March 28th, 1994, Forbidden Forest Border, 12:47 AM
The clearing existed in that liminal space where Hogwarts grounds surrendered to the Forbidden Forest's ancient claim—neither fully tamed nor entirely wild. Moonlight filtered through sparse canopy, creating patterns of silver and shadow that shifted with the wind's passage. The air carried the scent of pine and damp earth, whilst somewhere distant an owl called its haunting question into the night.
Two figures stood at the clearing's edge, their forms obscured by darkness and deliberate positioning. Not quite hidden, but certainly not revealed. They moved with the particular stillness that came from long practice at remaining unnoticed—predators meeting in neutral territory, each aware the other carried fangs.
One was feline—sleek, black, larger than any natural cat with eyes that reflected moonlight in unsettling ways. The other smaller, grey-brown, unremarkable in every way save for the intelligence glinting in dark eyes that no rat should possess.
They regarded each other across the space between them with the wariness of old soldiers who'd fought on the same side but trusted nothing beyond shared self-interest.
The black cat spoke first, its voice carrying human cadence despite emerging from an animal throat—a violation of natural law made casual through years of practice. "Wormtail. How... nostalgic to see you scurrying about after all these years. Still clinging to the Weasley boy's pocket, I presume?"
The rat's whiskers twitched. When it responded, Peter Pettigrew's voice emerged—thin, nervous, carrying the particular whine of someone perpetually preparing to grovel. "Mordred. I didn't—that is, I wasn't certain you'd actually meant—the curtains, that display—"
"Was a message," Mordred interrupted smoothly. "Specifically designed to reach you, Wormtail. I knew you were in that dormitory. Could sense the stink of cowardice and betrayal permeating the air. But I couldn't quite locate which rat amongst the many vermin was truly Peter Pettigrew." The cat's tail swished with feline grace. "So I left a message. A demonstration of strength. A bet, if you will, that curiosity and fear would drive you to seek me out."
"You could have just—"
"Just what? Asked politely? Requested a meeting through proper channels?" Mordred's laugh was soft, dangerous. "We are Death Eaters, Wormtail. We communicate through displays of power and carefully calculated intimidation. I showed you I could reach the heart of Gryffindor Tower whenever I pleased. You understood the implications. And here you are."
Silence settled between them, broken only by wind through branches and the forest's distant sounds. They were dancing—a waltz of words and implications, each step measured, each movement carrying weight beyond its surface execution. Beautiful in its terrible precision. Deadly in its underlying purpose.
Peter shifted his weight, his rat form conveying nervousness through every movement. "I remember you, Mordred. From before. Before... everything fell apart. You were one of the Dark Lord's followers. They said you could See. That you knew things before they happened."
"They said correctly." Mordred settled into a sitting position, his cat form adopting posture that suggested casual confidence. "I am a Seer, Wormtail. Competent enough for our purposes. And I have Seen something rather interesting about you."
"What?" The question emerged too quickly, too eager, betraying Peter's desperate need for information.
"The Dark Lord will return," Mordred said flatly. "Not might. Not possibly. Will. I have Seen it across multiple probability branches with such consistency that certainty is achieved. Lord Voldemort will rise again, and when he does, he will be stronger than before."
Peter's rat form went very still. "That's—that's not possible. He's gone. Dead. Harry Potter destroyed him—"
"Harry Potter destroyed his body," Mordred corrected. "The Dark Lord prepared for such eventualities. Made arrangements. Ensured that death itself could not claim him permanently." His cat eyes glinted with something approaching amusement. "And my divination reveals that his return will involve two specific elements: you, Wormtail. And young Harry Potter."
The rat made a sound—half-squeak, half-gasp. "Me? I'm—I'm just—I've been hiding for twelve years—"
"Precisely." Mordred's voice carried cruel satisfaction. "Hiding. Preparing. Surviving. All whilst remaining close to the one person our Lord would most desire to claim. You've positioned yourself perfectly, whether through conscious planning or unconscious instinct for self-preservation."
