"Merlin's beard!" Peter Pettigrew exclaimed, his voice cracking with panic as he scrambled to his feet with all the grace of a startled rabbit. His eyes were wide as saucers, darting frantically between the four faces in front of him as if trying to determine whether this was reality or some nightmare. "You... what are you doing here?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implications that only Adrian truly understood. Peter's hands shook visibly as he pressed them against his rumpled robes, attempting to smooth down cloth that bore the wrinkles of restless sleep and constant anxiety.
Remus gave his old friend a smile of such genuine warmth that it would have melted the heart of anyone who didn't know the true nature of the man in front of them. "Merry Christmas, Peter."
Peter's face underwent a series of involuntary twitches, as if his facial muscles couldn't quite decide which emotion to display.
Fear clashed with forced gratitude, suspicion battled with the desperate need to appear grateful for this unexpected visit. When he realized that none of his visitors were making any sudden movements—no wands drawn, no accusations flying—he began nervously rubbing his chubby hands together.
"Oh... oh... this is such a surprise," He stammered.
"A pleasant surprise, I hope, Peter," Dumbledore said warmly, though his eyes never left Peter's face.
With a casual wave of his wand, he filled the coffee table into a veritable feast. Platters of roasted meats appeared alongside bowls of steaming vegetables, fresh bread appeared with butter that seemed to glow golden in the firelight, and pastries arranged themselves in tempting displays.
"I asked the house-elves to prepare some additional dishes for our little gathering."
Peter's gaze swept across the sudden abundance of food, and some of the rigid tension in his shoulders visibly relaxed. The sight of real food seemed to remind him that this was indeed meant to be a social visit rather than an interrogation.
Adrian observed this entire exchange with concealed amusement. Peter was quite literally scared half to death by this "surprise" visit, and Adrian could well imagine the conflicting emotions currently raging in Peter's mind.
As the true traitor behind the Potters' betrayal, Peter was destined to live in a continuous state of terror—caught between the fear of discovery and the equally paralyzing fear of Sirius Black's potential revenge.
Each day brought the possibility that his lies might unravel, exposing him as the traitor he truly was. This fear would bother him endlessly until the inevitable moment when truth finally emerged from the shadows.
Rather than immediately reaching for the tempting feast in front of him, Peter turned toward Dumbledore with eyes that held the desperate hope of a drowning man grasping for driftwood. His voice trembled as he asked, "Professor, is there... any news about Black?"
Dumbledore shook his head slowly, his expression looking serious.
Peter's already pale face seemed to lose what little color remained, his eyes dimming like candles guttering in the wind. The lack of news was almost worse than bad news.
Professor McGonagall, her stern features softened by genuine concern, leaned forward slightly.
"Don't trouble yourself unnecessarily, Peter," She said in a gentle tone. "The Aurors are stationed at Hogwarts now. You couldn't be safer anywhere else in the wizarding world."
"I... I know, but..." Peter's fingers began a nervous dance, twisting together and pulling apart in a cycle of anxious movement. His voice grew even weaker. "Perhaps I should consider leaving Britain? If I were far away—in America, or Australia perhaps—Black definitely couldn't find me."
Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed slightly.
"An excellent idea, Peter," Dumbledore replied carefully, his tone remaining warm. "However, I remain convinced that Hogwarts represents your best chance of safety. The castle's protections are ancient and powerful, and you have friends here who care about your wellbeing."
The gentle firmness in Dumbledore's voice made it clear that this was not truly a suggestion but rather a politely phrased command. Peter was not going anywhere.
"Al... alright," Peter whispered, his voice growing smaller with each passing moment. His gaze began to wander around the room, never settling on any one person for more than a few seconds, as if long eye contact might somehow reveal his innermost secrets.
Remus, moved by what he interpreted as his old friend's understandable terror, reached out to pat Peter's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. The contact made Peter flinch slightly, but he forced himself to remain still as Remus selected a plate of sausages from the feast and pressed it into his trembling hands.
"We'll protect you, Peter," Remus said with fierce loyalty, his face earnest with determination. "No one else knows about this hiding place, and he will never find you here. You have my word on that. All you need to do is trust us."
