London, Ministry of Magic.
In the wake of the prison break, the Minister's office had been commandeered as a temporary command center.
Two of the Ministry's most powerful officials, Madam Bones and Mr. Crouch, sat opposite each other at the desk, flipping through reports streaming in from various coastal cities.
Madam Bones leaned back in her chair, unable to hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Crouch frowned slightly, while several assistants silently organized and passed along files, not daring to say a word.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the rustle of parchment.
The atmosphere was incredibly heavy. Since the removal of Fudge and Umbridge, they had been hailed as heroes of the wizarding world. Under Madam Bones's leadership, the Ministry had been moving in the right direction—pushing for the retrial of wrongful convictions and handing down fair, widely accepted sentences. They had finally washed away the stain left by Sirius Black's escape.
But now, the new prisoner, Peter Pettigrew, had pulled off an impossible escape of his own.
How would the public judge the Ministry now? What would they say about these officials?
"This isn't our fault. The transport plan was airtight; no one could have foreseen such a sudden accident," Crouch said softly. "We can notify the newspapers to keep a lid on this for now."
The silence in the office broke as the assistants exchanged glances.
The staff from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately looked like they wanted to object.
However, Bertha Jorkins, an assistant witch from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, glared right back at them without hesitation. Mr. Crouch is obviously right!
"We just removed Fudge and Umbridge for their deception. are we really going to copy their despicable behavior now?" Madam Bones shook her head. Her voice was tired, yet it cut through the murmurs in the room.
"If such behavior prevents public panic and maintains stability in the wizarding world, I am not opposed to it," Crouch replied, his face unreadable.
"The Barty I used to know wasn't like this. Back then, you stuck to your principles and never compromised," Madam Bones said with a sigh. "Barty, you've gotten old, too."
"Perhaps..." Crouch didn't argue further.
The previous occupant of this office had been ousted, but the chair wouldn't remain empty forever. The staff were all discussing the upcoming election for Minister. There were only a few viable candidates, and Amelia Bones held the absolute advantage.
Barty Crouch wasn't even on the list of candidates.
Just then, emerald green flames roared up in the fireplace, licking against the red brick. The wizards in the office immediately looked up at the man who had just rushed back from Azkaban.
Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office and the man in charge of the transport, stepped out. His black robes were still damp with the chill of Azkaban. As he stepped into the warm office, fine water droplets condensed on his hard-soled boots, leaving wet footprints across the Ministry seal on the wool carpet.
"The prison Aurors only found the rat's tail—it had been crushed into a paste. The Dementors didn't find anything. Theoretically, no emotion can escape their senses, so Peter must have escaped in his rat form."
Scrimgeour sat down in an empty chair. After briefly summarizing the situation at Azkaban, he asked impatiently, "Do you have any news on this end?"
"Magic isn't omnipotent, Rufus. Britain is an island nation surrounded by ocean, with thousands of miles of coastline. We can't search every inch of land," Madam Bones shook her head, picking up a 'Wanted' poster from the desk that was about to be released. It featured a moving image of the short, stout Peter. "Especially when the fugitive is a rat."
The office fell silent again, save for the crackling of logs in the fireplace.
"What exactly went wrong during the transport? I mean, Peter didn't have a wand, and he was under a Stunner and a Body-Bind Curse. How did he have the ability to suddenly break free?"
Crouch pondered for a moment before asking the timely question. "The description in the report was vague, Rufus. I want to hear the details from you."
Scrimgeour nodded and took a sip of the cold tea sitting on the table.
"The first half of the transport went smoothly. Alastor was extremely cautious. We had already escorted Peter to the corridor outside the cells. Just as we were about to put him inside, he suddenly woke up, broke the spells, and triggered his Animagus transformation..."
"It was a narrow, dim fortress corridor. The Aurors didn't react in time. Only Alastor managed to fire a warning spell, but the rat was too agile. It scrambled into the cracks in the wall and escaped before the fortress went into lockdown."
The assistants' eyes were wide with shock as they stood by the wall, exchanging looks.
"According to the post-incident investigation at Azkaban, Peter's escape route was practically a straight line. He didn't take a single wrong turn. He seemed to know the layout of Azkaban perfectly."
