The Great Hall buzzed with low voices and clinking cutlery, but Harry barely touched his breakfast. A grey morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the tables. It was quieter than usual—even the post-game celebrations had faded into wary whispers about Dementors and Patronuses.
Harry sat still, a half-eaten piece of toast on his plate, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His thoughts churned beneath the calm surface.
He couldn't wait any longer.
Keeping Pettigrew hidden was a risk that grew heavier by the day. Every time Harry touched his mind, he felt the cracks widening—the strain it put on both of them. Obliviating Pettigrew without Dumbledore knowing was dangerous enough. But with Dementors prowling the grounds, the consequences of discovery had become far worse.
He needed to act. Today.
Harry glanced toward the staff table. Dumbledore sat still, deep in conversation with McGonagall. His gaze flicked briefly across the room, and for a moment, Harry thought their eyes met.
Time to finish what he had started.
Harry didn't head back to Gryffindor Tower after breakfast.
Instead, he climbed steadily toward the seventh floor, every step measured and deliberate. His heart thudded with quiet resolve. By the time he reached the familiar stretch of blank wall, he was already picturing what he needed.
A room safe and silent. A place to finish this without disturbance.
He paced three times, and the door to the Room of Requirement melted into view.
Inside, the chamber was just as he'd left it: small, windowless, and soundproof. The makeshift table stood in the center, and beside it sat the charmed container that held Peter Pettigrew—animagus and traitor, curled in his rat form.
Harry approached slowly. His wand was already in his hand.
"Time to forget," he muttered.
A sharp flick of his wand released the charm keeping Pettigrew transformed. In a swirl of motion and soft crackling of bone and cloth, Peter Wormtail Pettigrew stood—pale, trembling, and entirely blank-eyed. The body stood upright, but the mind was suspended, locked in the thrall of Harry's previous work.
Harry inhaled, raised his wand, and pressed its tip lightly to Pettigrew's temple.
"Obliviate."
He worked carefully, piece by piece.
The memory of the Room of Requirement was the first to go. Erased clean, like it had never existed. Then Harry moved further back, reshaping the narrative in Pettigrew's mind.
He had never been interrogated.
He had never been unmasked.
He had never left his rat form.
In his mind, Peter Pettigrew had been Scabbers the entire time—trapped in his animagus body since Harry had captured him.
Just a rat, up until today.
Harry finished the memory edits, breathing heavily from the strain. He knew the work was delicate—dangerous, even—but he couldn't afford any loose threads. Not now. Not when the next conversation might change everything.
He flicked his wand once more, and Pettigrew shifted back into the rat. Curled. Silent.
Harry gently placed the container's lid back on and sealed it with a quiet locking charm.
"Time to end this," he whispered to himself.
Tucking the jar safely into his bag, Harry left the Room and made his way to the Transfiguration corridor. He didn't hesitate as he approached McGonagall's office, knocking firmly.
A sharp, familiar voice called from within. "Enter."
Harry stepped into Professor McGonagall's office, his expression serious, his jaw tight with purpose.
"Mr. Potter?" she said, eyeing him over her square spectacles.
"I need to see Professor Dumbledore. It's important," Harry said. "It's about Sirius Black."
That name still cast a shadow.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed immediately. "Has something happened? Is this about last night?"
"No," Harry said carefully. "But it's connected. And it's not something I can explain here. Please. I need to speak to the Headmaster. Alone, if possible."
McGonagall studied him in silence for a few heartbeats, searching his face.
Then, with a curt nod, she stood. "Very well. Come with me."
They walked in silence through the castle corridors, the echo of their footsteps barely keeping pace with Harry's racing mind. He clutched the bag over his shoulder where Pettigrew's container lay hidden, heart thudding as they approached the stone gargoyle.
"Lemon sherbet," McGonagall said crisply.
The gargoyle leapt aside. The stairs began to turn.
McGonagall didn't follow him up. "I'll wait here," she said, giving him one final searching glance. "Go on."
Harry ascended alone.
The spiral staircase carried Harry upward in silence, until it came to a halt with a soft click. He stood before the heavy oak door, its lion-shaped knocker gleaming in the torchlight.
He didn't knock.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the circular office was as he remembered—lined with spindly shelves crowded with odd trinkets, silvery instruments clicking faintly, and tall windows spilling in the same grey light that had blanketed the morning.
Behind his desk, Professor Dumbledore looked up from a parchment with calm, tired eyes. The air shimmered faintly with warmth, and beside him on the golden perch, Fawkes the phoenix stirred.
"Good morning, Harry," Dumbledore said gently, setting the parchment aside.
Harry stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud. His eyes lingered for a moment on Fawkes, who turned his head and let out a quiet, resonant trill.
"Hi, Fawkes," Harry said quietly, with a nod. Then, meeting Dumbledore's gaze: "Professor."
Dumbledore inclined his head in greeting, his expression unreadable.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."
Harry sat.
There was a pause—short, but weighty. Dumbledore watched him with the same kind of quiet focus that always made Harry feel like he was being gently examined.
"What would you like to talk about?" Dumbledore asked at last.
Harry reached into his bag and pulled out the charmed container—simple, unmarked, sealed with a neat little locking charm. He placed it carefully on the desk between them.
Inside, Peter Pettigrew stirred in his rat form.
"I found him," Harry said. His voice was even, measured. "Peter Pettigrew. Alive."
Dumbledore's eyes lowered to the jar. Then slowly, without a word, he leaned forward, resting his fingertips lightly on the desk's edge. His expression didn't change, but Harry could feel the weight behind it. The shift in the room was subtle but sudden—like something ancient had just come awake.
Dumbledore's blue eyes lifted to meet Harry's. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"Peter Pettigrew," he said, voice like iron. "Alive."
Harry nodded once, silent.
Dumbledore reached out slowly, almost reverently, and touched the container's edge. "I presumed him long dead. Murdered by Sirius Black. That… is what we all believed."
Harry spoke carefully. "I thought the same. Until I saw his name—on the Marauder's Map."
That got Dumbledore's full attention. "The Marauder's Map?"
"My dad and his friends made it," Harry explained. "It shows every person in Hogwarts. Every room. Every passage. A few days ago, I saw the name 'Peter Pettigrew' sleeping in Ron's bed. It didn't make sense… until I remembered Scabbers."
Dumbledore straightened, eyes flashing.
"Animagus," he muttered. "Of course. Unregistered. Hidden for twelve years… and not once suspected."
Harry gave a grim nod. "He's been with the Weasleys for years. I found him this morning. In the west tower."
Dumbledore's lips were a thin line now. No curiosity—just cold resolve.
"I must see him."
Harry stepped aside. Dumbledore waved his wand, breaking the charm sealing the container. With a second flick, he levitated the rat gently into the air. The room was still as a tomb.
Then Dumbledore murmured the spell.
The rat's body expanded, shifted, warped in a crackle of bone and flesh—until Peter Pettigrew slumped onto the carpet. Pale, unconscious, trembling even in sleep.