The sun was gleaming weakly behind a fine, wispy veneer of clouds. It sat like a pale watery disc behind an army of moisture, and from the looks of the darkened tufts of cotton lying on their sea of blue, it wouldn't be coming out again for quite a while.

The stadium was pulsing with enthusiasm: to the left was the proud, searing gold and crimson of the cheering Gryffindors. To the right, the brooding emerald and inky black of the glowering and jeering Slytherins, shouting audibly at their opponents. At the top of the mammoth pitch sat the rippling indigo of the Ravenclaws, thrumming like a hive of agitated bees. Opposite them, the yellow and black Hufflepuffs joined the Gryffindors in their cheers and hoots, as the outcome of the game would decide their placement in the Cup.

Harry turned to address his team, who were huddled together beneath the oncoming storm. Ron, as usual, looked as if he'd rather go dancing with the giant squid than play Keeper against Slytherin just then. Harry began doling out orders just as the first raindrops began to plummet to the ground.

"Alright," he said. "Katie and Angelina, you're going to have to really push toward those goalposts. They're going to have intensified their guard after your great performance last time." He gave a reassuring smile. "Ron, you can do this, just stay in front of those goals, whatever you do." Ron nodded mutely.

After directing each player with in-depth instructions, Harry turned and waited nervously for the opening signal. Far above, the angry clouds sifted together and darkened as one. A glass-shattering rumble of thunder vibrated the wooden walls around him. He nearly kicked his Firebolt when Madam Hooch blew on her whistle. Inhaling deeply, Harry led his team forward onto the pitch and shook hands with the Slytherin captain. As usual, his knuckles felt as if they had been set on fire. He flopped his wrist and straddled his broom.

Madam Hooch launched herself from the ground and inspected that each player was prepared, then pealed on the whistle again. As the teams rose into the air, she scooped low out of the way.

As he was accustomed to doing, Harry thrust his Firebolt forward to widely circle the stadium. The gradually thickening rain collided with his lenses, then ricocheted off in spattering droplets; he inwardly thanked Hermione for the clearing spell she had so often performed on his glasses.

It was odd, hearing the sounds below meld into one as he continuously sped around and around: the cursing and booing of the Slytherins, slipping into the constant impassive buzzing of the Ravenclaws, melding into the excited cheering of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

A gold flicker caught Harry's eye, just behind the Slytherin hoops. Frowning, he edged closer on his broom. Sure enough, there it was: the Golden Snitch, fluttering smugly behind its glittering camoflage. But Harry's trained eye wasn't fooled. Feeling a tide of adrenaline, he rocketed the Firebolt toward the goalposts.

As he sped along, a faint whirring sound caught his ear, growing louder and louder by the second. Harry turned around in his seat for a brief moment. And he soon wished he hadn't.

When the Bludger struck, it hit him full force in the nose, breaking it on contact. There was a collective gasp of disappointment and sympathy from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff sides. Crying out in agony, he clutched his face with both his gloved hands. But the loss of balance sent the Firebolt pitching forward and tumbling down, down, into the white sands below the Slytherin posts.

The air was driven violently from Harry's lungs. He tried to sit up, failed, and fell onto his back. All around him was the worried pounding of the professors' feet, the hems of their robes lifted so that they could hasten to his aid. Blood was streaming from his shattered nose and staining the immaculate sand around him. Grimacing, he opened his bleary eyes and rolled over, hissing in and out through his teeth.

Wait - what was that? Within the combed brown stalks of the Firebolt's bottom end, there was a flickering and a humming. The broken hay quivered and buzzed. Harry propped himself up on one elbow and heaved himself forward, threading his fingers in between the stalks. Something metallic, cold and slippery with rain brushed lightly against his knuckles. A broad grin broke out across his face, despite the blood arching widely around his nostrils. He drew out his hand and held his arm weakly above him. Clutched in the black leather of his glove was the Golden Snitch. Filled with a familiar satisfied warmth, he waited patiently as Professor McGonagall tutted and mended the broken bone of his nose.

Harry sat on the bench in the Gryffindor dressing room, hands folded against his chest as he leaned back against the polished mahogony cabinets. Ron, the only other player remaining, thrust his Quidditch robes back into his pack and flung it over his shoulder.

"C'mon, Harry," he urged, making for the door. "There's gonna be a great party in the common room. Angelina said they smuggled in some Edible Eels from Fred and George's shop. Said they were gonna find Malfoy and make him eat one."

