Hogwarts at night was steeped in gloom.
Because of the castle's architecture, the bright moonlight only lit up small patches of ground. Most of the vast stone walls and courtyards were swallowed by darkness—let alone the windowless corridors inside, where shadows pooled like ink.
In the latter half of the night, when the candles burned out, those corridors became so dark one couldn't even see their own fingers.
For students sneaking around after curfew, it was a serious challenge. For those harboring darker intentions, however, it was the perfect cover.
From the shadow of a wall corner, a huge black rat, its tail as long as a child's forearm, scurried along with a map clenched in its teeth. It looked exactly like a rat caught stealing oil.
Well—because it was a rat.
This rat clutching the Marauder's Map was none other than Peter Pettigrew.
Ever since that Slytherin boy had called out the truth of his shortened lifespan—and cowed him with a single glance—Peter had been unable to eat or sleep properly.
Yes, once again he was living in fear. This time, not even Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans tempted him—he had lost his appetite entirely.
What could he do? He was a coward by nature. If not for that cowardice, he never would have become Voldemort's informant, never would have betrayed James and Lily Potter—his closest friends—by revealing their Fidelius-protected location while he was their Secret-Keeper.
Fear was ingrained in him, but beneath it lay venom as poisonous as any bold man's.
"That brat… unforgivable!" Peter's thoughts burned with rage and humiliation as he recalled that Slytherin student.
To think that he, Peter Pettigrew, would be frightened by an underage wizard… it was a disgrace.
Of course, he only dared mutter in anger now, in the dead of night. He didn't even dare picture that boy's piercing stare. Instead, he pushed away the memory by drowning himself in vicious thoughts.
"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"
Cruel light gleamed in the rat's beady eyes as he scoured the Marauder's Map. His gaze swept back and forth restlessly, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find the Slytherin boy's name.
Where had he gone? Where was Louis Wilson hiding?
Peter ground his teeth. He longed to rip the boy to shreds, piece by piece.
Then, suddenly, at the spot marking the Slytherin dormitory, a name flickered into existence—Louis Wilson.
Finally!
Peter had no idea why the boy's name had vanished before, nor did he care. At this moment, his only thought was to silence the one person who could expose him.
This was true, festering hatred. The Weasley twins had also come close to exposing him, yet all he did was steal the map from them. But Louis? For Louis, he wanted blood.
It wasn't affection for the Weasleys after five years in their home. No, it was because Louis had made him feel something the twins never did—fear.
The small, weak, cruel ones are always the first to bare their fangs when cornered.
But when Peter reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, he froze.
He didn't know the password. He couldn't get in.
Even if he had known it, it wouldn't have helped. He couldn't risk transforming back into a man in front of the portrait. That would reveal the truth—that he was alive.
And he knew these portraits. They were all Dumbledore's eyes and ears. To expose himself to them was no different from exposing himself to Dumbledore.
Just as Peter was squeaking in frustration, fate lent him a hand.
A Slytherin student, returning from a secret nighttime excursion, came hurrying back to the common room.
"Lion's Mane," the boy muttered the correct password.
The stone door slid open, and Peter darted in after him without hesitation.
Opportunity at last!
Peter trembled with excitement. Tonight, he would finally kill that detestable Louis Wilson.
Inside the dormitory, Louis had just finished washing up. He yawned, changed into his pajamas, and flopped onto his bed.
The imitation Elder Wand was tossed casually onto his bedside table. Stretching lazily, Louis was ready to drift off.
After performing two Dark Qi rituals, he was worn out. It was already deep into the night, and if not for the Horse and Dog Talismans sustaining him, Louis would have worried about collapsing from exhaustion.
"Goodnight, Hastur. Goodnight, Fafnir."
He murmured a farewell to his two pets, then buried his face into the soft pillow and quickly fell asleep.
In his dreams, thanks to his Nightmare powers, Louis remained unusually lucid. With nothing better to do, he conjured up a few random dream-figures and sat down to play mahjong with them.
Dream-mahjong was truly absurd—like meeting King Yama in broad daylight. As a nightmare demon himself, whenever Louis let his subconscious run wild, his dreams inevitably spun into the bizarre.
With a perfectly serious face, he pushed his tiles forward: Pure honor hand, waiting on a single wild card—Hu!
Wild card? Since when did mahjong even have a "wild card"? Yet everyone at the table accepted it as perfectly normal.
Four or five rounds later, Louis still couldn't make sense of the rules. But whatever—dreams weren't bound by rules. If someone played three bamboos and you slammed down four two-dots to bomb them, that was just part of the fun.
While Louis was playing muddled dream-mahjong, the dormitory door creaked open without a sound.
A red-eyed rat slunk in, furtive and trembling.
At once, the two tyrants of the dormitory noticed.
The owl Fafnir and the Flerken Hastur turned their heads in unison to eye the intruder.
Well, well—midnight snack delivered right to the door! Who ordered takeout?
Peter Pettigrew, slipping inside, had no idea of the danger. Hearing the steady breathing of the sleeping boys, he thought he had snuck in unnoticed.
"All I need to do is take that Slytherin boy's wand, kill him, and toss his corpse into the Black Lake. Then everything will be fine."
He crept toward the bed labeled "Louis Wilson" on the Marauder's Map, his beady eyes falling instantly on the wand lying on the bedside table.
A thrill of triumph ran through him. He was just about to dart forward when he felt a sudden chill, as though two pairs of vicious eyes were fixed on him.
Who—?
The rat spun in frantic little circles on the floor, never realizing that directly above, a cat and an owl were watching him with keen interest.
"Meow." Hastur gave a soft sound to Fafnir—you or me?
"Coo." Fafnir answered just as quietly—wait. That rat looks odd. Could be sick—parasites, heatstroke, who knows. Let's watch.
"Meow?"
Hastur shot the owl a look, wondering if Fafnir had lost his mind.
What's so strange about a rat? Just grab it—
But before Hastur could act, the rat suddenly began to swell—visibly, grotesquely expanding in size!
"Meow!" Hastur yowled in shock. He couldn't make sense of it, but his instincts screamed—look at that thing, it's big enough for several meals now!
Food was meant to be eaten directly—not swallowed whole and dumped into a pocket universe.
"Coo!" Fafnir flapped his wings, pointing toward the rat—no, the rat-man—reaching for the wand. His meaning was clear: Don't hesitate—get him!
"Meow-oww!"
"Guh-graa!"
With twin cries, the cat and the owl lunged together at Peter Pettigrew.
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