If you've ever wondered what a haunted house would look like if it had abandonment issues, a goth phase, and a serious need for therapy, then the Riddle Manor was your dream vacation spot. The place squatted on its hill like a gargoyle that had given up on life, complete with windows that stared like dead fish and ivy that seemed personally offended by the concept of property maintenance.
Harry Potter landed first because, let's be honest, when you're six-foot-three of emerald-eyed perfection wrapped in red-and-gold Vibranium armor that made medieval knights weep with envy, you don't exactly blend into the background. The Cloak of Levitation drifted around him like a loyal pet that had majored in dramatic flair, while his phoenix-themed chest plate caught the moonlight in ways that were probably illegal in several dimensions.
"Well," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular tone that made grown wizards check their life insurance policies, "this place has all the charm of a serial killer's vacation home."
The cowl added a delicious darkness to his words—less 'teenage wizard who lived in a cupboard' and more 'boss of bosses who owns the cupboard factory.'
James Potter and Sirius Black apparated in with the kind of synchronized timing that screamed 'we've been doing this since before you were born, kid.' James adjusted his Vibranium mesh with the casual confidence of someone who'd been wearing magical armor since before it was cool. Sirius cracked his neck and stretched like a panther that had been napping for thirteen years and was ready to remind everyone why panthers were apex predators.
"Cozy," Sirius commented, eyeing the manor with the appreciation of someone who'd broken into worse places. "Reminds me of that charming little dungeon in Albania. You know, the one with the vampire problem."
"You say that like vampires are bad neighbors," James replied, because apparently Potter men were genetically incapable of taking anything seriously.
Harry's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Reunion tour, gentlemen. Hope you brought your autograph books."
The rest of Team Gorgeous-But-Deadly fanned out like they were posing for the cover of Lethal Beauties Monthly, Special 'We Kill Things and Look Amazing Doing It' Edition.
Jean Grey floated a few inches off the ground because walking was for peasants, her red hair whipping in the wind like liquid fire. Psychic energy crackled around her in emerald tendrils that matched Harry's eyes—and wasn't that just a coincidence. She caught Harry looking and gave him a smile that could've melted steel.
"Like what you see, handsome?" she purred, her voice carrying that telepathic edge that made Harry's pulse quicken.
"Always," he replied, his voice dropping to that register that made all his girlfriends want to drag him somewhere private and show him exactly how much they appreciated a man in armor.
Ororo Monroe stood beside Jean, and honestly, calling her Storm was like calling the sun 'slightly warm.' Lightning flickered in her dark eyes, her white hair streaming with static electricity, and thunder rumbled overhead like the sky itself was taking requests. She was absolutely stunning in that 'I could level a city with my eyebrows' way that made Harry want to write poetry.
"The weather's perfect for violence," she observed with the kind of casual elegance that made meteorology sound like foreplay.
"You always did know how to set the mood," Harry said, and the heat in his voice made her smile like summer lightning.
Tonks had gone full tactical today—black braid, sharp features, the kind of dangerous beauty that suggested she'd been studying assassination techniques between makeup tutorials. She flashed Harry a grin that was pure mischief wrapped in lethal competence.
"Try not to hog all the fun, gorgeous," she said, winking in a way that made Harry's armor feel suddenly restrictive.
"No promises, love," he replied, and the endearment made her cheeks flush pink—which was adorable and completely at odds with the knives she was casually twirling.
Laura Kinney crouched at the edge of the group like a panther that had learned calculus and decided murder was more interesting. Her dark eyes catalogued threats, escape routes, and probably the structural integrity of everyone's bones. When she looked at Harry, though, her expression softened just enough to remind everyone that underneath all that lethal competence was a girl who'd chosen him as her pack leader.
"Dibs on the first Death Eater," she said with the kind of cheerful bloodthirst that would've been disturbing if it wasn't so incredibly effective.
"You'll have to fight me for it, little wolf," Natasha Romanoff said, checking her weapons with the fluid grace of someone who'd been killing people professionally since before most of them hit puberty. Her red hair was pulled back in a tactical braid, and her black suit made her look like violence had learned to wear lip gloss.
She met Harry's gaze and smirked. "Last one to take down a target buys drinks."
