The Stormborn Chapter 25

The Knight Bus screeched to a halt with a thunderous bang just off a narrow, winding road nestled in the Scottish Highlands. Harry swayed on his feet as the triple-decker vehicle shuddered to a stop. The skeletal driver gave him a half-wave before vanishing behind the wheel again.

Harry stepped down onto the frosted gravel shoulder, his breath misting in the cool morning air. The world was still, save for the whispering wind rustling through pine trees on either side. The road that stretched ahead led toward a rise of hills and the thick forest beyond.

Highland Manor stood hidden in the valley beyond those hills, an elegant and isolated estate that Harry and Wanda had purchased years ago—a place of quiet, far from probing eyes and daily chaos. It was precisely why he’d chosen it as the place to confront one of the most vile secrets in magical history.

Glancing around to ensure he was alone, Harry reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a small brass cage, magically fortified and enchanted with dampening runes. Inside it, the animagus rat known as Peter Pettigrew was scrabbling at the bars with panicked fervor, his claws making shrill, helpless sounds as they scraped against the tal.

Harry raised one brow, unamused. “Don’t bother. It’s warded to hold dragons if it needs to. You’re not going anywhere.”

The rat froze for a heartbeat, its beady eyes catching a glimr of Harry’s face through the cloak’s hood. Recognition set in, and imdiately the rat began trembling violently, backing into a corner of the cage as if trying to disappear into the shadows.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, lifting the cage, “I look like him, don’t I?”

The reflection of Jas Potter’s face stared back from the glasses—hair tousled just the sa, eyes vivid green like Lily’s, and even the lightning bolt scar he had conjured onto his forehead using his morphing magic. All of it had been intentional. Pettigrew deserved to feel the guilt. Deserved to see what he had helped destroy.

Harry unshrunk his broomstick, mounted it with ease, and soared off toward the manor. The cool wind stung against his cheeks, but the rush of air and the stretch of landscape below him always brought a strange calm. The hills rolled in silence, glazed with morning frost, and Highland Manor’s silhouette gradually appeared through the lifting mist—its high gables, ivy-covered stone walls, and looming towers a familiar sight.

He touched down at the back of the property, disillusioning himself and the cage with a practiced flick of his fingers. He slipped through the rear warding fields and into the manor, heading straight for his room.

Once inside, he double-checked the enchantnts. No one was around. Wanda was still in Egypt on her curse-breaking expedition, Sirius and Arica were nowhere to be seen, and the manor itself was quiet.

Perfect.

Harry walked to his bed and knelt down, lifting the bed skirt. Carefully, he slid the cage beneath the bed and reactivated the additional layer of silencing charms. The rat hissed as if sensing what was coming.

This was the man who sold out his parents. Who let Sirius rot in Azkaban. Who hid like a coward in the pockets of a child’s robes while Voldemort’s shadow still lingered in the world.

“I should hurt you,” Harry muttered, his voice low. “I should hex every bone in your body, one by one, and hand you over to Remus.”

His hand hovered over the wand tucked into his belt.

“But I won’t.”

He stood up and stepped back, exhaling sharply. “I’m going to be better than you. That’s the difference.”

He turned away and walked to his desk, flopping into the chair. For a long mont, he just stared out the window. The sky was lightening with the first rays of dawn, and mist clung to the Highland fields below.

There was only one thing to do now.

He needed soone honest. Soone powerful enough to take Peter Pettigrew and ensure justice was served. Not soone from the Ministry's general pool of Aurors—not after what they’d done to Sirius.

No… he needed her.

Alia Bones.

Head of the Departnt of Magical Law Enforcent.

He’d heard about her more than once, from different people. Even Muggle-borns talked about her—how she stood up to pure-blood politics, how she had survived Voldemort’s attacks during the war, and how she’d rebuilt the DMLE with integrity in a ti when corruption had festered like rot through the Ministry.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Sirius had once said, a rare seriousness in his voice. “The kind that makes the rest of them nervous.”

That was what he needed.

Not a hero with a wand. A law with a spine.

Harry leaned over the desk and lit a small enchanted lantern. Its pale blue light filled the room.

He would write to her. Not just to inform her of Peter’s capture, but to offer proof. To explain everything.

But not yet.

First… he would sleep. His shoulders slumped, and the adrenaline that had carried him through the chase finally faded.

Tomorrow, he would write a letter that could change everything.

