Harry Potter and the Twist of Fate
Prologue Part III: The Rat Uncovered
Peter Pettigrew was not having a good day.
He thought himself fortunate to fall in with the Weasleys, a wizarding family of no great stature but wide connections to other Light-aligned families. He wasn't intelligent, not at all like Lily and Remus, but occasionally he had a stroke of brilliance. He thought well on his feet when faced with a situation most other wizards would struggle to get out of. He had never been stellar at long-term planning. Which made him all the cleverer in the end, figuring out how to shunt all suspicion off himself and onto another.
When Sirius had found him – not that it was hard, with the trail he'd laid that any blind fool could follow – he thought himself very clever indeed. Sirius was the only other person who'd known about the last-minute switch of Secret Keepers, and it was laughably easy to accuse him in sight of witnesses both magical and mundane, then fake his own death.
Cutting off his own finger had been the hard part, especially since he couldn't risk using magic to do it. A well-placed Diffindo would have done the trick nicely, but the off-chance someone would check his wand with a Priori Incantato would give the entire game away. He'd spent three days cleaning the spells from his wand with simple household charms. No Cruciatus or Killing Curse could be left to brand him a traitor after his "death".
He'd never been fond of the Imperius.
The look on Sirius' face had been absolutely priceless when he'd shouted and ranted at him about how could he do this to Lily and James, your family must be so proud of you. Everything calculated to enrage his old friend. Sirius was a brilliant Auror, but winding him up always made him break his training and make major mistakes, if you could do it properly.
Sirius leaped at him, and he pulled the knife. That threw the Auror off for a moment, but Peter, in all his clever cleverness, simply let fear fill his voice and shrieked that Black was going to kill him, just like he'd killed Lily and James. Getting hold of Sirius' wand was child's play; he'd dropped it in favor of wrapping his hands around Peter's throat.
A whispered – well, with Sirius doing his utmost to strangle him, wheezed might be a better term – Blasting Curse, a simple twist of the knife, and Peter was free to scamper down the nearest sewer grate in rat form, heading for Diagon Alley and his freedom.
The Muggle lives taken, Sirius' freedom, and everything leading up to those events didn't bother him half as much as the loss of his finger.
Finding Arthur Weasley was like a bolt of pure luck from on high. The Weasleys had never been rich, had never been very well-placed, but they had connections. They knew people who loved to talk, if the stories of Molly Weasley's knitting circles were to be believed. Setting himself up at the Weasleys was a perfect, logical next step. When Arthur Weasley had given him to Percy as a pet and familiar, Peter wasn't quite so sure it was a good thing. Though it was several years away, being a child's pet meant eventual return to Hogwart's, and he wasn't at all sure his subterfuge would pass by the watchful and all-seeing eye of Albus Dumbledore.
Of course, rats didn't live very long lives, not even the magical ones. If it wasn't working out by the time Percy started school, Peter thought he could just quietly disappear and leave a similar rat dead in his cage.
Three weeks, he'd had. Three whole weeks of being hand-fed and left to wander the house unsupervised. After the first day, he'd quickly learned that Molly Weasley was a force to be reckoned with, and had then after taken himself outside when he needed to do his business. He didn't bite anyone, he didn't steal from the kitchen table or the cupboards – no matter how tempting those delectable smells were – and he overall tried to make as little fuss and trouble as possible.
He spent most of his time sleeping, dreaming of the Dark Lord rewarding him with giant wheels of cheese and piles of Galleons for his clever, clever plans. Maybe he'd even have earned a place in the Inner Circle by the time Vol—You-Know-Who returned. He'd been dreaming of that very thing, of seeing Snivellus Snape and Lucius Malfoy bowing and scraping to him as the Dark Lord's right hand, when Dumbledore had simply plucked him from Percy Weasley's hand and tucked him in a pocket.
Panic had set in, the terrifying surety that he'd been caught. Bravery had never really been his forte – he spent nearly five minutes arguing long and hard with the Sorting Hat to place him in the same House as his two new friends his first year of schooling, and it had been less than enthused to announce Gryffindor to the gathering.
