11.

The oak door opened into the candle-lit, circular room. Echoes of snoring from the sleeping portraits were drowned out by a song-like choler that was both beautiful and deadly. Headmaster Dumbledore seemed to float as he walked past one of the many spindle-legged tables of silver gadgets that whizzed, spun, and hummed noisily. If he took notice of the windows with their curtains drawn, he made no reaction to them. Settled on its golden perch, Fawkes appeared agitated, flapping its majestic wings; it continued to sing.

Dumbledore reached out with a crooked finger and ran it along the phoenix's beak, letting the creature nip at it. Fawkes reached out with its leg as its song grew in power and intensity, grabbing Dumbledore's sleeve in its talons.

"There, there, Fawkes," Dumbledore said, smoothing back the phoenix's feathers along its head and neck. "No need to fear. It is only Peter Pettigrew. I am quite safe."

As if speaking to the room, Dumbledore called out, "Come on, Peter. Neither Fawkes nor I will harm you… at least until we know why you are here."

From the far wall, light shimmered and bent. The image of the window and curtains twisted as if being looked at through an unfocused lens. Peter Pettigrew seemed to walk out of the coruscation like it were a door, an expression akin to pain colouring his features.

"Make it stop!" he cried out through gritted teeth and closed eyes, his hands covering his ears. "Please!"

At this request, Fawkes' song grew louder, until Peter cowered before the Headmaster, writhing in pain.

"The song of a phoenix," Dumbledore said, "can soothe the fear of the noble hearted or strike pain into the very souls of the wicked. I can only assume you mean to do me harm if the phoenixsong has this affect on you."

Peter understood Dumbledore's statement for what it was. His eyes widened. The fear was palpable, ebbing from him like blood from an open wound.

"No!" he cried. "I come in peace! I swear by it!"

"You swore an oath to two people I cared very much for, Peter," Dumbledore said, dangerously. "Your asseverations mean nothing – less than nothing."

His face contorted with pain, Peter looked up, tears threatening to flow from his eyes. Blood seeped from his ears, escaping through fingers. "I mean to make right by Harry, Headmaster! Please! You must believe me!" His knees buckled under him. As the pain grew too much to bear, he fell onto all fours: coughing and hacking, gasping for air.

"Why should I, Peter? I believed you once… to great folly."

It was only then did Dumbledore's resolve fade. His eyes strayed from Peter's tormented form and stared off into nothingness.

"I owe him a life-debt!" Peter managed to bellow between pants, his scream almost overpowering Fawkes' vengeful trills.

Suddenly, the room became quiet, as though someone had cast a Silencing Charm. Chest heaving and out of breath, Peter reluctantly removed his hands from his ears and stared at his blood-soaked fingers.

"Harry stopped Sirius and Remus from killing you, did he?"

Peter nodded.

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling with pride.

"I must say," Dumbledore began as he walked around his desk and sat in his high-backed chair, "that I'm quite impressed that you managed to hide right here in Hogwarts under my very nose for seven years."

Peter made to stand. "Eight," he corrected without as much as a thought to the inappropriateness of it.

Dumbledore merely arched an eyebrow, fingertips touching. "Indeed. Eight. Please, Peter, sit."

With a wave of the hand, a chair materialised behind Peter and slid into him. Bowled over, he fell into the seat, his hands gripping the end of the armrests. As he did so, leather straps wrapped around his wrists.

"What manner of –!"

Before he could finish the sentence, a metal clamp snapped around his neck, pulling his spine flush against the back of the chair. Peter coughed, blood flying from his lips.

"I hope that isn't … too tight for you, Peter?" Dumbledore asked with mock concern.

"You… are little better… than the Dark Lord," Peter leered.

"If you're simply going to attempt to insult me, Peter," Dumbledore said, his voice low and perilous, "then I might as well call for Minister Fudge and have you sent to Azkaban for the 'kiss'." He leaned back into his seat, his eyes unblinking and far from kind. "Or, maybe I'll leave you to Fawkes?"

"No!" Peter's voice cracked with panic. "I swear to you, Headmaster – I am here to do right by Harry."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I know where the Dark Lord is. Even as we speak he is left unguarded, save by his snake, Nagini. He feeds from her to keep strong, yet he still grows weaker by the day. I was charged with finding a spell to restore him."

"And did you?"

"Yes, several, in fact." Peter squirmed in his seat, attempting to find some position that was more comfortable. With every move, however, his restraints tightened their hold on him.

"I suggest you talk more and move less," Dumbledore warned. "Those bands shall only get more restrictive the more you struggle against them."

"Please… I – I found several spells that can bring someone back from near-death. Le Grimoire de Selene."

The Headmaster sat upright in his seat, his eyes narrowed. "You have the Grimoire, Peter?"

"Y-yes."

"My, my. You are quite the resourceful one. Shame you weren't on our side."

As if by cue, the fetters grew tighter, cutting off Peter's supply of air.

