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The Starlord - Chapter - 85
🕑 Added 2026-01-14 17:42:22 +0000 UTCBreakfast at Hogwarts had always been loud, but lately the noise grated on Harry’s nerves more than usual.
The Great Hall was filled with the familiar chaos of clinking cutlery, overlapping conversations, and the steady hum of hundreds of students waking fully into the day. Golden plates refilled themselves. Steam rose from bowls of porridge.
Somewhere down the Gryffindor table, Seamus was loudly arguing about Quidditch statistics with Dean, while Lavender and Parvati whispered intensely over something that looked suspiciously like a list of names.
Harry barely noticed any of it.
He sat with his elbows on the table, absently stirring his eggs, his mind far from breakfast. Frustration sat heavy in his chest, a tight knot that refused to loosen no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
Umbridge was still breathing.
Worse—she was still teaching.
That alone was enough to sour his mood, but it wasn’t the only thing gnawing at him. Every night he spent in the Chamber of Secrets ended the same way: calculations scratched out, theories revised, rune matrices collapsing in on themselves. The fuel problem refused to be solved. No matter how many books he read or how many ideas he tested, the starship remained stubbornly inert—beautiful, repaired, and utterly useless.
Neville was about to say something when the air above the tables suddenly filled with motion.
Owls.
Dozens of them poured into the Great Hall through the high windows, wings beating, feathers scattering as they swooped down toward their intended recipients. The noise level spiked instantly—excited shouts, groans, the thud of newspapers hitting tables.
Hermione’s owl landed neatly in front of her, the Prophet delivered.
She, seated to his right, was already halfway through the cover page. As usual, she had paid the owl its subscription coins without looking up, fingers moving automatically. The newspaper rustled loudly as she turned a page, her expression tightening almost immediately.
“Still awful?” Neville asked from across the table, reaching for toast.
Hermione huffed. “They’ve moved on from calling Dumbledore senile to calling him dangerous. And there’s an editorial implying that anyone who still supports him is either naïve or complicit.”
Harry snorted softly. “At least they’re consistent.”
Hermione glanced at him. “You’re awfully calm about it.”
“I’ve had worse written about me,” Harry replied flatly, finally taking a bite of his eggs. “Usually by the same people.”
Harry didn’t any letters.
He never did.
Most of his communication happened through enchanted mirrors—private, secure, and far less noticeable. Letters were… inconvenient. Traceable. Obvious.
So when a dark, unfamiliar owl dipped sharply and landed directly in front of him, he froze.
For a fraction of a second, the Great Hall seemed to recede.
The owl stared at him, unblinking, a small parchment tied to its leg with simple string. No crest. No indication of where it had come from.
Hermione noticed immediately.
“That’s new,” she said, peering at the bird. “You don’t usually—”
Harry reached out and untied the parchment quickly, his movements precise. The owl took off again without waiting, disappearing back into the swarm.
Neville leaned closer. “Who’s it from?”
Harry unfolded the paper.
There was only one line.
"We got the rat."
Nothing else.
No signature.
Just those four words, written in a hand Harry recognized instantly.
His fingers tightened around the parchment.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.
The frustration that had weighed him down all morning vanished in an instant, replaced by something sharp and electric. His pulse quickened. His thoughts snapped into alignment with terrifying clarity.
They had him.
Sirius. Remus.
Peter Pettigrew was no longer running.
Hermione was watching him closely now. “Harry?”
He folded the parchment carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
“It’s nothing,” he said evenly.
Hermione frowned. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
Harry met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Trust me. It’s better if you don’t know.”
Neville hesitated. “Is it… bad?”
“No,” Harry replied. Then, after a pause, “It’s necessary.”
He pushed his plate away and stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the stone floor.
Hermione straightened. “Where are you going? You’ve got—”
“Classes,” Harry said automatically. Then corrected himself just as smoothly. “Actually—Neville.”
Neville blinked. “Yeah?”
“If any professor asks,” Harry said, already shrugging on his bag, “tell them I’m sick. Headache. Fever. Whatever sounds convincing.”
Hermione stood as well. “Harry, you can’t just—”
“I can,” he said quietly, already turning away. “And I am.”
Neville nodded without hesitation. “I’ll cover for you.”
Harry didn’t thank him. He didn’t slow down.
He left the Great Hall with long, purposeful strides, slipping seamlessly into the flow of students heading toward their morning classes. By the time anyone thought to look twice, he was already gone.
He took the secret passage without hesitation, the one hidden behind an illusion of cracked stone and ivy, moving swiftly through corridors few students even knew existed. The castle seemed to sense his urgency; staircases aligned without resistance, doors opened just as he reached them.
Within minutes, the air grew colder, damper.
The smell of earth replaced stone.
Harry emerged near the Whomping Willow, timing his movement perfectly between its violent swings. He didn’t pause, didn’t look back, didn’t consider the consequences.
The tunnel swallowed him whole.
By the time he reached the Shrieking Shack, his mind was already racing ahead—calculating, planning, anticipating what he would find.
