Mycroft Holmes adjusted his umbrella against his chair with the kind of precision that suggested even the most mundane actions deserved careful consideration. The consultation room at Sherrinford smelled of industrial disinfectant and barely suppressed tension—a combination he'd grown unfortunately familiar with over the years.
"You're looking well, Eurus," he began, settling his considerable frame into the reinforced chair with practiced ease. "The new recreational activities seem to be agreeing with you."
Through the reinforced glass, his sister tilted her head with bird-like curiosity, her pale eyes dancing with barely contained amusement. "Oh, Mycroft. Still leading with pleasantries? How delightfully predictable." She moved to her violin case with fluid grace, running her fingers along its edge without opening it. "Though I must say, you're looking rather more stressed than usual. The slight tension around your eyes, the way you're gripping your umbrella just a fraction too tightly... something's troubling the British government, isn't it?"
"The British government is perfectly functional, thank you." Mycroft opened his briefcase with deliberate care, withdrawing several manila folders that had clearly been assembled with the kind of meticulous attention that suggested matters of international importance. "Though there is a matter requiring your particular expertise."
"My expertise?" Eurus laughed, a sound like crystal breaking in slow motion. "How wonderfully vague. Are we talking about psychological manipulation, pattern recognition, or just general intellectual superiority? Do be specific, brother dear. I hate to be under-utilized."
"All of the above, I suspect." Mycroft straightened his tie—a gesture Eurus immediately catalogued as significant. "The problem involves a murder, a carefully orchestrated frame-up, and what appears to be the most sophisticated long-term deception I've encountered in my professional career."
"Oh, now you have my attention." Eurus moved closer to the glass, her posture shifting from casual interest to predatory focus. "Though you haven't mentioned why this particular case requires my intervention. Surely MI6 has competent investigators? Or has the intelligence community finally admitted that conventional methods are insufficient for truly challenging problems?"
"This case involves... unconventional elements." Mycroft paused, clearly choosing his words with diplomatic care. "Elements that exist outside the normal parameters of British law enforcement."
"How deliciously cryptic. Are we talking about international espionage? Corporate conspiracy? Or something even more interesting?" Eurus's smile sharpened. "Come now, Mycroft. You didn't arrange a consultation with your institutionalized sister for a routine case. What makes this so special?"
Mycroft straightened his shoulders, adopting the posture he used for particularly difficult cabinet briefings. "The case involves magic."
The silence that followed was so complete that the hum of the facility's ventilation system seemed suddenly thunderous. Eurus stood perfectly still for a moment, processing this information with visible delight.
"Magic," she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "Actual magic? Not stage illusions or psychological manipulation or advanced technology masquerading as supernatural phenomena?"
"Genuine magic, performed by individuals who form a complete parallel society with their own government, laws, educational institutions, and unfortunately, their own criminal organizations." Mycroft opened the first folder with practiced precision. "The magical community has been hidden from ordinary British citizens for centuries, operating under treaties and agreements that predate the modern British state."
Eurus clapped her hands together with the kind of pure joy usually reserved for children discovering birthday presents. "Oh, Mycroft, you absolute genius! This is magnificent! A hidden magical society with its own politics and criminals? This is already infinitely more interesting than anything those tedious doctors have given me in months."
"I thought it might appeal to your intellectual curiosity."
"My intellectual curiosity? Brother dear, you've just told me that everything I thought I knew about the world was incomplete. That there's an entire civilization of people who can alter reality through force of will, and they've been hiding among us for centuries. This isn't just intellectually curious—this is revolutionary."
She began pacing her cell with controlled energy, her movements precise and predatory. "But you mentioned a murder and a frame-up. I assume these aren't random magical criminals, or you would have gone to the magical authorities rather than consulting with me. This is personal, isn't it?"
Mycroft's expression remained carefully neutral, but there was a subtle shift in his posture that his sister immediately noted. "The victims were James and Lily Potter."
Eurus stopped pacing abruptly. "Potter... Potter... that name is familiar. Should I know it?"
"You should, yes. Lily Potter was born Lily Evans." Mycroft watched his sister's reaction carefully. "Our cousin."
