tears flowed from rat eyes.
Peter Pettigrew couldn't stand the pain.
***
Harry, not opening the bed curtains, enjoyed the morning update from his brother. Yes, Hogwarts had some advantages over Muggle school—especially lessons starting a whole hour later. Brother made it a rule calling Aunt Marge after breakfast (he just terribly wanted traveling, preferably without parents). Harry begged him to write a couple lines about how the godfather was doing. There was no other way to communicate. The young conspirators considered keeping a finger on the pulse necessary.
So far everything indicated Black was behaving excellently: "...even responds, though they call him Charlie now"...
Harry giggled long after learning the godfather's new full name. But then in the dormitory rang Weasley's absolutely terrible shriek. Harry jumped, automatically hiding the notebook in the secret pocket under his pillow, and threw open the curtains.
Ron was horrified. On his sheet appeared a small bloody spot. And the rat—was gone.
First thing he started rolling on Crookshanks... Harry couldn't get a word in before Weasley dressed and tumbled down the stairs to the common room.
Had to dress at breakneck pace and go save Hermione. Fortunately she hadn't come down to the common room yet. Ron, red as a lobster, was boiling—made a kettle look calm.
"Ron," Harry began, hoping to bring him to his senses before their friend arrived. "Did you put the spell on your curtains last night?"
"What? Yes, of course... Ah..." The redhead finally thought about it, then waved his hand angrily. "Don't remember! Means I forgot! If I'd put it up, that furry b-bastard wouldn't have gotten through!"
"Crookshanks is huge—how could you not wake up?" Harry made another attempt getting closer to his mate, squeezing the chess piece in his fingers.
But then Hermione came out and it began...
***
By breakfast's end Ron was sulking at everyone. Finnigan reminded him he had charmed the curtains after all—actually the whole house used the spell now. And when the twins reminded him he usually slept sprawled across the whole bed, so the cat fundamentally couldn't have avoided touching him...
"What, I gnawed Scabbers myself?!" Ron roared, rising from the table. Right now he was ready to fight both older brothers. Hell, everyone. Harry barely managed shoving the chess piece in his pocket and switching his mate's attention to fresh muffins appearing on the table extraordinarily timely.
Weasley glared angrily but took a muffin. Harry breathed easier.
Gradually Ron calmed down. But stopped noticing Hermione entirely. Well, even that was progress—at least not scandaling. Harry had to stay on guard the whole time though.
So with all the passion and excitement, nobody noticed how holidays approached. And in the Hogwarts Express no longer sat the "Gryffindor trio"—Weasley rode with brothers and sister, while Potter and Granger surprisingly joined the "ravens" in a completely different car. The cat of discord sat on his mistress's lap with a detached philosophical face. The rat, smelling strongly of delicious human flesh, had been so clever and cautious he still couldn't catch her these last days at school. Well fine, they'd return soon, and then...
***
"Hey, big D!"
"Yo, little Ash." Dudley chuckled and punched his cousin's shoulder with his fist. But immediately caught him. "Hey, what? Where are you falling?"
"Didn't expect it!" Harry justified himself, rubbing his arm. "You've added some serious strength."
"They taught me proper punches. Want me to teach you?"
"Yeah!"
The boys met before the house gate and exchanged the latest news without even entering—just couldn't resist. It turned out they'd ridden in cars literally one after another. Harry got a lift from the Grangers at his friend's request—they made a small detour. Dudley was brought by Aunt Marge, determined to immediately take both boys to her place—they'd been so worried about their pet! So while the cousins, not unsticking from each other (except a minute to greet relatives), finally talked "live," she processed the Dursleys.
Resulted in a group trip to Auntie's and Harry's first classic English Christmas celebration ever. But the main thing was of course completely different...
When he saw how Sirius rushed after "fetch," executed commands and stood in show stance, he felt incredibly sorry for his godfather. Dudley whispered in his ear that sure, he'd prepared a gorgeous collar for Sirius, but seemed giving him such would be real swinery. And at night the boys held their first "war council" about how to let Sirius Black be in human form at least a little. Like, Christmas present.
