Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

The philosophy behind Peter's words didn't sound like something an eleven-year-old could come up with.

Snape stared at him in silence, suddenly unsure about the thoughts he'd entertained earlier.

Peter noticed the hesitation and asked gently, "Professor, is there something you'd like me to do?"

That calm, knowing smile on Peter's face reminded Snape, for some reason, of Dumbledore. The old man always wore a similar expression warm, unreadable, and faintly manipulative.

In truth, Peter had guessed the reason for being summoned to the Quidditch pitch the moment he saw the Gryffindor team training. A man like Snape, who spent most of his time buried in the dungeon and dismissed Quidditch as a foolish waste of energy, wouldn't drag himself out here for no reason. He had only one possible motivation: Harry.

Sure enough, Snape kept up his cold demeanor for a moment longer before asking stiffly, "What do you think of Potter's Quidditch skills?"

"Excellent," Peter replied, his gaze drifting toward the sky where the Gryffindor team soared clumsily through the rain.

Harry's wiry frame darted through the storm, slipping between gusts with surprising control.

Peter turned back to Snape, a playful glint in his eyes. "Everyone says Harry inherited his father's gift. The Gryffindors are convinced there isn't a Seeker in the whole school who can match him."

Crack!

Peter could almost hear Snape grinding his teeth.

The professor's hands were clenched tightly, his dark eyes burning with emotion something fierce and complicated, somewhere between memory and hatred.

But Snape was done with subtlety.

"Peter Weasley," he said coldly, "if I put you on the Slytherin team, can you beat him?"

Peter blinked in surprise, feigning innocence. "Professor, why would you... You know Harry and I are friends. Besides, I'm not really fond of Quidditch."

Snape sneered. "A friend... Just answer the question. Can you beat him?"

Peter paused, then smiled with quiet confidence. "I suppose I can."

He added with a helpless shrug, "But Professor, I'm juggling quite a bit already. Especially my research into medicinal herbs it eats up so much time, not to mention how expensive the ingredients are. I need to brew and sell potions just to keep up..."

"I'll give you the materials," Snape growled, each word bitten off like a curse.

"And I still have my regular studies. You know how much I love learning daily homework, reading, essays... it's a full schedule."

"I'll speak to McGonagall and Flitwick," Snape snapped. "With your grades in Transfiguration and Charms, they'll waive your assignments. I'll also excuse you from Potions homework. But don't think you can get out of work for other classes."

Peter brightened. "Wonderful news, Professor. While we're at it, I couldn't help noticing... the last book you gave me only had the Obliviate spell under memory magic. No mention of Legilimency, for instance..."

Snape's face darkened instantly.

His lips tightened. His eyes narrowed.

He was livid.

At this point, Snape was absolutely certain this boy had the exact same rotten temperament as Dumbledore.

Shameless. Manipulative. Always pressing his advantage with a smile.

Disgusting.

He took a few slow, deep breaths before growling, "I'll send you a book over the summer... But don't push it, Weasley!"

Peter smiled, completely unfazed. In fact, he was a little disappointed. A golden opportunity for leverage like this didn't come around often.

Still, judging from Snape's clenched jaw and twitching fingers, he'd already hit the man's bottom line.

Even so, he decided to press just a little more.

"Oh, and one last thing," Peter said as if offhandedly. "I think it's time Slytherin had a new Quidditch captain. Marcus Flint is... well, frankly, an idiot."

Snape instinctively turned, ready to stalk off in his usual dramatic swirl of robes.

But then he paused.

Marcus Flint... that oversized, half-literate brute with the grace of a bludger and the brains of a pickled toad.

Snape's hand twitched again.

Dumber than a troll. And Peter wasn't wrong.

With a weary sigh, he muttered to himself, "Why do all the smart ones have to be so aggravating?"

Snape had to ask again in his usual dry tone, "Do you have anyone in mind?"