The change in Eurus's expression was fascinating to observe—a rapid succession of surprise, calculation, memory, and what might have been genuine emotion before settling into focused interest.
"Lily Evans," she said softly, moving to her chair and sitting down with unusual stillness. "Little Lily with the fierce green eyes and the absolute inability to tolerate injustice in any form. She always defended the underdog, even when the underdog probably deserved whatever was happening to them."
"You remember her well."
"Of course I remember her well. She was the only member of our extended family who wasn't either terrified of me or trying to pretend I didn't exist." Eurus's smile carried actual warmth for the first time since Mycroft had arrived. "She used to write me letters when we were children. Real letters, not the careful, sanitized notes most people send to dangerous relatives. She would tell me about school and books and the fascinating ways her classmates revealed their true personalities under pressure."
She looked directly at Mycroft, her pale eyes suddenly sharp. "She also told me about strange things that would happen around her when she was angry or upset. Objects moving without being touched, flowers blooming out of season, that sort of thing. I assumed at the time that she was either fabricating for effect or experiencing some form of minor psychotic break. Turns out she was just magical."
"She was indeed. Quite powerfully so, according to the records I've been able to access."
"And now she's dead." Eurus's voice carried a note of something that might have been regret. "Along with her husband, I assume?"
"James Potter, yes. They were murdered in their home while protecting their infant son."
"An infant son who survived, or you wouldn't be here." Eurus leaned forward, her interest intensifying. "What makes this a case for me rather than for magical law enforcement?"
Mycroft opened the second folder, withdrawing several photographs and documents. "The man convicted of their murders was Sirius Black—James Potter's best friend and the child's godfather. He's currently serving a life sentence in the magical equivalent of a maximum-security prison."
"But you don't think he did it."
"I think he was framed by someone considerably more clever than the magical authorities gave credit for." Mycroft slid one of the photographs across the table toward the glass. "The presumed perpetrator is this man—Peter Pettigrew. He was supposedly killed by Black in a public confrontation the day after the Potters' murders."
Eurus studied the photograph with professional intensity. "Weak chin, nervous eyes, the kind of soft features that suggest someone who's never had to fight for anything important. He looks like the sort of person who would attach himself to stronger personalities and define his identity through their reflected glory."
"A remarkably accurate assessment based solely on a photograph."
"Elementary psychology, really. Though I suspect there's more to this than a simple case of mistaken identity." Eurus sat back in her chair, her fingers steepled in a gesture strongly reminiscent of Sherlock. "Tell me about the evidence against Black."
Mycroft spent the next several minutes outlining the case—Pettigrew's supposed death, the witnesses who claimed to have seen Black commit the crime, and the complete lack of a proper investigation due to the magical community's certainty of Black's guilt.
"Fascinating," Eurus murmured when he finished. "A perfect frame-up, really. Kill your friends, fake your own death in a sufficiently public manner, and let your surviving best friend take the blame while you disappear completely. It's quite elegant in its simplicity."
"Can you find him?"
"Oh, Mycroft. Of course I can find him. The question is whether you're prepared for what that might entail." Eurus's smile grew predatory. "But first, I have conditions."
"I expected as much."
"I want access to comprehensive texts on magical theory, law, and society. If I'm going to hunt someone in a world I don't understand, I need to educate myself about the rules they operate under. I particularly want information about magical methods of concealment and transformation."
"That can be arranged through appropriate channels."
"Good. I also want detailed psychological profiles of everyone involved—the victims, the accused, the supposed perpetrator, and anyone else who might be relevant to the case."
"Also manageable."
"And I want to see a photograph of the child."
Mycroft's expression grew carefully neutral. "The child?"
"Harry Potter. Lily's son. The one who survived whatever killed his parents and is now being raised by..." Eurus paused, tilting her head as if listening to some internal calculation. "By Sherlock, presumably. Though it's interesting that you haven't mentioned our dear brother's new domestic arrangements directly."
"How did you—"
"Oh, please, Mycroft. You're discussing a case involving our murdered cousin and her orphaned child, and you haven't once mentioned what's happened to said child or who's responsible for him now. Given your protective instincts regarding family and your tendency to involve Sherlock in cases that require both intellectual brilliance and emotional investment, it's hardly a difficult deduction."
