I finally lay down. My own bed in my room welcomed me with that softness that only exists at home, in Malfoy Manor. Alas, Hogwarts never gave a feeling of complete peace, for although I trusted my comrades, I trust emptiness more.
The only thing spoiling it was that I lay in my clothes, staring at the ceiling, knowing that I couldn't sleep yet. In an hour or two, when the whole house finally sank into sleep, I would have to get up and deal with Pettigrew. Maybe I'm paranoid, but just in case… better to wait. Who knows — a house-elf might interrupt, or Draco might want to discuss something, and I would have to stop and open the door, hiding Pettigrew again. A long conversation awaited us, one I had put off for far too long.
But for now, I thought about everything that had happened. It was surprising that my parents weren't particularly angry about my outburst. No, I understand — self-defense — but after the kidnapping and the news of my curse, my father had become much colder towards me and blamed me for no reason. As if I weren't his heir, but some nephew disgracing the family.
Thinking about this made me dig a little into the memories of the last few hours. I just wanted to determine something for myself.
I went over the past evening in my head, the conversation at dinner, the talk in my father's study. It was funny how my mother just sighed, repeating: "The main thing is that you weren't hurt, my boy." But with my father, it was more complicated. He winced every time my rage was mentioned.
I told them the truth about the Black fury erupting in the corridor. And I told them that at some point, I lost control of myself, the rage clouded my mind, and that's why I used Bombarda. My father winced at first but didn't interrupt once. In the end, he just hissed: "There was no other way."
It seems I overestimated his hatred for the Black curse. Or maybe he just knows how to separate the wheat from the chaff.
But after I shared the information about the Acromantulas, my father looked at me quite differently. As if I had performed some heavenly miracle. Apparently, he forgot that the rage doesn't make me some kind of Sirius Black. The rage only drives me further! I don't think he didn't understand my intention from the first words; rather, I suspected the same dismissive attitude towards my person after the curse became known.
In any case, it's only a matter of time before the gears of the state machine try to grind Albus Dumbledore to pieces. The irony is that the Headmaster will most likely get away with a light fright. And that's simply because he won't break those "gears," even though he could.
He is too strong, too influential, and far too experienced to fall from one light blow. But if you strike correctly, if you choose the right moment… he might lose Hogwarts and his seat in the Wizengamot. True, not for long, and the response will be powerful, but during that time, my father might at least do something useful, unlike in Harry's second year, according to my future knowledge.
I hope this will be enough for him to stop being all-powerful. Enough for him not to be able to influence my inheritance. At the same time, I sweetened his defeat for him, giving him hope that it could turn into a defeat for Lucius himself, my father.
I turned on my side, making myself comfortable. Thinking like this, I jumped from topic to topic until I finally came to thoughts about my younger brother.
Draco had changed beyond recognition in these six months. Outwardly, he looked more and more like the canonical Draco from my future knowledge — blond, with sharp features, with that particular Malfoy arrogance in his gaze, which I also had… squared. But inside… inside, I tried to raise him differently. More precisely, I tried to give him a very important tool called critical thinking, and I also tried to instill masculinity — where would we be without it?
But we talked rarely. I essentially lived at Hogwarts, and I didn't spend last summer at the Manor at all. Our conversations only happened during holidays, so I tried to replace quantity with quality. Every conversation we had was important. I tried to instill in him the right ideas, knowledge, an understanding of how this world and people work. Draco absorbed it, Draco remembered, but it seemed, not for long. Only a little remained after a long time. Draco was supposed to become what I wanted him to be — namely, a loyal ally and a competent manager, who would also be a relative, which is a double plus!
But today I was shown that my approach was weak. Draco greeted me coldly. As if imitating our father, who kept his distance from me. This imitation alarmed me. Because before, it seemed to me that I shared the role model with my father, so, in theory, Draco should have been more like me, but alas — I should have tried harder.
I asked myself: why the change? What happened in these six months (a year)?
Besides rough guesses, I had no answers. But now, while I am temporarily suspended, I have time. Time to talk to my brother, to explain, to teach. To tell him about what is truly important, so that the canonical Draco, who only knows how to complain to his father and is afraid of getting a wound or even a fist in the face, doesn't fall on my head later. In short, this couldn't be allowed. So I decided to make our communication with my brother more serious and beneficial for him.
