"How is this possible?" Fudge stood up abruptly and bent down to examine the unconscious man.
The rage had drained from his voice, replaced by disbelief. He blinked several times, as though his eyes were refusing to cooperate. "He — wasn't he dead? Killed by Sirius Black? I saw that street myself, blown to pieces... only a finger left..."
He turned to Draco, bewildered. "How did you find him, boy?"
"As I said, Minister, it was speculation on my part." Draco gave a polite bow. "Call it instinct. Something about the rat always seemed off."
He had no intention of mentioning the Marauder's Map. A magical artefact of that calibre in a student's possession would be confiscated on the spot.
"Where did you come by this rat?" Professor Dumbledore asked Draco, cutting straight to the point.
"He asked us to bring it," Fred said. "The rat's actually Ron's pet. We borrowed it — thought we'd have a bit of fun with Ron, you know how it is. We ran into Draco on the way, got talking, and when the subject of the rat's age came up, we realised something wasn't right."
The twins had rehearsed their account with Draco on the walk over.
"How long has it been in your family?" A sharp glint appeared behind Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles.
"Eleven years," George said simply.
A ripple of sharp intakes of breath moved through the room. Fudge and the Aurors exchanged urgent, low-voiced words.
Behind Draco, Harry leaned toward the twins, still hopeful. "When you went to the dormitory to fetch the rat, did you happen to see a diary? I lost one recently—"
"What would we want with your diary?" Fred patted him on the shoulder with an expression of long-suffering patience.
"We barely manage our own," George added, spreading his hands.
"Frankly, it's not even fit to line a cauldron with," Fred said cheerfully.
"Eleven years..." Fudge murmured, sinking back into his chair. "The timing fits exactly." He seemed to recall something, and turned to the Auror who had Pettigrew bound. "Check his hands."
"A finger is missing." The Auror — Dawlish — raised the bound hand for the room to see.
Around the walls of the Headmaster's office, the portraits of former Headmasters had recovered from their initial shock and were now muttering to one another with great animation. On its perch, the large, deep-red phoenix let out an unsettled cry, as though offended by the presence of such a man in the room.
"I don't understand it," Fudge said, tugging at his hair in agitation. "If he's alive, why didn't he come forward? The Dark Lord has been gone for over a decade — why keep hiding?" He pulled free several strands and seemed not to notice.
"I suspect those answers can only come from Pettigrew himself," Dumbledore said. "Minister, given the gravity of the situation, I would recommend administering Veritaserum before he regains full consciousness and has time to compose himself."
"Yes, yes, of course," Fudge muttered. "Veritaserum is a controlled substance, but under the circumstances... we can see to the paperwork afterwards."
Dumbledore nodded and turned to one of the Aurors. "Kingsley, would you go down to the dungeons and ask Professor Snape to come up? Tell him to bring a Reviving Draught and Veritaserum." The Auror named Kingsley gave a brief nod and slipped out through the door.
Professor Snape arrived shortly after, black robes billowing behind him. He took one look at Peter Pettigrew, paused for barely a moment — his expression never shifting — then pursed his lips and crossed the room. Without ceremony, he pried the man's jaw open and administered both vials.
He straightened, turned, and surveyed the students who had somehow ended up in the Headmaster's office. His gaze lingered a fraction longer on Harry.
"I would suggest, Headmaster, that the events about to unfold are not suitable for students." His tone was dry. "Unless there is some pressing reason for them to remain, I am prepared to escort them out."
"Quite right," Dumbledore said mildly. "Let's proceed that way."
"Professor Dumbledore." Harry stepped forward, seeming to pull himself together. "I have something important I need to report to you. In private."
Dumbledore considered for a moment. "Then Harry will remain. The rest of you may go." He glanced at Fudge, who nodded gravely.
Draco understood why Dumbledore had kept Harry behind. What was about to be revealed concerned Harry more than anyone else in that room.
