Peter Pettigrew scurried through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, nestled safely in the pocket of Percy Weasley's robe. Percy was meticulous and precise, adjusting the parchment lists in his hand as he hurried after his mother, who bustled ahead with determined energy.

"Percy, do keep up! Honestly, we still need to get your cauldron, and then there's Madam Malkin's!" Molly Weasley's voice cut through the noise of the alley. "And stop fussing over that ink, you'll have plenty at Hogwarts."

Percy let out an exasperated sigh but said nothing, adjusting his grip on the stack of books he carried. The heavy volumes jostled slightly, nearly dislodging Peter from his hiding place. The rat twitched nervously but stayed still, burrowing deeper into the fabric of Percy's pocket.

Diagon Alley was a riot of colour and movement. The scent of fresh parchment and ink mixed with the yeasty aroma from the nearby bakery. Witches and wizards bustled past in flowing robes, chattering excitedly about the coming school year. The air hummed with laughter, the odd crack of Apparition, and the chatter of vendors hawking their wares. A set of enchanted quills hovered over the entrance to Scribbulus Writing Implements, dipping themselves into a rotating selection of inks. Further down, a group of first-years gawked at the display window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, their faces pressed against the glass as they marvelled at the latest broom models.

Peter, for his part, paid no mind to the distractions of the alley. His small, beady eyes remained sharp, his ears pricked. His entire existence was one of vigilance, of listening, of waiting. That was why he heard it.

A snippet of conversation, floating above the din of the crowd, made his whiskers twitch.

"…yes, in London of all places! Almost didn't believe it myself. He's grown up, of course, but you can see it in his eyes—his mother's eyes. Poor boy, though, doesn't seem to know much about his own past."

Peter froze. The voice was familiar—Dedalus Diggle. That bumbling, excitable fool. He was speaking animatedly to another wizard, his violet hat bobbing as he gestured.

"He was with a woman?" the other wizard asked.

"I think so," Diggle replied vaguely. "Didn't catch her name, but she looked thoroughly unimpressed with the whole business. Kept steering him away every time I tried to talk to him. Can't blame her, I suppose—Muggles don't understand our world."

Peter's mind began racing. A Muggle woman? That could only mean one thing.

Harry Potter was living with Lily's sister.

His blood ran cold. He had spent years convincing himself that Dumbledore had hidden the boy away, placed him somewhere unreachable, somewhere protected. But no—he was living with Muggles?

He barely noticed as Percy shifted, nearly crushing him against the edge of the pocket. His thoughts spun wildly. No magical defences. No skilled wizarding guardians. Just a Muggle household.

Peter had spent years in hiding, scurrying from one safe place to another, shrinking himself down into the insignificant role of a pet. He had lived in constant fear of being discovered. But this—this was a chance. If he could get to the boy, if he could finish what his master had started…

He longed for recognition, to be more than a snivelling rodent clinging to the coattails of others. He had sacrificed everything—his friendships, his dignity, his very identity—to survive. The Dark Lord had been power incarnate, a force so absolute that Peter had been willing to betray those he had once called friends. And yet, after all that, he had been reduced to this—a rat, scurrying through the pockets of schoolchildren, waiting for scraps.

If he could reach the boy—if he could be the one to finish what had begun all those years ago—then perhaps he could truly prove himself. It wasn't about delivering Harry to anyone; it was about eliminating him. If the boy was gone, then the last obstacle to the Dark Lord's return would be removed. He had spent too long grovelling in the dark, existing as nothing more than a scavenger. This was his moment to reclaim his importance, to prove that his betrayal had not been in vain. His master would rise, and he would be at his right hand, not cowering beneath the feet of others. He had spent too long grovelling in the dark. It was time to act.

—

The telephone directory was heavier than he'd expected, his sweaty fingers struggling to grip the pages as he frantically flipped through them in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. The ink smudged slightly beneath his thumb, but there—finally—Dursley, Vernon. Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

His heart pounded against his ribs. His breath came in shallow, frantic bursts. This was it. This was the key to his redemption. He read the address again, lips moving silently as though committing the words to a spell.

He shoved the book back onto the stand and scuttled out into the night, his fingers twitching as he reached for the warmth of his Animagus form. But no—not yet. He needed to be sure he had the right house.

—

The streets of Little Whinging were eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or distant bark of a dog. The suburb was suffocating in its dullness, its uniform houses standing in eerie, artificial rows. It made his skin crawl.

By the time he reached Number Four, he was nearly panting. His eyes darted about, searching for any sign of movement in the windows. The house was dark. Still. Asleep.

He transformed. The shift was instant—bones compressing, fur bursting from his skin, his body shrinking down to that of a rat. His heartbeat was rapid, hammering against his ribs as he darted forward. His paws barely made a sound against the pavement as he scuttled toward the doorstep.

Then—

The air around him changed.

A force like invisible chains wrapped around his body, seizing him mid-step. He let out a terrified squeak, thrashing, but he couldn't move. His tiny form began to expand, shifting back unwillingly, painfully, into his human shape. The pressure increased, holding him firm against the cold pavement.

A shadow loomed over him.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the top of the steps, his robes shimmering faintly in the moonlight. His blue eyes, sharp and unyielding, gazed down at Peter with an unreadable expression.

"Peter Pettigrew," he said, voice quiet, yet ringing with authority. "How very unfortunate for you."

Peter whimpered, realising—far too late—that he had walked into a trap.