One-Shot for QLFC.

Wigtown Wanderers

My Prompts-

[genre] angst

[spell] Silencio

[word] simmer

Warnings- Death, emotional suffering, evil.

The song, with its dark and intense lyrics, set the tone for this story steeped in angst and raw emotion. The themes of vengeance, justice, and the struggle between light and darkness are central to the Harry Potter series, and this song's evocative lyrics fit seamlessly into this narrative.

In the dim, flickering light of the Gryffindor common room, Harry Potter sat hunched over a piece of parchment. His brow furrowed in concentration, he traced the familiar lines of the Marauder's Map with his wand. The words "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good" still faintly shimmered across the top of the page. His eyes scanned the tiny footprints that roamed the map, a specific name causing his heart to simmer with an anger he had not yet been able to quell.

Wormtail.

The name seemed to taunt him, the tiny pawprints moving stealthily through the dungeons. The thought of Peter Pettigrew, the betrayer of his parents, the man responsible for so much suffering, alive and scurrying around Hogwarts, filled Harry with a sense of dread and fury.

"If I had my wand, I would Sectumsempra," Harry whispered to himself, the forbidden spell he once used on Draco Malfoy playing on his lips like a dark promise. "If I had the chance, I'd kill you now."

He tightened his grip on his wand, the knuckles whitening under the strain. Mercy had clouded his vision once before, and he had let Wormtail live, a decision that now gnawed at his conscience like a relentless pest. He could see the pale face of Pettigrew, cowering and sniveling, and it ignited a fire within him that only vengeance could quell.

Harry's eyes narrowed as the footsteps on the map continued to move. He traced them with his wand, following every step. He knew the spell that would bring this all to an end. Cruciatus. Sectumsempra. Avada Kedavra. These were not just words; they were harbingers of the pain he longed to unleash.

The trap was set. He would catch the rat. "I see you now," he muttered, his voice low and simmering with barely restrained rage. "On Marauder's Map."

He felt the pull of the map's magic, the connection to his father's friends, and their unfulfilled promise of justice. "I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good," he murmured, echoing the words of the Marauders, the once jovial chant now an anthem of his resolve.

The common room's firelight cast long shadows, playing tricks on his weary mind. He could almost hear the echoes of their laughter, their mischievous whispers. But tonight, the words felt different, charged with a dark purpose. "Mischief managed," he whispered with a determined finality.

Harry rose from his seat, slipping the map into his robes. His footsteps were soft as he made his way out, the weight of his mission pressing down on him like a shroud. He moved silently through the corridors, his mind focused on the task ahead. The castle seemed to hold its breath as he passed, the ancient stones sensing the simmering storm within him.

Wormtail's presence on the map guided him to the dungeons. Harry's heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. The thought of finally confronting Pettigrew, of making him suffer for his crimes, was a heady mix of justice and retribution.

He reached the entrance to the dungeons, his wand at the ready. The darkness seemed to thicken around him, the air growing colder. Harry took a deep breath, the spell on his lips. "Silencio," he whispered, casting a silence charm to cloak his approach.

He stepped forward, the echoes of his footsteps swallowed by the spell. There, in the dim light, he saw the hunched figure of Peter Pettigrew, the rat-man, skulking in the shadows. Harry's grip tightened on his wand, the fury within him boiling over.

"Cruciatus," he hissed, the spell hitting Pettigrew squarely in the chest. Wormtail's scream was silent, his body writhing in agony. Harry watched, his heart hardening with each second of Pettigrew's suffering.

"Too good for you," he muttered, his voice cold and unfeeling. "Avada Kedavra's too good for you."

He raised his wand again, the final spell ready to bring an end to this chapter of betrayal and pain. But as he stood there, wand poised, he saw the fear in Pettigrew's eyes, the pitiful creature begging for mercy.

Harry hesitated, the memories of his parents, of Sirius, flashing before his eyes. Mercy had its place, even in the darkest of times. But tonight, here in the dungeons, Harry chose justice over vengeance. With a deep breath, he lowered his wand, letting the spell dissipate into the cold air.

"Mischief managed," he whispered one last time, turning away from the broken figure of Peter Pettigrew. The battle within him raged on, but tonight, he had chosen a different path

The echoes of his steps reverberated through the stone corridors as Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. Each step felt heavier, laden with the weight of his choice. He had come so close to crossing a line, to becoming something he despised. But in the end, he had walked away, leaving Pettigrew to face his own cowardice and guilt.

The common room was silent when he returned, the fire reduced to a few glowing embers. He sank into an armchair, the events of the night swirling in his mind like a tempest. He retrieved the Marauder's Map from his robes, unfolding it once more. The familiar inked footprints moved about, the castle alive with nocturnal activity. But his eyes were drawn to the dungeons, where a single set of pawprints remained motionless.

"Cruciatus, Sectumsempra, the killing curse," he whispered, the words a haunting mantra in the stillness. He could still feel the power of the spells, the dark allure that had nearly consumed him. But something stronger had held him back—an echo of his parents' love, the legacy of the Marauders, and a flicker of his own humanity.

The map's delicate lines began to fade as he watched, the enchantment retreating with the dawn. "Mischief managed," he muttered, folding the parchment and tucking it away. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting a warm glow that seemed to soothe his troubled mind.

He knew he couldn't keep this to himself. The burden of what he had almost done was too great to bear alone. With a deep breath, he decided to confide in Hermione and Ron. They had stood by him through so much; they would understand the darkness he had faced and the choice he had made.