Peter was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted—less whining, more calculating. "You're saying the Dark Lord's return depends on me. On something I'll do."
"Something you will do," Mordred confirmed. "Though whether willingly or through circumstance remains variable across the probability branches I've observed."
Memory surfaced in Peter's rat mind—faces of Death Eaters long dead or imprisoned, gatherings beside the Dark Lord and whispered predictions that shaped strategy. The Seer had been valued, trusted in ways few others achieved. If Mordred said he'd divined something, it carried weight.
But doubt remained. Peter had spent twelve years surviving through paranoia and careful verification of every claim, every promise, every supposed certainty.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Peter asked carefully. "How do I know this isn't some elaborate trap? Sirius is dead, yes, but was I, at least to the public, still, there could be others hunting me. Even within The Ministry, or—"
"Would you like proof, Wormtail?" Mordred interrupted, his voice gone soft and terribly gentle. "Shall I recite for you the events of October 31st, 1991? Not the official story. Not what the Ministry believes. But what actually happened?"
Peter's entire body tensed.
"You were Secret Keeper," Mordred began, his words falling like stones into dark water. "Not Sirius Black, as everyone believed. James Potter suggested the switch at the last moment—make Sirius the obvious target whilst you, unassuming Peter, held the true secret. Brilliant misdirection. Would have worked, too, if you hadn't already been ours."
"I never—" Peter started.
"You'd been feeding information to the Dark Lord for months," Mordred continued remorselessly. "Small things at first. Meeting locations. Order members' movements. Nothing too obvious. Nothing that would draw suspicion. But enough to prove your value. Enough to ensure that when the time came, you'd choose survival over loyalty."
Peter said nothing. Couldn't say anything. Because every word was true.
"You gave him the Potters' location," Mordred said. "Walked straight to our Lord and handed him the secret you'd sworn to protect. Sent him to Godric's Hollow where James and Lily waited, trusting in magic they thought made them untouchable. You condemned your friends to death for the promise of safety and favour."
"The Dark Lord would have won," Peter whispered. "Everyone said so. He was unstoppable. I just—I chose the winning side—"
"You chose yourself," Mordred corrected. "As you always have. As you always will. Which is precisely why my divination concerning your immediate future is so... troubling."
"What do you mean?"
"You're going to die, Wormtail." Mordred's voice carried no particular emotion. Simply stating fact. "Soon. Within the year, possibly within months. I've Seen your death across multiple probability branches. Different methods, different circumstances, but the same end result. Peter Pettigrew dies."
Horror flooded through Peter's rat form. "No—no, that can't be right—your divination must be wrong—"
"I don't make mistakes in my specialty, Wormtail. You will die." Mordred paused, letting that sink in. "However. Fate has proven remarkably... flexible... regarding your continued existence. You should have died in Azkaban. Should have been caught during your years in hiding. Should have been discovered when Sirius Black escaped and came hunting. Yet here you remain. Alive. Free. Protected by circumstance and timing."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that whilst I've Seen your death, I've also Seen variations where you survive considerably longer. Where you live to see the Dark Lord's return. Where you stand at his side when he reclaims his power." Mordred's tail swished. "Those variations all share one commonality: you leave Hogwarts. Tonight. With me."
Peter's mind raced. Leave the safety of the castle? Abandon the protection of hiding in plain sight? Risk exposure after twelve years of careful concealment?
But if Mordred spoke truth—if the Dark Lord truly would return, truly would punish those who'd abandoned him whilst rewarding those who'd remained faithful—
"Take me to him," Peter said, his voice cracking with desperate eagerness. "To the Dark Lord. If he's out there, if he's waiting—take me to him now—"
"Patience," Mordred said. "There's something else we must accomplish first. Something that will hasten our Lord's return significantly."
"What?"