"I'll be up in a second," promised Harry. "Don't wait up for me." He brushed aside a stray black hair that had fallen across his glasses lens and smiled.

"Alright," agreed Ron uncertainly. "But you'll want to see this." He shuffled to the door and exited out onto the wet, soggy grounds.

Harry sighed contentedly and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he mused on the game. The ringing silence helped him think, about what he could have done better, what he could have done worse, and how lucky he was to have caught the Snitch in his falling broom. He shook his head and laughed silently to himself at the coincidence.

After several minutes, he got to his feet and was about to step toward the door when he heard a sudden creak. Frowning, he slipped back and peered cautiously around the nearest row of cabinets, where the sound had come from. Gazing with awe, he watched as one of the floorboards dislodged and was pushed aside by a hairy hand. A thin, bony figure squeezed through the long rectangluar hole and brushed himself off.

He looked remarkably like a worm. His body was tall and wispy, as if Harry's breath would send him floating away. Russet hair was patched randomnly along the crown of his head, and bristled down his face. His skin was an unhealthy earthy tinge, and his yellowed and jagged toenails seemed slightly elevated by the dirt and mud caked beneath them.

He glanced up and stumbled backwards in surprise. "'Ey, who're 'oo?" he inquired in a startled voice.

"Er...Harry Potter."

There was a brief pause, then the ragged visitor's lips parted in a sadistic smile, revealing dull teeth pitted with cavities. "Are ya really?" There was a gurgling sound as he spoke.

"Um, yes," Harry faltered, brow narrowing. He stepped forward. "And who're you?"

There was a brief uncertain pause, then, "Warson. Warson Pettigrew."

Harry's heart froze in his chest. He found it hard for his lungs to supply air. Pettigrew? No...it couldn't be...

"Are you...Wormtail's son?" he breathed incredulously.

Warson scoffed. "Wormtail's what they call 'im, ain't it? Peter, 'is name is."

"Your father betrayed my parents to Voldemort. They died."

Warson cackled, a high, bubbling nose. It seemed a geyser of saliva and mucus was brewing within his throat. "'Ey did, didn't 'ey? 'At's too bad, 'at is. For 'oo, anyways." He laughed, and the geyser thrummed.

With a sudden flare of anger that dissentigrated all of his caution, Harry lurched forward and pinned Warson again a cabinet. As much as the newcomer struggled and gurgled, Harry's angry hold could not be broken. He shoved the point of his wand against the wormy man's throat.

"Don't you ever speak about my parents that way," he growled. "Understand?"

Warson nodded silently, chest heaving for air.

"Now, I have a few questions for you," Harry said.

"'Bout wha'?" whispered Warson with an effort.

"What are you here for?"

"Nothin'," anwered Warson defiantly. Harry sent an electrical shock prickling over his skin and cast a meaningful look.

"Ta get father!" the man squealed, writhing beneath Harry's grasp. "Now lemme go!"

"Why are you getting Wormtail?" continued Harry, unperturbed. When he received no answer, Warson received another painful jolt.

"So...he kin...kill...ya..." breathed Warson as his assaulter's fingers closed around his throat.

"Where is he?"

"In the...mountains...b'hind...'Ogwarts..."

"And why him? Why couldn't Voldemort trust you with this?"

"Accordin' ta...'im...I'm...not...worthy..." He screwed up his face as he gave one last futile attempt at escaping, then fell limp with hopelessness.

"Not surprised," mumbled Harry, looking the pathetic intruder up and down. "Alright, then," he said, louder. He released Warson's throat and allowed him to rub his neck dejectedly.

"Aright, wha'?"

"You're gonna lead me to him. Into the mountains."

"No, I'm bloody not," countered Warson stubbornly. Harry waved his wand threateningly.

"I'll kill you," he warned. "I'm not afraid."

"Yeah, an' get arrested?" scoffed Warson. "Ya wouldn't do it. Don't have it in ya, ya don't."

Harry lunged forward and thrust the point of his wand so far against Warson's throat that the gurgling geyser sprang up once more and rumbled visibly beneath the skin.

"Don't I?" he sneered. "Will you take me to him?"

The captive nodded desperately, eyes widening.

"Then do it." The wand fell, and Warson shrunk fearfully against the cabinets. "DO IT!" bellowed Harry again. The grimy man reluctantly stepped forward and slithered for the door, with Harry right behind.

