Crookshanks sat with the grim pride of a seasoned hunter, tail flicking, paw firm over the wriggling rat now squeaking in high-pitched indignation. The common room had fallen into stunned silence, as if the furniture itself was holding its breath.

Ron stood frozen, his face pale and blotchy, one hand half-raised like he couldn't decide whether to intervene or flee.

Professor McGonagall swept forward, tartan robes snapping. She crouched beside Crookshanks with the speed and grace of someone half her age and narrowed her eyes at the captured rat.

"Miss Granger," she said tightly, "call off your cat."

Hermione dropped to her knees. "Crookshanks, love—let go."

Crookshanks hissed.

"Crookshanks," McGonagall said, voice low and edged, "release it."

The cat let out a theatrical growl, then delicately lifted his paw—just enough for McGonagall to seize the rat by the scruff of its neck.

With a flick of her wand, she conjured a crystalline containment sphere, spun with gold thread runes, and dropped the rat inside before it could so much as twitch.

The sphere shimmered, sealed itself, and hovered at her side.

The rat squealed and spun inside, frantically.

"Not your average garden rat," McGonagall muttered.

Harry stepped back, heart pounding. Without hesitation, he twisted the ring Elijah had given him—twice to the right, once to the left.

Somewhere far away, someone would know.

Neville, breathing hard and bright-eyed, turned toward the fireplace, didn't even ask.

"DMLE emergency contact," he barked at the flames. "Urgent breach. Gryffindor Tower. Animagus in disguise. Repeat: potential criminal infiltrator. Immediate response requested."

The fire flashed blue.

Hermione stood, still pale. "It was him. Pettigrew. I saw the name on the map. That's who he is. That's what he's been."

Fred and George had crept close now, eyes wide.

George stared at the rattling sphere. "That's... Scabbers?"

Fred whistled. "Blimey."

"Never even thought to check," George said, almost impressed. "All those hours we spent enchanting things—not once did we suspect the rat."

"Worst prankster instincts ever," Fred agreed solemnly.

Professor McGonagall looked over at Ron—white-faced, still frozen.

"Mr Weasley cannot stay here. He's in shock."

She turned sharply. "Percy, Fred, George—take him to the hospital wing. Tell Madam Pomfrey he's to be treated for magical trauma. Tell her to send for your parents."

Percy stepped forward immediately, wand steady. "Understood, Professor."

Fred and George, still too stunned for mischief, flanked Ron gently as Percy guided him toward the portrait hole. He moved like he wasn't sure whether he was awake.

"He was my rat," Ron muttered again. "Twelve years."

Fred winced. "Yeah... We probably should've noticed something was off."

George gave a hollow laugh. "Can we pretend we did and just never said anything?"

They disappeared up the stairs with Ron between them.

McGonagall turned next to the prefects, who had clustered near the fireplace.

"Bell, Jordan—escort the other Gryffindors to bed. Quietly. No discussion. No lingering."

She turned to another pair. "Johnson, McCormac— Find Flitwick, Sprout, and Sinistra. Now."

"And Spinnet," she added with steel, "warn Snape. Politely."

They scattered like wind-cut leaves.

McGonagall stepped back toward the fire and pointed to the nearest portrait. "Find the Headmaster. Tell him he's needed. Urgently."

The painted witch saluted with an old dueling wand and dashed into her own background, skirts flapping.

Hermione stood beside Harry now, pale and steady.

"He's not just a rat," she said. "He's Peter Pettigrew. He was in the common room. He's been here—all along."

McGonagall looked at her with open, sharp-eyed focus. "I believe you, Miss Granger. I saw the way he moved. The wards held. He wasn't a normal rat."

Harry twisted his ring again—this time harder. The gem flickered once, then pulsed.

A second beacon answered from somewhere below.

"Help is coming," he said.

Neville stepped back from the fire, eyes wide. "The DMLE is en route. Emergency line confirmed."

"Excellent," McGonagall said crisply. "Then it's a race now."

She turned back to the sphere and murmured a tightening charm under her breath.

No one moved. Not even the fire dared crackle.

The largest conference room in Hogwarts was not often used—and never for students.

But tonight, the long carved table at its centre was crowded with officials, and the air itself felt too thick for comfort. The fire snapped low in the grate, casting sharp shadows across centuries-old portraits that whispered behind their frames.

Harry sat between Hermione and Neville, all three of them quiet, pale, and very aware of how out of place they seemed.

Across from them, a circle of adults surrounded a floating crystalline sphere—Pettigrew still inside, twitching, eyes wide and wild behind his Animagus form.

Professor McGonagall stood closest, spine straight as a wand. Beside her, Amelia Bones of the DMLE wore the red-robed authority of her office like armour. She had arrived before the Headmaster. And she had taken charge.

"I confirm magical containment," she said calmly, "and formal transfer of custody. Peter Pettigrew, unregistered Animagus, is being held under DMLE protocol 3.4.3A for immediate magical identification and processing."

Across the table, Dumbledore arrived late.

He swept into the room in a whirl of robes, eyebrows raised, gaze sharp.

"Minerva," he said tightly, "you had no authority to—"

"I had an infiltrator in my house," she snapped, eyes narrowing. "And a traumatized student. I acted accordingly."

Tension coiled through the room.

Tavian Forewyn—the Marquess of Ashbourne—rose smoothly from his chair. Robes charcoal-black, rings glinting with old magic.

"As a Governor of this school," Tavian said, "I support Professor McGonagall's action in the strongest possible terms. She followed protocol."

Lucius Malfoy, seated near the end, gave a long, disapproving sniff.

"I might remind the board," Dumbledore began, "that Hogwarts is my jurisdiction."

"You might," Tavian replied, unbothered, "but it would be a waste of breath. This matter now falls under DMLE investigation. You left school grounds, Albus. Without notice. While a criminal you declared dead prowled your corridors."

Dumbledore's jaw twitched.

Professor Snape remained still, arms folded, eyes like blades. Professor Lupin leaned forward, watching the rat with barely concealed tension.

Elijah Dorne stood behind the children, Clarisse beside him. Both silent, both watchful.

At the far end of the table, Augusta Longbottom rose, her expression cold and clear.

"These children were the ones to uncover the truth," she said. "Not the professors. Not the Board. Not the Ministry. The children."

Her eyes flicked to Dumbledore. "And they will not be punished for doing what your systems failed to do for twelve years."

Hermione shivered slightly. Clarisse stepped behind her, laying a grounding hand on her shoulder.

Elijah handed Harry a small vial—something to settle his nerves. He didn't press it. Just offered.

Then Amelia turned toward the sphere.

With a practiced flick of her wand, the sphere dissolved inward—still locked by its spell structure, but revealing the curled rat in the centre.

"Animagus reversal," she said softly. "DMLE confirmed."

A wave of gold flowed over the rat.

And in its place, a small, twitching man collapsed to the floor.

Sallow skin. Trembling limbs. Beady eyes that darted from face to face.

Peter Pettigrew.

The room held its breath.

Tavian straightened. "Thank you, Director Bones. Now that we are all satisfied this creature is who Miss Granger identified him to be... perhaps someone can explain why Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban for the murder of a man who is, as of this moment, very much alive."