Scrimgeour paused. "We suspect someone helped him."
"An insider?"
"Yes, an insider!"
Scrimgeour lowered his voice. "But only a very small number of wizards knew the full transport plan, and the escorting Aurors were carefully selected. They have absolutely no connection to Peter or any other Death Eaters. The investigation cleared them of suspicion."
"Then who could it be? It couldn't be Dumbledore or Professor Levent, could it?"
Bertha Jorkins scratched her head, muttering her inner thoughts aloud.
Suddenly, she noticed the temperature in the room drop. She looked up and realized everyone in the office was staring at her. Mr. Crouch and Mr. Scrimgeour's eyes were particularly cold.
"Uh oh..."
Jorkins pressed her lips together tight, wanting to cry. She had said the quiet part out loud.
Interrupting high-ranking officials with nonsense usually made one look foolish or unruly, but no one in the office scolded Bertha Jorkins.
This witch had worked at the Ministry for over a decade. When she first graduated, her colleagues had nothing but praise for her—hardworking, brave, and responsible. She was a bit stubborn, sure, but her strengths outweighed her flaws.
Colleagues had liked Jorkins back then; they said she had a bright future, that she would become someone like Madam Bones.
But things had changed quickly.
It was as if a Dark Wizard had cursed that smart head of hers. At first, her memory just got a little bad—she'd be scatterbrained at work. Later, it got serious. Her intelligence seemed to drain away rapidly; she would often zone out, looking dazed and slow to react.
She had become, quite frankly, a bit dim.
Other departments refused to take her, but the kind-hearted Mr. Crouch had stepped up, keeping Jorkins on as a personal assistant to handle simple filing tasks.
Hearing her babble now, no one took it seriously.
Even though Dumbledore and Professor Levent had helped design the transport plan, they were the ones who caught Peter. They had absolutely no reason to help him break out.
Poor Bertha Jorkins buried her head like a quail. Crouch shook his head slightly at her, signaling for her to go back to her office and wait.
His attitude wasn't exactly friendly, but it was gentle enough.
Scrimgeour offered no comment, and the other assistants stayed quiet.
"I don't believe Peter just got away. Azkaban is hundreds of miles from the nearest coastal city. There is no way a rat could swim that distance like a big black dog could."
Madam Bones tapped the wanted poster on the desk. "Rufus, send more Aurors to search. Barty, notify the Ministries in Norway, Belgium, and Denmark—anyone bordering the North Sea—and ask them to help patrol their coastlines."
Her tone was devoid of emotion, her finger tapping lightly on the desk. She didn't try to sound commanding, yet she naturally exuded the decisiveness of a Minister. As the leading candidate, she was already beginning to wield the authority.
Crouch gave her a complicated look—nostalgic, yet tinged with a hint of sadness—before looking down to record the order.
"Have the newspapers and the Shadow-Mirror report this news. Do not hide anything, but don't sensationalize it either. We need to prevent public panic. Explain Peter's condition clearly: he has no wand, he can only transform into a rat, and it's a rat missing a toe and a tail..."
Madam Bones spoke calmly. "Tell the wizarding world that the Ministry is doing everything in its power to catch him."
---
Evening, Department of International Magical Cooperation.
On Underground Level Five of the Ministry, Crouch sat in his office, working through the pile of documents on his desk.
It was half an hour past quitting time, but the Ministry was still brightly lit. Tonight was going to be a sleepless one. The number of people working overtime had broken records set since the end of the Wizarding War. Every employee in the building was dealing with the fallout of Peter's escape.
A Death Eater who had fooled the world for twelve years—would he be caught after a brief struggle, would he escape justice again, or would he simply drown in the waves of the North Sea?
Crouch actually didn't care that much. Azkaban's security was what it was; after all, he had a family member who had escaped—a Death Eater who had yet to be found by any Auror or Dementor.
Some people leave Azkaban only to be trapped in a deeper, darker prison.
Right now, he was more focused on the two projects his department was preparing: the logistics for the Quidditch World Cup and the protocols for restarting the Triwizard Tournament.
After finishing the files on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and sat alone for a moment. He wrote a note, folded it into a paper airplane, and tossed it into the air.
Bertha, find the files sent over by the Department of Sports this morning and bring them to me.