By the time the two figures emerged from the Gryffindor dressing room, the sun was completely veiled behind the stern gray clouds. Torrents of rain poured down, delving muddy craters in the emerald pitch and drumming like nailed fingers on the stands. Rivulets of dirtied water trickled from seat to seat, shingle to shingle, and collected into thousands of minute glittering puddles that pockmarked the moody landscape.



Harry shoved Warson forward, who tramped into a brown pool that splashed its contents all over his clothes. He seemed even more like a worm in its natural habitat.



"Now go," Harry ordered. "Lead me there."



Grumbling incoherently under his breath, Warson plodded forward and ducked beneath a diagonal beam that sat across the tall posts holding up the Hufflepuff stands. Harry followed close at his heels. They had entered a long, slanting tunnel sparsely lit with columns of milky gray light and alive with the dripping of rainwater. The pair passed under the gradually ascending ridges that made up the underside of the seats. They were constantly ducking under low boards cobwebbed beneath the stands' belly.



It seemed to take a soggy eternity to trudge the length of the stands, but at last the two exited the shadows. The lower edge of the Forbidden Forest curved round the multi-colored walls of the stadium. The trees were taller, but less dense there. Harry and his foul companion left the grounds through the north gate.



Warson traveled slowly across the short green lawn that stretched between the Quidditch pitch and the Forbidden Forest. Far, far in the distance, standing like grim wardens overlooking the grounds, were the white-capped mountains, barely perceptible behind a curtain of haze. The rain continued to hammer down from the heavens and drench the succumbing stalks of grass that Harry and Warson were now treking across. Harry was constantly looking cautiously over his shoulder, paranoid that from some tower or turret, Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall would be watching him, enraged. But he need not have worried: no one saw him leave, as everyone was huddled inside the ancient stone walls of the fortress, and no one came.



Presently they slipped beneath the ghostly eaves of the Forbidden Forest. As if a lever had been thrown, all noises of the outside world suddenly went mute. The only sounds now were the scamperings of unseen beasts or birds, and, so high above that they seemed to be immersed in the clouds themselves, the leaves upon the highest boughs and branches fluttering with the rain. All else was deafeningly silent.



Apparently energized by the thought that he was now out of eyesight, Warson suddenly lurched forward and sprinted along, leaping over a fallen log and swinging ahead by wrapping his arm around a tree trunk. Harry, caught off guard, struggled to match his pace.



In all times past, when Harry had entered the dark woods lining Hogwarts, something sinsiter or strange had occured. But he was surprised at how uneventful this long journey was. There had been a nearly total absence of sound, save for what Harry thought to be Grawp thrashing around far off.



At long last, he and Warson exited the last thinning trees of the forest and looked ahead. Looming above them was a steep incline, crowned with a ring of gently swaying pines. They went forward and scrambled up the high hill, sometimes forced to find hand or footholds to climb. But finally they heaved themselves beneath the shade of the pines, and were sheltered somewhat from the unapologetic downpour. Panting, and by tacit consent, they stretched out and rested for a while. On the uncertain horizon, two miles away, jutted like a single tooth the fortress of Hogwarts. It felt foreign to Harry, staring at his school from there. It seemed close, yet far, and for a moment he yearned for its echoing, comforting halls and secret passages. Sprawled like an uneven mirror beside it were the rocky waters of the Black Lake. He sighed audibly and rested his head on his arms, keeping sleep at bay and turning the handle of his wand over and over in his hand.



After about fifteen minutes, Harry decided it was time to move on. Keeping Warson ahead, they stumbled down the hillside and pushed onward across a long plain fenced on three sides by the solemn mountains. They hurried forth, refreshed but eager to be free of the chilling storm. The plains were strewn with flattened weeds and were now but seas of mud. Harry's feet were often pasted to the ground. The journey was even more difficult for Warson, who was slimmer and weaker.



It took a full three hours to plow through the plains. By then the sun was sinking in the west behind the ever-stretching clouds, painting the peaks with a final milky light before sinking behind their rocky crevices.



"I'm tired," complained Warson, the first words that had been spoken for several hours. "Me legs 're achin'."



"Shut up," snapped Harry. His robes were glued uncomfortably to his skin, and his long unruly hair was drenched and hung like a waterlogged drape around his ears and forehead. He pushed his way up the slowly rising lands that would soon give way to the majesty of the peaks. "Keep going."



Muttering under his breath, Warson pressed onward.



At length they passed over the gently sloping lands and tramped along a narrow saddle that overlooked the gray, stony range stretching ahead. All around, slanting boulders sat like tumbled headstones in a vast, grim cemetery of rock.



They had reached the mountains.