"We need to capture Harry Potter."
Silence. Then Peter's frightened squeak. "Capture—you can't be serious—the castle's full of Aurors now—Dumbledore's watching—and Potter himself, he's not some helpless child—"
"Which is why we wait," Mordred said smoothly. "We plan. We prepare. And when the moment comes—when the opportunity presents itself exactly as I've Seen it will—we take him. Deliver him to our Lord. Provide the final component necessary for resurrection."
Peter wanted to argue. Wanted to flee. Wanted to return to Ron Weasley's pocket and pretend this conversation had never happened.
But Mordred had Seen. Had divined Peter's death unless he acted. Had promised salvation through service to the Dark Lord.
And Peter Pettigrew had never been capable of choosing courage over survival.
"What do I need to do?" he asked quietly.
Mordred's cat form seemed to smile in the moonlight. "For now? Return to your hidey-hole. Continue playing the pet rat. Watch. Wait. When the time comes, I will find you again. And together, we will deliver Harry Potter to Lord Voldemort."
The rat hesitated, then scurried into the underbrush, disappearing toward Hogwarts' distant lights.
Mordred remained in the clearing, his feline eyes tracking Peter's retreat with cold satisfaction.
'Cowards are so wonderfully predictable,' he thought. 'Tell them they'll die, offer them a path to survival, and they'll do anything you ask. Wormtail will serve his purpose. And young Potter...'
He looked toward the castle, where Harry Potter slept unaware of the trap slowly closing around him.
'Your fate approaches, Boy Who Lived. Prophesied and inevitable. Soon.'
June 15th, 1994, Hogwarts Grounds, 3:47 PM
Exams had finally, mercifully, concluded.
The last weeks of term had carried particular weight—students hunched over parchment in the Great Hall whilst professors patrolled the aisles with eagle-eyed vigilance, the scratch of quills and occasional frustrated sighs creating symphony of academic stress. The presence of Aurors patrolling the grounds had added strange comfort; their visible vigilance against Mordred Slythra somehow made the more immediate threat of failing Transfiguration seem manageable by comparison.
Now, with the final exam completed—Hermione's Arithmancy practical, which she'd emerged from looking simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated—the group had claimed their usual spot beneath the beech tree by the lake.
Harry stretched out with his back against the trunk, Jasper perched on his shoulder preening contentedly. Luna sat pressed against his left side, her fingers playing with the Blooming Mirrored Lotus bracelet that had shifted to warm gold tones suggesting contentment. Ron sprawled across a root looking utterly relieved to have survived another year of academics. Hermione had produced a book—because of course she had—whilst Draco occupied his usual slightly-separated position with aristocratic grace.
"Well," Ron said, breaking the comfortable silence. "We survived. Again. Despite everything trying to kill us or drive us mad with studying."
"Speak for yourself," Hermione said without looking up from her book. "Some of us enjoyed the intellectual challenge."
"You're mental," Ron said affectionately. "Completely, utterly mental."
"How do you think you did, Harry?" Draco asked with genuine curiosity. "You took—what, nine subjects? Ten?"
"Eleven," Harry corrected. "Though some I only attended when schedules aligned. Rest I covered through self-study and Dad's supplementary materials."
"Eleven," Ron repeated, his voice carrying something between awe and horror. "You sat eleven different exams. Voluntarily."
"I have a Mind Palace," Harry said. "Makes information retention considerably easier. Plus Dad's training methods focus heavily on practical application rather than pure memorization. Helps translate theory into actual competence."
Hermione finally looked up from her book, her expression mixing amazement with competitive calculation. "You know, I've been trying to figure out how you managed perfect scores across that many subjects. The Mind Palace explains some of it, but the sheer breadth—Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, standard curriculum, plus all the combat training your father provides—it's genuinely astounding."
"Not all perfect," Harry said. "Divination was... questionable. Trelawney seemed pleased, but I'm not convinced she actually knows what she's grading."