Peter accepted the plate with hands that shook so badly the sausages nearly slid off. His response came out almost as a sob: "Thank you, Remus... I don't know what I'd do without friends like you."
Adrian was beginning to understand the full complexity of the situation.
Peter's obvious desperation to leave Hogwarts, combined with Dumbledore's equally obvious determination to keep him close, showed a clear picture. The headmaster suspected something—perhaps not the full truth, but enough to warrant keeping Peter under what amounted to luxurious house arrest.
While the others focused their attention on comforting the increasingly agitated Peter, Adrian took advantage of the distraction to lean close to Dumbledore's ear, "You suspect there's something wrong with Peter's story, don't you?"
Dumbledore's response was equally quiet. "Recent events have illuminated certain... inconsistencies that I had not previously noticed."
"Such as?" Adrian pressed, his curiosity genuinely piqued despite his knowledge of the truth.
Dumbledore smiled slightly but didn't answer. He just shook his head almost subtly, clearly not ready to share his suspicions even with Adrian.
Even without clear confirmation, Adrian could see the understanding in Dumbledore's eyes. The old wizard had begun connecting dots that led to uncomfortable conclusions.
Looking at Peter now, Adrian could almost visualize the word "DANGER" floating above the man's head in blazing red letters.
The remainder of their "Christmas celebration" passed in uncomfortable tension. Peter barely touched the magnificent feast in front of him. Every few minutes, his eyes would dart toward the door as if calculating escape routes, while others attributed his nervousness to trauma.
When sufficient time had passed to satisfy the requirements of politeness, the group began to make their farewells.
As they stepped back through the concealed doorway and watched the wooden door fade back into solid stone, Adrian found himself genuinely impressed by the castle's hidden architecture. Even with his knowledge of Hogwarts, he had never suspected the existence of this particular secret chamber.
It seemed the secrets of Hogwarts Castle were inexhaustible.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall departed first. This left Adrian alone with Remus, who had lingered behind with the air of someone wrestling with heavy thoughts.
Remus gazed at the darkening sky outside the window and suddenly sighed deeply. "When will this all end?"
As Peter's friend and the person most invested in his wellbeing, Remus was undoubtedly carrying the heaviest emotional burden.
"I suspect it will conclude sooner than you might expect," Adrian replied thoughtfully. "Black won't remain in hiding indefinitely. He'll emerge from the shadows when he believes the moment is right, probably when he can no longer resist the pull of his objectives."
"I certainly hope so," Remus said with a weary sigh.
As they prepared to part ways, Adrian withdrew a small crystal vial from his robes. The container held perhaps two ounces of liquid that seemed to glow with a rich, dark gold.
"What is this?" Remus asked, accepting the vial.
"The third iteration of my purification potion," Adrian explained. "I'd like you to take it during the next full moon."
Remus immediately tucked the vial into his robes. "Adrian, the current potion is already miraculous. I have complete control over my actions during transformation now—something I never dreamed possible."
"Control is merely the first step," Adrian replied, shaking his head with determination. "Our ultimate objective isn't simply management of your condition—it's complete mastery over it. And perhaps, eventually, elimination of the lycanthropic infection completely."
"Alright, you're right," Remus agreed.
Since Adrian wanted to continue the research, he would actively cooperate.
Perhaps someday they could completely resolve the werewolf genes in his body.
Remus had no other aspirations—he simply wanted to be a normal person.
The day after Christmas, the holiday continued.
In the main courtyard, Harry was attempting to give his best friend a lesson in advanced broomstick handling. The object of this instruction was Harry's Firebolt.
Ron stood beside the magnificent broom with excitement, his freckled face flushed with anticipation. His hands hovered near the polished handle as if afraid that actually touching such an expensive piece of equipment might somehow damage it.
Although school rules prohibited students from flying broomsticks on campus without permission, it was vacation time, and no professors would be around to discipline them.
"The Firebolt is in a completely different class from anything you've flown before," Harry warned. "The acceleration is instantaneous, and the top speed is frankly dangerous if you're not prepared for it. You absolutely must maintain a firm grip on the handle—this isn't anything like those old school brooms we used in flying lessons."
The school's training brooms were notorious for their sluggish response and tendency to drift unpredictably.