Peter Pettigrew had betrayed Harry's parents. And here Harry stood — mere feet from the man responsible — astonished that a rat had turned into a person, completely unaware that this creature was the indirect cause of everything he had lost.
If the roles were reversed — if someone had betrayed Draco's parents and brought about their deaths — he would want to know the truth. He would not want to live in ignorance.
The murderer of his mother and father was right in front of him, and he didn't even know it.
There was no greater cruelty than that.
In his past life, Draco had mocked Harry for exactly this ignorance, not understanding what it truly meant. Looking back now, he felt only a dull, heavy sorrow on Harry's behalf.
Why had no one ever told him? Why did Dumbledore persist in keeping these things from the boy — guarding the truth as though Harry were too fragile to bear it?
The children of other families who had lost parents in the war — they knew why. They grieved, yes, fiercely and terribly, but then they carried on. They carried their parents' memories, their beliefs, their love. That grief had shape and meaning.
Harry had none of that. He had grown up sealed off, like a creature kept under glass, knowing nothing of the world that had shaped him — not the cause of his parents' deaths, not the friends who had loved them, not the enemies who had hunted them.
That was not protection. That was something else entirely.
"Whatever you're doing, Professor Dumbledore," Draco thought, glancing sidelong at the serene old headmaster, "I won't let Harry keep living in the dark."
"Mr Malfoy, and Messrs Weasley," Dumbledore said warmly, as if entirely unaware of being scrutinised, "you have shown both wisdom and considerable courage today. Go and get some rest. You've earned it."
A graceful dismissal, as ever.
Draco gave a polite bow to Dumbledore and Fudge, and followed Professor Snape and the twins out into the corridor.
The sun had fully set. The wall sconces along the corridor cast a soft, unsteady light that shifted as they passed.
"Back to your dormitories immediately," Professor Snape said at the foot of the staircase, his tone clipped. "The castle is not safe after dark." He turned briefly to Draco. "As for you, Mr Malfoy — we will speak later." Then, without further comment, he turned and swept back up toward the Headmaster's office.
Even Professor Snape, it seemed, couldn't resist knowing what was about to happen in that room.
"Harry gets to stay," George said, with genuine envy. "We brought the rat. We have just as much right to know."
"I'm going to invent some kind of extendable ear," Fred said darkly, "so we can listen in from anywhere."
"Brilliant idea," Draco said. He had a feeling they actually would, one day.
"Right. We need to go find Ron—" Fred said, eyes brightening.
"He still has absolutely no idea his rat was a man in disguise." George smacked his lips in anticipation.
The two brothers laughed and set off at a leisurely pace in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, already relishing the conversation ahead.
Draco stayed behind, leaning against the window frame and looking out at the dark grounds. The Quidditch pitch was just a pale outline against the black. A quiet excitement stirred in his chest — not for himself, but for Harry.
There was something Draco was looking forward to telling him.
This boy, who had spent his first eleven years in a house where he was barely tolerated, needed to know: he had never truly been without family in the wizarding world. He had options he didn't yet know existed. He could choose something different — a home where no one would lock away his wand, no one would sneer at what he was.
Someone was about to undo a great deal of the damage inflicted by Harry's aunt and uncle. Legally. Fairly.
Harry needed to hear this — especially tonight, with the shock of Pettigrew's betrayal still fresh — that his godfather was alive.
Since his rebirth, Draco had gradually, reluctantly come to something he could only call sympathy for Harry Potter. Once he had understood the life Harry had actually lived before Hogwarts, the resentment he had carried through his past life had quietly, steadily dissolved. It was difficult to hate someone once you understood them.
These days, Draco found himself less inclined to resent Harry and more inclined to worry about him.
Harry's gaps in wizarding knowledge were troubling. He left his wand lying about carelessly, occasionally treating it more like a blunt instrument than a tool for spellcasting. He owned an exceptionally rare Invisibility Cloak and seemed largely indifferent to it, wandering the castle at night without wearing it. And he was far too willing to trust objects that showed signs of sentience — which was, in the wizarding world, one of the more reliably dangerous things a person could do.