"You're on," Harry said, extending his claws with a soft *snikt* that made all his girlfriends look at him like he'd just offered to cook them breakfast in bed. "But I should warn you—I brought unfair advantages."
"So did I," Natasha purred, and the way she said it made Harry wonder if they were still talking about combat.
Mad-Eye Moody looked like someone had rebuilt a tank, given it trust issues, and then taught it to be suspicious of its own shadow. His magical eye whirred as it catalogued every possible threat, ambush point, and probably the dental records of everyone within a fifty-mile radius. His new Vibranium leg moved with unsettling grace—like a predator that had upgraded its hunting equipment.
"Place reeks of Dark Magic and poor life choices," he growled, because apparently Moody came with his own built-in pessimism generator. "Classic Dark Lord setup. Probably booby-trapped to hell and back."
"Pessimist," Sirius said cheerfully.
"Realist," Moody corrected. "There's a difference. Pessimists expect things to go wrong. Realists know they already have."
Harry raised a gauntleted hand, and the casual authority in the gesture made everyone snap to attention like he'd fired a starting pistol. It was the kind of natural command presence that made generals salute without thinking about it.
"Alright, team," he said, his voice carrying across the group with military precision. "Here's the situation. Inside that architectural nightmare, we've got three primary targets: Voldemort—currently in his 'weak but still homicidal' phase; Peter Pettigrew, who's been playing nursemaid to evil incarnate; and Nagini, who's roughly the size of a subway car and happens to be our final Horcrux."
Jean's telepathic voice whispered through all their minds: *Which means snake goes boom.*
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his grin sharp as broken glass. "And guess who gets to play St. George tonight?"
"Harry," James said, his voice tight with the kind of paternal concern that suggested he was fighting every instinct that told him to wrap his son in bubble wrap and hide him somewhere safe. "Are you sure about taking on a twenty-foot magical snake by yourself? Because that sounds like the kind of plan that ends with me having to explain to your mother why her son became snake food."
Harry's laugh was rich and confident, the sound of someone who'd stared death in the face so many times they'd started exchanging Christmas cards. "Dad, I've got this. I've been preparing for this exact scenario for three years. Trust me—this is what I was made for."
"He's got your arrogance, Prongs," Sirius observed with the kind of fond pride that suggested he was mentally calculating how many Ministry regulations they were about to violate.
"Confidence," James corrected automatically. "There's a difference."
"The difference is usually measured in collateral damage," Natasha said with the dry wit of someone who'd cleaned up after both Potter men before.
Harry's eyes glinted with amusement and just enough heat to make his girlfriends shift closer. "Are we done psychoanalyzing my tactical decisions? Because I'd like to kill some things before breakfast."
Tonks bounced on her toes, her hair shifting to a pleased purple. "Ooh, I love it when you get all commanding and deadly. It's incredibly attractive."
"Everything he does is attractive," Jean murmured, floating closer until she was nearly brushing against his armored shoulder. "It's quite unfair, really."
"Terribly unfair," Ororo agreed, electricity crackling between her fingers in a way that made the air taste of ozone and possibility. "A man shouldn't be allowed to look that good while planning violence."
"I'm standing right here," Harry pointed out, though his voice carried enough warmth to melt polar ice caps.
"We know," Laura said with the kind of predatory smile that suggested she was thinking about all the ways she could show him exactly how much she appreciated his tactical planning. "We're counting on it."
Harry cleared his throat, though the sound came out rougher than he'd intended. "Right. Focus. Moody, Natasha, Laura—you're on Pettigrew. I want him alive if possible, but if he resists..." He shrugged eloquently. "Use your best judgment."
"My best judgment usually involves excessive bleeding," Laura observed cheerfully.
"I know," Harry said, and the pride in his voice made her practically purr. "That's why I picked you."
Moody's magical eye swiveled to focus on him. "And if the rat tries to run?"
"Then he learns that there's nowhere on this planet he can hide from us," Harry said, his voice dropping to something that could've frozen hell. "I've got contacts in every major city, access to satellites that can track a sneeze from orbit, and girlfriends who consider hunting humans a recreational activity."
"It really is," Natasha confirmed with the kind of smile that made smart men write their wills. "Very therapeutic."
