The figure in the chair slowly raised his head.
His face emerged from the shadows: hairless, snake-like, with two narrow slits for nostrils, and a pair of gleaming scarlet eyes, their pupils vertical slits. His skin was deathly pale, shimmering with an almost pearlescent glow.
Lord Voldemort's eyes swept downward, landing on Yaxley, who kept his head bowed, and the trembling heap on the floor.
"Yaxley," a cold, clear voice rang through the room, "what urgent matter brings you here in such haste?"
"Master," Yaxley's head dipped lower, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and eager sycophancy, "I… I have news of an extraordinarily precious artifact… a legendary Deathly Hallow!"
"Deathly Hallow?" Voldemort's high-pitched voice carried a rare note of curiosity and interest.
He rose from his throne-like high-backed chair. The roaring flames in the fireplace danced across his form, casting his tall, lean silhouette onto the ornate carpet and walls. The shadow stretched long and distorted, writhing like a coiling serpent.
"Yes, Master!" Yaxley's voice rose with excitement. "I believe only you, of all people, are worthy of possessing such a legendary relic!"
"Where is it?" Voldemort's tone remained steady.
Barefoot, he descended the steps that symbolized his authority, stepping silently onto the thick, soft, dark carpet that blanketed the entire drawing room.
The carpet cushioned his steps as he moved, step by step, toward Yaxley and the cowering Peter Pettigrew.
Though this was merely a memory replayed in a Pensieve, the fear radiating from Voldemort was so palpable that it sent a shiver through the onlookers—Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Moody, and the others. Almost instinctively, they stepped back as Voldemort approached, desperate to distance themselves from this terrifying presence.
Severus Snape, however, remained rooted in place, watching the scene with keen interest. The words "Deathly Hallow" from Yaxley's lips were like the final piece of a puzzle, confirming his recent suspicions.
He finally understood why, even though Sybill Trelawney's first true prophecy had not yet surfaced, the Potter family had not escaped their fate. The Invisibility Cloak, passed down through generations of Potters, had become the source of their calamity.
At the same time, when Voldemort directly asked about the whereabouts of the Deathly Hallow, a wave of overwhelming fear gripped Yaxley's heart.
Cold sweat poured from his forehead and down his spine. He suddenly realized his own foolishness and recklessness—he hadn't retrieved the legendary artifact, nor had he even verified the truth of the information.
Driven by envy and resentment over the Malfoy family's recent favor with their master, and by his own precarious position, Yaxley had been consumed by a desperate need to prove himself. In his haste to gain favor, he had rashly brought this unverified news—and a卑微的叛徒, a卑微的叛徒—Pettigrew—to his master.
"M-Master…" Yaxley's legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees on the carpet, trembling like a leaf. "The Invisibility Cloak… it's… it's still… at the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow…" His voice was hoarse, tinged with a sob, his forehead nearly touching the rough wool fibers of the carpet.
But Voldemort's steps did not pause for him. His pale, bony bare feet passed directly through Yaxley's line of sight.
Voldemort stopped beside Peter Pettigrew, who lay sprawled like a heap of filth on the floor. His scarlet, snake-like eyes gazed down at the pathetic creature.
"Yaxley," his voice came from behind, "is this where you got your information?"
At the question, Yaxley scrambled to turn on his knees, awkwardly facing Voldemort's back. He hastily explained, "Yes, Master! This Mudblood is one of James Potter's closest friends. From his filthy memories, I… I saw it!
"The Potter family has an ancestral Invisibility Cloak, said to be inherited from… from Ignotus Peverell.
"In his memory fragments, I saw it with my own eyes. The cloak flows like liquid, shimmering with silver light!"
"Master," Yaxley continued, his voice quickening and growing shrill, "it's no ordinary cloth enchanted with a Disillusionment Charm, nor some shoddy item woven with a Glamour or made from Demiguise hair!
"It's a cloak that grants true, complete invisibility. It's been passed down in the Potter family for generations! And even in the hands of James Potter and his gang, it's been used for at least six or seven years! Yet… yet it remains pristine, as good as new, its magic undiminished!
"So, Master, the moment I saw this, I didn't dare delay and rushed to report to you!"
Voldemort ignored Yaxley's incessant explanations. He merely gazed down at Peter Pettigrew in silence.
After a moment, he extended his pale fingers, pointing his wand at Pettigrew with a gentle flick.
Pettigrew's limp body was instantly hoisted into the air by an invisible force, his limbs dangling lifelessly, his head lolling to one side, his eyes vacant.
Voldemort's gaze pierced through Pettigrew's unfocused pupils.
The world's most accomplished Legilimens brutally rifled through Pettigrew's mind, extracting every memory related to the Invisibility Cloak—its miraculous effects, the way James had boasted about it to the others…
Soon, Voldemort seemed to have found what he sought. With a slight wave of his hand, Pettigrew crashed back to the ground, letting out a muffled groan of pain.
"The Deathly Hallows' Invisibility Cloak…" Voldemort's voice murmured, laced with a faint, mocking undertone. "Heh, Death…" He savored the word. "Though it's of little practical use…
"A pity… just one short…" His voice trailed off, cryptic and ominous. "The Elder Wand…"
These vague mutterings sent a chill through Professor McGonagall and the others. Deathly Hallows? Death? The Elder Wand? These familiar yet foreign terms seemed to herald the beginning of the Potter family's tragedy…
Voldemort paid no further attention to Yaxley or Wormtail.
He turned, his bare feet treading the thick carpet, and walked back toward his lofty throne.
"Yaxley," his cold voice echoed through the hall once more, "you've done well this time.