She leaned forward, her pale eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. "Besides, you have that slightly harried expression you get when you're worried about Sherlock's wellbeing but trying not to interfere directly. It's the same look you had when he was experimenting with that dreadful violin piece last Christmas."
"Harry is indeed in Sherlock's care," Mycroft confirmed with the kind of diplomatic precision that revealed nothing about his own feelings regarding the arrangement.
"Excellent. I want to see what Lily's son looks like now. Children often carry their parents' psychological imprints in fascinating ways, and understanding the victim is essential to understanding the perpetrator."
"That can also be arranged."
"Wonderful. Now, shall we discuss the real reason you're here?" Eurus stood and moved to her violin case, opening it with reverent care. "Because this isn't just about finding Peter Pettigrew, is it? This is about Sherlock."
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but there was a subtle tension in his shoulders that suggested his sister had identified something he'd hoped to keep private.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Oh, Mycroft. You're many things—brilliant, manipulative, occasionally ruthless—but you're absolutely terrible at hiding your feelings when it comes to family." Eurus lifted her violin from its case, checking the strings with practiced fingers. "This isn't just about justice for murdered cousins or protecting an orphaned child from dark wizards. This is about giving our dear brother something that will challenge and fulfill him in ways that ordinary cases never could."
She positioned the violin beneath her chin, bow poised but not yet touching the strings. "You're hoping that raising Harry will give Sherlock the kind of purpose and emotional investment that might actually make him... well, not happy exactly, because happiness isn't really in the Holmes genetic makeup, but at least content. Less likely to throw himself into dangerous situations when he gets bored."
"That's a rather sentimental interpretation of my motivations."
"Sentiment has nothing to do with it. It's simple psychological analysis." Eurus drew the bow across the strings in a brief, haunting melody. "Sherlock needs intellectual stimulation and emotional investment to function properly. A prophesied child marked for death by dark wizards provides both in abundance."
She paused, her expression growing more serious. "Though I do hope you've considered the potential complications of that arrangement."
"Such as?"
"Such as what happens when Harry grows up and realizes he's been raised as much as a weapon as a person. Sherlock's educational methods tend toward the practical and ruthless—useful for creating a highly capable individual, but potentially problematic for normal psychological development."
Eurus began playing again, a complex piece that seemed to shift between beauty and underlying menace. "A child trained by our brother will be extraordinarily capable of protecting himself, but he may also develop our family's particular brand of emotional detachment. The question is whether that's a gift or a curse, given the enemies he's likely to face."
"Sherlock is perfectly capable of providing appropriate guidance for a child."
"Oh, I'm sure he is. In his own unique way." Eurus's smile was sharp but not entirely unkind. "Though it does raise interesting questions about family patterns and the ways we protect the people we care about."
She stopped playing abruptly, fixing Mycroft with that unsettling stare. "Speaking of family patterns and childhood trauma, does Sherlock remember Redbeard yet?"
The change in subject was so abrupt and so loaded with unspoken significance that Mycroft actually shifted in his chair, his carefully maintained composure slipping for just a moment.
"Eurus, that subject is not relevant to—"
"Oh, but it's absolutely relevant," she interrupted, beginning to play a soft, melody that sounded almost like a lullaby. "A child in danger, hidden away for his own protection, while the adults around him make plans and tell themselves they're doing what's best... it's all rather familiar, isn't it?"
The music grew more complex, resolving into something that was hauntingly beautiful but carried undertones of loss and regret.
"We both know how those arrangements can end, don't we, Mycroft? When the people who love us most decide that protecting us requires keeping us in the dark about dangers we might be better off understanding."
"That situation was entirely different."
"Was it? A child with unusual abilities, adults who think they know what's best, secrets kept for the sake of protection..." Eurus's playing grew more intense, the melody weaving between hope and sorrow. "Sometimes the people we're trying to protect end up paying the price for our good intentions."
She lowered the violin, studying her brother's carefully controlled expression. "He still doesn't remember, does he? Even after all these years, our dear Sherlock has kept the truth buried so deep that he probably believes his own reconstructed memories."
"Some things are better left buried."
