A peculiar aroma hung heavy in the cave—the unmistakable scent of potion brewing: bitter, cloying, and strangely enticing.
Unicorn blood, the venom of a Blood-Cursed Werewolf, and a hodgepodge of rare magical ingredients.
Wormtail—as Peter Pettigrew was known—had been obsessively tending this cauldron for a month, his mind drifting further by the day.
He wasn't sure why he'd chosen Albania. For him, anywhere outside the British magical world was good enough. Foreign Aurors hardly cared to hunt a rat missing a paw.
Ever since he'd fled Hogwarts, he'd been desperately dodging Aurors. Oddly, the whole escape felt eerily familiar, as though he'd lived it before.
Still, trusting a sudden burst of survival instinct, he'd raced for Albania—the legendary haven for criminals, a place the British Ministry could never reach.
Upon arriving, a memory surfaced: he'd once overheard Harry and Ron say that his old master, the Dark Lord, had hidden in Albania for years.
If he didn't seek out the Dark Lord now, would he be punished later? With Dumbledore's side forever closed to him, he still needed a powerful wizard's protection.
So, after some time, he'd seized control of most of the rats in Butrint, using them to scour the region for any sign of the Dark Lord.
He himself hid in the sewers beneath a wizard-run tavern at the forest's edge, eavesdropping on every scrap of gossip.
The sunless days blurred together, and still, there was no news of his old master. The rats' abilities were limited—most who ventured into the Black Forest never returned.
One day, desperate, he risked transforming back to human form. Cloaked in black from head to toe, he slunk into the center of the bar.
The place reeked—acrid tobacco, potion fumes, rotting animal guts, and the stench of sewer gas clinging to his clothes. The atmosphere was even worse than the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade.
Not everyone here hid themselves so thoroughly. The crowd in Albania's Black Forest was a lawless lot—trading, bickering, drinking, boasting in small, rough groups.
Peter ordered a glass of local black wine, savoring it slowly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or drunk as a human. Chewing a tough steak, he found himself missing that man's special pet food.
Just thinking of him sent a shiver crawling down his back...
Suddenly, he overheard two nearby wizards talking:
"...Lawrence disappeared. My guess? Eaten by that legendary beast. Last time we got drunk, he said he'd go searching for it deep in the Black Forest—thought it'd make a fine magical ingredient..."
"You mean that mysterious creature—supposedly lurking in the caves, devouring anything that sees it? Isn't that just a Muggle myth?
And didn't the Confederation investigate after the Muggle government stabilized? All they found was a nest of ordinary vipers in a cave. Nothing special—just told the Muggles, didn't even bother clearing the snakes out. Things were quiet for a year after that. No more disappearances."
"You don't get it—that was before. In the last couple of years, a few sneaky wizards have vanished there too. But you know our kind—the Confederation doesn't care if we die, and nobody bothers to report it. So nothing's been done... That's why some folks think there really is a rare magical creature hidden in there."
Under his hood, Wormtail's beady eyes narrowed. He couldn't say why, but the mention of a nest of snakes stirred something familiar. Then again, the Dark Lord—a true Slytherin heir—keeping company with serpents was only natural.
So he began searching the depths of the Black Forest, seeking out caves—especially those swarming with snakes.
In that sunless labyrinth, he wandered for who knew how long, until the pungent stench of snake droppings hit his nose. Instinctively, the rat in him wanted to flee, but he remembered: here, he could be a wizard.
He didn't transform back right away. First, he scurried off to retrieve his hidden wand. Then, he returned to the snake den.
There, in the center of a writhing mass of ordinary vipers, he saw it: a thirteen-foot green python, thick as a man's thigh, flicking its tongue, ready to strike at any moment.
Suddenly, a cold, hoarse voice—tinged with something like joy—echoed through the shadows:
"Nagini, don't worry. This is an old friend. Wormtail, my dear old friend, it's been too long. When I heard at Hogwarts that you'd sent that traitor from the Black family to Azkaban, I was delighted. You've surprised me yet again.
But then I heard you'd died, and they called you a hero. That pained me—I had so hoped it would be me rewarding you..."
Before the voice finished, a cobra beside the green python Nagini shriveled up before their eyes. A cloud of black mist rose from its corpse.
The voice came again, resonating from the mist:
"Forgive me, old friend. After so many years, you find me in this sorry state. See how feeble I am—ordinary snakes can barely sustain my soul's power..."
Wormtail clutched his wand with trembling hands. Fear made his knees buckle; he collapsed, groveling on the cave floor.
"Master... Dark Lord... I am yours—my life for you..."
He knew there was no escape now. Back in first year, he'd heard Ron say the Dark Lord had possessed Professor Quirrell—but hadn't killed him.
Truthfully, when he set out to find the Dark Lord, he'd already accepted his fate. He'd even considered shaving his head in tribute.
The wraith-like Voldemort didn't linger long in the mist. He quickly selected another snake from the cluster and possessed it.
This time, he coiled beside Nagini, his eyes glowing an eerie green, fixing Wormtail with a gaze that brooked no disobedience.
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