So the next day Harry quickly whispered with the dog, then asked "working" instead of his trainer. He threw the retrieved dummy, commanded, ran with him on the ladder, by the log, nearly jumped obstacles himself... Marge was touched by "that boy's" abilities. The Dursleys were surprised. Dudley hid a smile in his palms, carefully covering his face. Running around the field himself—definitely too lazy.
"Harry could go work as a trainer right now—he'd do great working with dogs on agility!" Aunt Marge concluded.
Harry pretended to be terribly proud and ruffled Charlie-Sirius's neck. The dog happily rolled onto his back, paws up. While Dudley affectionately scratched the rounded belly, Harry arranged that Auntie would let them both work with the dog in the suburban woods—he wanted to understand whether Charlie could track them by trail.
"Regular grounds aren't suitable for this—need space, and mainly cover. Trees, bushes," Harry declared authoritatively, already having read through Auntie's new and not-so-new specialized magazines.
"Alright, boys. Main thing—take care of him and definitely don't let him off the leash!"
The boys swore to Auntie nothing like that would happen. Next morning Harry was tapping a special rhythm on the Spinner's End door while the godfather (still in bulldog form) and cousin after two successive Apparitions (had to stop at Privet Drive) sadly and inelegantly parted with their hearty breakfasts.
"I told you not to stuff yourselves in the morning!" He turned to them, stepping back from the door. But then it finally swung open.
***
When Severus, conversing with the headmaster, heard the conditional knock, he almost groaned aloud. Only Potter—that's exactly what he needed here now! One hope remained on Filius hiding upstairs... He heard the knocking stop, understood the half-goblin cast a silencing charm and started descending. Only a step creaked slightly. They'd appreciated comfortable and silent "Adidas" shoes with his colleague back in summer. When would the headmaster finally finish his speech causing unpleasant and painful pulsation in his head?
He lowered his eyelids and nodded in agreement.
"So if I send the recipe and missing ingredients today, by the end of holidays I can count on your potion, my boy?"
Eh, if not for Potter, could still haggle—at least for phoenix tears. What if Dumbledore suddenly decided to go outside—right now? After all, he surely also heard the knock.
Snape went cold. Didn't want to agree—work was already enough. But had to nod again. Dumbledore straightened with satisfaction and stroked his beard.
"Seems someone came to you?" The curious old man wanted to look out the window. But the frame wouldn't budge. He headed to the hallway, nearly knocking down Flitwick who was under invisibility charm.
Snape swore internally. Barely restraining himself from throwing something nasty at his beloved headmaster, followed him.
When the door swung open—not by Snape's hand in bright robes—and a white beard appeared in the opening, Harry did the only thing he managed: in one leap darted behind the door leaf. Fortunately it opened outward. And he stood well, slightly to the side.
Seeing a completely unfamiliar decently dressed stocky Muggle with an English Bulldog on a leash, Albus Dumbledore blinked and rubbed his eyes. Dudley almost sat from surprise. But remembered what was said about Hogwarts headmaster and understood—gotta do something.
"Sev... erus, who's this?" Dumbledore turned, finally yielding place to the house's owner.
Seeing Snape—alive, healthy and terribly displeased—Dudley came alive.
"Hello, esteemed sirs! My name is Piers Polkiss, I represent the scout organization of Co... Manchester!" He declared briskly. "Would you buy cookies..." Dudley rummaged in his bag and pulled out festive packaging and with it a couple dark brown wafers.
Snape's eyes widened. Behind his back from the air came muffled grunting from invisible Flitwick. Behind the door Harry was puffing his cheeks and choking on laughter, showing his cousin thumbs up. The white bulldog was in some prostration but licked his lips at the cookies—smell was familiar, smell was beloved. His mouth filled with saliva so that growling at the headmaster became uncomfortable, though he wanted to.
