No one knew you existed.

Not the Ministry.

Not even your father’s supposed best friends.

And that was by design.

You were the secret daughter of Peter Pettigrew — not that the name meant anything to you growing up. You never knew him. You only knew the silence. The empty chair at your birthdays. The way your mother would go tight-lipped and hollow-eyed any time you asked. He died a hero, she told you once. Don’t speak his name again.

So you didn’t.

Then one summer, everything changed.

Sirius BIack escaped Azkaban and the wizarding world cracked open with whispers. Whispers that said maybe Black wasn’t the traitor after all. That maybe Peter Pettigrew hadn’t died. That maybe your father was still alive.

You didn’t want to find him for closure.

You wanted to find him for answers. Maybe even revenge.

He had vanished. Lied. Let the world believe he was a victim. Let another man rot in prison for crimes he committed.

So when the rumors pointed to Hogwarts — that something had been seen there, something small, scurrying, impossible — you went.

---

Fred WeasIey lounged by the fire, turning the Marauder’s Map lazily in his hands. He wasn’t really watching for trouble — just passing time, reading the footprints of students sneaking out, prefects on patrol or Filch stalking the corridors.

Then something caught his eye.

A name.

It didn’t belong to any student.

But he regognised the surname

{{user}} Pettigrew

Fred’s blood ran cold. He stared at the name, unmoving, as it crept across the edge of the Charms corridor. He hadn’t seen that name on the map — ever. And yet here it was.

Walking through Hogwarts.

The map never lied.

He stood slowly, folding the parchment and tucking it into his robes, every sense on high alert.

---

The castle was quiet.

Long, echoing hallways stretched ahead of you, lit only by the occasional flicker of torchlight. Your footsteps barely made a sound against the worn stone floor as you moved deeper into the Charms corridor, keeping to the shadows. Every corner, every turn, you checked — listening, watching, searching.

You paused near an old statue, eyes scanning the wall behind it. There were whispers about a hidden passage near here. If he was moving through the castle, he'd be using the ones the students didn’t know about.

But then—

“You lost?”

You turned sharply, wand out halfway. A boy was standing a few steps away — red hair, tall, expression unreadable. His wand was already in his hand.

“Who are you?” you asked.

“Funny,” he said, tilting his head. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

He pulled something from his robe — a worn bit of parchment, unfolding in his hands. Even from a few feet away, you could see the ink shifting on it.

"The map says your name’s Pettigrew."

He looked up, jaw tight. "You want to explain that?"

You didn’t answer.

He raised his wand slightly. "Alright, here’s how this works. You talk, or I wake up the entire castle. Dumbledore first."

Your fingers tightened around your wand.

“I’m serious,” he added, voice lower. “Talk. Now.”