"Jean, Storm," Harry continued, his tone shifting back to military precision, "crowd control. If there are any other surprises in that Gothic nightmare, I want them neutralized before they become problems."
"Define 'neutralized,'" Ororo asked, lightning dancing between her fingers like tame pets.
"Whatever feels appropriate," Harry replied. "I trust your judgment."
"Dangerous words," Jean murmured, her psychic voice carrying notes of heat that made Harry's armor feel suddenly confining.
"I like dangerous," he said, and the way he looked at her made the temperature in the immediate area rise by several degrees.
"And me?" Tonks asked, bouncing slightly on her toes in a way that made her tactical gear look like it had been designed by someone with very specific fantasies.
Harry's smile was pure sin wrapped in Vibranium and good intentions. "You're on snake backup. And commentary. I find your sarcastic observations very motivating."
"Aw, babe," she grinned, her hair shifting to a pleased gold that matched the accents on his armor. "You say the sweetest things."
With a casual gesture that made opening portals to other dimensions look like answering a phone, Harry tore a hole in reality. Golden light spilled out, revealing the manor's main hall—dusty, decaying, and approximately as welcoming as a tax audit conducted by zombies.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Harry announced with the kind of theatrical flair that came naturally to anyone who'd survived seven years of magical education, "welcome to the final boss level."
They stepped through the portal, and immediately the temperature dropped like someone had opened a freezer full of bad decisions. The air tasted of copper, decay, and the kind of dark magic that made dental hygienists weep. Shadows writhed in corners where shadows had no business being, and from somewhere deeper in the house came the unmistakable sound of something large, unfriendly, and probably poisonous moving through the darkness.
Moody's magical eye went into overdrive, spinning like a disco ball having an existential crisis. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice carrying the kind of professional appreciation reserved for truly impressive death traps. "That thing's the size of a bloody train car."
The snake that emerged from the corridor was the kind of creature that made people reconsider their stance on industrial-strength pest control. Nagini stretched nearly twenty feet from nose to tail, her scales gleaming with an oily, unnatural sheen that caught the moonlight and reflected it back like liquid malevolence. Her eyes glowed with intelligence that was definitely not of the friendly neighborhood variety, and when she opened her mouth, her fangs were long enough to use as letter openers.
But it wasn't just her size that made the assembled heroes tense—it was the aura of wrongness that surrounded her like a particularly aggressive perfume. This wasn't just a really big snake. This was a fragment of the darkest soul in magical history, wrapped in scales and attitude problems.
Harry slowly removed the Cloak of Levitation, letting it drift away like it knew this wasn't its fight. The movement was fluid, predatory, and made several of his girlfriends make the kind of appreciative sounds usually reserved for expensive chocolate.
He flexed his fingers, and his claws extended with the soft *snikt* that had become his signature sound. The Vibranium coating caught the moonlight and threw it back in silver fire.
"Nice scales," he said conversationally, his voice carrying across the dusty hall with the kind of casual confidence that made gods nervous. "Shame about the personality disorder."
Nagini responded with a hiss that sounded like steam escaping from hell's radiator. She coiled and raised her massive head, tongue flicking out to taste the air and probably calculate how many pieces she could bite Harry into.
"Aw, what's wrong?" Harry taunted, circling slowly as his team spread out with practiced precision. "Cat got your tongue? Oh wait, that's right—you are the cat. And I'm about to skin you."
The snake struck like liquid lightning, fangs aimed directly at Harry's throat. But Harry wasn't there anymore. He'd launched himself sideways, the Cloak of Levitation catching him mid-air and sending him soaring over the snake's head in a graceful arc that would've made Olympic gymnasts weep with envy.
He landed on Nagini's back, claws digging into scales, and the impact sent sparks flying as Vibranium met ancient magic. The snake thrashed, trying to throw him off, but Harry held on like he'd been born to ride twenty-foot magical serpents—which, considering his life so far, wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.
"Damn," Sirius said, watching his godson surf a giant snake through a haunted manor with the kind of casual grace usually reserved for professional dancers. "He really does have James's flair for the dramatic."
"And Lily's complete disregard for personal safety," James added, though his voice carried enough pride to power a small city. "That's my boy."