"Absolutely, I completely understand," Ron replied, though his voice showed his eagerness to actually experience the legendary broomstick's performance. His eyes sparkled with the enthusiasm of someone about to fulfill a long-held dream. "This is completely manageable for me—I've been flying since I was old enough to walk, after all."
But before Ron could finish his confident declaration, he made the mistake of swinging his leg over the Firebolt's shaft and settling into riding position.
Whoooosh!
Without any apparent input from its startled rider, the Firebolt launched itself to sky with the explosive force of a coiled spring suddenly released. Ron's confident words transformed into a scream of pure terror as he found himself rocketing toward the clouds at a speed that turned the ground below into a blur of white and gray.
"Ron! Be careful!" Harry shouted from far below. His hands were pressed to his mouth in horror as he watched his best friend's wild rise.
Harry's mind immediately began cataloging potential disasters. If Ron lost control and crashed, the resulting injuries could be severe—
Fortunately, Ron's flying ability, honed by years of Quidditch practice and countless hours on various brooms, began to assert itself after the initial shock wore off.
High above the courtyard, his grip on the handle gradually relaxed as he started to feel the broom's responses to his subtle movements.
The Firebolt's sensitivity meant that every tiny adjustment in his posture rendered into changes in direction and speed. After several minutes of wobbling flight that looked more like controlled falling than actual flying, Ron managed to execute a rough circular pattern in the air above the castle.
His red hair whipped around his face like flames in the cold wind, but his expression had transformed from terror to pure exhilaration.
The sensation of flying on a world-class racing broom was unlike anything he had ever experienced—the power, the precision, the incredible responsiveness to his will.
"This is absolutely incredible!" He called down to Harry.
Unfortunately, their unauthorized flight demonstration had not gone unnoticed.
One of the castle's third-floor windows suddenly burst open with a bang that echoed across the courtyard like a gunshot. The opening showed a figure that both boys had hoped never to encounter during their holiday activities: Argus Filch, the castle's caretaker.
Filch's grimy face was twisted with indignation as he leaned dangerously far out of the window, his stringy hair whipping in the wind as he pointed an accusatory finger at the flying student.
"You two delinquents!" He roared with the fury of someone who had finally caught students in the act of rule-breaking. "What do you think you're doing up there?! Flying is strictly prohibited without permission from a faculty member!"
The sound of Filch's enraged roar had an immediate effect on Ron, who had been growing increasingly confident in his handling of the Firebolt. His concentration shattered like glass, and the broom responded to his sudden tension by lurching unpredictably through the air.
"Oh, bloody hell," Ron muttered under his breath, fighting to regain control as he attempted to guide the temperamental racing broom back toward the ground.
His descent was more controlled than his ascent had been, but it was still far from graceful. The Firebolt touched down beside Harry with a soft thump, kicking up a small cloud of powdered snow.
"Run!" Harry shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.
Without waiting for a response, he grabbed the Firebolt with one hand and Ron's arm with the other, pulling his friend away from the courtyard at a dead sprint.
Their feet pounded against the packed snow as they fled toward the castle's interior, hoping to lose themselves in the maze of corridors before Filch could get down from his perch and give chase.
Behind them, they could hear the caretaker's continued shouting, along with the sound of his heavy footsteps clattering down stone staircases in pursuit.
After several minutes of frantic running through twisting passages and up narrow staircases, the two boys finally found refuge in an abandoned classroom.
Both boys collapsed into chairs, their chests heaving from the exertion of their escape. Ron's face was bright red from both the cold air and their mad dash through the castle, while Harry clutched his Firebolt protectively against his chest.
The vigorous exercise had awakened Guru, who had been peacefully sleeping in Harry's unruly hair throughout the morning's excitement. The chomping cabbage began to squirm restlessly, its leaves rustling with what seemed like indignation at being so rudely disturbed from its sleep.
"I think we should be safe here," Ron gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "Filch gave up the chase two corridors back—I could hear him muttering about 'ungrateful students' and 'disrupting his holiday peace.'"
Harry nodded in agreement, finally allowing himself to relax slightly. "He's not as understanding as the other professors, that's certain. But as long as he didn't actually catch us in the act—and with evidence—we can claim complete innocence if questioned."
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