The figure in the chair slowly lifted his head.
At last, his face emerged from the shadows,
Bald, snake-like, with two thin slits for nostrils and eyes that gleamed a deep, chilling scarlet. His pupils were vertical, like a serpent's. His skin was deathly pale, almost luminescent, with a pearly sheen.
Lord Voldemort's gaze swept downward, falling upon Yaxley, who bowed deeply before him, and the trembling heap that was Peter Pettigrew.
"Yaxley," came a cold, clear voice that echoed in everyone's ears, "what matter could be so urgent?"
"My Lord," Yaxley's head sank even lower, his voice trembling with both fear and eagerness to please, "I... I have received news of an exceptionally precious artifact, one of legend itself... a Deathly Hallow!"
"A Deathly Hallow?" Voldemort's high, piercing voice carried a rare note of curiosity and interest.
He rose from his throne-like chair. The fire roaring in the marble fireplace cast flickering light across his tall, slender form, throwing a distorted shadow that stretched across the ornate carpet and walls like a massive, writhing serpent.
"Yes, my Lord!" Yaxley's voice lifted slightly in excitement. "I believe that in all the world, only you are worthy of possessing such a relic of legend!"
"Where is it?" Voldemort's voice remained calm, steady.
Barefoot, he descended the few steps of the raised dais, each step silent upon the thick, dark carpet that covered the vast room.
The carpet cushioned his every movement as he advanced toward Yaxley, and the pitiful, shivering Peter Pettigrew lying on the floor.
Though this was but a vision within the Pensieve, the dread emanating from Voldemort felt horrifyingly real. Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Moody, and the others watching could feel the icy chill seep into their bones.
Almost instinctively, as Voldemort drew closer, they stepped backward, desperate to widen the space between themselves and that embodiment of terror.
Snape alone did not move. He remained still, watching with deep interest. The words "Deathly Hallows" that had fallen from Yaxley's lips fit perfectly into the final piece of the puzzle he had been assembling.
At last, he understood why Sybill Trelawney's first true prophecy had not yet been spoken, yet the Potter family had still fallen victim to Voldemort's wrath.
That family heirloom, the Invisibility Cloak passed down through generations of Potters, had become the very source of their misfortune.
Meanwhile, as Voldemort directly asked about the Hallow's whereabouts, a sudden wave of fear seized Yaxley's heart.
Cold sweat broke out along his brow and spine as he realized his folly. He had neither retrieved the artifact nor verified the truth of the rumor.
Driven by jealousy toward the Malfoys, who had lately enjoyed their master's favor, and by the gnawing anxiety of his own fading relevance, he had let his craving for recognition cloud all reason.
And so, in his rash haste to earn merit, he had come bearing this unverified report, dragging with him a miserable traitor as proof.
"M–my Lord..." Yaxley's legs gave out, and he dropped heavily to his knees on the carpet, trembling violently.
"The Invisibility Cloak... it... it remains... in Godric's Hollow, in the Potters' house..." His hoarse voice cracked into sobs, and his forehead pressed almost into the rough fibers of the carpet.
But Voldemort's steps did not falter. Those pale, bony, bare feet passed directly beyond Yaxley's line of sight.
He came to stand beside the slumped, mud-caked figure of Peter Pettigrew. The red serpentine eyes gazed down upon that pathetic scrap of life.
"Yaxley," his voice spoke again, from just behind the kneeling Death Eater, "you learned this from him?"
At the question, Yaxley scrambled to turn around on his knees, facing Voldemort's back in panic. He hurried to explain:
"Yes, my Lord! This filthy Mudblood was once one of James Potter's dearest friends. From his foul memories, I, I saw it!
"The Potter family possessed a hereditary Invisibility Cloak, said to have been passed down from Ignotus Peverell himself.
"In his memory fragments, I saw it with my own eyes, it flowed like liquid, shining silver!"
"My Lord," Yaxley's speech quickened in feverish excitement, his voice rising, "it was no ordinary cloak imbued with a simple Disillusionment Charm, nor some crude artifact woven from Demiguise hair!
"It was true invisibility, perfect and complete! The Potters have kept it for generations, and young James Potter and his friends have used it for six or seven years already! Yet it remains flawless, unblemished, its magic as strong as ever!
"So, my Lord, the moment I saw this, I dared not delay a second, I came straight to report it to you!"
Voldemort paid no heed to Yaxley's frantic explanation. He only stared silently at Peter Pettigrew.
After a moment, he extended one pale finger and touched his wand lightly to Peter's body.
Peter's limp form lifted into the air as if seized by invisible strings. His limbs hung loosely; his head tilted to one side, eyes vacant and dull.
Voldemort's gaze pierced straight through those lifeless pupils.
The most skilled Legilimens in the world tore through Peter's mind without restraint, wrenching forth every scrap of memory tied to the cloak, its miraculous effects, James's proud display of it before his friends, every boast and demonstration.
At last, Voldemort seemed to have found all he wanted. With a small flick of his hand, he released Peter, who fell to the floor with a dull, painful thud.
"The Cloak of Death..." Voldemort murmured softly, a faint, mocking smile curling his lips. "Death itself..." He lingered on the word, tasting it. "It has little practical use...
"Pity... only one remains... only one more, the Elder Wand..."
These cryptic words sent a shiver down the spines of the onlookers, McGonagall, Flitwick, Moody, and the rest.
Deathly Hallows? Death? The Elder Wand?
Those strange yet familiar words seemed to herald the beginning of the Potters' tragedy.
Voldemort no longer looked at Yaxley or Wormtail.
