Disclaimer: I do not own anything!

A/N: Thank you so much for all your reviews, faves, and likes for the prologue! It's only the prologue but I'm happy you've liked it so far. I hope I don't disappoint with this story.

Before you start reading, be mindful of the dates before the scenes. There will be some time skips along the way. There are some years I only spent one chapter about, others I've fleshed out the events to several chapters so that you don't get surprised.

Special thanks to my Beta, lozipozivanillabean! She's the only one in the whole world who knows about the entire plot of this fic and gave nothing but kind and encouraging words.

Enjoy!

i.

our universe was brought to life - part i

(Sun by Sleeping at Last)

March 19, 1962

Hermione's body felt wrong.

She tried to move her limbs around, wanting to see if she was injured from the effects of the potion she had consumed. But try as she might, her bones felt raw and painful. She opened her mouth to cry out in pain, but instead of hearing her usual sob, a piercing cry from a baby rang throughout the room.

"Hush, now, love, dry your tears," a soft, melodious voice crooned.

Hermione clamped her mouth shut in confusion and tried to open her eyes, wanting to see the source of that soothing voice. Someone was caressing her cheeks and although she would have usually felt annoyed at being touched on her face, this hand was soft and warm like a mother's.

She tried to wriggle once more, begging for her eyes to open, and when she finally opened them, a burst of multicoloured light greeted her. She squinted her eyes and cried once more in pain, and again, the noisy cries of a baby filled her ears. "Who's making that noise?" she tried to ask, but no words tumbled out from her mouth. Instead, the noisy cries grew and grew, until it was deafening and Hermione started to panic.

She was suddenly lifted into the air and Hermione wriggled around again, but when she was pressed against softness and warmth, she stilled. At the same time, her cries were soothed away and the woman started humming a soft lullaby under her breath.

"Yes, good girl," she gently whispered, dropping a kiss on the crown of Hermione's head. "Hush now, my love."

Hermione blinked her wide eyes once more and was surprised to be pressed lovingly against the woman's chest. Wildly confused, she grasped onto the brown curls of the woman, ones that almost rivalled her own and expelled a loud cry when she saw how puny her hands had become. She stilled when the woman shifted her in her arms and glanced down at her, with eyes of the deepest blue and a smile like the radiant sun.

"Hello, Hermione," she cooed, brushing away her tears tenderly. Hermione flinched away but was unable to get too far, as the woman held her close to her chest again and hummed a lullaby under her breath.

'Did it work?' Hermione asked herself, wiggling around once more to take in the room she was in. She was in a small room, with walls painted blue with a single wall clock hanging on one wall. There was a lovely painted sun on the ceiling and when Hermione glanced down once more, she could make out a crib that was most undoubtedly hers.

When the book spoke about another timeline – another universe – Hermione didn't expect that she would become a baby once more. She expected to be thrust into another world, still very much in her own body, and starting her life anew.

Still, she couldn't complain. The potion was selfish with words and no one knew what would happen if it was successful. She was glad that she was, at least, alive.

Suddenly excited, she wriggled wildly in the woman's arms until she had no choice but to deposit her back into her crib.

'It worked!' Hermione exclaimed, chanting in her head again and again. She tried to search for Harry, to tell him about the news, but when the events of last time flashed through her little mind's eye, she remembered her Harry had died and she had been the only one able to drink the potion.

Hermione plopped down on the crib, eyes wide and unseeing as the impact of Harry's death overwhelmed her. Harry was dead and she was all alone in this new world. Tears slipped down from her eyes once more, but no cries left her mouth, as she gazed at the beautiful woman still humming under her breath. The woman's eyes would dart over her frequently, her eyes soft and loving, and it could not be doubted that this was a look from a mother.

But this wasn't Hermione's mother. Her mother had dark brown, straight hair, and chestnut-brown eyes. Hermione got her unruly hair from her father and her eyes from her mother – a perfect combination of Jean and Harold Granger.

The grief that she was alone in this new world almost suffocated her whole. There was no Harry. Her mother was a stranger. And she was all alone.