"Keep poor Wormtail alive. He'll serve as propaganda for our… benevolence toward Mudbloods. Even trash has its uses…"
Before his words fully faded, darkness surged from all sides, swallowing Voldemort's retreating figure and the entire eerie drawing room.
The onlookers felt weightless, soaring higher and higher in the darkness…
"Hah—"
They all snapped their heads up at once, pulling free from the swirling silver substance in the Pensieve, gasping for breath, faces pale, sweat beading on their foreheads.
They stood around the stone basin, silent for a moment, their hearts pounding wildly in their chests.
Then, the sounds of the real world broke through. Peter Pettigrew remained curled up on the floor, still bound, occasionally letting out suppressed, near-death whimpers.
Snape seemed oblivious to Pettigrew's sounds and the complex gazes of those around him. He calmly gestured for the others to make way, picked up the Pensieve from the table, and walked to a cabinet in the corner. Opening the door, he carefully placed the basin deep inside.
Voldemort's words, "just one short," echoed relentlessly in his mind.
His hand rested on the cabinet door, unclosed. He lowered his head, lost in thought.
He was now strongly convinced that when Voldemort learned of Sybill Trelawney's prophecy about "one born as the seventh month dies, with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord," he hadn't chosen Harry Potter over the pureblood Neville Longbottom solely because Harry was, like him, a half-blood.
There was a far more enticing lure: the Invisibility Cloak, one of the three Deathly Hallows, was in the possession of the Potter family.
Thus, on the night Voldemort went to Godric's Hollow to eliminate the prophesied threat, he could also use the life of the "Chosen One" to create the final Horcrux with an already-secured Deathly Hallow.
Wasn't this a perfect, two-fold triumph, exquisitely aligned with Tom Riddle's aesthetic?
"Severus? Severus!" Professor McGonagall's worried and urgent voice jolted Snape from his reverie. "What are you doing, standing there motionless?"
Snape snapped back to reality, realizing he'd been standing before the cabinet, head bowed, for some time. He quickly composed himself, gently closed the cabinet door, and turned to face the others in the cabin.
"Oh, Professor, it's nothing," he said evenly. "Just… thinking about something."
His gaze then fell on James Potter, bound with ropes, his eyes still burning with hatred.
"James," he asked, "when you and Sirius went out to gather information that day, did you bring your family's Invisibility Cloak?"
James was caught off guard by the sudden question, looking at Snape with confusion, unsure why he'd ask about this now.
"No," he shook his head, his voice hoarse. "It can't cover both of us anymore. A Disillusionment Charm is more convenient."
"Then," Snape pressed, "afterward… when you returned home, did you find the Invisibility Cloak in the ruins?"
James's eyes dimmed, and he shook his head again, closing them in pain.
"I don't know," he said. "In the rush… Sirius and I… we were only thinking… only thinking…" His voice broke, choked with grief, unable to continue. The memory of his parents' horrific deaths had shattered his rationality—who would think to search for a cloak?
"Understood." Snape nodded, having gotten his answer. His gaze swept over James and Sirius, tinged with pity, before he announced, "We've confirmed that Peter Pettigrew betrayed you.
"He revealed the Invisibility Cloak's existence to the Death Eaters. His betrayal directly led to the deaths of the Potters."
At this, James's eyes shot open, glaring at Wormtail. If looks could kill, Pettigrew would have been torn apart a thousand times over.
Professor Flitwick let out a deep sigh and turned to Professor McGonagall, his voice low and weary. "Minerva, shall we lock Peter Pettigrew in the reinforced magical cell in the lower hold?"
James and Sirius immediately turned to McGonagall, their eyes blazing with unspent anger and reluctance. Imprisonment was clearly not the "direct" resolution they craved.
McGonagall's expression was equally grave. She glanced at Pettigrew, sprawled like a dead dog, then at James and Sirius, consumed by vengeful fury. Finally, she nodded in agreement with Flitwick.
"Very well, lock him up for now."
"Professor!" James and Sirius protested, struggling to stand. "I want—"
"James, Sirius," Snape cut them off with a wave of his wand, silencing their objections. "The place you two need to be right now is the infirmary, not here wasting energy on pointless rage." With that, he reached out and rang a small bell on the captain's desk.
Soon after, a house-elf in a neat tea towel knocked and entered.
"Sir?" it bowed respectfully.
"Take this suspect to the confinement cell in the lowest hold and guard him closely," Snape ordered, pointing to the motionless Pettigrew. "No one is to approach without Professor McGonagall's or my permission."
"Yes, Mr. Snape!" the elf replied loudly. It approached Pettigrew, unfazed by his filth, and with a gentle tap of its bony finger, lifted him—chair, ropes, and all—into the air like lifeless cargo, floating him out of the cabin.
Moody's magical blue eye spun wildly, fixated on the spot where Pettigrew had been.
"Minerva," he said, his wooden leg tapping the floor twice, "what do we do with Peter Pettigrew? The Ministry and Wizengamot… the law and order are long gone…"
"Lock him up for now," Snape said with a casual shrug. "We'll deal with him when the situation stabilizes."
He pulled open the cabin door, letting in a gust of cold air.
"Now, James, Sirius," he said, turning back, "to the infirmary."
After such a harrowing scene filled with betrayal, death, the shadow of the Dark Lord, and the baseness of human nature, the cabin was thick with exhaustion and helplessness.
No one had the desire to speak. Silently, each weighed down by their own heavy thoughts, they followed Snape out of the captain's cabin.
McGonagall patted Flitwick's shoulder in silent comfort before trudging out with him.
Snape, meanwhile, led the faltering, hollow-eyed James and Sirius toward the infirmary.