"Speaking of questionable scores," Draco said, turning his attention to Ron with expression of amused curiosity, "how did you manage, Weasley?"
Ron's chest puffed slightly. "Did alright, actually. Required subjects all passed with decent marks. Electives were... adequate."
"Adequate," Hermione repeated. "That's one way to describe scraping by with Acceptable grades."
"Hey, Acceptable means I passed! That's what matters!"
"You do realise," Draco observed dryly, "that Professor McGonagall has been supervising your study habits since first year? Specifically to ensure your Quidditch participation didn't result in academic disaster?"
Ron's proud expression faltered. "She—what?"
"McGonagall's been monitoring your homework completion, requiring proof of study time, and threatening Quidditch suspension if your grades slipped too far," Hermione confirmed. "She told me second year when I asked how you managed to stay on the team despite never appearing to study."
"That's—" Ron's face had gone red. "—that's just sensible academic oversight! Shows she cares about student success!"
"Shows she knew you'd fail out without external pressure," Draco corrected. "But at least you passed. That's more than some manage."
Harry grinned at Ron's sputtering whilst Luna observed the exchange with her usual dreamy expression.
"What about you, Draco?" Hermione asked. "I assume perfect marks across the board?"
"Naturally," Draco said with casual arrogance that somehow avoided being genuinely offensive. "A Malfoy doesn't accept less than excellence. Plus, unlike certain Gryffindors, I actually attend my classes and complete assignments without requiring professorial intervention."
"And Luna," Harry said, squeezing her hand gently, "even though you're only second year—how were your exams?"
"Fine," Luna said simply. "The Nargles were quite helpful with Herbology. They know which plants are which."
Ron opened his mouth—probably to question Nargle-assisted studying—then apparently decided not to engage with Luna's particular logic. "Well, I think we all did brilliantly. Given everything that happened this year, just surviving deserves celebration."
"Speaking of brilliance," Hermione said, her expression shifting to something smugly satisfied, "I should mention that I received my marks this morning."
"Already?" Ron asked. "How—"
"Professor McGonagall posts results early for students who request them," Hermione explained. "I like to know immediately rather than waiting for owl delivery."
"And?" Draco prompted, though his tone suggested he already knew where this was heading.
"Perfect marks," Hermione said, trying and failing to suppress her grin. "Every subject. Outstanding across the board."
"Every subject?" Ron repeated. "Even—"
"Even Divination," Hermione confirmed triumphantly. "Apparently my essay on probability interpretation versus genuine precognition impressed Professor Trelawney despite being fundamentally critical of her methodology."
"You got perfect marks in a subject whose teacher you openly mock," Draco observed. "That's actually rather impressive."
"The only subject I dropped was Muggle Studies," Hermione continued, "and that was for obvious reasons. Taking a class about my own culture seemed redundant. But everything else—Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, History, Defence, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and yes, even Divination—all Outstanding."
Ron groaned theatrically. "You're going to lord this over us for the rest of term, aren't you?"
"Absolutely," Hermione said cheerfully. "I've earned the right."
But her smile was genuine, and Ron's complaint carried no real heat. He was proud of her, obviously. They all were.
"Well done, Hermione," Harry said sincerely. "Genuinely impressive. Especially managing Divination—I know how much you struggled with taking that seriously."
"Your father's book helped," Hermione admitted. "Understanding the theoretical framework made Trelawney's theatrical approach easier to navigate. I could separate genuine divination principles from her... creative interpretation."
They settled into comfortable silence, watching afternoon sun paint the lake in shades of gold whilst other students enjoyed their freedom from academic pressure.
Then Luna stiffened slightly against Harry's side.
He felt it immediately—the subtle shift in her posture, the way her breathing changed, the particular quality of alertness that suggested she'd noticed something beyond normal perception.
"Luna?" Harry asked quietly. "What's wrong?"