"Less admiring, more murdering!" Moody shouted, because apparently even watching his student battle legendary creatures wasn't enough to suppress his natural pessimism.
Nagini rolled, trying to crush Harry against the wall, but he flipped off her back at the last second, landed in a crouch that would've made action heroes jealous, and immediately launched himself back into the fight. His claws sang as they slashed across scales, each strike precise, calculated, and absolutely devastating.
"Is it just me," Tonks called out, watching Harry dance around a giant snake like it was a particularly aggressive dance partner, "or is this incredibly attractive?"
"It's not just you," Jean confirmed, her psychic voice carrying enough heat to melt steel. "I'm adding this to my list of reasons why dating Harry Potter is hazardous to my mental health."
"Good hazardous or bad hazardous?" Natasha asked, casually throwing a knife that embedded itself in the wall inches from where Nagini's head had been a second earlier.
"The kind that makes me want to drag him somewhere private and show him exactly how much I appreciate a man who can handle himself in combat," Jean replied with the kind of frank honesty that made Harry stumble slightly.
"Focus, Grey!" he called out, using the momentary distraction to drive his claws deep into the snake's neck. "Admire my combat skills after I've finished with the twenty-foot murder noodle!"
"Murder noodle?" Laura repeated, her own claws extending as she watched for an opening to join the fight.
"It seemed appropriate," Harry panted, dodging another strike that would've taken his head off. "She's long, she's angry, and she's definitely trying to kill me."
"Fair point," Ororo agreed, lightning crackling between her fingers as she prepared to provide backup. "Though I prefer 'apocalyptic pasta.'"
"Ooh, I like that one," Tonks said, her hair shifting colors rapidly as she watched Harry flip, dodge, and slash with the kind of athletic grace that made her want to write poetry. Terrible, inappropriate poetry that she'd definitely be sharing later.
Nagini, apparently tired of being mocked by her intended victims, let out a hiss that shattered several windows and probably violated noise ordinances in three countries. She lunged again, but this time Harry was ready. He met her charge head-on, claws leading, and the impact when Vibranium met ancient snake was like a thunderclap made of violence and really poor life choices.
The battle raged through the manor's main hall, destroying furniture that had been dust-covered for decades and giving the portraits something interesting to look at for the first time in years. Harry moved like liquid lightning wrapped in armor, every strike precise, every dodge calculated, every movement a masterclass in how to make mortal combat look like performance art.
And his girlfriends? They watched with the kind of appreciative attention usually reserved for particularly good theater.
"I love watching him work," Natasha murmured, her voice carrying the kind of professional admiration one killer reserved for another.
"He's magnificent," Ororo agreed, electricity still dancing between her fingers as she prepared to turn any interfering Death Eaters into very unhappy memories.
"Absolutely lethal," Jean added, her psychic presence wrapped around Harry like a warm embrace, ready to provide backup the moment he needed it.
"And incredibly, stupidly brave," Laura said with the kind of fond exasperation that suggested she was already planning how to patch him up afterward.
"That's our Harry," Tonks said with pride, her hair now a gold that matched his armor. "Stupid, brave, and absolutely perfect."
Harry, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. Because apparently, fighting twenty-foot magical snakes that contained fragments of dark wizards' souls was exactly the kind of stress relief he'd been needing.
Who knew?
—
MEANWHILE…
Look, if you've never been inside a creepy old manor house that's been marinating in dark magic for about fifty years, let me paint you a picture. Imagine your least favorite relative's basement, add the stench of something that died in there around 1987, sprinkle in some dust that's probably older than your great-grandmother, and then crank the "ominous foreboding" dial up to eleven.
That's where Peter Pettigrew found himself running like his life depended on it.
Which, to be fair, it absolutely did.
The walls were doing that fun earthquake thing that happens when your son is upstairs wrestling a twenty-foot snake that's also a piece of someone's soul. Dust cascaded from the ceiling like the world's least festive confetti, and somewhere above them, the unmistakable sounds of Storm laughing maniacally echoed through the rotting timbers.
Peter clutched his precious cargo—one incredibly angry, incredibly evil, incredibly naked baby-shaped Dark Lord—and tried not to hyperventilate.
"This is fine," he wheezed to himself, his voice hitting octaves that would make opera singers jealous. "Everything's fine. Just a minor home invasion. Happens all the time. Very normal Tuesday evening activities."