He fought to get out of the thrice-damned pocket, but couldn't escape. The game was up now, he was sure of it. But nothing happened for hours and hours. Fear wore his nerves thin, so he settled down for awhile. Surely, he convinced himself, if Dumbledore suspected anything at all, he wouldn't drag it out. Surely, if Dumbledore even had the slightest inkling that Peter Pettigrew was alive and well, he'd have set off to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement right away, instead of lingering over apple pie and coffee in the Weasley kitchen.
He had nearly drifted back off to sleep when the discussion had turned in a direction he knew was leading up to him. He'd fought again to get free, but it had been just as fruitless as his earlier struggles. Now here he was, tossed about and abused, forced into his human form for the first time in weeks. Exposed. Trapped like a rat.
The irony was not lost on him.
The three wizards were standing over him, each one with their wands drawn, each wearing a different expression. Dumbledore seemed calm, but Peter saw the spark of anger deep behind the twinkle in his blue eyes. Arthur Weasley was grim and resolute, the look a man who had a distasteful task before him that he would complete come hell or high water. Molly Weasley looked flabbergasted and furious. Her mouth kept opening and closing like a codfish, as if she couldn't figure out what to start calling him first.
"Hello Peter," Dumbledore said. "It's time we had a talk, don't you think?"
"Headmaster!" Peter squeaked, scrambling back until his head hit the wall. His mind raced, trying to think of some way to turn this to his advantage, but the cold sick fear in the pit of his stomach wasn't helping. He'd have to try playing it dumb. "Headmaster! What… what am I doing here? What's going on?"
"You filthy vermin!" Molly Weasley had apparently found her words, and her shriek of rage was earsplittingly shrill. He felt a Stinging Hex slap the side of his face as her wand slashed downwards. He yelped in pain and twisted to the side, and just in time too. Another hex, this one a deep, foreboding purple, impacted the wall where his head had just been. "You were sleeping in my son's bed!"
She bellowed something that sounded distinctly unpleasant, a greenish light shot from the end of her wand, and Peter's nose started flooding mucus down his chin. He yipped and clapped his hands over his face, but sickly yellow winged … things climbed out from between his fingers nonetheless and started circling his face, clawing at his skin.
Gibbering in terror, Peter scrambled to his feet and ran blindly around the room, hands flailing about his head, trying to rid himself of the batlike bogey-creatures. Hexes and mild curses bit into him as he ran pell-mell, stubbing toes on furniture and cracking his shin against the bookcase. The door was tantalyzingly open, and he rushed headlong for it, eager for freedom from the insane woman storming after him.
He heard a snapped "Colloportus!" a moment before he slammed face-first into the door -- or rather, the door slammed face first into him as the spell jerked it shut before he could get through it. He went sprawling arse over teakettle, skidding on his back towards the shrieking banshee and clutching his face for entirely different reasons now.
Dumbledore's voice cut through the haze of pain fogging his mind. "Finite Incantatem. Episkey." The things tormenting him vanished and his nose healed with a painless click. He gasped in the sudden dearth of pain and blinked furiously to clear his vision of the white streaks. Dumbledore was standing over him, upside down from his perspective, wand at the ready. He spared a quick, fearful look around the room and saw Arthur Weasley visibly restraining his wife.
"Let me go, Arthur!" she roared, making a grab for the wand Arthur was obviously having trouble keeping away from her. "That beast, that vile disgusting treacherous worm was sleeping in Percy's bed!"
"Perhaps it's best if we left, Mr. Pettigrew," Dumbledore said calmly, but his eyes were hard behind his spectacles.
"Yes, Headmaster!" he squeaked. "I think that would be best." He cast whatever scrap of dignity he had left aside and scuttled after Dumbledore as the Headmaster moved to the fireplace. Waiting for the fire to turn green, indicating an active Floo connection, felt like a lifetime. Especially with Molly Weasley out for blood and rampaging in the background.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Chief Executive and Honorable Chair of the Wizengamot and two-time recipient of the Order of Merlin (Second Class, but he liked to leave that part out in conversation; most decent people were too polite to inquire, and it was better if they assumed he received the First Class), stared across his desk at Dumbledore and a man the dotty old Headmaster of Hogwarts claimed to be Peter Pettigrew.