But tonight, Harry Potter had done what no adult, no Ministry official, no Auror had managed to do in thirteen years.

He had captured Peter Pettigrew.

And justice was coming.

Sunlight filtered gently through the tall windows of the Bones estate, casting golden streaks across the long oak dining table. The breakfast room was warm, with hints of cinnamon and toast wafting from the corner, where a house-elf nad Tippy was bustling around with a kettle far too large for his head.

Alia Susan Bones sat with her usual posture—back straight, robe neat, monocle polished to a flawless gleam. Her hair, already streaked with grey despite her relatively young age, was pinned into a tight bun, a style she never changed. Across from her sat her niece, Susan Bones, who was munching thoughtfully on a stack of toast slathered with orange marmalade.

“You're not wearing your pin,” Alia noted, glancing up from her copy of The Morning Prophet. Her voice was calm, but there was a trace of steel in it—there always was.

Susan blinked. “Oh! I—I left it on my cloak. Sorry, Auntie.”

Alia’s monocle glinted. “You're a Bones. You wear your crest with pride. We carry our na not for its nobility, but for what it has cost us.”

Susan looked down at her plate, cheeks flushing. “Yes, ma’am.”

Alia turned back to her paper, flipping a page with the precision of a scalpel. It was a quiet morning. No new reports from the Ministry, no public sightings of Sirius Black in weeks, and the last Death Eater roundup had yielded nothing but an old man hoarding cursed chessboards in Knockturn Alley.

For a mont, peace.

Then a flash of green fire erupted in the fireplace behind them, and a thud echoed through the room. Both Alia and Susan turned sharply.

A heavy, rune-inscribed box wrapped in thick magical parchnt and bearing an unmarked seal fell through the Floo onto the hearthrug. Beside it, a rolled letter tied in deep crimson ribbon hovered gently to the floor.

Tippy gasped. “Mistress! It—It’s co with no signature! No sender na!”

Alia rose imdiately, wand drawn in a swift motion. The monocle in her eye glowed faintly with detection charms.

“Step back, Susan,” she said calmly, circling the box.

Susan obeyed, standing near the door, half-curious, half-anxious.

Alia waved her wand over the package. “No curses. No hexes. No Dark signatures… but strong magic. Very old.” She turned her wand to the letter and whispered, “Revelio.”

The scroll shimred with enchantnts, but none malevolent. Alia reached down and picked it up, broke the ribbon, and unfolded the parchnt.

Her eyes began scanning the lines. They narrowed slowly, like a hawk locking onto prey.

The handwriting was clean. Controlled. Unmistakably young—but confident.

To Madam Alia Susan Bones,

Head of the Departnt of Magical Law Enforcent,

I do not write to you as a man of rank or house. My na is of no consequence here. All that matters is what I bring.

I have spent years—years—hunting this man. I have followed cold trails, broken spells, and risked exposure to shadows your Departnt has ignored for over a decade. This is not an accident. What you now hold in custody is not just a rat, not just a fugitive. He is a Death Eater who has lived among innocents, among children, wearing a false skin.

I captured him because I could not sleep knowing he still road free. But I did not hand him to the Ministry—not until now—because I needed to be sure.

Sure that I could place him in the hands of soone who still has a spine. Soone who has not forgotten justice. Soone whose heart beats not for political survival, but for truth.

You, Madam Bones.

This man, once thought dead, holds a truth that will shake the very bones of your institution. If given to the wrong hands—Fudge, Umbridge, Scrimgeour—they will bury it beneath bureaucracy and lies. But you… you have not yet bowed your head.

Inside this parcel, you will find more than a rat. You will find betrayal, cowardice, and a legacy of injustice rotting behind your bars.

I do not ask you to believe . I ask you to question him. Use Veritaserum. Bring your most trusted Aurors. And keep your wand steady.

P.S.

I have spent nearly a decade hunting him. My hands have bled for this justice. If you choose to hide what you uncover—if you let him vanish into silence—then know this: I know where you live.

Alia finished reading, her hand lowering slowly. Her monocle had begun to fog, and she removed it, wiping the lens with the cloth of her robe.

Susan, still pale, stared wide-eyed from the far side of the room. “That last line—was that a threat?”

Alia looked up, the fire from the hearth painting her face in gold and shadow.

“It was a warning,” she said coolly, “from soone who’s lost all faith in the system… but not in .”

