Some time later, the self-satisfied Hero of the Wizarding World emerged from the Hospital Wing, a sealed letter to his relatives tucked safely into the pocket of his trousers—promised by the mediwitch the day before. With that secured, he made his way to breakfast. After the morning he'd had, not even facing Ronald or carrying out his planned exposure of the animagus rat—which the redhead dragged around with him in blatant defiance of all hygiene rules, even during meals—could dim the inner elation swelling inside the dark-haired boy or tarnish the joyful anticipation of the upcoming holidays.
Meeting Dinky, the Potters' house-elf who worked in the Hogwarts kitchens while awaiting the call of his young master, had undoubtedly played a role in Harry's lifted spirits.
There are no true coincidences in the world; every event is tethered by intricate threads of cause and effect, weaving the very fabric of the universe.
And so it was that the elf Madam Pomfrey had summoned—intending to assign him summer-long duties ensuring Potter took his potions on schedule—squeaked in astonishment:
"Ma'am, why didn't you summon Master Potter's elf?"
"I have an elf?" Harry asked. "What's his name?"
"Dinky, Harry Potter, sir! Please call him! He works in the kitchens. He's a good elf, Master Harry! Dinky's wasting away, he is, all 'cause his young master hasn't summoned him!"
Hermione, pale and grave with a determined expression fixed on her face, was waiting for him at the very entrance to the Great Hall. Her trembling hands and red-rimmed eyes immediately caught Harry's attention.
"Hello, Hermione!" he called out cheerfully, only to see her collapse in on herself at the sound of his voice. Her face crumpled with overwhelming emotion, and with a sob of pure relief, she threw herself at him, hugging her only true friend—without whom, as she had come to realise over the past two days, she likely couldn't bear to remain in this school… or in this world at all.
Over breakfast, Harry recounted an edited version of what had happened behind the curtain of fire. The hardest blow for Hermione came with the revelation that the thief of the Philosopher's Stone hadn't been Snape, but rather Professor Quirinus Quirrell—the timid Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. When Harry described the second face on the back of Quirrell's head, she gasped in horror and forgot to breathe. But it was when he told her how the professor—infested by the parasitic Voldemort—crumbled to ash the moment Harry's hands touched his skin, that she suffered a bout of breathlessness and began to faint.
Seeing this, Harry berated himself for being so careless. How could he have unloaded such a terrifying story on this sensitive girl who cared so deeply for him?
"There, there, Hermione. It's all right now, it's over. I'm fine, I promise. Please, hold on."
At that moment, only a couple of upper-year Ravenclaws were present in the Great Hall, utterly uninterested in a few Gryffindor first-years. But the doors soon burst open and a whole flock of Hufflepuff girls spilled in, followed by other students.
The situation was becoming unmanageable. So Harry placed a hand on Hermione's back and began to massage her in gentle circles, letting a faint stream of magic flow through his fingertips. The effect was immediate—her hiccups ceased, her breathing evened out, and her shoulders finally stilled.
By the time Neville Longbottom joined them a few minutes later, the only trace of Hermione's breakdown was the faint redness lingering in her eyes.
Breakfast was nearly over and the trio were chatting idly, trading ideas for the summer, when Ron Weasley burst into the hall like a ginger whirlwind and bellowed from the doorway:
"Harry! Dumbledore wants to see you in his office—he says it's urgent!"
Harry said nothing. He took another bite of his sandwich, sipped his tea, and cast a look of quiet disgust at his classmate—who had the gall to step over the bench, nearly shoving Neville off his seat just to plop himself down next to Harry.
Neville surrendered his place without protest, not even managing to rescue his half-eaten breakfast. Ron, completely unfazed, placed his beloved rat on the table next to Neville's plate and nudged the boy's remaining scrambled eggs toward it with a fork.
Harry glanced toward the staff table—it was full. Snape sat there, more sallow and brooding than usual, eating silently with stiff, deliberate movements. Internally, Harry appreciated the Potions Master's caution.