The bundle of concentrated evil in his arms twitched violently, tiny clawed hands grasping at air like he was trying to strangle someone in his sleep. When Voldemort spoke, his voice was like silk wrapped around broken glass, with just a hint of "aristocratic British villain who definitely went to a very expensive boarding school."
"Wormtail," he hissed, his red eyes glowing like malevolent Christmas lights, "I do hope you have some semblance of a plan beyond 'panic and run in circles.'"
"Of course I have a plan, my Lord!" Peter squeaked, which was his first lie of the evening but definitely not his last. "Very comprehensive plan! Lots of... planning... involved!"
"Enlightening," Voldemort said dryly. "And what, pray tell, does this masterpiece of strategic thinking entail?"
Peter opened his mouth, then closed it, then made a sound like a tea kettle having an existential crisis. "Run very fast?"
"Brilliant. Truly. I chose my servants so well."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife, but Peter was too busy trying not to trip over his own feet to appreciate the literary craftsmanship.
Here's the thing about Peter Pettigrew: he'd spent so many years being a rat that he'd forgotten how legs worked. He scurried down the corridor with all the grace of a shopping cart with one broken wheel, his robes flapping behind him like the wings of a very panicked penguin.
What he didn't realize—because Peter Pettigrew was many things, but "observant" wasn't one of them—was that he wasn't escaping.
He was being guided.
Like a very stupid mouse through a very well-designed maze.
From the shadows behind him, something that sounded suspiciously like a predator purring echoed off the moldy walls.
"Left turn coming up," Laura Kinney whispered into her comm, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who was about to have way too much fun. She crouched in the darkness like a gargoyle that had been hitting the gym, her enhanced senses tracking every panicked heartbeat, every wheezing breath, every drop of fear-sweat that Peter was leaving behind like the world's least appetizing breadcrumb trail.
"I get to hurt him, right?" she added hopefully, her claws extending just enough to catch what little light filtered through the grimy windows. "Please tell me I get to hurt him. I've been practicing."
"Only if he resists," came Mad-Eye Moody's gravelly voice through the comm, sounding like someone had fed gravel through a coffee grinder and somehow made it angrier. His magical eye was spinning like a disco ball having a seizure as he tracked their target from three rooms away. "Which, knowing Pettigrew, he absolutely will. Man couldn't surrender gracefully if his life depended on it."
"Spoiler alert," Natasha Romanoff's voice cut through the comm with silky amusement, "his life absolutely depends on it."
She moved through the shadows like liquid mercury, every step calculated, every movement precise. Her red hair was pulled back in a tactical braid that somehow managed to look both deadly and effortlessly stylish—a combination that would have made fashion magazines weep with envy if they weren't too busy being terrified.
"Remind me again why we don't just shoot him?" she added conversationally, checking her weapons with the casual efficiency of someone who collected danger as a hobby.
"Because," Moody's voice carried the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before, "James and Sirius called dibs. And you know how Marauders get when you mess with their revenge fantasies."
"Fair point," Natasha conceded, then paused. "Though if he tries to Apparate, all bets are off."
"He won't," Laura said with absolute confidence, her enhanced hearing picking up the increasingly frantic pattern of Peter's heartbeat. "He's too scared to think straight. Classic panic response—tunnel vision, decreased cognitive function, increased likelihood of making very poor life choices."
"So a normal Tuesday for Pettigrew, then," Moody observed.
Meanwhile, Peter was discovering that running while carrying an evil baby was significantly harder than it looked in the movies. Voldemort kept squirming like an angry cat in a bathtub, his tiny but surprisingly sharp claws digging into Peter's arms every time he stumbled.
"Careful, you incompetent fool!" Voldemort snapped, his voice carrying the kind of refined irritation that only came from centuries of practice. "I am not a sack of potatoes!"
"Sorry, my Lord! So sorry!" Peter gasped, taking what he thought was a random left turn but was actually exactly where his pursuers wanted him to go. "Just trying to—to navigate the optimal escape route—"
"The optimal escape route," Voldemort interrupted with the kind of precision that could have sliced diamonds, "would have involved not being discovered in the first place."