She turned to the caged man—Peter Pettigrew—who had curled into a ball, trembling beneath the weight of silence and truth.

Alia’s voice sharpened. “Tippy, alert the Veritaserum vaults. And summon Dawlish and Proudstone. Discreetly.”

“Yes, Mistress Bones!”

She stared once more at the letter, running her finger across the closing words.

"I know where you live."

A smile—not of amusent, but grim understanding—touched her lips.

“Good,” she muttered. “So do I.”

The winter morning was still cloaked in fog as three Aurors apparated directly into the wards of Bones Manor, answering a silent summons from their departnt head. They were seasoned n, battle-worn and careful, yet nothing had prepared them for the peculiar order Alia Bones had given: Co ard, co silent, and co ready.

Inside the fortified west wing of Bones Manor—a place used only during war councils or high-risk interrogations—Alia stood beside a sealed stone table. Atop it sat a large, heavily enchanted iron cage, humming faintly with containnt magic. Within it curled a small, frightened rat, its whiskers twitching and black eyes darting at every movent.

The room itself was unlike anything in the Ministry: ancient runes embedded in the walls, each corner enchanted with Animagus warding, anti-apparition fields, and magical suppression arrays drawn from older-than-Ministry codes of magic. Not even a ghost could slip through unnoticed.

Auror Dawlish squinted at the cage, his wand at the ready. “Director, I must ask… is this a trap?”

Auror Proudmoore narrowed his eyes. “Why are we here for a rodent?”

Alia didn’t answer at first. She was pulling on black dragonhide gloves, her jaw tight with anticipation.

“I’ll explain,” she said finally. “But you’ll see it with your own eyes.”

She gestured toward the cage. “This is not a rat. This is an unregistered animagus. And a very dangerous one at that.”

Auror Dawlish blinked. “You’re certain?”

“I wouldn’t summon you at dawn for pest control,” she replied sharply. “On my mark, be ready to cast the Animagus Reversal Spell. No hesitation.”

The three Aurors glanced at each other, then drew their wands and took up positions around the cage. Alia raised her own wand and began to unravel the enchantnts binding the cage shut. A series of faint clicks echoed in the room as each lock released.

The rat began to screech, sensing the change in the air—panic rising in its tiny form.

“Now!” Alia barked.

Three spells hit the cage at once, golden-white cords of Animagus-reversing magic binding the rodent. The rat convulsed in a burst of sparks and smoke, its tiny fra warping, bones stretching and reshaping with sickening crunches. A mont later, the creature was no longer a rat, but a man—squat, balding, and trembling on the cold floor in ragged robes. His watery eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal.

He tried to bolt for the door.

“Stupefy!”

A stunning spell from Dawlish struck him squarely in the chest, hurling him backward. He crumpled to the floor with a grunt.

“Bloody hell…” muttered Proudmoore, stepping closer. “That… that’s—”

He stumbled back a step, paling.

“That’s Peter Pettigrew.”

Alia’s brows furrowed. “Pettigrew? No. Pettigrew was murdered. Eight years ago. By Sirius Black.”

Proudmoore looked visibly shaken. “No, Director. That’s him. I was at his Order of rlin ceremony. I saw his face on the Ministry wall of martyrs for years. That’s Peter Pettigrew—I swear it.”

Alia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then Sirius Black… never killed him.”

She stepped forward and rolled back the man’s tattered sleeve. Gasps rippled through the room.

Burned into the pallid skin of his forearm was the unmistakable brand of Voldemort—the Dark Mark, faint but still visible like a ghost beneath the skin.

Dawlish exhaled shakily. “A Death Eater. An unregistered Animagus. A man declared dead for almost a decade. rlin…”

Alia stood frozen for a mont, the full weight of what had just been revealed pressing down like stone.

The letter echoed in her mind.

“He holds a truth that will shake the very bones of your institution.”

And now she understood.

She turned to her Aurors, her voice cold and commanding. “I want this room sealed. I want Veritaserum administered. No one leaves. No one speaks of this outside this manor—not until I say so.”

Dawlish nodded stiffly. “Understood, Director.”

Proudmoore looked at the unconscious man with a mixture of disgust and fear. “What in rlin’s na do we do now?”

Alia Bones stepped back, her eyes still fixed on the unconscious Pettigrew. “Now… we dig up the lies this Ministry buried for eight years.”

Author's Note:

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