I sighed and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Half past one in the morning… perhaps that's enough foolishness. I could repeat that I'm paranoid and need to wait for a deeper stage of sleep, but all that was just an excuse to lie down longer and reflect.
Treading silently, I approached the door, opened it a crack, and listened. Silence. The Manor was asleep. I closed the door, drew the heavy curtains tighter so that no ray of light could escape. Then I raised my wand and began placing charms.
My room is already protected like a bunker, so I only needed to add a silence dome — and that was it.
When everything was ready, I approached the cage. The rat was sitting in the corner, pressed against the bars. Its black beady eyes watched me in fear.
I crouched in front of the cage, opened it, and looked at it point-blank.
"Well, Wormtail," I said quietly. "Enough hiding. Show yourself."
The rat twitched and quickly ran out of the cage.
I watched the rat tremble, its eyes darting between me and the door, as if assessing its chances of escape. Apparently, he had become so accustomed to his rat form that he was now afraid to simply turn into a human.
Finally, the transformation began.
I saw it for the first time — the transformation from Animagus form to human in an inferior Animagus. It wasn't like the smooth, polished transformations of McGonagall that I had seen. The rat's body arched, cracked, began to grow, breaking its own proportions. The fur retracted into the skin, the snout flattened, the eyes widened, filling with human terror.
Perhaps I'm overthinking that the process is different, but when it all happens slowly, the details sear into the brain. The process somehow took about ten seconds — an eternity for such a transformation. Apparently, the fact that Pettigrew had remained in his Animagus form for too long played a role.
On the floor, curled up in a ball, now sat a man. More precisely, Peter Pettigrew.
He was pathetic. Short, with sparse greasy hair, receding temples, and darting, watery eyes. His frightened face bore the marks of long years spent in the shape of a rat afraid of every sneeze. His skin was pale, almost transparent, his hands trembled with a fine, unpleasant tremor, and his fingers unconsciously scraped the floor, as if still trying to feel for invisible rat paws.
He looked at me. At the wand in my hand. He looked with such horror as if I were Voldemort himself, risen from the dead.
I smirked.
"Let's start with something simple. Do you know how I found you?"
Pettigrew shook his head. His eyes darted around the room, clinging to every object, as if searching for an escape route.
"The Marauder's Map," I said calmly. "A curious little thing. It shows every person in Hogwarts. And one day, I noticed the name Peter Pettigrew on it next to a red-haired boy. Interesting, isn't it?"
He turned white. Whiter than his already pale skin.
"Then the Map was taken by Dumbledore," I continued. "I had to hurry with you, so that you wouldn't end up in Azkaban instead of your former friend."
Pettigrew trembled all over. With every second, I increasingly caught myself thinking that Pettigrew was behaving less like a man and more like a large, fat rat.
"What… what do you want?"
"To talk," I shrugged. "You haven't been human in a long time, Pettigrew. You must have missed normal speech. So I decided to keep you company."
I stood up, walked to the table against the wall, and took the plate I had ordered the house-elves to bring. The meat pie gave off a smell that, it seemed, made Pettigrew's mouth water.
"Here," I placed the plate in front of him, right on the floor. "Eat. We'll talk as we go."
He looked at the pie with such hunger that I almost found it funny. Almost.
"What do you know about what's been happening in the world?" I asked, as he, unable to contain himself, sank his teeth into the pie, forgetting about the fork.
"Before… you took me…" he chewed, swallowed, "before that, I knew almost everything. From conversations at Hogwarts. Children chatter a lot, adults don't listen, but I listened."
"And in the last couple of months?"
Pettigrew froze.
"Nothing at all. Only the walls and… and this cage."
I nodded.
"Not much has happened, actually. New Minister — Cornelius Fudge. And Sirius Black's case is being reviewed right now. My uncle. But you already know that."
He shook so violently that I was afraid he might have a seizure.
"Sirius…" he whispered. "Sirius… no… no…"
Did he think that since he was my uncle, I was going to take revenge? I thought I'd made my goals clear. But alright, I was curious.
"Sirius Black," I confirmed harshly. "The one you framed nine years ago. The one sitting in Azkaban, thinking he killed you. Yes, Pettigrew. The world doesn't stand still."
He curled up into a ball, covering his head with his hands.