Pattering footsteps from outside her crib snapped her from her thoughts and she watched curiously as a boy, perhaps a year older than her, came inside with tears in his eyes. He looked familiar, but Hermione wasn't sure where she'd seen him before.

He was small and adorably plump, with sandy hair that was more wavy than curly, and deep blue eyes that resembled the woman. His bottom lip was quivering when he tugged the woman's sleeve. She glanced down and warmly smiled at the boy, lifting him off the floor to deposit him on her lap.

"Why are you crying?" she asked, lovingly wiping his tears away.

"Mama, cat," he cried, lifting his little finger and showing a small scratch with a pearl-shaped drop of blood. "Bite, bite!"

"Oh, Peter," the woman tutted with a disapproving sigh. "I told you to stay away from Mrs Jones's cat. He doesn't like to be touched, remember?"

"No, no, play!" he whined, his tears now thankfully gone, replaced by a small pout gracing his features.

The woman was unable to act disgruntled for long, as she laughed and gathered him into her arms, pressing him against her chest like how she had done with Hermione. "I'll wait for your sister to nap and then we can play, Peter, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed, clutching onto one of her brown curls.

The boy, her brother – Peter – glanced at Hermione and she watched as a broad, lopsided grin appeared on his face. He jumped down from their mother's lap and shuffled towards the crib. His gaze was warm and happy, and Hermione found herself drawn towards the adorable boy. She lifted her small hand and clutched his finger, prompting the boy to giggle.

"My-knee, hi," he greeted.

The woman – her mother – then stood up from her chair and carried Peter in her arms. "I'll let you watch the telly first before your father comes home, Peter," she said, smiling when the boy happily squealed in her arms. "After I put Hermione to sleep, we can play."

Hermione watched as the woman and the boy – her mother and brother – walked out from her nursery. She rolled under her crib blanket and wondered what universe she was thrust into. As the exhaustion of the day finally reached her, Hermione closed her eyes and hoped tomorrow would be better.

December 25, 1963

Two-year-old Hermione Pettigrew glanced at her reflection in the mirror and frowned. Her hair, although still impossibly curly, was a few shades lighter than her usual dark brown. The eyes staring back at her were the deepest blue – identical to her mother and brother.

Her brother.

It didn't take long for the infant Hermione to understand that the boy who called her My-Knee the first time she had arrived in this world, was none other than a young Peter Pettigrew. The shock of being related to a traitor had rankled Hermione's bones, and she had cried nonstop – so much so, that not even her mother – Anya Pettigrew – could appease her. It made her skin crawl, knowing she was related to a person that had unremorsefully betrayed his best friends and paved the way to Harry Potter's life being full of pain and misery.

She always cried when Peter tried to touch her or play with her. It had devastated her brother so much, who clearly loved her like one of his favourite toy cars, but Anya would only assure him that she was still a baby and she'd grow up to love him unconditionally too. Peter would then be contented in watching over her when her mother was away doing the chores and showing her all the toys he loved.

Hermione appreciated his efforts very much, and he'd been sweet too. She knew he wasn't yet the evil man from her world, and she couldn't fault him for something he hadn't done yet. So, when he reached out to hold her hand, smiling silly over something he saw in the park or something he'd seen on the television, Hermione would curl her hand around his and listen to him with rapt attention.

He was a bright, happy boy, with so much love to give. Their mother doted upon him like he was her very sun, and Hermione found herself warming up to the boy as the months passed by. He was her brother after all; she was an only child in her old life, and she had wished for a brother once if given a chance.

Said brother suddenly burst into her room, an annoyed frown plastered on his chubby face. "'Mione," the four-year-old whined. "What's taking you so long? It's Christmas!"

Hermione sheepishly smiled and looked back at her reflection for the last time before glancing at Peter. "Sorry, come," she softly claimed.

Peter expelled an exasperated sigh and trudged forward, clutching tightly onto Hermione's hand and excitedly pulling her from her dreary bedroom.