A few moments later, Bertha pushed the door open and poked her head in. "Sir, did you just ask me to find some files?"
"Yes, the files from this morning." Crouch sighed, a trace of guilt flashing in his eyes.
"Great, I thought I was remembering things wrong again!"
Bertha patted her chest and skipped happily into the office, handing over a stack of documents. "Sir, after this busy stretch, can I take a long vacation?"
"What for?" Crouch asked.
"To visit my aunt in Albania!" Bertha explained cheerfully. "Her birthday is coming up. I can't remember if she's turning ninety-three or ninety-seven, but she thinks she's dying and wants to see me one last time."
Crouch frowned. "With your current condition, does your family trust you to travel abroad alone?"
"Oh, it'll be fine!" Bertha argued. "Mr. Crouch, I know you look out for me, but I'm an adult witch. I can't rely on everyone else forever. I have to try and handle difficult things on my own!"
Crouch was silent for a moment. "The Ministry has generous leave policies, but I have a condition."
"I have a bad feeling about this..." Bertha looked wary.
"The Quidditch World Cup is coming up soon, and tourists from many countries will be arriving to watch. I plan to send you to the Department of Games and Sports to help out. Do your job well there. If you don't make any mistakes for the next few months, I'll approve your leave."
"I guarantee I'll complete the mission perfectly!" Bertha flashed a brilliant smile.
"I don't have high hopes for that..." Crouch held up the documents she had given him. "I asked you to find the files from the Department of Sports. These are from the Department of Transportation."
Bertha's smile froze instantly.
---
Edge of the Northeast Atlantic, Azkaban Waters.
Within an hour, a freezing fog had enveloped the entire sea. The dark clouds above expanded slowly, claiming the sky. Rain mixed with hail poured down in a deluge. The waves were tumultuous, churning with crushed ice, while the wind howled with terrifying force.
A tiny rat was tossed about in the surging tide, its limbs paddling frantically. It was reminiscent of a scene from a year ago.
About a year ago, there was no hunt for a rat in Azkaban. A man had left on a raft, wand in hand, using magic to propel himself. It was nowhere near this pathetic.
The rat surfaced, gasping for a breath of freezing air.
The rain was torrential, the clouds thick. Black cloaks weaved through the clouds and the dense fog, causing the temperature of the sea to drop continuously.
Wormtail stared at the Dementors, his heart pounding in terror.
A rat's limbs were completely unsuited for swimming. Even weak waves and undercurrents dragged him backward. After struggling desperately for half an hour, he still hadn't made it out of Azkaban's waters.
He realized with despair that this entire area was under Dementor patrol. For a long time to come, he wouldn't be able to revert to his human form; he had to rely on these tiny rat legs to swim.
A chunk of hail falling from who-knows-where smashed right onto the rat's head. The blow knocked him dizzily underwater. The wound where his tail had been severed tore open, spewing blood. The icy saltwater seeped into the cut, the stinging pain blanking his mind for several seconds before he could recover.
Wormtail began to tremble, not just from cold, but because he saw a school of grotesque fish trailing behind him.
They had spiny ridges and were clearly carnivorous. Drawn by the scent of blood from his tail, they followed him with ill intent, waiting for their prey to exhaust itself so they could enjoy a rare meal in these waters.
Wormtail watched them bare their teeth—black, fishy lips pulling back to reveal twisted, eerie fangs. A primal fear of death surged from the depths of his mind.
Hail plummeted into the sea, and another heavy blow struck Wormtail's head.
Before losing consciousness, fragmented images flashed before his eyes. He felt as though he were back on that street thirteen years ago, where a magic-induced explosion ignited the gas mains, the shockwave overturning the entire street.
By the time he came to, the monster fish had caught up. Sharp teeth sank into his lower back and abdomen. Blood sprayed from the rat's body, dyeing the already foul-smelling seawater red.
He vaguely guessed what was about to happen. The cruel, miserable fantasy was becoming reality. His breathing accelerated, choking more water into his lungs. He tried to struggle with his missing toe and front paws, but he couldn't lift them.
Wormtail's eyes were bloodshot, his limbs trembling uncontrollably—the signs of exhaustion and hypothermia.