"Are they? Or are buried secrets like unexploded ordnance—harmless until someone accidentally disturbs them, and then catastrophically dangerous?" Eurus set her violin aside and moved closer to the glass. "Perhaps having a child to protect will help Sherlock understand what really happened all those years ago, and why sometimes the people we love most are also the ones we're most dangerous to."
Mycroft sat in silence for a long moment, his usual diplomatic composure at war with something rawer and more personal.
"The photograph and the books," Eurus continued, returning to her chair with fluid grace. "Provide those, and I'll find your Peter Pettigrew within a fortnight. I'll also provide you with a complete psychological profile and predictions about his likely current behavior patterns."
"And in return?"
"In return, I want you to consider the possibility that some family secrets are more dangerous than the truths they're meant to protect." She picked up her violin again, testing the strings with delicate touches. "And I want you to watch carefully how Sherlock interacts with young Harry. Children have a way of bringing out our deepest patterns, both protective and destructive."
Mycroft gathered his papers with deliberate care, clearly weighing the implications of everything his sister had said. "I'll arrange for the materials you've requested. Your insights will be invaluable."
"They will indeed." Eurus positioned her violin and began playing a complex piece that seemed to fill the sterile room with something approaching genuine emotion. "And Mycroft? When you see Sherlock next, you might want to pay attention to how he talks about protecting Harry from his enemies. Sometimes our deepest fears have a way of becoming self-fulfilling prophecies, especially when we're trying so hard to prevent them."
The music continued as Mycroft stood and moved toward the door, carrying with him both the promise of finding Peter Pettigrew and the uncomfortable knowledge that some family dynamics might be too dangerous to leave unexamined.
"Oh, and Mycroft?" Eurus called after him, not stopping her playing. "Do give my regards to our new nephew. Tell him that his Aunt Eurus is very much looking forward to meeting him someday."
As the door closed behind him, Mycroft found himself contemplating the unsettling possibility that consulting with Eurus about this case might have been the easy part of what was about to unfold.
—
The consultation room had been empty for three hours, but Eurus remained at her small table, the manila folders spread before her like tarot cards revealing a particularly complex fortune. The violin lay across her lap, her fingers absently plucking at the strings as she absorbed the information Mycroft had provided with the methodical precision of a computer processing data.
The photograph of Peter Pettigrew sat in the center of her arrangement, surrounded by witness statements, magical law enforcement reports, and several pages of notes in Mycroft's distinctive handwriting. One particular notation had caught her attention immediately: *Subject possesses animagus transformation - rat form. Missing digit (finger) - right hand.*
"How delightfully specific," she murmured to the empty room, lifting the photograph to study Pettigrew's face more closely. "And how perfectly convenient for someone who wants to disappear completely."
She set the photograph down and reached for her violin, positioning it beneath her chin with the kind of reverent care most people reserved for religious artifacts. The first notes she drew from the strings were tentative, exploratory—a melody she'd composed years ago for an entirely different purpose.
*I that am lost, oh who will find me?
Deep down below the old beech tree...*
The song carried through the sterile corridors of Sherrinford, a haunting lullaby that had once been designed to lead Sherlock to a terrible discovery. Now it served a different purpose—helping her think through the implications of what Mycroft had shared.
As she played, her mind worked through the available data with the kind of systematic analysis that had made her legendary among those few individuals with sufficient clearance to know she existed. A man who could transform into a rat, who had betrayed his best friends and murdered innocent bystanders to fake his own death, would need somewhere to hide where his transformation would be useful rather than suspicious.
"Rats live where humans live," she said to her violin, continuing the melody with subtle variations that reflected her evolving thoughts. "But not where they're likely to be noticed or caught. Somewhere with enough food and shelter to sustain a long-term hiding place, but not so clean or well-maintained that a rat would seem out of place."
She paused her playing, reaching for one of Mycroft's files—this one containing information about the magical community's structure and institutions. Her eyes scanned the pages with predatory focus until she found what she was looking for.
"Magical schools," she murmured, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Specifically, schools with large populations of children who might keep pets. Children who wouldn't question a rat appearing in their dormitories, especially if that rat seemed friendly and harmless."