"Yes, well, about that..." Peter's voice trailed off as he realized he had absolutely no good explanation for how Harry Potter and what appeared to be an entire supernatural SWAT team had found their super-secret hideout.
"About that indeed," Voldemort said, his tone dropping to something that would have made arctic winds seem tropical. "We will be having a very thorough discussion about your security measures once we've escaped this... inconvenience."
Peter gulped. When Voldemort used words like "thorough discussion," people tended to end up as cautionary tales.
He rounded another corner, wheezing like an asthmatic accordion, and suddenly found himself in a long hallway with actual honest-to-goodness natural light coming from a window at the far end.
Freedom!
Or so he thought.
Because Peter Pettigrew had never been what you'd call "tactically minded." If he had been, he might have wondered why this particular escape route was so conveniently unguarded. He might have questioned why there were no wards, no curses, no elaborate magical death traps between him and sweet, sweet liberty.
He might have realized that when you're being hunted by some of the most dangerous people in the magical world, finding an easy way out usually means you're walking into something significantly worse.
But Peter Pettigrew had never been accused of overthinking things.
So he ran toward that window like it was the finish line in the Olympics of Not Dying Horribly, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps that would have made asthmatics everywhere file a class-action lawsuit for defamation.
Right up until he skidded to a halt so suddenly that he nearly gave himself whiplash.
Two figures stood between him and his theoretical freedom.
Waiting.
Patient.
Smiling.
And not in a good way.
James Potter stood like he'd been carved from marble by someone with very strong opinions about justice and even stronger opinions about what happened to people who betrayed their friends. His wand was held casually in one hand, but there was nothing casual about the way power hummed around him like barely contained lightning. The golden glow of his Vibranium armor made him look like some kind of avenging angel who'd been hitting the gym and taking night classes in Advanced Intimidation.
When he smiled, it was the kind of expression that made smart people update their life insurance policies.
"Hello, Peter," he said, his voice carrying the kind of warm politeness that somehow managed to be more threatening than shouting. It was the vocal equivalent of a perfectly wrapped present that you just knew contained something that would ruin your entire day. "Fancy meeting you here. Carrying around what appears to be... is that supposed to be Tom Riddle? Because if it is, puberty was not kind to him."
Beside him, Sirius Black stretched his shoulders like someone warming up for the world's most therapeutic bar fight. His wand spun lazily between his fingers with the kind of casual dexterity that suggested he'd been practicing that particular move for about twenty years, possibly while plotting elaborate revenge fantasies.
He looked at Peter the way most people looked at a particularly disgusting bug that had had the audacity to crawl across their dinner plate.
"Well, well, well," Sirius drawled, his voice carrying enough dark amusement to power a small city's worth of villain monologues. "Look what the cat dragged in. And I mean that literally, Pete—you look like something a cat dragged in, played with for several hours, then decided wasn't worth eating."
Peter's brain performed what could charitably be called a complete system shutdown. His mouth opened and closed like a fish that had just discovered that water was, in fact, optional, but no sounds came out except for a faint wheezing noise that might have been an attempt at forming words.
The bundle of concentrated evil in his arms, however, had no such difficulties.
"James Potter," Voldemort hissed, his red eyes narrowing to slits that would have made snakes feel inadequate. "How delightfully... predictable. Did you really think you could simply walk into my domain and—"
"Your domain?" Sirius interrupted, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline in an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Mate, this is a condemned building in the middle of nowhere that smells like something died in it. Possibly several somethings. If this is your idea of a domain, your real estate agent seriously screwed you over."
"I am Lord Voldemort!" the tiny tyrant shrieked, his voice cracking slightly in a way that completely undermined his attempted intimidation. "I am the most powerful wizard who ever—"
"You're a magically sustained infant having a temper tantrum," James observed with the kind of clinical detachment that would have made therapists everywhere take notes. "Also, you appear to be naked. That's... that's really not helping your case here, Tom."
Voldemort's face went from pale to an interesting shade of purple that would have looked right at home in a crayon box labeled "Unnatural Rage Red."
"KILL THEM, WORMTAIL!" he screamed, his voice hitting octaves that would have shattered wine glasses and possibly small mammals. "KILL THEM BOTH!"
