I am not J.K. Rowling, the goddess of literature, and these characters are not mine. Anyone who wishes to sue me is quite welcome to my car insurance, rent and tuition bills. I would, however, prefer to keep the car, the apartment, and the education. Thank you for your consideration.

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Peter Pettigrew stopped and looked up at the house. All of the lights were out except for one, which looked to be in the room Peter had been told Potter lived in. He snorted quietly. Didn't the boy ever sleep? Oh well, it didn't really make a difference. His orders were merely to kill the Dursley woman and boy, and then make sure that the blood protection magic was gone from the house. Once he had done that, he was to apparate back to Master and tell him the way was clear. Master himself would do the rest. All Potter's insomnia meant was that Peter was going to have to be a little quieter once inside the house. And afterwards...

Peter giggled madly. Finally Potter would pay for making Peter's life a living nightmare for twelve endless years. And this time, Master would be pleased with poor, poor Peter and reward him for his service. Life was good.

He started scurrying towards the house and then froze; his heart pounding. He had the nagging feeling he was forgetting something... But what? Potter didn't have visitors over; the Deatheater who had scouted the area had been very clear on that point. And it was the Granger Mudblood, not Potter, who owned that bloody orange monster. Yet there was something critical he was overlooking...

A flash of white was the only warning he got before something heavy slammed into him from above.

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Hedwig clacked her beak in satisfaction. The hunting that night had been poor, but the size of the rat under her talons more than made up for the previous fruitless hours. Triumphantly, she lifted off the ground, limp prey dangling beneath her, and made for the comfort of her cage.