As the first light of dawn crept into the common room, Harry made his way up to the boys' dormitory. Ron was already stirring, his red hair tousled from sleep. He sat up, blinking blearily at Harry.

"What's going on, mate?" Ron asked, his voice thick with sleep.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the words coming slowly at first but then tumbling out in a rush. He told Ron everything—about the map, about Wormtail, and about the spells he had been so close to casting. Ron listened, his expression a mix of shock and understanding.

"Blimey, Harry," Ron said when Harry had finished. "That's... intense. But you did the right thing, walking away. It's what your parents would have wanted. It's what Sirius would have wanted."

Harry nodded, the tightness in his chest easing a little. "Yeah, I think so too. But it was so close, Ron. I could feel it. The anger, the need for revenge. It scared me."

Ron clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, his grip reassuring. "You're stronger than you think, Harry. And you're not alone. We've got your back, no matter what."

Feeling a little lighter, Harry managed a small smile. "Thanks, Ron. Let's go find Hermione. I need to tell her too."

Together, they headed down to the common room, where Hermione was just coming in, her hair still wet from an early morning shower. She took one look at their faces and knew something serious had happened.

"Harry, what's wrong?" she asked, concern etching lines into her forehead.

Harry recounted the night's events once more, and Hermione listened intently, her eyes wide with worry. When he finished, she sighed, her shoulders slumping with relief.

"Oh, Harry. I'm so glad you didn't go through with it. It's a dark path, and once you start down it, it's hard to come back."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "But I couldn't have done it without you both. Your friendship, your support—it means everything to me."

Hermione reached out and squeezed his hand. "We're in this together, Harry. Always."

The three of them sat together, the morning sun casting a golden glow through the windows. They talked about their hopes and fears, about the darkness that still loomed over their world, and about the light they could find in each other.

The trio spent the rest of the day in the comfort of each other's company, finding solace in their shared determination and friendship. The weight of Harry's near-miss with vengeance gradually lightened, replaced by a renewed resolve to fight for a better world.

Days turned into weeks, and the shadows of the past seemed to recede. The final year at Hogwarts was filled with intense preparation for the inevitable confrontation with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Harry, Ron, and Hermione grew closer than ever, their bond becoming an unbreakable shield against the encroaching darkness.

One evening, as they sat in the Gryffindor common room poring over ancient texts and maps, the Marauder's Map lay open on the table. Harry's eyes flickered over it out of habit, scanning the familiar names and pathways. But something caught his attention—a set of footprints he hadn't seen in years.

James Potter.

Harry's heart skipped a beat, and he leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. "Ron, Hermione, look at this," he whispered urgently.

They crowded around the map, their faces reflecting Harry's confusion and shock. "How is that possible?" Hermione murmured, her voice tinged with awe and disbelief. "James Potter... your father... he's..."

"Dead," Harry finished, his voice trembling. "He's dead. This can't be real."

But the footprints moved, steady and sure, leading out of the castle and into the Forbidden Forest. The trio exchanged bewildered glances, a mix of hope and fear flashing in their eyes.

"There's only one way to find out," Ron said, his voice resolute. "We follow the map."

They grabbed their cloaks and wands, and with the Marauder's Map guiding them, they slipped out of the castle under the cover of night. The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its trees whispering secrets in the cold wind. The path was treacherous, but the footprints remained clear, leading them deeper into the heart of the forest.

After what felt like hours, they arrived at a clearing bathed in moonlight. At its center stood a figure, tall and shadowed, his back turned to them. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, hope and dread warring within him.

"Dad?" he called out, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The figure turned slowly, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. It was James Potter, looking exactly as he had in the photographs Harry treasured—messy black hair, glasses, and a warm, mischievous smile.

"Harry," James said, his voice filled with emotion. "My son."

Harry stumbled forward, his legs feeling like lead. "How... how are you here? This can't be real."

James stepped closer, his eyes filled with tears. "It's real, Harry. I was brought back... by a power none of us understood. But there's something you need to know, something I came back to tell you."

Harry's mind raced, the impossible reality of his father's presence almost too much to comprehend. "What is it?" he asked, his voice shaking.

James took a deep breath, his expression grave. "Voldemort is not the only threat. There is another, one who has been working in the shadows, manipulating events for their own gain. And it's someone you trust."

Harry's heart clenched with fear. "Who? Who is it?"

James glanced at Ron and Hermione, hesitation flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry, but it's—"

A sudden flash of green light cut through the clearing, and James Potter crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Harry's scream of anguish echoed through the forest as he fell to his knees beside his father's body.

From the shadows emerged a cloaked figure, their face obscured, their wand still raised, a sinister presence emanating from them. "It had to be done," the figure said quietly, their voice cold and detached. "He was a threat to everything we've worked for."

Harry's eyes burned with tears of rage and betrayal. "You... you killed him! You killed my father!"

The cloaked figure remained silent for a moment, then spoke in a voice dripping with malice, "Mischief managed."

The figure turned and sprinted into the darkness of the forest. Without hesitation, Harry leaped to his feet, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. "After them!" he shouted, and the trio gave chase, their hearts pounding with a mix of fear and fury.

They darted through the forest, the shadows closing in around them. The cloaked figure was fast, moving with an unnatural speed that seemed to mock their efforts. Branches whipped at their faces, and the ground was treacherous, but they pressed on, driven by a need for answers and justice.

As they ran, the forest seemed to twist and shift, the path growing more disorienting. Harry's vision blurred, and the world around him began to fade. He felt himself slipping, falling into darkness.