"I didn't want to… The Dark Lord… ordered…"
"Made you?" I asked in an icy tone. "Didn't you serve him for the idea itself? Did they force you to betray your friends? Did they force you to reveal the secret? Did they force you to fake your own death?"
He began to sob. He started crying genuinely — dirty, ugly, smearing tears and snot across his face.
"Shut up and stop the theatrics," I said a little louder. And he shut up, but not just like that.
The fork lying on the plate with the meat pie, which Pettigrew had decided not to use, rose into the air with a light wave of my hand.
A sharp flick — and the fork, glinting in the dim light, stopped a millimeter from Pettigrew's neck. He didn't even have time to inhale — he just jerked back, starting to crawl towards the wall.
"Calm down, Pettigrew," I said evenly. "I can kill you without a wand. And even without a glance, if I want to."
The fork still hovered at his throat. He was already pressed against the wall, but now he stared at that fork, afraid to swallow. I applied just enough pressure not to cause harm, but to show that I could be cruel.
"But I'm sure you're not that weak a wizard, since you managed to survive the encounter with my uncle," I continued, not removing the fork. "Though, about wandless magic… I don't know. How good are you?"
The fork traced a smooth arc and fell back onto the plate with a soft clink.
Pettigrew exhaled.
"I… I don't…" his voice was hoarse and raspy — unused to human speech. "I don't understand… why…"
"Why are you here?" I interrupted. "Or why haven't I killed you?"
He nodded fussily.
I waited until he stopped shaking and continued:
"Tell me about that night. About everything, from how you ended up on our side to how you brought death to your friend's house."
Pettigrew was silent. His eyes darted around the room, occasionally glancing dangerously at the wand in my hand.
"Pettigrew," my voice grew harsher. "I asked a question."
"I… I don't…" he stammered. "It was a long time ago… I don't remember…"
"You don't remember?" I stepped closer. "You spent nine years in a rat's skin, gnawing scraps, hiding in corners, and the only thing you had were memories. And you want to say you don't remember?"
"Lily and James… they… they were doomed anyway. He would have found them regardless. I just… I just wanted to live."
I looked at him. At this pathetic man who betrayed his friends to save his own skin. Who had hidden for so many years, afraid of his own shadow. Who now sat looking at me with the hope that maybe, if he told enough, he would be let go.
"Nonsense," I said coldly. "You didn't want to live. You were afraid to die. Those are different things."
He didn't answer.
"Fine, listen carefully. I value your loyalty to the Dark Lord. However, he is not here now, or rather, he needs help to return. You wanted so much not to die, to live a better life if he won. Well, this is your chance. I think you feel it in your gut, in your rat soul."
Pettigrew looked at me, and such horror filled his eyes as if I were Voldemort himself.
"Your place is not in a cage, Wormtail. Your place is next to those who have the right goal. But for that, you must understand one simple thing."
I paused.
"From this day on, I am your master. You will treat me with the utmost politeness. You will answer questions clearly and quickly. You will do as I say. You will be grateful for every piece of food, for every breath of air, for every minute of life that I grant you. Because if you ever dare to forget who is the master here and who is the rat…"
I didn't finish. Instead, I just looked at the fork and gave a slight flick of my hand. It jerked and pressed harder against the rat's throat. Pettigrew recoiled with his whole body.
"I… I understand," he exhaled. "I understand everything. I swear, I will do everything you say, my lord. Anything. Just…"
"Just?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Just don't kill me," he whispered, disgusting as he approached on his knees, his face somehow resembling a rat's, groveling. "Please. I'll do anything! I'll tell you everything about the Dark Lord, about the Death Eaters, about that night. Everything I know."
I looked at him for a long second. Then I smirked.
"We'll see, Pettigrew. We'll see how useful you are. Finish your pie, and we'll begin our long conversation. And remember: if you try to run or betray me the way you betrayed the Potters… I will find you. Wherever you hide, and no matter what happens to me. And then you will wish you had never been born at all."
And then a long night awaited me, where a grown man who had spent years in rat form began to pitifully and obsequiously tell me every detail, every bit of information I had never heard before. The main thing is not to forget that Pettigrew is only pretending to be so weak and helpless, being, though clumsy, a desperately cunning wizard who lived through a civil war on both sides.