The next morning came with a brittle quiet.
The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting long shadows against the walls of the Potter cottage in Godric's Hollow. Outside, a soft drizzle traced patterns down the windowpanes. The rhythm of the house had changed overnight something was different. The easy laughter, the careless banter that once filled the small home, had vanished like smoke. In its place tension, quiet footsteps, and glances that lingered too long.
Harry layed silently in his bassinet near the fire. Though his limbs were small and soft, his mind moved with calculated clarity. He watched.
Lily moved around the cottage in swift, practiced steps, her wand out and steady, tracing invisible runes into the air. Her lips whispered incantations under her breath, reinforcing layers of protective wards over the doors, windows, and even the chimney.
James stood by the front window. He hadn't shaved. His hair stuck up more wildly than usual, and his wand never left his hand. He wasn't watching the street.
He was watching the trees.
Waiting.
Harry knew that kind of silence. He'd seen it in labs during critical experiments when the team was waiting for something to either explode or save their careers. Here, the stakes were higher.
It was early afternoon when the knock came.
Three sharp knocks quick, clipped.
Then two slower.
A pattern.
James straightened, his grip on the wand loosening. "It's them."
Lily gave a small nod, but her hand tightened on her wand nonetheless. Her eyes didn't leave the door.
James opened it.
"Sirius," he said, grinning. "You look like hell."
The man on the other side grinned back. "Takes one to know one, Prongs. Honestly, the state of you Lily, I hope you're feeding him properly."
"I'm doing my best," Lily replied with a dry smile. "He's impossible when he's brooding."
Behind Sirius stood a smaller figure, hunched slightly under a brown cloak. His eyes flicked from James to Lily to the corners of the ceiling, as if expecting hexes to drop from the rafters.
"Peter," James greeted more cautiously. "Glad you made it."
Peter Pettigrew nodded jerkily. "Wouldn't miss it."
They entered.
Sirius strode in like he owned the place. He dropped his wand on the mantle, slung his damp cloak onto the hook by the door, and headed straight for the bassinet.
"There he is!" he exclaimed. "The littlest Marauder!"
He crouched beside Harry, his roguish grin brightening his worn face. "Oi, you giving your mum and dad hell yet?"
Harry stared up at him, silent. Curious.
Sirius reached in and gently tickled his chin. "You're gonna be trouble, I can feel it."
He smelled like ash, rain, and old leather but underneath all that, his magic pulsed with something alive. Passionate. Fierce.
Harry felt it.
It wrapped around him like a familiar tune. Warm, unfiltered. The way a godfather ought to feel.
Peter lingered near the door, dripping onto the carpet. He didn't take off his cloak. His eyes jumped from one corner to the next, and his fingers fiddled endlessly with the edge of his sleeve.
"Sirius," Lily said, "tea?"
"If you're offering, then yes, absolutely," he said with a grin.
"Peter?"
"Oh yes. Please. Thank you," Peter mumbled, shuffling toward the kitchen but sitting near the edge of his chair like he was ready to bolt.
James leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You two came from the Order's safehouse?"
Sirius nodded. "What's left of it. We moved most of the assets yesterday. Moody took a curse to the shoulder. He's fine, grumbling more than usual, but it's bad out there, Prongs."
Peter's voice was thinner, more reedy than usual. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"
"Yeah," James said darkly. "Dumbledore was here last night. Said Voldemort's probing for weaknesses. Trying to find new avenues of attack."
Peter flinched. "Please don't say his name."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "It's a name, Peter. Not a bloody killing curse."
Peter bristled. "It's not about the name. It's what he does. What he can do."
"He's still a man," Sirius said. "Powerful, twisted, insane but a man. And he can be beaten."
James glanced at Lily, who gave him a subtle nod.
"We've been thinking," James began, taking a seat near the fireplace, "about the Fidelius Charm."
Sirius straightened. Peter looked like he might faint.
"We want to cast it," James continued. "Soon. Before the week's out."
"Good," Sirius said immediately. "It's the best shot we've got."
James's gaze settled on his friend. "But I'm not choosing you, Padfoot."
Sirius blinked. "Come again?"
"You're too obvious. You're the first person they'd come after. If they caught you"
"I wouldn't talk."
"I know you wouldn't," James said firmly. "But they'd try anyway. Torture, Legilimency whatever it took. And I'm not risking you, mate. I'm not risking us."
Sirius leaned back slowly, nodding. "So who, then?"
James looked at Peter.
The room turned heavy.
"Me?" Peter squeaked.
"You're the least expected," James said. "You're smart, loyal, and no one's watching you. It's perfect misdirection."
"I,I" Peter's face was pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "James, are you sure? I, I mean, what if I mess it up?"
"You won't," Lily said quietly from the doorway, her arms folded. "We trust you."
Harry stared at Peter. Watched the way his fingers curled into his sleeves. Watched the panic that flickered across his features and settled into his spine.
It wasn't humility. It wasn't fear of responsibility.
It was fear of what he would do.
Peter nodded too quickly. "I'd be honored. Of course. I'd rather die than betray you."
Harry's little fingers clenched beneath his blanket.
He's lying.
Not outright. Not yet. But it was there the fracture in his resolve. Peter didn't believe his own words. He wasn't plotting betrayal. He wasn't strong enough for that.
But he was afraid.
Afraid of pain. Of death. Of standing alone when the Dark Lord came knocking.
And in that fear the seed of betrayal had already sprouted.
Later, Sirius conjured little glowing dogs that pranced across the table, barking in high pitched yips and tumbling over one another. Harry laughed softly some genuine joy mixing with calculation. It was a strange duality the innocence of laughter, and the trained eye of a man measuring character.
Peter stood, murmuring something about needing to inform the others, about preparation.
James clapped him on the back. "Thank you, Wormtail. Really."
Peter smiled weakly, mumbled something inaudible, and left.
Harry watched him go. Watched how he hunched his shoulders against the rain, how his eyes darted toward every shadow like a guilty man hearing footsteps.
He's going to betray us.
He just doesn't know it yet.
That night, the house fell into stillness again. James sat on the couch reading a battered book on curse theory. Lily sang softly while folding laundry. Harry lay awake in his crib, emerald eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He thought of Peter.
Of the lie.
Of the chain of events that would follow.
He thought of Voldemort, of the prophecy, of the future.
He had no wand. No power. He was still just a baby.
But he was watching. Learning. Remembering.
Every spell. Every face. Every fault line.
The world saw him as an infant.
They didn't see the mind behind the eyes.
And slowly, Harry closed his eyes burning the image of Peter Pettigrew's nervous face into his memory like a warning etched in fire.