Dumbledore was there too, seated on his throne-like chair, staring unblinkingly at Harry with piercing, icy eyes. The boy could feel the headmaster's growing impatience as he waited for him to abandon his "silly tea party" and obey his summons.
Harry knew he couldn't avoid that meeting forever. But not now.
Now was the time for freedom—for the rise of Harry Potter.
He looked at the rat. Fury surged within him—pure, unfiltered hatred for the wretched traitor who had betrayed his family. No longer willing to delay, Harry reached out and tugged gently on the rat's tail.
The rat lifted its pointed, whiskered snout, and its beady eyes locked with Harry's—eyes that no longer hid behind the round lenses of his glasses. They quivered in fear.
"Oi! Don't do that! You're hurting Scabbers!" Ron cried with his mouth full, reaching out to protect his pet.
But he never made it in time.
The rat's scruffy body began to transform. It grew larger, its form reshaping itself; the tail vanished into its flesh, and moments later, a squat, naked man lay sprawled on the table, amid the cutlery and half-finished plates.
Screams erupted from the girls, who covered their eyes; boys leapt back in startled laughter. For a frozen moment, the teachers stared. Then they sprang from their seats and rushed toward the Gryffindor table.
"Peter Pettigrew! Look—it's Pettigrew! He's alive!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, racing ahead of the rest and casting a slew of silent spells on the stunned, motionless man. "Very much alive, in fact!"
The uproar that followed was like a miniature revolution. A squad of Aurors in burgundy robes stormed the Great Hall, led by a stern-looking older witch from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Upon seeing the paralysed form of Peter Pettigrew amid the breakfast spread, she shackled him with magical restraints and, despite Dumbledore's vigorous protests—he insisted, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, that he could conduct the interrogation himself—ordered her team to escort Pettigrew straight to the Ministry.
Harry's meeting with the headmaster was postponed indefinitely, as Dumbledore disappeared without a trace from the staff table moments after the Aurors' departure. The awkward conversation he'd been dreading was likewise cancelled. So Harry relaxed and went back to finishing his breakfast.
Ron—along with all of his older brothers—was taken in for questioning. A heavy silence fell over the Gryffindor table. The older students, arriving late, ate in contemplative quiet, each drawing their own conclusions.
After the hearty meal, the first-years decided to take a walk around the lake, the glorious sunshine lending itself to an easy morning of leisure.
Harry walked on Hermione's right; Neville Longbottom, by silent agreement, filled Ron's now-vacant spot on her left. Suddenly, the older students ahead parted to reveal Professor Snape striding briskly in their direction.
At the sight of his billowing robes, Hermione froze. Amused, Harry nudged her with his elbow and whispered:
"I met Quirrell there, not Snape, remember?"
"Yes… right. Sorry," she muttered, blushing.
Snape came to a halt in front of them, blocking their path. He cast a disdainful glance over their heads before barking:
"Potter, you were summoned to the headmaster's office! Why didn't you report, you insolent boy?"
Harry met the Potions Master's furious glare, focusing with his newly awakened sight.
And suddenly, he saw it.
So—what did the despised head of Slytherin reveal? Flickers of red like Ron, a faint film like Neville, and a dark, terrifying blot on the inner forearm of his left arm. A Mark. All this, layered atop a murky, swampy green aura devoid of any iridescent shine.
"Poor aura for a lonely man," Harry thought absently. "His fate never quite worked out, did it?"
Snape sneered once more at the son of his old school nemesis, performed a theatrical swirl of his robes, and marched off in the direction he'd come from.
"Hermione, will you come with me? I suspect the headmaster will want to speak with you too," Harry said softly. Then, turning to Neville, whose eyes glinted with curiosity but who remained politely silent, he added, "Neville, sorry—we'll have to skip the walk for now. We need to speak to Professor Dumbledore. Rain check?"
"Sure, Harry. If it's important. See you later," Neville replied with a nod, and turned to head back.
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