This was something Fudge knew to be inexorably false, as he had delivered the Second Class Merlin medal to the brave lad's mother in person. The Ministry did not make such gross errors as awarding a post-mortem medallion to someone who was not dead; it was simply not done.
Bothersomely, the Identifying Charm had been performed by three of his own Aurors – though only two he trusted implicitly – Dumbledore, and Fudge himself. The completely unfamiliar and rather scraggly chap inevitably idented as Peter Pettigrew. Which was impossible, because Fudge had delivered a post-mortem medal, and it would seem a complete cock-up on the part of the Ministry if that – the post-mortem part, that is – were not true.
Fudge suddenly, desperately wished for a Pain-Relieving Potion as a dull ache began to throb behind his temples as he attempted to find some way to legally disprove Dumbledore's claims.
"Hem hem," came a voice from his doorway, and Fudge inwardly perked up just a bit. If anyone could find a loophole, it would be Dolores. She was like a bulldog with a bit of jerky once she caught wind of a possible revelation of a non-existent Ministry blunder. Setting her on Dumbledore would be a privilege, an honor, practically right up there with the Order of Merlin. (Second Class.)
He rose from his chair and extended his hand to indicate she should take a seat. "Ah, Dolores. You're right on time as usual. Please, do come in. Headmaster Dumbledore, this is Dolores Umbridge, Junior Undersecretary."
Dolores Umbridge floated into the room, and Fudge made sure to discretely avert his eyes. She'd chosen today to wear clothing in the exact shades of cotton candy and Bertie Bott's bubblegum jellybeans. The color gave him mild nausea if he looked directly at it.
Dumbledore rose. "Madame Undersecretary, good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Headmaster," Umbridge replied in a tone dripping with sugar and honey, and settled herself in a chair that most certainly did not groan under her bulk. She took another moment to withdraw a slim file from her peppermint-scented handbag, and cleared her throat with a polite little "Hem hem. I understand there is has been a dreadful mix-up." Fudge had seen to briefing her as much as possible in the short note he'd jotted off to have her summoned to his office. He refrained from grinning at Dumbledore, who obviously had no idea what he was in for.
"Why yes, indeed there is," the old codger replied affably. "I assume you've been informed that Peter Pettigrew, once considered dead by the wizarding community, has surfaced once again."
"Headmaster, I hardly think a poor, besotted old man claiming to be a dead war hero warrants the personal attention of the Minister of Magic. That, to me, would seem more of a case for St. Mungo's Hospital than this august office." Umbridge sat back with a pleased smile, primly folding her hands in her lap. She sounded entirely reasonable, but Fudge could hear the subtle suggestion that Dumbledore was wasting her valuable time.
Dumbledore, for his part, appeared to not notice the digs, for he merely smiled with twinkling eyes and replied, "I heartily agree with you, Madame Undersecretary. St. Mungo's Hospital would be the best place to take any man claiming to be Peter Pettigrew."
Umbridge harrumphed with satisfaction and made to set her things away. "I'm glad we're in agre—"
"However," Dumbledore carried on, "I did not say this man claims to be Peter Pettigrew; quite the opposite, in fact. He claims to be anyone other than Peter Pettigrew, for if he admits to his true identity to Ministry officials, for that would bring about grave consequences on his head."
"Again, Headmaster, I fail to see why this is a Ministry matter, and not a matter for the very capable healers of St. Mungo's. They're much better equipped to handle the confused. Perhaps their Magical Mishaps department can—"
"Eleven Identifying Charms cast by seven different wands belonging to one House Witch, several prominent Aurors, myself and your own Minister of Magic have acknowledged the man currently being held by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to be Peter Pettigrew."
"The man, poor soul that he is, must have some sort of Fuddling Charm on him to fool so many spells. Peter Pettigrew is dead, Headmaster," Umbridge shot back, though her tones did not change from sweet and kindly. "Perhaps it's best we leave him to his peace. Now, I think we've wasted quite enough time on this matter, and—"
"The Unspeakables have cleared him of all pre-existing enchantments, Charms, spells and artefacts." Fudge wasn't quite sure what changed, because Dumbledore certainly hadn't moved a muscle. His expression was still genial and his eyes were still twinkling.