He turned away, his bare feet soundless upon the carpet, and walked once more toward his high-backed throne.
"Yaxley," his cold voice echoed through the hall again, "you have done well this time.
"Keep the pathetic Wormtail alive, as an example of our mercy toward Mudbloods. Even filth has its use..."
Before his words had faded, darkness surged inward from every direction, swallowing Voldemort's retreating form, his throne, and the entire grim hall.
The witnesses felt weightless, rising through the void,
"Ah-!"
Almost as one, they gasped sharply, heads jerking upward as they were pulled back into reality. They stumbled away from the swirling silver surface of the Pensieve, pale-faced and drenched in sweat.
Around the stone basin, there was silence. Only the pounding of their hearts filled the cabin.
Then came the sound of the real world, Peter Pettigrew still huddled on the floor, bound tightly, whimpering faintly, a dying sound trapped in his throat.
Snape did not look at him, nor did he answer the questioning stares of those around him.
Calmly, he motioned for them to make way, lifted the Pensieve, and carried it to the cabinet in the corner. Opening its door, he carefully placed the stone basin back in its shadowed niche.
Voldemort's words echoed endlessly in his mind: Only one more remains...
Snape's hand rested on the cabinet door. He did not close it at once. Bowing his head, he sank into deep thought.
He now suspected, with chilling certainty, that Voldemort's choice of Harry Potter over Neville Longbottom, when both boys had fit the prophecy of "the one born as the seventh month dies", was not only because Harry, like Voldemort himself, was a half-blood.
There had been another temptation, far more compelling.
The Invisibility Cloak, one of the three Deathly Hallows, had been in the Potters' possession.
Thus, on that night in Godric's Hollow, when Voldemort set out to eliminate the prophesied threat, he had planned something more.
He would use the life of the "Chosen One" to forge his final Horcrux, employing the power of an existing Deathly Hallow to perfect his masterpiece,
A chillingly elegant aesthetic, one only Tom Riddle could have conceived.
"Severus? Severus!" Professor McGonagall's anxious voice broke through his thoughts. "What are you doing there, standing still like that?"
Snape blinked and straightened, realizing he had been motionless before the cabinet for quite some time. He quickly composed himself, closed the door gently, and turned back to the others in the cabin.
"Oh, Professor," he said evenly, "it's nothing. Just thinking."
His gaze shifted toward James Potter, still bound, eyes burning with hatred.
"James," Snape asked, "that day when you and Sirius went out gathering intelligence, did you take your family's Invisibility Cloak with you?"
James froze at the unexpected question, frowning in confusion.
"No," he said hoarsely after a moment. "It can't cover both of us anymore. Using a Disillusionment Charm is easier."
"And later," Snape pressed, "afterward... did you find the cloak among the ruins of your home?"
James's eyes dimmed. He shook his head again and closed his eyes in pain.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "In the chaos... Sirius and I only thought of, only thought of..."
His voice broke. The image of his parents' bodies overwhelmed him, stealing away any strength to continue. Who would have remembered to look for a cloak that night?
"I see." Snape nodded once, having received his answer. His gaze swept over James and Sirius, tinged with cold pity.
"It is confirmed," he said softly, "Peter Pettigrew did betray you.
"He revealed the secret of the Invisibility Cloak to the Death Eaters. It was his treachery that led directly to your parents' deaths."
James's eyes flew open. He glared at Wormtail with murderous fury. If a look could kill, Peter would already have been torn apart.
Professor Flitwick let out a deep sigh, turning to Professor McGonagall. His voice was weary.
"Minerva, shall we confine Peter Pettigrew to the lower hold? The reinforced wards there are newly placed."
James and Sirius both looked toward McGonagall, eyes filled with rage and despair. They clearly wished for something far harsher than imprisonment.
McGonagall's face was grave. She glanced at the pitiful figure on the floor, then at the two men consumed by hatred. At last, she nodded in agreement with Flitwick's proposal.
"Very well. Detain him below deck."
"Professor!" James and Sirius shouted, struggling to rise. "I want to-"
"James. Sirius." Snape's calm voice cut across them as he waved his wand. "The place you both need to be now is the infirmary, not here wasting anger on what's already done."
He reached for a small silver bell on the captain's desk and gave it a gentle ring.
A few moments later, a neatly dressed house-elf entered the room, bowing deeply.
"Sir?"
"Take this prisoner to the lowest cell," Snape instructed, pointing at the motionless Wormtail. "Guard him well. No one is to approach without permission from Professor McGonagall or myself."
"Yes, Master Snape!" squeaked the elf.
He moved to Peter's side, touched a bony finger to the chair, and with a faint pop of magic, the bound Pettigrew rose into the air, chair and all, floating away like a lifeless piece of cargo.
Moody's blue magical eye spun wildly, following the trail left behind.
"Minerva," he muttered, his wooden leg tapping the floor twice, "what do we do with him now? The Ministry, the Wizengamot, law and order are all but gone..."
"Keep him locked up," Snape said indifferently with a shrug. "We'll deal with him when the situation becomes clear."
He pulled open the door; a gust of cold air swept in.
"Now, James. Sirius," he said, glancing back at them, "to the infirmary, with me."
After such a grim performance of betrayal, death, and the darkness of the Dark Lord's shadow, a heavy exhaustion filled the cabin.
No one spoke. In silence, each burdened with their own grief, they followed Snape out, one by one.
Professor McGonagall gave Flitwick's shoulder a gentle pat of comfort, and the two left together.
Snape led the staggering, hollow-eyed James and Sirius toward the infirmary.