The Black Bloodline of Hogwarts

"Professor Lupin, I..." Harry tried to explain something, but his voice sounded particularly weak in the dimly lit corridor.

He truly didn't know where to begin. Had he been wandering around in the dead of night with the Marauder's Map? Or had he discovered a "dead man's" name on the map and then defied curfew to run out?

Every explanation sounds like an excuse, and a really bad one at that.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, Harry,” Lupin said softly, but with an unusual sternness in his voice. His eyes, unusually deep in the torchlight, seemed to hold countless unspoken memories. “Leaving the Gryffindor Tower after curfew is a violation of school rules. And what you’re holding in your hand—”

Lupin gently unfolded the yellowed parchment, his fingers trembling slightly, as if he were touching not a piece of paper, but a distant, burning, and never truly healed memory.

"I solemnly swear that I will not do anything good," Lupin whispered softly, ignoring Harry's surprised look beside him.

His gaze swept over the fine lines drawn in ink, over the moving dots, and over the familiar phrase in the corner: "Presented with great honor by the gentlemen Moonface, Wormtail, Bigfoot and Fork."

For a fleeting moment, Harry thought Lupin's eyes were reddening. But it was only for a moment, so quick that it seemed like a trick of the torchlight.

Then Lupin seemed to regain his senses. He quickly folded the map, his movements so hurried they were almost tearing the parchment, and then carefully tucked it into the inner pocket of his robe, close to his chest.

"This is not a toy," Lupin's voice was low, but each word was as heavy as a stone. "This is... a very dangerous thing. It can show the location of everyone in Hogwarts, every secret passage, every hidden room. What if it falls into the wrong hands? What if it happens to fall into the hands of someone who wants to get rid of you?"

Lupin's tone grew increasingly stern, as if a fire was burning in his chest, but was being suppressed by some force.

"Especially you, Harry. Your parents sacrificed themselves to protect you, and you—" He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, "do you casually put yourself in danger? Think about it."

These words were like a bucket of cold water poured over Harry's head. He wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Lupin was right—if he had really seen a dead person, he should have gone to the professor first, instead of running out alone.

A wave of shame surged from his stomach, burning his cheeks.

"Go back to your dorm and sleep now," Lu Ping said, his tone softening somewhat, but there was still no room for negotiation. "I'll keep the map for now."

Harry nodded and turned to walk back. His footsteps echoed on the stone slabs in the empty corridor, each one a reminder of his recklessness.

He took about seven or eight steps, then suddenly stopped and turned to look at Lupin.

"Professor," Harry said, his voice tinged with a childlike stubbornness, "this map isn't very accurate either. It just showed a person that couldn't possibly exist, so I came out to check it out."

Lu Ping was taken aback, his eyes flickered, like a pebble thrown into a lake, causing ripples to spread outwards.

"What do you mean?"

"It just showed Peter Pettigrew," Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm, "nearby, next to the trophy room. But Peter's dead, killed by Sirius twelve years ago, isn't he? So the map must be broken, or..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Because Lupin's expression changed.

It was an expression that was hard to describe—like a person walking in the dark, when suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated the path ahead, allowing them to see the abyss beneath their feet.

"Peter," Lupin repeated the name softly, his voice so gentle it seemed to drift from a great distance, "Peter Pettigrew."

His fingers unconsciously pressed against the map in the inner pocket of his robe, his knuckles turning slightly white.

---

And in places they didn't even notice

In the shadows around the corner of the corridor, a small, dusty creature was frantically trying to escape.

Scabbers—or rather, Peter Pettigrew—was pounding his heart out of his chest. His four little paws made a soft, almost inaudible thud on the floor, but to the mouse's own ears, it sounded like a war drum.

It had just been right next to the trophy display room. It sensed that familiar, chilling magical fluctuation—the Marauder's Map's probe.

That was something the four of them created together back then.

It bears its blood, its brand, and the indelible marks it left as a wizard—or rather, a traitor.

Damn it.

Peter cursed under his breath and ran even faster. How did that boy get the Marauder's Map? That map should still be in Filch's drawer; he clearly saw the old Squirrel lock it up.

But it had no time to think about these issues. The Marauder's Map was expanding its exploration range, spreading outwards like ripples in water, sweeping through every corner and every crevice.

As a mouse, its advantage lies in its small size and inconspicuousness—in the dark, a mouse is just a mouse, and no one will give it a second glance.

But on Marauder's Map, rats are not rats.

On the Marauder's Map, Peter Pettigrew is Peter Pettigrew.

A name that should have been dead for twelve years will stand out like a firefly in the dark.

And that mad dog is looking for it everywhere.

Sirius Black—his former friend, the one wronged for twelve years, the one who would show no mercy once he found him—was somewhere in Hogwarts, like a wolf that hadn't eaten for three days, following his scent.

What's more, that mad dog had accomplices.

That big, fat orange cat.

Krug Hill.

From the first day he saw the cat, Peter knew there was something wrong with how it looked at him. It was the look of a predator looking at its prey.

Peter sprinted through the darkness, the cold of the stone slabs seeping through his thin claws and spreading throughout his body, but he dared not stop. Snape and Lupin's voices blurred into a dangerous background noise behind him, but he dared not turn back. Only one thought occupied his mouse mind, a primal, instinctive, overwhelming thought—

escape.

They fled to a place where they could smell food.

Escape to a warm place.

They escaped to a cage...

cage?

On the windowsill not far ahead, there was a bronze cage about the size of a canary cage. The cage door was slightly ajar, like a half-open mouth, and an enticing aroma of cheese and grain wafted out.

Even stranger, the cage bars seemed to be engraved with some kind of ancient runes, emitting an extremely faint silver light in the darkness.

Peter abruptly stopped, his four paws scraping against the floor with a soft, grating sound.

But it was too late. Twelve years of living as a rat had dulled its senses, and inertia had led it headfirst into the cage.

"Click".

The cage door closed automatically behind it.

The sound of the latch snapping shut was as crisp as the trigger of death.

Almost at the same instant, the runes on the cage walls lit up, not with a faint silver light anymore—but with a dazzling, blinding white light, like lightning.

The runes spread out from every corner of the cage like vines, connecting with each other to form an impenetrable silver net of light, completely isolating the inside of the cage from the outside world.