Yet the balance of power in the room had just shifted, noticeably so. The slightly dotty old Headmaster was gone, and in his place was the one wizard He Who Must Not Be Named ever feared to face. Fudge decided suddenly he had an inkling of why that was, and surreptitiously tried to keep his knees from knocking together under his desk. Umbridge gulped in a very unladylike fashion and stared at Dumbledore.
Who merely smiled at them in return.
"Minister, I'd like you to personally look into these matters," said the very frightening wizard now sitting across the desk. "The information that has come to light indicates that it was Peter Pettigrew, not Sirius Black, who was the Potters' Secret-Keeper, and that it was Peter Pettigrew, not Sirius Black, who betrayed their location to Lord Voldemort."
Fudge flinched back at the name of the only being to ever make him wet himself since he'd grown out of nappies. Umbridge gave a sound like a cross between a bullfrog with a fly stuck in its craw and a lady's delicate gasp and (very childishly, Fudge thought sourly) clapped her hands over her ears.
"If this information proves to be correct, the case of Sirius Orion Black will have to likewise be reopened. I imagine this will bring to light some very unpleasant business in the records of the capture and trial of Mr. Black, especially for the Ministry's lack of compelling evidence toward his conviction." Dumbledore leaned across the desk, and there was something behind that damnedable twinkle that Fudge found made him want to reach for the nappies all over again. "The Ministry will weather these unfortunate discoveries, Cornelius," he said. "Or the Wizengamot will convene to learn why."
"Completely understood, Headmaster," Fudge stammered, wide-eyed. "Yes yes, terrible unfortunate events. Perhaps we acted too rashly after the loss of two of wizarding society's favorite members. The Ministry will take full responsibility for this dreadful error. Full apologies will be made. Full apologies."
"I trust it will," Dumbledore said, and the scary man was replaced by the doddering Headmaster once again. "I thank you for your time, Minister, and I'll take my leave. You must have a very full schedule after giving me so much of your attention."
It wasn't until long after Dumbledore had left the office that either Umbridge or Fudge were able to breathe again properly. It was only then that Fudge noticed the tin of lemon sherbets Dumbledore had left on the edge of his desk.
Like a treat given to a favorite pet after it had performed some particularly clever trick.
The irony was not lost on him.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Sirius Black, heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Black and allegedly the most hated traitor in all of wizarding Britain, wasn't sure how long he'd been imprisoned when the Aurors finally came to get him. He remembered clearly the first day and part of the next, and then time lost all meaning for him as the presence of the Dementors overwhelmed his mind with their malevolence.
Days – years, maybe? – passed while he sat in the deepest, darkest corner of his cell, rocking back and forth with his arms tightly hugging his knees to his chest, reliving his most awful, horrific memories over and over again. From deeper down the cell block, he could hear the tortured gibbering and hysterical, half-mad laughter of the other inmates. Once, on one of his better days, he thought he recognized the high, clear giggle of his cousin Bellatrix. But since Bellatrix played a vital role in several of his worst recollections, he passed this off as a trick of the mind.
Over and over again, he lived through the events he'd tried his best to forget or ignore had ever happened. He was four years old again, watching his father slap his mother in a fit of rage. At six, his blossoming magic had gotten out of his control and destroyed a priceless Black family heirloom. For the first time – but certainly not the last – his father had raised a hand to him in anger. Regulus' frequent beatings at the hands of both parents, for not being Slytherin enough, for not being Black enough. The massive row he'd had at eleven with both parents when he'd been Sorted into Gryffindor. Andromeda, the only cousin who'd ever been worth a damn, being formally and finally disowned by the entire house because she chose to marry a Muggle-born wizard instead of the toujours pur scion of the Carrow family dear Mum had picked out for her. That final argument after Regulus died that resulted in Sirius leaving home once and for all, his mother screaming that she "burned one Black off the family tree" and don't think she'd be lenient because he happened to be her son.
And James and Lily… oh, James and Lily. They haunted him as surely as if their ghosts were dogging his every step.
