Harry's heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat, wild and relentless. There it was—Peter Pettigrew, plain as day, scuttling in the shadow of the West Tower.
For a moment, he couldn't move. Exhilaration flooded him like fire through his veins. After weeks of searching, of dead ends and dashed hopes, he had him. He'd finally found him.
But the rush was dangerous.
Breathe, he told himself, forcing his feet to stay rooted. Don't rush in. Think.
He let the breath out slowly, eyes locked on the Map as the little dot labeled Peter Pettigrew drifted along the narrow corridor. A plan began to form in his mind—not impulsive, not reckless. This time, there would be no mistakes.
Swiftly, Harry folded the Map and slipped it into his robes. He reached into his bag and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak, the silvery fabric shimmering like liquid moonlight. As he draped it over himself, a familiar comfort settled over his shoulders—this was familiar ground, and under the cloak, he moved like a shadow.
Before stepping forward, he raised his wand.
"Quietus."
The charm took hold immediately. His footsteps no longer echoed against the stone floors. He tested it with a few careful strides—silent. Perfect.
He set off toward the West Tower, moving quickly and quietly through the shifting corridors of Hogwarts. Harry stuck to the side passages and trick stairwells, his eyes alert and his heart steadying with every step.
He rounded the final corner, the corridor narrowing as it snaked around the base of the West Tower. His breath was steady now, each step deliberate, the adrenaline tempered by focus.
The Map had been right—something small and quick skittered along the edge of the corridor, hugging the shadows. Harry's eyes narrowed. There you are, you filthy coward.
It was a rat—small, greasy, and darting for the cover of a crack in the wall. But Harry knew better than to dismiss it as just another vermin. He dropped into a crouch, wand steady.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he whispered.
The spell hit true. The rat froze mid-scamper, its limbs snapping together as if bound by invisible ropes. It tumbled onto its side, still and rigid.
Harry exhaled. He moved swiftly, slipping the Invisibility Cloak from his shoulders and tucking it away. He conjured a length of enchanted rope with a flick of his wand, binding the small, stiffened form tightly.
"Stupefy!" he whispered again, a flash of red light enveloping the tiny rat form. Pettigrew was already frozen, but Harry felt better knowing he'd knocked him completely unconscious.
"Nice try, Wormtail," he muttered.
He glanced around—no sign of anyone. The corridor was empty, and the sounds of Hogwarts beyond these walls felt distant and muffled, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Carefully, he scooped up the bound rat and placed it into a small, unbreakable container he had charmed earlier—one that would keep Pettigrew securely contained
He felt a surge of triumph, but he forced it down. Don't celebrate yet.
With one last glance around, Harry threw the cloak back over his head and set off again—this time towards the Room of Requirement. If he could get there undetected, he'd have a safe place to interrogate Pettigrew.
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He reached the Room of Requirement—his mind picturing a quiet, secure space—and the door appeared. He slipped inside, the room reshaping itself into a small chamber with sturdy stone walls and a single, heavy wooden desk in the center. It felt like a fortress—exactly what he needed.
Harry carefully placed the container holding Pettigrew on the desk, eyes never leaving it. The rat was still and silent, but Harry wasn't taking any chances. He knew that Pettigrew had escaped too many times before, always slipping through the cracks.
He paced for a moment, considering his options. How was he going to get the truth out of Pettigrew? Even stunned and bound, the cowardly Animagus would find a way to lie or squirm his way out of a tight spot. Harry needed the truth—fast.
His gaze fell on the Half-Blood Prince's old Potions book, tucked among his supplies. An idea sparked: Veritaserum, the truth potion. Snape would never willingly hand it over, but maybe Harry could brew it himself.
He flipped through the tattered pages, scanning for instructions. The recipe was written in tight, cramped handwriting, annotated with notes and shortcuts.
The ingredients, though, were another matter. A few of them—like fluxweed and powdered bicorn horn—were carefully guarded in Snape's private stores. Harry would never be able to get them on his own.
Unless…
"Dobby," Harry whispered, and the little elf appeared with a quiet pop, eyes wide and eager.
"Harry Potter, sir! How can Dobby help?"
Harry crouched down, his tone urgent but gentle. "Dobby, I need your help with something important. I need a few potion ingredients from Professor Snape's stores. Can you get them for me—quietly?"
Dobby's eyes widened even more, but he nodded quickly. "Dobby can do that, Harry Potter! Dobby can be very quiet." He vanished with a pop.
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Now, all he could do was wait—and prepare.
When Dobby returned, his arms laden with carefully wrapped bundles, Harry's heart lifted. He quickly unpacked them, cross-referencing each item with the Half-Blood Prince's notes, laying them out with a precision born of habit.
He set up the small cauldron on the stone floor, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. His hands were steady, but his mind buzzed with anticipation and pressure. Veritaserum was advanced, and restricted—even small errors could render it useless or, worse, dangerous.
Still, Harry had brewed worse under worse conditions.
He read the recipe twice more, noting the terse comments scrawled in the margins:
* Don't rush fluxweed binding. Heat must remain low.
* Stir until the potion resists—then reverse once.
* Ignore book's version. Idiot used crushed asphodel.
Harry lit the flame beneath the cauldron, adjusting it until it hovered at a faint, controlled blue. He added the moonstone dust, letting it dissolve completely before introducing the fluxweed—freshly plucked, Dobby had somehow managed that. The fluxweed wilted into the mix, and the potion began to hiss.
He stirred exactly eleven times counterclockwise, counting under his breath. The surface shimmered slightly, then began to thicken, just as the Prince had noted.
Next came the powdered bicorn horn—dangerously reactive. Harry added it pinch by pinch, each grain melting in with a faint sparkle. The potion flared hot for a second. He leaned back instinctively—but the cauldron held.
A bitter scent filled the room. His eyes watered, but he didn't flinch. He added a sliver of valerian root, chopped against the grain, then whispered a stasis charm over the mix to hold the temperature steady.
The potion began to darken—not black, but a silvery-gray, like smoke captured in liquid form.
Then something shifted—he felt it more than saw it. The potion resisted the stir. That was the test. The Prince had written: "It fights you—only when it's nearly right. Reverse once. No more."
Harry reversed his stirring motion, just once, holding his breath.
For a terrifying moment, the potion convulsed, bubbles roiling on the surface—and then it settled, smooth and still. A soft shimmer rolled across the top, like moonlight on water.
Relief surged through him, but he held it at bay. Still too soon to celebrate. He decanted it slowly into a small glass phial, hands firm, stopper tight.
Veritaserum.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and set the phial on the desk, eyes fixed on the container holding Pettigrew.
He straightened, eyes cold and calculating. Every step so far had been deliberate—no room for error. He allowed himself a brief moment to review the plan, checking each step against the mental list he had constructed
Satisfied, he leaned forward, a glint of anticipation in his gaze.
"It's time to talk, Wormtail," he whispered.