"P-please, Headm-master. I have… information… you can… use. Spell… will make… Dark Lord… weaker… not stronger… horcruxes… I know…"

"What did you say?"

"H-horcruxes… I … know… wh-where…"

Dumbledore stood abruptly, waving his hand. The metal clamp vanished and the leather straps loosened. Peter threw himself to the floor, gasping for air and clutching at his throat.

"You know about his horcrux?"

"H-horcruxes… plural…" Peter said through coughs and choked wheezes. He pulled himself to his feet but refused to sit back on the chair. "If… I couldn't find a… restorative spell… I was instructed to find one of his horcruxes…"

"How many does he have?"

"Five… I think. I know Lucius has one…"

"Had one," Dumbledore corrected. "Harry destroyed it two years ago."

Without giving Peter time to process this new bit of information, Dumbledore continued, "Do you know where these… horcruxes are?"

"I… know where three – er, two of them are. But once you have –cough– one, there's a simple spell to find the others."

"I've tried that, Peter. Tom Riddle's journal provided no such information."

"You must do it when it's active. If Harry had already destroyed it—"

Again, Dumbledore's eyes wandered from Peter. "Of course. Harry already destroyed it when he gave it to me. The soul was already gone..."

"I can't stay long, Headmaster. The Dark Lord expects me back soon."

"Why should I trust you, Peter? Especially after what you've done to James and Lilly, and Sirius?"

Peter began nervously wringing his hands, unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes. "The Dark Lord…" He faltered, unable to find the right words. "The Dark Lord will not stop with Muggles or Muggleborns. He will not end his reign of terror when the world is washed clean of the Unworthy. Instead, he'll continue until there is naught left but him. I thought… I never thought that he would – that he could…"

With a blank expression on his face, Peter's voice trailed off. After a beat, he shook the thoughts from his head and regained composure. "There's something you should know about one of your professors here, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's eyes quirked at this. "Oh, really? And what, pray tell, is that?"

However, before Peter could continue, their attentions were diverted to the window facing the Quidditch Pitch, where they could hear the unmistakeable sound of dragons roaring and spells being fired. Dumbledore stood, grabbed a monocular from his desk, and ran to the window. Flinging it open, he leaned over the window sill, pulling the telescope to its full length and peered through it.

Peter heard the door opening from behind. Instinctively, he transformed into a rat and scurried under Dumbledore's desk. Professor McGonagall swept into the room, her face frantic.

"Albus! Albus, oh thank Merlin you're here."

Dumbledore turned to face the professor. "What is it, Minerva? What's going on?"

"It's the dragon keepers," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. "Charlie Weasley's been hurt and I'm afraid… I'm…"

"Go on, Minerva."

"It's Harry, Albus… Harry was attacked by one of the dragons… he may not make it through the night!"

With those words, a deafening screeched filled the room as Fawkes stretched its wings to their full, impressive length. Even as the phoenix flew past Dumbledore and out through the window, the Headmaster left the room in long strides, Professor McGonagall hot on his heels, forgetting all about Peter Pettigrew and his offering.

Peter remained behind, cursing in his rodent mind. He had meant to get to Barty Crouch Jr before he could do anything rash, before he could attack Harry. His only hope now was that the boy's legendary luck would hold out. The rat skittered across the floor towards the far wall by the entrance, squeezing through the same crack that gave him entrance to the Headmaster's office. He knew who the young upstart was impersonating and where his office would be; Peter, himself had been in that office many times as a Hogwarts student. It was time, he thought, he paid young Bartimus a little visit.

§

Colin was only dimly aware of his surroundings; he stopped paying attention long ago. There were vague recollections of climbing in a four-poster where Dennis was waiting for him and resting his head in his brother's lap. There were others around as well, friends such as Nigel and Ethan and girls he hadn't really met. His lungs burned from crying as he clutched at the eiderdown on the bed. Dennis tried desperately to sooth Colin's anguish.

"Don't cry," he heard his brother's weak, trembling voice beg. "Please, don't cry. Everything will be fine – everything will be okay. We'll..." He swallowed hard, trying to push the lump down his throat. "We'll go to Honeydukes on the weekend. We'll get some Carmichael's Caustic Caramels. You love them, don't you, Colin?"

"Yeah, Colin," Ethan interjected, finally taking a seat beside them. "And we'll take some pictures and run about Diagon Alley and—"

"I've ruined it all," Colin managed to say, his voice a pale shadow of its normal self. "I've ruined everything."

"Oh, you poor thing," one of the girls whispered, bringing her hand up to her mouth.

Clasping hard against his brother, Dennis brought Colin up to his chest and began rocking back and forth as the others watched on, unable to think of any comforting words. All Dennis could do was whisper his shushes in his brother's ear and hope that things would be better, soon. Wrapped as they were in their cyclic connexion of hurt and comfort, they were oblivious to the thunderous boom of dragon roars emanating from outside the castle and the scurrying of fellow classmates to the windows as they tried to see exactly what was making the monstrous noises. From what seemed to be deep in the Forbidden Forrest, they heard a boy scream...

