"…I'm sorry. I can't say."
Peter suddenly clenched his teeth, his right hand gripping his left wrist tightly, as if restraining something with all his might. "All I can say is this—there was someone by Dumbledore's side whom I absolutely could not trust back then. Someone I could never forgive. Even now, that hasn't changed…"
"It was that person who leaked the contents of the prophecy to Voldemort—and that's what led to the Potter family's horrific deaths!"
Lupin's back slammed against the wall. Beneath Sirius, the floorboards let out another tortured groan.
"Who was it?"
Sirius narrowed his eyes, a dim, feral gleam flashing in the darkness like a starving wolf's. "Tell me who it was, Peter. Tell me!"
"And then you'll rush off to kill them, just like you tried to kill me before—won't you?"
Peter shot Sirius a weary glance. "I can't let you do that. That person is still useful to Dumbledore. They can't die yet."
"Useful?!"
Sirius roared again. "Voldemort's already been captured! Dumbledore has a Horcrux in hand! He doesn't need anyone's help to finish Voldemort off himself!"
"Who is it? Snivellus? Or Mundungus?!"
Peter said nothing. He simply watched as the restrained Black screamed himself hoarse, until his voice finally gave out.
"You don't have to tell me," Sirius growled, glaring at Peter—this time with pure fury, no longer the raw hatred and killing intent from before. "I'll find them myself! Whoever it is, they won't escape in the end! I swear it!"
"That's probably for the best," Peter muttered. "My exposure as Secret-Keeper was also because of a prophecy. Voldemort captured a foreign seer—I don't know who. From that prophecy, he deduced that I was the Secret-Keeper. That idea was likely that person's doing as well…"
"But anyway," he continued, "after hearing that Voldemort had been defeated, I knew that because of the Horcruxes, he wouldn't truly be dead. It was only a matter of time before he returned. So I hid in the shadows of the wizarding world and began investigating. Before I stayed with Arthur's family, I went to many places—the Lestrange home, the Avery estate, the Nott family, and everywhere Voldemort had ever set foot… Eventually, I finally found some clues."
Peter allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile. "I'm fifty to sixty percent sure I've identified the location of a Horcrux."
"Where?"
Sirius and Lupin spoke at the same time, two very different voices overlapping.
"That can wait. I'd much rather Dumbledore go there immediately and destroy it, instead of introducing more variables…"
His expression dimmed again. "That place is protected by countless layers of magic—all of them unmistakably Voldemort's handiwork. I couldn't get in, but I didn't dare tell Dumbledore directly either. So I hid with Arthur's family, waiting to see if an opportunity would present itself… And while I waited, Voldemort was sealed away, and Dumbledore likely uncovered the secret of Horcruxes himself. I suppose these past years may have been all for nothing."
"To be honest, when I heard Voldemort had been sealed, I nearly went straight to Dumbledore. Living as a rat for over a decade isn't exactly pleasant. But after hearing one of his speeches, I changed my mind again."
He took a deep breath. "Padfoot might not know this, but Moony certainly does—after Voldemort's fall, Dumbledore publicly refuted blood purity ideology."
"He was right. Defeating Voldemort didn't mean everything was over. As long as blood supremacy still existed, as long as those pure-blood families who funded Voldemort and nurtured countless Death Eaters remained, the wizarding world would never truly be at peace. James and Lily's deaths wouldn't be avenged… And once I realized that, I knew there was still something I could do."
"Voldemort isn't truly dead. That means there's still a chance he could be rescued. The core Death Eaters all know I was one of theirs—and if they learn that I'm alive, secretly gathering intelligence, preparing to free Voldemort from Dumbledore's grasp…"
He smiled thinly. "Just how big a fish do you think I could reel in?"
"…"
Neither Sirius nor Lupin spoke.
"…All right. I know what you're thinking," Peter said with a bitter smile. "You're wondering whether the man standing here is just acting. Whether everything I've said is nothing but fabricated lies. Whether the place I'll send Dumbledore to is actually a deadly trap. Whether my proposal to infiltrate the Death Eaters is just an excuse to escape and vanish from your sight forever."
"Does Dumbledore know you came here, Moony?" Peter asked.
"He does," Lupin nodded.
"Then how long before he arrives?"
"Not long. Once he confirms that Black isn't in the castle and notices I've been gone for too long, he'll probably come to check."
"Then I'll wait for him here."
Peter tossed his wand to Lupin. "But make it quick. This wand belongs to Ron—Arthur's son. I just borrowed it while he was asleep. I should return it as soon as possible."
"Peter…"
Sirius stared at him blankly, deeply torn.
Twelve years of accumulated hatred screamed at him to trust nothing about this rat in front of him. Yet Peter looked so much like the friend who once ran beside him, James, and Remus under the moonlight—so natural, as though this was how things were always meant to be.
The two thoughts clashed within his mind, in a space even he wasn't consciously aware of, leaving him unable to decide whether he should trust Peter Pettigrew again—whether he should ever call him "Wormtail" again.
"…"
Avada was afraid.
He was right there in the Shrieking Shack. Every word between the three men, every expression Peter showed—he saw it all clearly. And precisely because of that, he knew just how genuine everything Peter had said truly was.
That realization frightened him.
Even though everything unfolding now was within his expectations—something he had even deliberately guided—fear crept into his heart.
He knew what Peter Pettigrew had originally been like: a complete traitor. Cowardly. Power-hungry. Willing to do anything to survive. That made it all the more difficult to accept that the man now standing here—someone ready to place himself in danger for the future of the wizarding world—could be the same person.
Only now did Avada truly grasp how terrifying the thing he'd done before actually was.
He had twisted memories. Warped minds.
That it worked had relied on Peter himself—on the remorse buried deep within him for his betrayal, on traits the Sorting Hat itself might have judged worthy of Gryffindor. Under those conditions, all it took was fabricating a "reasonable" explanation for his betrayal, and Peter would cling to it with desperate conviction, marching straight toward the path Avada wanted…
But none of that lessened the horror of such a power.
A power that could turn close friends into mortal enemies, traitors into heroes, foes into loyal servants. A power that could strip everyone of who they truly were—reducing life itself to something programmable at will.
Did the current Peter Pettigrew still deserve to be called a traitor?Should he bear crimes even he himself no longer remembered?
And this power—to twist minds by altering memories—could Avada truly control it? Could he ensure he would never abuse it?
If such a technique were ever leaked, ever seized by someone with ill intent, how many unimaginable tragedies would follow?
Avada's palms were slick with sweat as he clenched a small vial filled with white light.
Inside it lay Peter Pettigrew's true, original memories.
(End of Chapter)