It was no great mystery why Professor Snape found him exasperating. Without someone to properly guide him through the fundamentals, Harry blundered into trouble in ways that looked, to anyone who didn't know better, deliberately reckless.
Why had Dumbledore sent Hagrid to introduce him to the wizarding world? Hagrid was many things, but reliable guidance was not among them. Professor McGonagall would have been infinitely better suited.
As things stood, Harry had grown up with significant blind spots — and some of those blind spots were the kind that got people hurt.
But that was soon to change. His godfather, Sirius Black, had come from one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. He would know how to give Harry what he'd been missing.
Draco allowed himself a small, private feeling of satisfaction.
A long while later, the door to the Headmaster's office opened. Fudge hurried out, the two Aurors behind him with Pettigrew bound tightly between them.
"Utterly unbelievable," Fudge was saying, rubbing his forehead. "Sirius Black is innocent — and we've had him in Azkaban for eleven years. Do you have any idea what the Prophet will do with this? I need to get back to the Ministry immediately and reopen the case. I hope they've still got his wand on record; that would simplify things enormously. What a mess—"
"On the other hand, Minister, you've apprehended a Death Eater who evaded capture for over a decade," Kingsley said. "That's no small achievement."
"Well. Yes. There is that." Fudge brightened marginally and scratched his nose.
"And the matter of the Chamber of Secrets," the other Auror said. "Hagrid—"
"We'll deal with that presently," Fudge said, waving a hand and pulling out his gold watch. "Pettigrew takes priority. For all we know, he's been pulling strings behind these attacks from the start."
They swept past Draco and down the staircase, still talking in low, urgent voices.
Shortly afterward, Harry emerged from the Headmaster's office alone.
He looked dreadful. His eyes were red and swollen.
He had not been prepared for this. Ron's rat — Ron's scruffy, ancient rat — had been his enemy all along. The enormity of it had clearly overwhelmed everything else, including the matter of the diary.
"Harry," Draco said. "Are you all right?"
Harry gave him a weak smile.
"I told Professor Dumbledore about the diary. I told him the name in it — Tom Marvolo Riddle. He went very quiet and said he would look into it. He said the diary is dangerous and that if it's ever found, it must be brought to him immediately."
"That's not what I'm asking about," Draco said. "I'm asking about Pettigrew."
"He was a Death Eater," Harry said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor. He sounded hollowed out. "I never imagined he'd betray them. He was their friend. And then he—" He stopped. His eyes were glistening.
"Congratulations," Draco said.
Harry looked up sharply, his expression cycling from confusion to something closer to anger. "I can't believe you just said that. You're glad about this, are you?"
"No," Draco said.
"Harry. I want to congratulate you. Because you're about to have a family."
"What?" Harry's voice had gone flat, confused.
"Sirius Black. You know the name, presumably. He's your godfather. Your parents' closest friend. Now that the truth is out, he'll be exonerated — I'd expect it to happen quickly. Once he's free, he'll want to take care of you. You wouldn't have to go back to your aunt and uncle's." Draco kept his tone calm, watching Harry's face carefully.
"My godfather—" Harry said slowly. "I have a godfather?"
"Yes," Draco said. "A powerful one."
The fear that had been in the Death Eaters' voices when they spoke of Sirius Black — Draco remembered that clearly enough.
"Draco." Harry's voice cracked slightly. His eyes were filling again, but differently this time. "That's — that's the best news I've ever heard."
He stepped forward and tried to embrace him.
Draco immediately sidestepped.
"No, Harry." He held up a hand, looking genuinely alarmed. "Conduct yourself like a British wizard. We reserve that sort of thing for owls and broomsticks."
"Oh, shut up." Harry grabbed him anyway, hugged him firmly, and thumped him twice on the back. "Thank you, Draco. Honestly."
Draco stood stiffly with his arms at his sides, staring at the corridor wall, waiting for it to end.