Her eyes adjusted to their brightly lit living room and she smiled when their mother came into view. She was bustling around, fixing an errant bauble from their small Christmas tree, and neatly stacking the presents underneath. She had her hair held up with a thin elastic band, which Hermione undoubtedly believed would snap soon under the pressure of her equally unruly hair.

The frown on Peter's face morphed into a delighted grin as he spotted the chocolate cake placed on top of their coffee table. He persistently tugged Hermione until she had no choice but to run faster behind him. When they reached the delectable dessert, Peter broke away from her and sat right in front of the cake.

"Not yet, love," Anya admonished, glaring lightly down at her son who was about to steal a small slice. Then, she looked at Hermione and smiled lovingly at her daughter. "Merry Christmas, Hermione."

"Merry Christmas, Mummy," she greeted in return, accepting the warm hug the woman had given her. Hermione's parents – the old ones – were not exactly openly affectionate. She knew that her dentist parents loved her endlessly through their smiles and words, but they were never one to pull her into a tight hug and drop kisses on the crown of her head.

But Anya Pettigrew made her love known through a loving touch or a warm embrace. It was a nice change, and although she had been Hermione's mother for merely two years, the young brunette knew she loved her very, very much.

"Can we open presents now?" Peter asked, hope in his blue eyes.

Anya's smile fell a bit. "We have to wait for Daddy first, Peter, okay?" she said.

A brief flash of fear crossed Peter's eyes but he didn't reply. He slumped forward and stared at the cake. "I wish he would just disappear," he murmured under his breath.

"Peter!" Anya gasped, scandalised.

Peter frowned at his mother and petulantly crossed his arms across his chest.

Hermione wordlessly reached for her brother and squeezed his arm. Peter mellowed down and unwound his tight arms and held Hermione's hand once more. "Don't be sad, Petey," she gently said. "It's Christmas."

She pointedly ignored how Anya's eyes glistened with her words, or how she desperately hid the violent bruise on her wrist with the sleeve of her lovely blouse.

"Okay, you're right, 'Mione," Peter said with a resolute nod, squeezing her hand in return.

While Anya bustled away to make some last-minute preparations for their little Christmas celebration, Hermione took that time to glance around the house which had quickly become her home. There were numerous unmoving pictures of her and Peter decorating the shelves of their small living room. The Pettigrew family lived comfortably, and although they weren't as well off as the Grangers, Anya compensated by decorating every corner of their small apartment with love and warmth. It still disturbed Hermione how her mother, who was a Pureblood witch, chose to live in a tiny Muggle town to start a family with their Muggle father.

If Anya was the sun in their life, Timothy Pettigrew was the thunderstorm. Every time he was at home, he left destruction in his wake. Timothy was responsible enough to be the sole provider of the family, but his love for alcohol even surpassed his love for his family. Hermione could hear Anya mutter to herself, convincing herself again and again that her husband didn't mean it when he slapped her across the face, that it was her fault Timothy would explode like a volatile volcano, and that he loved her – loved his family – no matter what he did.

Hermione glanced at Peter and wondered if, in her world, he had had to endure the wrath of Timothy Pettigrew too.

Her gaze shifted to her mother once more and she also wondered why Anya never used magic to protect herself from her abusive husband. Hermione never saw her mother use her wand when Timothy was home, and she reckoned her father wasn't entirely supportive of their magical background. Hermione couldn't imagine herself living with someone who'd forbid her from using her magic – the very reason why she was alive and breathing. But it was plain to see that Anya loved her husband very much, too much even, and Hermione prayed every single night that her mother would realise one day that she and Peter alone would be enough for her.

She suddenly tensed when she heard the violent rattling of their doorknob. Anya stood ramrod straight and smoothed down her dress and waited until her drunkard husband swayed inside, an amber bottle clutched tightly in his hand.

"Hello, Tim," her mother greeted. "How was your day?"

Timothy snorted and took a few gulps from his beer. "Same old," he flippantly said, bending forwards to remove his shoes and throwing them away. "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken and mashed potato, love," she said with a hesitant smile. Hermione held her breath as a dark shadow crossed over Timothy's face.

He then snapped his neck towards Anya and glared at her. "I told you I hate chicken," he snarled.