Peter's face twisted into an awkward expression. "No…"

By the time the two of them left the Quidditch pitch, still battered by wind and rain, they had yet to settle on a suitable replacement for Flint. Peter himself was obviously out of the question. No matter how much Snape wanted someone to beat Potter on the pitch, he wouldn't let Peter waste too much of his time playing Quidditch.

As they parted ways, Peter couldn't help but sigh and say, "Professor, could the House maybe recruit a few more normal people next year? Nothing fancy just students with at least a working brain."

Snape didn't respond. He just stared at Peter with the deadest expression imaginable.

…

Two mornings later, Peter received an owl-delivered package while visiting Gryffindor Tower.

At the time, he was having breakfast with the Trio.

Though he'd been deeply focused lately on learning new spells and brewing potions, Peter had still been keeping a close eye on Harry's movements.

After all, one of the three was his own younger brother, and the other was... well, his undercover informant.

Harry was famous for his loose tongue, earning the sarcastic nickname "as tight-lipped as a jar."

So even though Peter hadn't gone out of his way to investigate, he already knew Harry was secretly trying to uncover what exactly Hagrid had removed from Gringotts.

They had even stumbled upon the room where Fluffy was kept.

That happened over two weeks ago, during Harry's last night of detention. Ron and Hermione had gone to pick him up, but on the way back, they ran into Mrs. Norris and Peeves.

After Peeves had been put in his place by Peter, Peter had passed on a spell to Hermione that could give Peeves a proper scare whenever needed. Feeling powerless and abandoned since then, Peeves had tried to forge a new alliance with Filch.

Or at least, that's what Peeves believed.

In reality, it had started working alongside Mrs. Norris, developing a coordinated patrol routine: Peeves would zip through walls to locate wandering students, while Mrs. Norris would go fetch Filch.

When enemies meet, they often burn with hostility. Peeves was still terrified of Peter, but he had no fear at all toward the trio. So when it spotted them sneaking around that night, it let out a gleeful screech and teamed up with Mrs. Norris to chase them across the corridors, eventually herding them toward the fourth floor.

"You're dead now! That giant three-headed mutt will tear you apart!" Peeves shouted gleefully, rolling and cackling in midair.

Peter smiled faintly and looked at the three of them, especially Hermione, who was frowning hard in thought. He tapped the side of his teacup, then said lazily, "Nicholas Flamel."

Hermione's eyes lit up instantly.

"I knew I'd seen that name before!" she gasped, practically bouncing in her seat. "But where?"

Peter didn't answer directly. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and took a bite of toast. "If I told you everything, how would you get the satisfaction of finding it out yourself?" he said with a teasing grin.

Ron groaned. "Come on, Peter. Just tell us. You obviously know!"

Peter wiped his hands and leaned forward slightly. "Fine. I'll give you a hint. You've already read about him just not in a book from the library."

Hermione's brow furrowed even deeper. "Not from the library…?"

Ron and Harry looked confused, but Peter only added with a wink, "The answer is right under your noses. Or in your chocolate frog cards."

"Chocolate frogs?" Harry echoed in disbelief.

Peter smirked and nodded. "One of the first ones you got on the train here. I remember you said you didn't think it would be useful."

Hermione gasped and slapped her forehead. "Oh no! I threw mine away!"

Harry and Ron scrambled to their bags, rummaging through pockets and crumpled wrappers. Moments later, Ron shouted triumphantly, "Got it!"

He unfolded the card, and all three of them leaned over to read.

"Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione read aloud, her voice growing higher with excitement, "a legendary alchemical substance that grants immortality and turns any metal into pure gold…"

The trio froze.

Then Harry's eyes widened. "So that's what it is… what the dog's guarding…"

"The Philosopher's Stone," Hermione whispered, stunned.

Peter sat back, watching the light dawn on their faces. Inwardly, he thought with amusement: Not bad for a morning's entertainment.

"Thanks, Peter," Harry said sincerely, still staring at the card in awe.

Peter smiled again, but didn't say another word.

After all, he already knew the truth. But some things were better when discovered step by step especially when it came to Gryffindors.

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