She resumed playing, the melody growing more complex as her deductions crystallized. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Established over a thousand years ago, population of roughly eight hundred students, located in the Scottish Highlands. Students are permitted to bring pets—owls, cats, toads... and rats."
The music grew more intense as she considered the psychological profile. "Peter Pettigrew spent seven years at that school as a student. He knows its layout, its rhythms, its hiding places. More importantly, he knows that it's the one place in the magical world where a rat wouldn't just be ignored—it might actually be protected and cared for."
She set the violin aside and reached for a piece of paper, beginning to write in her precise, analytical handwriting:
*Subject Assessment - Peter Pettigrew
Location: Highly probable - Hogwarts School, Scottish Highlands
Method: Animagus transformation, integration with student pet population
Duration: Indefinite - school provides food, shelter, protection
Risk factors: Low - authority figures unlikely to suspect or investigate pets
Psychological motivation: Return to place of childhood security while maintaining cover*
She paused in her writing, considering the broader implications. A man hiding in a school full of children, many of whom were the same age Harry Potter would be when he eventually attended. The thought sent something cold and analytical through her mind—not quite emotion, but a recognition of pattern and possibility that demanded action.
"Oh, Peter," she said softly, resuming her melody. "You've made a very poor choice of hiding places."
She continued writing, this time detailing the specific areas of the school where a rat would be most likely to establish territory, the seasonal patterns that would affect his behavior, and the methods that could be used to flush him out without alerting him to the fact that he'd been discovered.
When she finished, she set the papers aside and picked up the violin again, but this time the melody that emerged was different—not the haunting lullaby she'd created for Sherlock, but something new and more complex. A song of planning and possibility, of family obligations and personal curiosity.
"Lily's son," she murmured between phrases. "Little Harry Potter, marked for death by dark wizards and now under the protection of Sherlock Holmes. How absolutely fascinating the genetic combinations must be—Evans stubbornness and Potter courage, filtered through whatever trauma comes from surviving the impossible."
She stood and began pacing her cell, the violin still singing under her bow. "And Sherlock, dear brilliant Sherlock, suddenly responsible for shaping a child's development. Teaching him to think, to observe, to protect himself... and probably having no idea how to handle the emotional complexities that come with caring for someone vulnerable."
The melody grew more intricate as she considered the possibilities. A magical child being raised by the world's only consulting detective, while his extended family included both Mycroft Holmes and herself. The psychological dynamics alone were enough to make her fingers itch with curiosity.
"Family obligations," she said to the empty room, her bow dancing across the strings with mathematical precision. "Most humans feel compelled to protect their relatives, don't they? Especially children who have lost their parents to violence."
She stopped playing abruptly, setting the violin aside and moving to her small desk. Opening the bottom drawer, she withdrew several items that the facility's administrators would have been disturbed to know she possessed—a small electronic device that looked like a hearing aid, a length of wire that appeared to be part of her violin's construction, and a piece of plastic that had once been part of her food tray but had been carefully shaped into something far more useful.
"The question," she said as she began assembling these components with practiced efficiency, "is whether I should wait for Mycroft to authorize a proper investigation, or whether I should take a more direct approach to the problem."
She held up the completed device—a small but sophisticated listening device that could intercept and decode the facility's internal communications. "After all, Peter Pettigrew killed my cousin and her husband. He condemned their infant son to death and framed an innocent man for his crimes. These aren't the sort of actions one should let go unpunished, are they?"
She activated the device and clipped it discreetly to her collar, then returned to her violin. The melody that emerged this time was purposeful and determined—the musical equivalent of someone making final preparations for a complex and dangerous undertaking.
"Besides," she continued, her fingers moving across the strings with the kind of precision that suggested years of practice in far more than just musical performance, "I'm dying to meet Lily's son. And I do so hate to be kept waiting for family reunions."
The music filled the room as she began her calculations—guard rotations, electronic surveillance patterns, the precise timing required to move through Sherrinford's security systems without triggering any alarms. It was a complex problem, but then again, she was an era-defining genius. Complex problems were what she lived for.
"Poor Mycroft," she murmured as her bow danced across the strings. "He's going to be so disappointed when he realizes I couldn't wait for official authorization. But then again, he should have known better than to give me information about family members in danger and expect me to sit quietly in my cell."