They had the rat.
And nothing at Hogwarts—not Umbridge, not the Ministry, not even the Headmaster —was going to stop Harry Potter from seeing this through.
The door of the Shrieking Shack creaked softly as Harry pushed it open—and nearly collided with Remus Lupin.
For half a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.
Then Remus smiled, genuine surprise lighting his tired face.
“Well,” he said warmly, “I certainly didn’t expect you.”
Harry barely had time to respond before Remus stepped forward and pulled him into a firm embrace. There was relief in it, and something else too—vindication, perhaps, or the quiet satisfaction of a hunt finally ended.
“I came as soon as I got the letter,” Harry said into Remus’s shoulder.
Remus released him, brows knitting slightly. “The letter? How did you know we were here?” he asked. “We didn’t tell anyone our location.”
Harry shrugged, casual on the surface, razor-sharp beneath.
“I didn’t. I was heading to Hogsmeade. From there I planned to go to Grimmauld Place. I assumed you’d be there.” His eyes flicked around the Shack. “So—what are you doing here? And where’s the rat?”
Remus’s expression shifted, something darker passing briefly behind his eyes.
“Upstairs,” he said, already turning. “Come on.”
The interior of the Shrieking Shack looked… different.
The place was clean—scrubbed, even. Old tables had been repaired. Windows cleared. A faint warmth lingered in the air, subtle magic keeping the cold at bay.
They climbed the stairs, and the sounds reached Harry before the sight did: the scrape of a chair, the clink of cutlery.
Sirius Black was sitting at a rough wooden table, eating breakfast like this was the most normal place in the world to do it.
The moment he looked up and saw Harry, the plate was forgotten.
“Harry!”
Sirius was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room in two strides and crushing Harry in a fierce, almost desperate hug.
“We got him,” Sirius murmured, over and over, voice rough with emotion. “We got him.”
Harry didn’t resist the embrace. He felt the tremor in Sirius’s arms, the years of rage and grief packed into that moment.
Sirius pulled back, eyes bright and a little wild, and jabbed a thumb toward a closed door at the far end of the room.
“He’s in there.”
Harry took a step toward it instinctively.
“I wouldn’t worry about him just yet,” Sirius said lightly, though the smile that followed didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s unconscious.”
Harry paused. “Unconscious?”
“Oh yes,” Sirius replied with grim satisfaction. “We’ve been… playing with him since yesterday. Let me tell you—he’s changed. A lot.”
Remus leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Harry carefully.
“He won’t talk,” Sirius continued. “No matter what I try. Pain, pressure, memories—he takes it all with his head held high. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg.”
Sirius chuckled softly, dangerously.
“I was hoping to break him before I kill him.”
Harry studied Sirius for a long moment. There was no humor in his gaze—only assessment.
“And what if he escapes?” Harry asked calmly.
Sirius scoffed. “He won’t.”
He gestured vaguely toward the closed door.
“Magic-dampening shackles. Custom-made. Suppress wand magic, nonverbal magic, and Animagus transformation. He can’t turn into a rat even if his life depends on it.”
Remus nodded. “We tested them.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “Good.”
Sirius’s expression softened slightly as he turned back to the table.
“You must be starving. Sit. Eat.”
Harry hesitated only a second before nodding. He realized then how empty he felt—not just physically, but mentally. The tension of the last minutes, the rush of leaving Hogwarts, the weight of anticipation—it all caught up to him at once.
He sat.
The breakfast was simple but filling—bread, eggs, tea. Sirius pushed a plate toward him, watching closely until Harry actually began to eat.
“You didn’t eat breakfast at Hogwarts?,” Sirius noted.
“No,” Harry admitted. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Remus joined them at the table, sitting across from Harry. For a few moments, they ate in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.
Then Remus spoke. “We found him in London.”
Harry looked up immediately. “Where?”
“A luxury restaurant,” Sirius said, lips curling. “Near the Thames. Of all places.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “In public?”
“Oh yes,” Sirius replied. “Expensive suit. Expensive watch. Acting like he owned the world.”
Remus took over. “He’d been living as a Muggle. Carefully. Money, identity—everything set up. He’d been using magic sparingly, enough to avoid detection. Smart. Cautious.”
Sirius snorted. “Cowardly.”
“How did you catch him?” Harry asked.
Remus’s gaze darkened. “We waited. Watched. Followed him long enough to know his house. And when we struck, we did it fast—no warning, no time to transform.”
Sirius smiled thinly. “He didn’t even see it coming.”
Harry finished his tea and set the cup down carefully.
“Is he conscious now?”
Remus shook his head. “Not yet.”
Harry stood.
“I want to see him.”
Sirius’s smile widened, sharp and eager. “Of course you do.”
He crossed the room and placed a hand on the door handle, pausing just long enough to glance back at Harry.
“Just remember,” Sirius said quietly, “whatever you see in there—he earned it.”
Harry’s expression didn’t change.
“I know,” he replied.