"What cookies?" Dumbledore took interest, glancing at the dog.
And got a brief, about ten-minute report on cookie composition, and also ranks and high personal qualities of "the girls making cookies" and their leader (in whom the other attendees recognized unforgettable Petunia Dursley), and also what purposes money collected this way would go toward. Blue eyes behind half-moon glasses slightly unfocused.
When the "amazing boy" smoothly transitioned to scout organization goals and principles, Snape couldn't stand it. In the depths of his eyes flashed admiration.
"Headmaster, he simply won't leave without this. And I don't have Muggle money." He of course bent the truth slightly. But it was interesting how Dumbledore would react anyway. Erasing Dudley Dursley's memory he wouldn't allow in any case. "If you have some, help out. He's not asking much."
"Ah... may I try first?"
Snape glanced at Dumbledore—was senility starting to cover him?.. But he was already crunching a broken-off cookie piece.
"Mmm." The headmaster closed his eyes with pleasure. "Chocolate. Magnificent taste!"
In this nobody present doubted. Even the bulldog barked restrainedly and licked his lips.
Dumbledore handed Dudley a couple banknotes and took all the cookies.
"Don't you have more, boy?"
Dudley with round eyes examined the fifty-pound notes.
"Sir... are you sure? This is very much!" He tried handing one note back.
Dumbledore pushed his hand back and, with sincere interest examining the "young scout," continued crunching cookies.
Should learn more about this organization, Dumbledore thought, looking at the boy approvingly. Muggles have simply magnificent ideas for raising the young generation!
Didn't want refusing contemplating the young Muggle's face expression seeing a phoenix. So he called Fawkes and aimed his wand at the boy to erase his memory. The bulldog growled...
The headmaster woke already in his own office.
What was that with me?
He automatically lowered his hand into his pocket and pulled out another cookie. The taste was incomparable. Everything was remembered instantly. Yes, exactly everything—how he visited Snape, what assignment he gave, how a funny Muggle but surprisingly well-mannered boy came, brought these very cookies. He gave good money to them. Surprisingly, the honest boy even tried refusing... What a face he had seeing Fawkes! Then he, Albus, erased his memory and flew off. All correct. Why then doesn't the feeling leave him that he'd missed something?
Albus went through what happened in memory once more. No, everything's exact. And who could influence him anyway? Snape? That one would never dare go against him. Backstab? Should check his wand when returning to school. Casually. And everything will become clear. Meanwhile no point racking his brain. The headmaster frowned—he'd already started recording the most important things recently. He didn't need to become paranoid either.
***
When the entire honest company entered the house, Snape caught his breath and was about to, not mincing words, tell Potter what he thought of those who visit in the morning. Without warning about the visit—most important. However the almost-ready tirade had to be curtailed. The English Bulldog sat opposite and with some feline gesture touched his leg with a paw. Then looked in his eyes.
"Ah... here's the thing." Snape splashed antidote on a saucer and placed it before the dog. Fell silent because, dropping the spell, Flitwick manifested and finished everything the potioneer wanted telling Potter. From the side this seemed too effective to Severus. He decided to interfere.
"Of course they 'didn't think.' Boys! In the end, Filius, what do we want from thirteen-year-old teenagers?" He said somewhat condescendingly, understanding perfectly no other educational conversation would achieve the needed result. But now Potter bristled and seemed giving himself a word not slipping up like this again. No need getting in his mind—everything's written on his face.
Snape caught the half-goblin's approving look and nodded barely noticeably, removing the coffee pot from fire.
"The headmaster took Auntie's gift," Harry complained, having become unusually modest and quiet. He was ashamed of himself after screwing up.
"Didn't take—bought," his cousin objected. "Mum cooked for you."
"You'll thank her from us, hope that's not the last cookie." Snape smiled at the boy. "Dudley, you were magnificent."
The boy beamed—his cousin's stern teacher had never praised him before.
"I join my colleague's words," Flitwick added. "Who are scouts?"
