Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Peter didn't take his "chance encounter" with Dumbledore too seriously.

Of course, the conversation between them hadn't been a simple, casual chat. Dumbledore might have played the part of a dotty old man with a weak bladder, but the truth was clear he knew about the Room of Requirement, and he had been watching Peter closely for some time.

That friendly suggestion to "try the toilet room" was, in reality, a subtle test. It was a feeler meant to probe whether Peter was willing to play along, to be obedient, and what kind of attitude he harbored toward the headmaster.

So Peter had simply smiled and refused. And made his intentions clear:

I just want to study potions. Leave me out of your games.

There was a saying in his past life: A gentleman can be tricked, but not coerced.

Dumbledore, of course, was hardly a "gentleman" in the strictest sense. Despite all the conspiracy theories that floated around about him, Peter believed one thing for certain:

Dumbledore played by the rules.

He didn't force people to do his bidding. He didn't misuse magic to dominate others. Instead, he nudged them. He guided, suggested, and exposed just enough of their desires or weaknesses to gently steer them where he wanted them to go.

That sort of behavior wasn't innate. It wasn't the product of wisdom alone, but rather the scars of a long and painful life of tragedies that had taught him restraint.

His sister, Ariana, had died in Godric's Hollow.

Grindelwald once his closest friend had betrayed his ideals and left him behind.

Even Tom Riddle…

Perhaps Dumbledore had spent many sleepless nights haunted by the rise of Voldemort.

Maybe he regretted that first meeting with the young Tom when he chose to subdue him with overwhelming magical pressure rather than guiding him gently.

That day, he'd used power to make a frightened, lonely child admit his faults. And in doing so, he may have planted a seed one that led that same child to spend a lifetime chasing power and, eventually, losing himself in it.

It was precisely because Peter understood Dumbledore's past his regrets, his restraint, his rules that he never feared the old headmaster.

If it had been Voldemort instead, Peter would've fired off a curse the moment they crossed paths and bolted without hesitation. No questions, no negotiation.

Peter liked people who played by the rules, even if he didn't always follow them himself.

That, he liked to say, was a "flexible moral baseline."

The next day, Peter visited Professor Snape. With a gleam of amusement in his eye, he casually brought up his encounter with the headmaster.

"The headmaster's a good man," he said, smiling.

Snape stared at him in silence, an unreadable look on his face. For some reason, that simple sentence felt… off.

He couldn't quite tell if Peter was being sincere or sarcastic. And frankly, he didn't have the energy to decipher it.

Today's meeting wasn't taking place in the usual dark, musty dungeon.

Snape had chosen a new location: the Quidditch pitch.

It was the end of September and the start of October. In the Scottish Highlands, the temperature plummeted sharply, and the weather turned sour. Thick, slate-colored clouds churned across the sky while a biting wind swept cold rain over the Quidditch pitch, howling wildly through the goalposts.

But even under such dreadful conditions, the Gryffindor team refused to abandon their training.

Oliver Wood hovered on his broom, swaying against the gusts with rainwater running down his face. He shouted over the wind, attempting a motivational speech and issuing tactical commands with unrelenting energy.

Unfortunately, none of his teammates shared that enthusiasm.

Their faces were pale and miserable, more like a group of cursed souls than aspiring champions. Harry, soaked to the bone and trembling violently, had fallen off his broom multiple times. His glasses fogged up and slipped down his nose as he clung to his broom like a drowned rat, barely able to stay conscious.

In this kind of weather, even the most die-hard Gryffindor fans chose the comfort of their common room fireplace over the freezing rain.

The stands were nearly deserted. Only Ron and Hermione sat huddled under a small shelter in oversized raincoats, looking more like two wet lumps than spectators.

This made the figures of Peter and Professor Snape on the sidelines stand out even more. Both of them were protected by a waterproofing spell and a Bubble-Head Charm, dry and pristine despite the storm.

"...You see that?!" Wood bellowed, pointing dramatically in their direction. "Slytherin is scared of us! So scared, they sent their Head of House and top student to spy on our training!"

He spun in the air, voice cracking with intensity. "Are we going to let them look down on us like this? Where is your passion? Where is your pride?"

Then, with desperation in his voice, he turned to the nearest player. "Harry! Give them a roar. Show Slytherin what you're made of!"

Harry's teeth chattered violently. He barely managed a sound.

"Dededededede…"

Wood didn't notice. He was too swept up in his own speech.

The twins couldn't hold back their complaints.

"What could they possibly be spying on in weather like this? Look at Harry. He's practically turned into an icicle," George muttered.

"Wood's lost it, Fred. Ever since his dream of using Harry as some secret weapon was crushed, his brain's been drifting toward troll territory," Fred replied with a sigh.

Angelina Johnson, soaked and wind-blown, clung to her broom like her life depended on it. With rain dripping from her eyelashes, she shouted through the storm, "Damn you, Wood! I curse you to wake up as a woman, to have your period every day, and to be caught in heavy rain every single time!"

The rest of the Gryffindor team stared at her in stunned silence.

Snape, watching the entire chaotic scene from the sidelines with Peter, let out a disdainful snort. "Pathetic team. Pathetic Potter."

Peter ignored the jab toward Harry as he often did by now. Instead, he smiled as he glanced at the drenched and miserable trio out on the pitch. Turning to Snape, he asked lightly, "Do you enjoy Quidditch too, Professor?"

Snape's expression didn't change. His reply was as dry as ever. "Idiotic game."

Peter chuckled. "Then why bring me out here?"

A flicker of annoyance passed across Snape's face, but he didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he spoke in his familiar slow and deliberate tone.

"Now that you've finished reading the book, when do you plan to begin refining your method for extracting magic power?"

"It's not the right time yet, Professor," Peter answered. "I want to spend some time going deeper into potion-making. I'm planning to brew a few advanced potions first. That way, I can get more familiar with the complex rituals involved before I start working with the raw materials for extraction."

Snape considered this for a moment before speaking again. "I heard from Dumbledore that you're planning to develop entirely new potions?"

"Yes. Honestly, perfecting a method for extracting magic power isn't going to yield results anytime soon. It's going to be a long process."

"Each ingredient has countless properties," Peter explained calmly, his eyes fixed on the misty pitch beyond. "Some are compatible with known formulas, others aren't. But just because something hasn't been used yet doesn't mean it never will be."

"If I want to build a universal template, I need to understand every trait how each one behaves, what their extraction methods have in common or how they differ, and whether new qualities emerge when they're combined. At the very least, I need a clear framework to begin with."

Snape didn't interrupt. The wind whipped across the Quidditch pitch, carrying the distant sound of Wood's hoarse yelling.

"This is a huge project," Peter continued, his tone steady. "Even once the properties are extracted, we won't be able to define their effects straight away. All we'll have are vague assumptions, especially for those not found in existing formulas. That's why I need to develop new potions, to help identify them properly."

He glanced at Snape, his voice quiet but firm.

"I plan to dedicate my life to magic extraction, Professor. But I can't keep telling people it's still in progress. Developing potions isn't just a side project it's how I test my theory, how I fill in the missing pieces until I have something complete."

Snape looked at him silently. His face remained unreadable, expression as stiff as ever. The icy drizzle dripped down the brim of his enchanted cloak, but he gave no sign of discomfort.

After a long pause, he finally scoffed, "Ignorant and fearless."

He waited a beat, then added in a quieter tone, "But not arrogant."

Peter smiled. "I've always believed in aiming high, but keeping both feet firmly on the ground."