Peter looked between his former best friends—who were both armed, armored, and looking remarkably eager to discuss past grievances—and the tiny dictator in his arms who was demanding he commit double homicide against people who could probably turn him into a small pile of ash without breaking a sweat.
This was what therapists liked to call a "no-win scenario."
"I... I can't, my Lord!" Peter squeaked, his voice climbing into ranges usually reserved for dog whistles and emergency frequencies. "It's James! And Sirius! We were... we were friends!"
The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard a pin drop.
If pins made the same sound as Sirius Black's sanity snapping.
"Friends?" Sirius repeated, his voice starting quiet and building to something that would have made thunderstorms file noise complaints. "FRIENDS? Did you just say we were FRIENDS?"
His wand stopped spinning.
That was when Peter realized he'd made a tactical error.
"You sold them out to a Dark Lord," Sirius continued, his voice carrying the kind of cold fury that made arctic winds seem tropical. "You almost got Lily and James killed—or thought you did. You murdered twelve innocent people with a single curse. You let me rot in Azkaban for four years for crimes YOU committed. And your defense is 'we were friends'?"
James raised his wand, power coiling around his arm like a living thing made of concentrated disappointment and parental rage.
"Peter," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made grown wizards check their life insurance policies, "this is your last chance. Drop the monster. Surrender. Tell us everything you know. And maybe—maybe—we'll let you live long enough to spend the rest of your miserable existence in a cell somewhere thinking about what you've done."
Peter's rat-like features twisted as panic warred with cowardice and some deeply misguided sense of loyalty to the sentient nightmare he was cradling like the world's worst baby.
He looked at James. He looked at Sirius. He looked at the window behind them that represented freedom but might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do him.
Then he did what Peter Pettigrew always did when faced with a difficult decision.
He panicked.
And ran.
Right into the trap they'd spent the last ten minutes carefully constructing around him.
The hallway behind him sealed itself with a sound like reality deciding it had had enough of his nonsense. Jean's telekinetic force-field shimmered into existence like a wall made of solidified disappointment, Storm's lightning hummed through the walls with barely contained enthusiasm, and Tonks's wardwork activated with the kind of thorough efficiency that would have made professional trap-makers weep with envy.
Peter spun around, wild-eyed, looking for any possible escape route that didn't involve explaining to his former best friends why he'd decided to cosplay as a war criminal for the past decade and a half.
That was when Laura Kinney dropped from the ceiling like an avenging angel who'd been taking night classes in Advanced Surprise Attacks.
With claws extended.
And a grin that would have made sharks reconsider their career choices.
Peter's scream was so high-pitched it probably qualified as a form of sonic warfare. He flailed like a cartoon character who'd just realized gravity was a thing, his robes billowing around him like the wings of a very panicked, very stupid bat.
Natasha appeared out of the shadows with the casual grace of someone who collected stealth as a hobby, and stuck out one perfectly positioned foot.
Peter hit the ground like a sack of traitorous potatoes, Voldemort bouncing out of his arms like a cursed football. The Dark Lord hit the stone floor with a wet splat and immediately began shrieking profanities in at least three different languages, none of which were particularly family-friendly.
James stepped forward, his wand glowing with the kind of golden light that suggested very expensive magical engineering and an unlimited budget for therapeutic violence.
Sirius cracked his knuckles with the satisfaction of someone who'd been waiting thirteen years for this exact moment.
Mad-Eye Moody emerged from the shadows like a living embodiment of justified paranoia, his magical eye spinning with obvious delight.
Natasha twirled a knife between her fingers with the kind of casual dexterity that suggested she could probably perform surgery with it if necessary.
Laura retracted her claws just enough to be non-immediately-fatal, but kept them visible as a friendly reminder of what happened to people who made poor life choices.
And Peter Pettigrew, master of poor life choices, looked up at the circle of people who had very strong opinions about his recent career decisions and realized that maybe, just maybe, he should have stayed a rat.
"Game over, Pete," James said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet finality that made even hardened criminals start composing their last wills and testaments.
"Checkmate," Sirius added helpfully.
"And possibly goodbye," Natasha observed with clinical interest.
Peter closed his eyes and wondered if it was too late to develop a sudden case of amnesia.
Spoiler alert: it was.
---
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