"Oh, at our college... Yeah, when I was talking to your headmaster, it seems I said almost everything. That's how it all is..."
And Dudley crunched toast with cheese with appetite.
"Thanks, Snape... From the whole dog's soul, thanks." Sirius, rubbing his throat from which the collar was finally removed, took a full cup in his hands and sipped. "The tastiest coffee of my life. The tastiest breakfast... Is there porridge? Oh, sandwi-iches..."
Snape silently placed a portion for him. Black was gradually coming to himself, re-accustoming to his own body.
"We of course expected you but not so... suddenly," Flitwick raised his cup. "I'm not ready yet. I need at least one more day and maximum—two."
"We've got about an hour left." Dudley looked at his arm with a new watch—Father's gift.
Sirius, silently finishing chewing toast, sighed and sadly raised his eyebrows.
"We made one artifact so you won't depend on potion anymore," Flitwick explained. "In the collar's built an amulet maintaining form. As soon as they remove the collar, you'll become human."
Flitwick looked at Black once more. Yes, this was no longer that half-dead Stray ready throwing himself at everyone and everything—staying with Miss Dursley clearly did him good.
When they moved to the living room, Harry looked around surprised. Was unusual seeing this room so dark, dusty and uncomfortable. He glanced questioningly at Snape.
"Ah... removing decorations." He drew some quite intricate flourish with his wand. The room acquired its familiar lived-in appearance.
"You've become strangely balanced for a Black," Snape noted. "That hard?"
"Miss Dursley's training." Sirius grinned sadly in response. "If not for my mother's excessive softness, I would've..."
"Softness of Lady Walburga Black?!" Snape nearly missed the armchair. "Are you serious?"
"What's happening? And why did these young gentlemen drag you here so urgently?"
Snape and Flitwick nearly interrupted each other with questions.
And Sirius told everything from his "canine" side. Yes, they drilled him not exactly intensively but quite seriously. Main thing—systematically. When it came to "future puppies," Snape and Flitwick almost burst out laughing.
"Yeah, Black, what's written for you... Still, what would you prefer—a dementor's kiss or, hmm, puppies?"
"Don't know, Snape," Black declared unexpectedly seriously. "Puppies need a father. Normal, reliable. And who am I? No, give me the Polyjuice already—time's running out!"
Flitwick and his senior student exchanged expressive looks...
"Expect you tomorrow?" The house's owner asked.
"I'll definitely write!" Harry blushed. How, how could he forget the warning about their visit?
"At least ten minutes' warning please. And here, take this." Flitwick handed Harry a recharged artifact. "Enough for thirty more single uses. And for your company—calculate yourself."
***
Ginny Weasley sympathized very much with her brother. So under mother Molly's guidance knitted him a simple but nice toy gray rat which Percy helped animate. Then Father brought some amulets so it stayed "alive." Only needed recharging monthly. So Ron finally got his special gift. And now, pressing the toy but so-similar-to-real rat to himself, swallowed tears... But was very grateful to his younger sister.
Also he had with him the knight piece and that very book from Madam Babbling, and the drawing... So to parents' and twins' surprise, the boy showed no particular desire flying more, though a couple times participated in ball-tossing—mainly from Ginny's requests. Otherwise sat over the book and drawings.
Molly Weasley couldn't rejoice enough—finally her youngest came to his senses. Merlin granted it stayed that way! Arthur was called to work again—both in Muggle and magical worlds, holiday weeks were never calm.
***
The old mangy rat hobbled between snowdrifts away, away... Even managed to jump onto the last step of a train departing from Hogsmeade. No, he'd never return here for anything. He hoped with his whole being... But approximately at the London suburb border his left paw burned as if with fire. The small beast tumbled from the car onto the icy embankment.
Good I didn't go further through cars, Pettigrew thought, listening to the mortally dangerous clank of heavy iron wheels moving away from him.
The paw kept burning. He couldn't help going in the direction where this pain weakened at least slightly...