The melody grew triumphant as her plans solidified. Within twenty-four hours, Peter Pettigrew would be exactly where she'd calculated he would be. And within forty-eight hours, she would be free to do what families were supposed to do—protect their own, regardless of the methods required.
After all, wasn't that what most humans would do?
The violin sang through the night as Eurus Holmes prepared to remind the world why she was considered the most dangerous person in Britain—and why family loyalty, filtered through the mind of a sociopath, could be the most terrifying force of all.
—
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts…
The dormitory was quiet except for the soft scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional whispered conversation between first-year Gryffindors struggling with their Transfiguration essays. Bill Weasley sat cross-legged on his four-poster bed, the crimson hangings drawn partially closed to create a private space where he could focus on something far more interesting than homework.
"Come on then, little fellow," he whispered, holding out a piece of bread he'd smuggled from dinner. "I know you're hungry."
The rat crouched in the corner of the makeshift enclosure Bill had created using his trunk and several textbooks. It was a peculiar creature—larger than most rats he'd seen around the Burrow, with graying fur that suggested advanced age and intelligent dark eyes that seemed almost... human in their alertness.
What made the rat truly distinctive, however, was the missing digit on its right front paw. Where there should have been a toe, there was only a healed stub that spoke of some long-ago injury or amputation.
"Percy's going to love you," Bill continued, his voice soft and encouraging. "He's always complaining about how I get to have all the adventures while he's stuck at home with the little ones. A pet rat will be perfect for him—something that's properly his, you know?"
The rat—which Bill had decided to call Scabbers, inspired by the creature's battle-scarred appearance—took a tentative step toward the offered bread. Its movements were careful, calculated, nothing like the quick, instinctive darting of wild rats.
Bill had discovered Scabbers just yesterday while exploring one of Hogwarts' many hidden passages. He'd been following a map drawn by some older students when he'd noticed movement in an alcove behind a tapestry of Sir Cadogan's more embarrassing defeats. Instead of running when Bill approached, the rat had simply sat there, watching him with those eerily intelligent eyes.
"You're not like other rats, are you?" Bill observed, breaking the bread into smaller pieces and scattering them closer to where Scabbers crouched. "Most rats would have scarpered by now, but you're sitting there thinking. What are you thinking about, I wonder?"
From beyond the bed hangings came the sound of his dormmates preparing for sleep—the rustle of pajamas, the thud of books being stacked, the whispered complaints about Potions homework. Bill paid them no attention, fascinated by his new pet's behavior.
Scabbers finally approached the bread, but instead of devouring it immediately, he sniffed each piece carefully before selecting the largest chunk. His eating was methodical, almost civilized—not the frantic gorging Bill expected from a hungry rodent.
"You've been living well, haven't you?" Bill murmured, studying the rat's relatively sleek condition. Despite his battle-scarred appearance, Scabbers was clearly well-fed and healthy. "Someone's been taking care of you, or you've gotten very good at taking care of yourself."
He reached slowly toward the rat, half-expecting it to bolt, but Scabbers merely watched the approaching hand with alert interest. When Bill's fingers made contact with the graying fur, the rat didn't flinch or try to bite—instead, he seemed to lean slightly into the touch.
"Definitely not a wild rat," Bill concluded, gently scratching behind Scabbers' ears. "You're used to people, aren't you? But you're hiding from someone or something. The question is what."
The rat's response was to clean his whiskers with his front paws—a gesture so mundane and domestic that it made Bill smile. Whatever Scabbers' history, he seemed perfectly content to be discovered by an eleven-year-old Gryffindor with a talent for finding trouble and a soft heart for strays.
"Mum always says we can't afford pets," Bill continued, his voice taking on the confidential tone reserved for sharing secrets with creatures that couldn't betray them. "Seven children and all the expenses that come with them. But Percy's been so miserable since I left for Hogwarts, writing letters about how unfair it is that I get to learn magic while he's stuck helping with the twins."
