—
---
Under the night sky, Little Hangleton appeared peaceful and quiet. The lone moon hung high above, casting a soft silver glow over the entire village. The villagers lived calm, uneventful lives.
However, two or three years ago, they had gained a new topic for their after-dinner conversations — the complete abandonment of the Riddle House.
Ever since the old gardener, Frank, had disappeared one night and never returned, the manor had become a haunted house in everyone's eyes. Any family with children repeatedly warned them never to go near it. The old house was said to be cursed and would bring misfortune.
Even now, after so much time had passed, no one dared to set foot inside.
The wealthy owner of the property, who kept it only for tax purposes, didn't care that his hired gardener had vanished. Or rather, he didn't even know. It was just one of many insignificant properties under his name.
The local police also pretended nothing had happened. It was only a lonely old man with no relatives who had gone missing — hardly worth the trouble.
But tonight, the long-abandoned Riddle House welcomed a new visitor.
Or rather, its true owner had returned after a long absence.
A cold night wind swept across the ground, rustling the tall weeds along the path.
A small figure in a black cloak moved nervously along the winding road toward the gates of the manor. As he walked, he kept glancing around, afraid of being seen. The strong wind tugged at his cloak, making it flap sharply.
"Wormtail, have you fallen so low that you fear Muggles?"
A cold voice, like the hiss of a venomous snake, came from the bundle in the man's arms.
"Master, I'm only worried…" the man said nervously, his whole body trembling. To an outsider, it might have looked like he was shivering from the cold.
But Peter Pettigrew knew the truth.
He was trembling from fear.
Fear of the thing he carried.
He had found his former master.
Voldemort.
"Where is Nagini?" Voldemort interrupted.
"Master, she should be hiding somewhere inside," Pettigrew replied quickly. He drew his wand and pointed it at the manor gates. "Alohomora."
The ancient iron gate opened with a long creak. No one had cared for the place in years, and rust coated the bars.
The once-neat lawn was now choked with weeds.
Pettigrew stepped inside.
"What were you worried about just now?" Voldemort's tone turned colder. "That old man? Or that I would be discovered… Wormtail?"
Peter shook his head frantically.
"No, Master! You will regain your strength soon," he said hurriedly.
Even in his weakened state, Voldemort inspired absolute terror.
Peter's fate now depended entirely on the fragile creature in his arms. If Voldemort recovered, he would be rewarded as a loyal servant. If he failed, Peter would spend the rest of his life as a fugitive — until the day the Aurors caught him and sent him to Azkaban.
"You are lying."
For some reason, Voldemort's voice suddenly became softer — smoother. A thin, chilling smile touched his face.
They were in a miserable state.
Not long after Pettigrew had located him, Dumbledore had somehow discovered their trail and forced them to flee.
In his current condition, Voldemort had no chance of defeating Dumbledore.
They had barely escaped the forests of Albania, relying only on their familiarity with the terrain.
Voldemort had never been so humiliated.
Even the night his Killing Curse rebounded at the Potters' house had been his own failure.
But being hunted — chased like a stray dog — was something else entirely.
Extreme rage brought extreme calm.
He would endure.
And wait.
"Master, I didn't—"
"I don't mind, Wormtail," Voldemort interrupted mildly. "I know why you came to me. It wasn't loyalty, was it?"
Peter's hands shook violently, but he dared not loosen his grip.
"Look into my eyes," Voldemort said.
The red, slit-like eyes opened fully.
Peter met them.
The world spun.
Those eyes seemed like a bottomless abyss, swallowing his thoughts and memories.
When he came back to himself, Voldemort's voice spoke quietly:
"So. You were reluctant to return to me."
"My loyal servant created the opportunity for you, yet you were enjoying comforts you shouldn't have, Wormtail?"
Peter's face turned deathly pale.
There was no point explaining.
Everything had already been seen.
"Servants who are not loyal find me easily," Voldemort continued sharply. "Yet those who claim loyalty accomplish nothing. How ironic."
Peter's cloak was soaked with sweat.
"But the Dark Lord is generous," Voldemort went on. "Even disloyal servants eventually return to my side."
"If the Malfoy boy hadn't forced you… how long would you have delayed? A month? A year? Ten?"
Peter trembled even harder.
"Oh yes," Voldemort continued softly. "You were enjoying admiration. Attention. Wealth. You even envied those friends you betrayed, didn't you? You wanted their lives."
Peter's lips trembled, but no sound came out.
"Still," Voldemort said, his tone suddenly light, "I admire those who understand the situation."
"There is no shame in admitting weakness. Yes, Dumbledore drove us into hiding. But what of it? He is old. One foot in the grave."
"And I… even like this… am still alive."
"Master, you will recover," Peter said eagerly, his eyes full of forced devotion.
"The information you brought is accurate," Voldemort said calmly. "And I confirmed it myself. No one lies under Legilimency."
Peter nodded stiffly, suppressing his discomfort.
No one liked their memories searched.
"You seem unhappy, Wormtail. Unhappy that I looked into your mind?"
"No, Master—"
"Nagini!"
The tone changed instantly — sharp, urgent.
A massive snake slid out from the darkness, its long body rippling like a wave through the weeds. It coiled around the bundle, taking Voldemort from Peter's arms and securing him within its coils.
"He's coming again," Voldemort said coldly. "Remember your task, Wormtail."
"Nagini. Go."
The great snake disappeared into the forest.
Peter immediately transformed into a rat and vanished into the grass.
Moments later, a tall, thin old man appeared silently above the manor grounds.
Silver robes.
Long white beard.
Half-moon spectacles.
Albus Dumbledore.
He surveyed the empty property, sighed softly, and vanished.
---
Later, under the same night sky, Peter Pettigrew crept through the wilderness in rat form, searching for shelter.
He eventually found a damp hole in the earth.
Insects crawled everywhere.
Once, he would have tolerated it.
Now, after tasting comfort and admiration, the difference gnawed at him.
It was hard to return to misery after living in luxury.
Regret filled his heart.
If not for Malfoy's coercion, he could still be living comfortably — respected, even admired.
Instead, he had been forced back to Voldemort.
A master who was cruel.
A master who would kill him without hesitation.
Hatred began to grow alongside the regret.
If not for that boy…
Why couldn't he just live peacefully?
Peter believed himself a victim.
He had never chosen evil — only survival.
If he had been left alone, he might even have treated Harry kindly out of guilt.
But now everything was ruined.
Voldemort's contempt twisted his heart further.
Yet he had no choice.
This was his only hope.
Perhaps if the Dark Lord regained his power, he would be forgiven.
Rewarded.
Still, Peter hated more than Voldemort.
He hated Malfoy.
And most of all—
He hated himself.
"If I had been braver back then… would things have turned out differently?"
In the darkness, the rat stared blankly as cold water dripped from the earth above him, his dull grey eyes unfocused.