Anya's shoulders tensed, but she steadfastly held her husband's gaze. "It's Christmas," she insisted. "The children love chicken."

An ugly sneer appeared on his face. He smashed his beer loudly on the floor, causing glass shards to fly everywhere. Peter cried out as a few pieces scattered on the ground beside him, consequently marring the palm of his hand.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Anya?!" Timothy snarled, flying through the living room until he was breathing down on their mother. Anya cowered in fear and tried to squirm away, but his bruising hold on both of her wrists kept her in place.

Fear and anger flowed through Hermione's veins and she started to wail aloud, just to keep his attention off her lovely mother. Her cries did the trick, for Tim's hold slackened as he now glared down at the wailing Hermione.

"Shut up!" he snarled, lifting his hand to smack her down. But Anya caught his wrist and sobbed, begging him to spare their children and just to hit her instead.

Hermione's cries increased, wondering why her mother wasn't fighting back, wondering why she didn't blast him off with a hex just to keep their family happy.

Peter was determinedly tugging her onto her feet until Hermione had no choice but to follow him. Her brother silently led her inside her bedroom, flinching when loud crashes and screams erupted outside once they couldn't see their parents.

Her brother tightly wrapped his arms around her and brushed her tears away. "It's all right, 'Mione," he whispered, voice also thick with tears of fear. "It's all right. We're safe here. We're safe."

July 25, 1966

Hermione stared at the angry bruise on her mother's neck and frowned. "Mum," she said, "you're hurt."

"Hmm?" Anya replied, seemingly distracted as she patted her injured neck and went back to making her warm cocoa. "Would you like some marshmallows, Hermione?"

"Yes, please," she quietly replied, internally sighing at her mother's change in topic. Whilst her dentist parents adamantly refused to indulge Hermione with sweets, even as a child, Anya had no hesitations in generously satisfying her sweet tooth. Hermione almost felt ashamed of craving chocolate and sweets, but after being deprived for so long, she just couldn't help herself. Toffees, most significantly, were becoming her most favourite sweet treat. To compensate, she reverently brushed her teeth at night until her gums almost bled, much to Anya's horror.

Hermione was five years old now and had shown some signs of magic. Anya was delighted that both of her children had magic, but at the same time, feared Timothy's wrath. She tried her very hardest to keep this secret from their father, but accidental magic was bound to happen at some point. When their father had discovered that both of his children also had the gift, he'd gone ballistic and had almost killed Anya. Hermione was still traumatised by that day and had begged her mother to leave the bastard because she had come to love both Anya and Peter and she wanted them safe. But Anya merely held her children close to her chest and soothed their tears, despite the pained look on her face.

Her head swivelled around at the sound of the door bursting open. Peter's loud sobs suddenly filled their small kitchen as he pattered towards their mother. Anya glanced down at Peter in surprise, then worriedly hugged him close. "What happened, Peter?" she asked with worry. "Why are you crying?"

"My friends hate me, Mum," he cried, loudly sniffing and haphazardly wiping his tears away. Hermione watched in amusement as snot trailed down from her brother's nose and dripped onto Anya's blouse. Their mother didn't seem to mind, though, as she was busy appeasing him.

"And why do you say that?" Anya asked, rubbing his back to relay as much comfort as she could.

"They said… they said I'm a freak!" he wailed. He buried his tearstained face on Anya's neck, unable to see her flinch when he pressed against her bruise. "I-I told them I could make my ball fly but they just laughed at me, Mum. And… and I was so mad I told them, 'I can!', but they just continued to laugh and… and…" He paused and gulped a lungful of air. Hermione almost smiled at how he floundered with words. "And then, I made the ball fly, and they screamed, called me a freak and told me they're not my friends anymore."

"Oh, sweetheart," Anya sighed with a small smile. "You're not a freak. You're special."

Peter closed his mouth and sniffed, now pulling his face away from his mother's neck to look at her. "Spe-special?" he stuttered.