"Professor Trelawney," Luna said, her voice carrying that distant quality. "During my Astronomy exam. She was... different."
"Different how?" Hermione asked, her earlier smugness replaced by sharp attention.
"Her temperament was off," Luna said slowly, as though working through observations she didn't quite understand. "Usually she's all dramatic gestures and breathy predictions. But for a moment—just a moment—she went very still. Her eyes changed. And she spoke."
"What did she say?" Draco leaned forward, his aristocratic distance abandoned.
Luna's grey eyes met Harry's, and he saw genuine concern beneath her usual dreaminess. "She said the Dark Lord's servant would return to him that night. And that Lord Voldemort would rise again, stronger than before."
Silence crashed over the group like physical weight.
"That's—" Ron started, then stopped. "—that's just Trelawney being dramatic, right? She makes predictions constantly. They're never real."
But his voice lacked conviction.
"She makes one or two genuine predictions per lifetime," Hermione said quietly, her hand finding the copy of Ethan's book she carried everywhere. "According to this—according to proper divination theory—most 'seers' are frauds or possess very minor intuitive abilities. But occasionally, very rarely, they make real prophecies. True Sight breaking through years of performance."
"How do you tell the difference?" Draco asked.
"The seer themself often can't," Hermione said. "Genuine prophecy feels different—takes them over completely, speaks through them rather than from them. They might not even remember it afterwards."
Harry was thinking about Luna's observation—Professor Trelawney's temperament was off. Her eyes changed. The way a True Seer's eyes might change when prophecy claimed them.
He thought about his father's warnings regarding divination's limitations and reliability. About the probability branches Ethan could See but never claimed as certainty. About the difference between prediction and prophecy.
And he thought about Voldemort. About the war his parents had died fighting. About Mordred Slythra lurking in Hogwarts' shadows with purposes Harry only partially understood.
'I need to ask Dad about this,' Harry thought with sudden urgency. 'Need to know if Trelawney's prediction—if it was real—if it matches what he's Seen—'
"Harry?" Luna's voice pulled him from spiraling thoughts. "You've gone very still."
"Just thinking," Harry said quietly. He squeezed her hand. "Luna, during Trelawney's prediction—did it feel different to you? Than her usual performance?"
Luna considered this carefully. "Yes. Like watching someone else speak through her mouth. Like she was a puppet whose strings had been claimed by something larger."
That... was not reassuring.
"Well," Ron said with forced cheer that fooled absolutely no one, "at least if You-Know-Who does come back, we'll be ready. Right? We've got Dumbledore, and your dad, and all the Aurors, and—"
He trailed off, his optimism crumbling beneath the weight of genuine fear.
Draco's expression had gone carefully neutral—the aristocratic mask he wore when processing information he couldn't quite control. "Trelawney's predictions are historically unreliable. One possibly genuine prophecy doesn't override years of theatrical nonsense. We should treat this with appropriate skepticism."
But his voice suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
Hermione clutched her book, her analytical mind clearly warring with the implications of what genuine prophecy might mean. Half-concerned because the theoretical framework suggested this could be real. Half-skeptical because accepting it meant accepting Voldemort's return was inevitable.
Harry looked at his friends—at Ron's forced cheer, at Draco's careful mask, at Hermione's intellectual struggle, at Luna's distant awareness—and made a decision.
"We don't panic," he said firmly. "We don't assume the worst. We tell the appropriate adults—Professor Dumbledore, Uncle Remus, my father—and let them handle it. That's what they're here for."
"And if it's real?" Ron asked quietly. "If Trelawney actually predicted You-Know-Who's return?"
Harry met his best friend's eyes. "Then we face it. Together. Same as we've faced everything else."
The afternoon sun continued its lazy descent toward evening. Students laughed and celebrated across the grounds, oblivious to the conversation beneath the beech tree. Somewhere in the castle, Professor Trelawney probably remembered nothing of her prophecy.