§

Riding a shabby, school-issued broom, Professor Mad-Eye Moony flew into his office through an opened window, a pleased smirk across his mangled face. Moody made his way to his desk, where stood a large, glass spinning top. Before pulling the chair out, he gazed down at large trunk with seven keyholes under the window. It jumped and lurched, hopping as if something inside was trying desperately to get out. Moody smiled. His eyes darted over to the mirror against the far wall, which didn't display any images, including his own reflection. Apparently satisfied, Moody made to sit.

"You are quite the idiot," a voice rang out from behind.

Moody swung around to face the intruder, but saw no one. Wand at the ready, he moved away from the desk, knees bent slightly. "Who's there?"

"I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance, Barty."

The voice came from behind him again. Moody swung around to face the open window. Standing before him was Peter Pettigrew, a scowl drawn on his features. Without missing a beat, Moody raised his wand arm and yelled "Stupefy". A ray of red energy flared from his wand tip. It struck Peter, yet passed harmlessly through him. Then, Peter fizzled away, like an image fading from view.

"What--! An illusion!" Moody cried.

"Angustavi!"

A bolt of energy struck Moody from behind, lifting him bodily off the floor and pinning him against the wall, his head turned to the side. Even as he struggled to free himself, the binds tightened until breathing became a chore. Moreover, he felt his very will being sapped from him. Within seconds, Moody scarcely wanted to fight, but he was still quite angry.

"I'll take that, if you please," Peter said from behind, plucking the wand from Moody's hand. There was a syrupy timbre to his voice, a sing-song quality that taunted the captive.

"I... thought... you were... dead," Moody said through gritted teeth.

"Better men than you thought much the same." Peter playfully tapped Moody on his forehead and stepped up on his tip-toes to whisper, "Yet, here I am. And in the service of the Dark Lord, I might add. I've been taking care of him, you see?"

"You lie," Moody wheezed. "He... would... never... you betrayed... him..."

"Oh, and I suppose you are doing him a service, then?"

"I was... killing... the one boy..."

"—the one boy who could restore the Dark Lord, bringing him back to full power. Yes, I know."

Moody's eyes widen either in shock or in righteous fury. "No! I—!"

Peter pushed away from the wall and took a seat at Moody's desk. He spun around in the chair, letting his head loll around. Abruptly, he stopped as if he remembered something.

"Do you know I have the Grimoire? Selene's?" Moody tried to choke out a response. "Oh, don't bother to answer. The more you move – the more you think – the quicker it saps your essence. You'll be a pile of dust before I can gloat over my sheer and utter brilliance."

Moody, unable to muster the strength to struggle, stopped moving.

"It's a fascinating read, you know? The Grimoire, that is." Peter continued with his almost maniacal spinning. "Did you know there are sixty-seven Restoration spells in the Grimoire, each one darker than the last? I'm sure you did." He stuck out his leg, stopping himself again. "But no matter how dark the spell, it always requires the same major ingredient. Do you know what that is?"

Moody coughed an unintelligible reply, his eyes slowly blinking. Peter stood up and walked back to his side, brandishing a large sword-like blade that curved and widened at the tip. Glowing with an eerie hue, the parang emanated a faint, crystalline hum as if it were slicing through the very air around them.

"Sacrifice," Peter said, running a finger along the flat-end of the cutting edge. The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile. "The spell I'm going to present to our master requires three sacrifices: blood from a servant, an innocent, and an enemy."

Peter let out a small laugh. "Well, Sirius Black is undoubtedly on his way to Hogwarts as we speak. He's not heard back from Harry regarding any posts that he's sent the lad. Of course, I am to blame for that; I've intercepted them all. Sirius takes care of 'the enemy'. As for 'an innocent'...? Meh. Anyone will do, really. I'll simply grab some first-year when the time comes. No matter."

"You... will not... get... 'way... w'it... only...I..."

A surprised expression crept on Peter's face. "Oh, yes. I forget. Only you are serving the Dark Lord these days, yeah?"

"Y-yes..."

"Only you are providing Him with subjection befitting his favour?"

"... yes ..."

Peter's leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Of the both of us, there is but one servant to the Dark Lord?"

"... yes ..."

"And you are he?"

"Yes!"

"I'll be sure to tell the Dark Lord of your fealty."

In one swift motion, Peter grabbed a handful of Moody's thin hair, jerked his head back to reveal a ragged throat, and reached around to slice his throat. Blood sprayed along the wall as Moody jolted and shuddered; his fingers clawing at the wall, his legs kicking around, yet still restrained by Peter's mystic bands. After what seemed an eternity, Moody's spasms ceased. No longer detecting life, the magical restraints dissipated, dropping its lifeless captive to the floor. Peter stared at the husk lying at odd angles on the ground. He kicked at it. Satisfied that Moody was truly dead, Peter lifted the bloody blade, closed his eyes, and incanted a spell. Despite the attack on Harry, everything was going according to plan, his plan.