He pulled out his latest letter from home, unfolding the carefully preserved parchment covered in his mother's familiar handwriting. "She says he's been trying to hex the garden gnomes with kitchen utensils and follows Dad around asking questions about everything. He needs something special, something that's just his."
Scabbers had finished the bread and was now grooming himself with the kind of systematic attention to cleanliness that suggested either exceptional vanity or nervous habit. Bill watched, fascinated by the almost human-like precision of the rat's movements.
"The thing is," Bill continued, lowering his voice even further, "I'm not entirely sure you're just a rat. There's something about the way you look at things, like you're understanding more than you should. Are you?"
For a moment, Scabbers froze in his grooming, those dark eyes fixing on Bill with an intensity that made the boy's skin prickle. Then the rat resumed cleaning his whiskers, but Bill could swear there was something more deliberate about the action now—as if Scabbers were deliberately playing the part of an ordinary rodent.
"Well, magical or not, Percy will be thrilled," Bill decided, reaching into his trunk for the small cage he'd transfigured from a soap dish during Charms class. "Professor Flitwick would probably dock points if he knew I was using transfiguration for pet supplies, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him."
He began transferring Scabbers to the makeshift cage, surprised by how easily the rat allowed himself to be handled. Most wild animals required considerable coaxing before they'd tolerate human contact, but Scabbers seemed almost relieved to be captured.
"There we are," Bill said, adjusting the transfigured bars to ensure adequate ventilation while preventing escape. "Home sweet home until Christmas holidays. I'll make sure you get plenty to eat, and I'll write to Percy about you in my next letter. He'll probably start counting the days until I come home."
From his bedside table, he retrieved quill and parchment, already composing the letter that would make his younger brother's week considerably brighter.
*Dear Percy,*
*You'll never guess what I found in one of the secret passages yesterday! A rat—but not just any rat. This one's clever and friendly and seems like he's been around people before. I've decided to call him Scabbers because he looks like he's survived a few adventures of his own.*
*I know Mum says we can't afford pets, but Scabbers doesn't cost anything to keep. He eats scraps from meals and seems perfectly happy in the cage I made him. I was thinking he'd make the perfect early Christmas present for you. He's definitely smart enough to learn tricks, and he's got character. You'd love him.*
*I'll bring him home for the holidays and see what you think. If you like him, we can ask Mum and Dad if you can keep him. It would give you something special to take care of, and maybe something to show off to the twins when they start getting too full of themselves.*
*How are your hexing experiments going? Try not to accidentally curse anything important before I get home to help properly.*
*Your brother,
Bill*
*P.S. - Scabbers has a missing toe on his right front paw. Makes him look like he's been in battles, doesn't it? Very dignified for a rat.*
As Bill finished the letter, he glanced over at Scabbers, who had settled into a corner of the cage and appeared to be sleeping. But there was something about the rat's posture that suggested he was actually listening, processing every word of the conversation he'd just witnessed.
"Sweet dreams, Scabbers," Bill whispered, pulling his bed hangings closed and settling down for the night. "Percy's going to be so excited when he meets you. You're going to love the Burrow—lots of places to explore and plenty of people to fuss over you."
In his cage, Peter Pettigrew lay motionless, his rat heart beating fast with a mixture of terror and desperate calculation. A Christmas present for a six-year-old boy. A permanent home with a wizarding family. It was either the perfect cover or the most dangerous trap he could have possibly fallen into.
But what choice did he have? Running would only draw attention, and attention was the one thing he absolutely could not afford. Better to play the part of a beloved family pet than risk exposure by fleeing.
After all, what were the odds that anything could go wrong living with a family of children in a house full of protective magic?
As Bill's breathing deepened into sleep, Peter Pettigrew began planning his new role as the perfect pet rat, while trying very hard not to think about what might happen if anyone ever discovered that Scabbers was capable of far more than tricks and obedience.
In the distance, carried on the Scottish wind that rattled the castle's ancient windows, came the faint sound of violin music—a melody so complex and beautiful that it seemed to speak of plans within plans, of family obligations and carefully orchestrated revenge.
But Bill Weasley slept peacefully, dreaming of his brother's delighted face on Christmas morning, while beside him a traitor masquerading as a pet tried not to shiver at music that seemed designed specifically for his nightmares.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!