The moment Sirius opened the door, the smell hit him first—blood, sweat, iron, and old fear soaked deep into the walls of the room. The space itself was small, low-ceilinged, barely more than a storage chamber that had been reinforced with spells. Heavy runes glimmered faintly along the stone, old and brutal magic meant to hold.
Pettigrew hung in the center of the room.
Both his arms were shackled and chained upward, wrists bound to iron rings set directly into the ceiling beams. His feet barely touched the ground, forcing his weight to pull painfully against his shoulders. He was thinner than Harry remembered—leaner, almost wiry—no longer the soft, pudgy traitor who once hid behind stronger men. There was muscle now. Not much, but enough to tell Harry that this body had been used.
He wore only short Muggle trousers, torn and stiff with drying blood.
Marks covered him.
Whip welts crisscrossed his back, some fresh, some already darkening into angry purple scars. Blood seeped slowly from reopened wounds, sliding down his spine in thin lines. His chest bore burns—controlled, deliberate spellwork. Pain without mercy, without release.
Harry immediately felt the silencing charm layered thick over the room. Sirius hadn’t done this out of kindness. He hadn’t wanted anyone to hear Pettigrew scream.
Sirius stepped aside slightly, watching Harry from the corner of his eye.
There was something almost… hopeful in Sirius’s expression.
As if he expected judgment.
Harry didn’t give it.
Instead, he nodded—slow, approving—and drew his wand.
Sirius exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Harry flicked his wrist.
The wand cracked like a whip.
The charm lashed out, invisible but devastating, striking Pettigrew across the ribs with a sound like snapping bone.
Pettigrew jerked violently as consciousness slammed back into him.
His mouth opened in a hoarse, involuntary cry—
—and then he stopped.
Didn’t scream.
His breathing went shallow, controlled, teeth clenched so hard Harry could hear the grind. Sweat poured down his face, eyes squeezed shut, but no sound escaped him beyond a single, sharp exhale.
That… was wrong.
Harry tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“How long has he been like this?” Harry asked calmly.
“Since yesterday,” Sirius replied.
Remus spoke quietly from behind them. “Something changed in his behavior.”
Harry felt it too now.
The fear was still there—but buried. Suppressed. Wrapped tightly around something else.
Discipline.
Control.
That didn’t belong to Peter Pettigrew.
Harry stepped closer.
Pettigrew’s eyes snapped open.
They were not the eyes Harry remembered.
Gone was the darting, cowardly gaze. Gone was the constant search for escape. These eyes were sharp, focused—burning with hatred so cold it almost felt deliberate.
Recognition flickered across Pettigrew’s face.
Harry raised his wand slightly.
Then stopped.
“No,” Harry murmured. “This won’t do.”
He closed his eyes.
And reached.
Legilimency flowed from him like a blade—precise, surgical, honed by practice. Harry slipped past surface thoughts easily, expecting panic, fractured memories, terror.
Instead—
He hit a wall.
Dense. Layered. Reinforced.
Harry’s eyes snapped open in genuine shock.
“Occlumency?” he whispered.
Sirius stiffened. “What?”
“This is no amateur defense,” Harry said slowly. “This is master-level Occlumency.”
Pettigrew’s lips twitched.
Just barely.
Harry’s shock turned into something colder.
“Peter Pettigrew couldn’t do this,” Harry said flatly.
He stepped forward again.
“Let’s try something else.”
The Force answered him instantly.
Harry didn’t push this time.
He slipped.
A Force mind intrusion wasn’t brute-force Legilimency—it was invasion through alignment, through resonance. Harry let his consciousness slide into the cracks between thought and instinct, bypassing magical defenses entirely.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
He understood.
The mindscape was wrong.
Two sets of memories overlapped—but one was dominant, vast, ancient, burning with rage and ambition. The other was… residue. A shell. A husk.
Peter Pettigrew’s fear was there, yes—but it was drowned beneath something else.
Something furious.
Something that hated weakness.
Harry saw flashes:
A cauldron.
Screaming heat.
Failure.
A ritual collapsing in on itself.
Pain beyond pain.
A soul forced, screaming, into flesh that wasn’t its own.
And beneath it all—
Cold, endless rage.
Harry tore himself free.
He staggered back half a step, breath sharp, eyes blazing.
Sirius and Remus were on him instantly.
“What?” Sirius demanded. “What did you see?”
Harry looked at them.
Really looked.
Then he spoke.
“It’s not Pettigrew.”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Remus frowned. “Harry—”
“Peter Pettigrew is dead,” Harry said with absolute certainty. “He died at the graveyard. His soul didn’t survive the ritual.”
Sirius’s face drained of color.
Remus whispered, “Then… what is that?”
Harry turned back toward the bound figure.
Pettigrew—no, the thing wearing Pettigrew’s body—slowly lifted his head.
And smiled.
Harry’s voice dropped, deadly calm.
“This,” he said, “is Voldemort.”
The smile widened.
And for the first time since waking, the thing finally laughed—low, broken, and utterly unafraid.