His memoires of the Potters stood out in clear relief to the others. Some memories were sharpened by immense pain, others hazy with forced forgetfulness. But every moment he'd ever shared with Lily and James was as crystal and as vivid as if he'd only experienced them yesterday. When he could think without the haze of the Dementors clogging his brain, he thought it must be because, no matter how happy some of those memories were, they all caused him suffering because he knew those times would never come again. Ever again.
So when the Aurors came for him, he was sobbingly, pathetically grateful. He clutched at their shoes with his filthy hands, scrubbed at his face with his dirty rags and begged to be given the Kiss so his torment could end. He'd never been as soul-deeply afraid of anything before, but now… Now the Dementors were his ultimate boogeyman.
"On yer feet, Mister Black," one of the Aurors told him as he pulled his foot away from Sirius' grasping fingers. "And no funny business, y'hear? We're to take you before the Wizengamot. Appears you've been given an appeals hearing."
He heard the words, he intellectually understood them, but fundamentally could not comprehend how they should apply to him. He'd betrayed James and Lily as certainly as if he'd been the Secret-Keeper himself. He couldn't have betrayed them more deeply by convincing them to switch Fidelius-bound oathmates at the last second if he'd gone straight to Voldemort and turned them in himself.
He was cleaned up, dressed to resemble some part of his life before Azkaban, and sat in the chair in front of the entire assemblage of the Wizengamot. He hazily felt three drops of – something – being placed in his mouth and he swallowed reflexively. Then everything came spilling out, every aspect of the tragedy for which he felt responsible. "Everyone's going to assume it's me," he mumbled, staring at his hands. "No one would ever suspect Peter Pettigrew, weak tagalong thing that he is. Everyone knows he only got through Hogwarts because of Remus and Lily; why would anyone ever suspect him
He did notice Amelia Bones cast a questioning glance to the two men who flanked him. He saw their shakes of the head from the corner of his eye. But again, he didn't see how it affected his punishment in any way.
So he was very shocked to learn that the Wizengamot cleared him of all charges, issued a formal apology and made a very humble restitution towards his being and estate. In a whirlwind that confused him as much as it frightened him, he was reinstated as the Heir of the House of Black, given a very large sum of Galleons as a partial apology on behalf of the Ministry of Magic for his unlawful and detrimental imprisonment, and set free.
His stay in St. Mungo's Hosptial went a long way towards helping him ease back into society, though he'd only been incarcerated for a little over a month. One Healer in particular, a bright young thing who called herself Cygna Longbottom, told him he was very, very lucky to only have a moderate case of Dementor Syndrome as she poured absolutely vile concoctions down his throat and forced him to feel better against his will.
By the time Dumbledore came to visit him, he'd had more than enough time to collect himself and catch up on the news of the wizarding world, filtered though it was through the Daily Prophet. Remus had not made himself a stranger, desperately and sorrowfully sitting beside Sirius through the worst of the deleriums until the Healers had finally thrown him into a ward room of his own to sleep off his stress and malnutrition.
Sirius was not pleased at all to learn that little Harry, his godson, was living with Petunia and Vernon Dursley, negligent, jealous and bigoted Muggles that they were. He hated them fiercely, if for no other reason that, upon first meeting them at Lily and James' wedding, he thought there might be some truth to the old family traditions of Muggle-baiting. And he hated anything, anyone, that even briefly made him think of agreeing with his Ancient and Noble line with a passion.
Dumbledore had good reasons to want Harry under blood wards, and Sirius couldn't really disagree with his choices there. Lily had passed a very old and powerful protection to Harry when she'd sacrificed her life for him, and Sirius would not risk Harry's safety, not even for his own pride and stubbornness. He argued the point with Dumbledore, of course, citing multiple incidents Lily had told him about her sister and brother-in-law that would turn a Grim's fur stark white, but Dumbledore was adamant that the protections would only hold while Harry was under the roof of someone with his mother's blood.
So Sirius had stopped arguing and started planning. A purpose gave him new life, new determination. And as soon as he was able to get out of bed, he did three things. The first was accept a teaching position at Hogwarts, from which he'd be able to keep an eye on Harry while he was at school. The second was to arrange long vacations through which he could befriend his young nephew in the guise of Padfoot, to make sure he was being properly treated at the Dursleys.
And the third was to take Healer Longbottom out for a very romantic dinner the night he was discharged from the hospital.