Anya resolutely nodded her head. "Yes, you're a very special boy," she said. She glanced over his head to smile at Hermione. The brunette smiled a toothy grin in return. "And Hermione, too. Both of you are special, okay? Because you both have magic. And once you turn eleven, you'll meet other special people like you in Hogwarts, and you can ask them to be your friends."

"I can?" he asked, his blue eyes widening in childlike wonder.

"Yes, love, you can," their mother said with a brilliant smile.

Hermione, on the other hand, deeply frowned and jumped from her chair. "No!" she exclaimed, much to their surprise. "No, no, no friends."

Anya knitted her eyebrows in confusion, unsure why her daughter was acting this way. Peter's face crumpled once more and he started to wail loudly again.

"You're right, you're right. Nobody will like me," he cried.

"Hermione," Anya admonished.

But Hermione resolutely stood her ground and stomped towards Peter. If this weird, alternate universe was almost the same as the one she had lived in the past, then Peter Pettigrew was going to be friends with James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. If that didn't happen, then perhaps Peter wouldn't be driven to betray his friends. If Peter didn't become friends with them, then Harry Potter would be able to live with two, very much alive parents, who'd love him, clothe him, and feed him.

"No, no, I'll be your friend," Hermione continued, grabbing onto Peter's hand and forcing him to look in her eyes. "You can't make friends in Hogwarts, Peter. No. I'll be your friend. Your best friend."

Anya's eyes widened in surprise, before smiling amusedly down at her daughter. Peter's tears had thankfully abated, but he was now wrinkling his nose in disgust. "But you're a girl," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "I can't be best friends with girls. Girls are icky." He spoke it like it was the universal truth, and Hermione would have found it hilarious, but her heart grew indignant instead.

"I'm not icky!" Hermione cried in return. She struggled to form proper words that would refute his claim, but her brain, cursed to be intellectually younger than her twenty-one-year-old self, was only able to say, "I brush my teeth and I take a bath. I'm not icky!"

She almost cringed at the poor rebuttal she'd blurted out. Anya burst into laughter while Peter glowered and proceeded to list down other reasons why he thought girls were icky, and why he didn't want to be her best friend.

Hermione stomped her foot in anger. 'Why couldn't he understand?' she shrilly cried in her mind, frustratingly pulling onto her curls. Tears now welled in her eyes - she wanted to be his best friend instead, just to spare him from his possible evil path and to keep Harry Potter, and many others, happy.

Seeing her daughter's absolute distress, Anya became alarmed at Hermione's tears. Even Peter stopped crying and eyed his sister's tears warily.

To her surprise, her brother expelled a huge sigh and held her hand. "All right, 'Mione, I'll be your friend," he begrudgingly said. "Just don't cry, please. Don't cry."

Hermione nodded her head and wiped her tears away. Anya fondly stared down at her children and reached out to wipe away Hermione's remaining tears.

"All right, all right, no more fighting," their mother claimed. "Why don't you both sit down on chairs and wait for me to prepare your warm cocoas?"

Both Peter and Hermione nodded their heads and clambered onto their seats, forgetting about their childish fight as they tasted Anya's delicious warm cocoa.

A/N: How was it? Tell me in reviews.

So, remember when I said this story was born out of two reasons? Reason#1 is my love for James Potter and now reason#2 is Peter Pettigrew. I've read a lot of Marauders Era fic and Peter Pettigrew's character is usually glossed over. There are a ton of Hermione/Sirius and Hermione/Remus, a few Hermione/James, but only a tiny bit of Hermione/Peter interactions. Peter was never touched upon, always the guy who'll ultimately betray his friends. So I thought, "Hey! What if Peter Pettigrew has a bigger role?" So yep, here it is. I'm so excited to write more about Peter and his development, thoughts and feelings. Did you know he's the only Marauder without a birthday/family information? HP Wiki and other similar pages always said he's a Half-blood, with a Mum for a witch and a Dad for a Muggle but that's just it. Even JKR didn't bother giving him a sufficient background info smh. So Anya and Timothy are purely OCs of mine.

More Pettigrew family scenes in the next chapter! Once again, drop a review!

With love,
WickedlyAwesomeMe

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