Hermione blinked. One, two, three times. Where was she?
She didn't recognize the ceiling of the room; her room's ceiling was light blue, not pearl gray. She shook her head, trying to remember what had happened. Like every day, she had gone to work at the Ministry, then Andromeda and her godson had appeared. Andromeda had left, and then she and Teddy had gone after the time turner—the Death Eater attack. Hermione's eyes widened. Teddy .
She had promised her godson that she would soon be with him. He must be very worried after the attack. Hermione stood up, intending to leave for Malfoy Manor when she bumped into someone's legs. Hold on, someone's legs ?
"Where do you think you're going, young lady ?" a motherly voice reprimanded her.
She looked up and saw a blonde woman towering over her, hands on her hips. Hermione gaped in confusion; Had she…had she shrunken ? She looked at her hands, and oh my Godric, her hands were small, like a toddler's.
"Shh, don't cry. Why are you crying, baby girl?" Hermione felt herself being lifted. "I don't know who you are, I don't know what I'm doing here," She felt helpless; she was trapped. A twenty-four-year-old woman trapped in the body of a toddler.
"Mommy, Mommy!" Hermione heard muffled footsteps in the distance running towards the room. "Mommy, look at the book that Daddy bought me."
A boy about Teddy's age appeared through the door, wearing a red sweater and chinos. The boy had light brown, almost blonde hair, and deep chocolate eyes that shone with excitement as he showed his mother a book. Hermione looked at him carefully; the boy looked familiar, but she didn't know why.
"Has she woken up already, mommy?" the boy asked, his voice soft and timid, as if he were afraid to wake her.
"Your sister is worse than you when it comes to sleeping, Remy." The woman ruffled her son's hair affectionately, while the light brown-haired boy showed her a boyish smile. Sister ? That woman was not Jean Granger; her mother had curly chestnut hair, this woman had straight blonde hair. Her mother had brown eyes, not olive green eyes.
"Hi Mimi," the boy looked at her, fixing his deep chocolate eyes on her, and Hermione gasped. It couldn't be. The light brown-haired boy who looked at her was none other than Remus Lupin.
She had somehow traveled back in time, and now Remus Lupin was her brother. "Fuck," is the last thing she thought before darkness consumed her.
Sirius looked at his reflection in the mirror, the gray eyes staring back at him filled with uncertainty. "Mother, do you think that one day I will live up to Father?" he asked, his black hair neatly combed by Walburga's practiced hands.
Walburga paused her brushing, her eyes meeting her son's through the mirror. "Sirius, my brightest star, one day you will be the Head of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and you will be even better than your father," she assured him. She set the brush aside and looked at him intently. "Remember, Blacks bow to no wizard."
"Blacks bow to no wizard," Sirius recited with a furrowed brow, his face the epitome of seriousness and concentration.
"I'm proud of you, Sirius. Please be careful when you go outside with your brother. I wouldn't want anything from those filthy mudbloods to get on you," Walburga's expression twisted into a sneer, her disdain evident as she spat out the term "mudbloods."
"Of course not, Mother. I won't let any of them get close to me or Regulus," Sirius spat out, mimicking his mother's sneer, earning a pleased smile from Walburga.
Sirius Orion Black, the heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, had been raised in an environment steeped in pureblood traditions and values. Named after the brightest star in the sky, he was the pride of his parents, Orion and Walburga. Spoiled from birth, Sirius was the embodiment of the Black legacy.
The Blacks, one of the oldest and wealthiest wizarding families, were known for their raven hair, gray eyes, haughty demeanor, and perpetual sneer. While the pureblood society disdained their unhealthy obsession with power and control, everyone coveted a place in the esteemed Black family.
"Toujours Pur," Sirius muttered to himself, remembering the family motto – always pure. The Blacks' fixation on blood purity and the preservation of their lineage led them to disown and blast off the family tapestry, those who diverged from their views or proved to be Squibs.
From an early age, Sirius was indoctrinated into shunning those who didn't adhere to pure-blood supremacy, even if they were fellow purebloods like the Potters, who were considered blood traitors for sympathizing with Muggle-borns.
The Blacks were untouchable, their influence reaching far and wide. Blacks bowed to no wizard. They'd associate, invest, and support certain ideas and policies, but they never knelt before anyone. Everyone had a price that the Blacks were willing to pay to be the ones who pulled the strings.
Sirius knocked on the door to his brother's room, the heavy wooden door creaking open. He entered to find his brother sitting cross-legged on the bed, engrossed in a book.
"Siri, what is it?" he asked, his four-year-old voice tinged with innocence.
"Reggie, would you like to go out and play for a while? Mother gave us permission," Sirius said, taking the book from his brother and playfully casting Wingardium Leviosa, making the book float around the room.
"Siri, it's mine, give it back!" Regulus protested, jumping to reach the book in vain. His short stature and limited knowledge of magic compared to his older brother left him unable to retrieve it.
"The spell is Finite Incantatem, Reggie. I thought Mother had already taught you that spell," Sirius laughed, ruffling his brother's hair as he returned the book. Regulus responded with a sneer and a glare.
"I forgot about it," the youngest Black brother admitted, a faint blush coloring his pale cheeks.
Despite the 'legal' age to practice magic being eleven, the Ministry of Magic turned a blind eye to pureblood families, who, in turn, donated generously. Walburga made sure her children learned basic spells early on; she wouldn't allow her sons to enter Hogwarts without a minimum knowledge of magic.
"Are you coming or not, Reggie? Come on, don't be a party pooper," Sirius urged.
Regulus hesitated, glancing between his brother and the book in his hands. Finally, he nodded, as Sirius raised a triumphant fist in the air.
"For the record, I only accepted because otherwise, you weren't going to let me read peacefully until I said yes," Regulus remarked as they walked towards Grimmauld's main door.
"Whatever lets you sleep at night, Reggie," Sirius rolled his eyes, opening the door and heading down the four steps. "Remember, don't go near anyone you don't know, but above all, don't go near them ," he added, emphasizing the last words as if they were laced with poison.
"James Charlus Potter, come here, young man," The atmosphere in the elegant Potter Manor was suddenly disrupted by the commanding voice of Dorea Potter, echoing through the halls.
Charlus, engrossed in the morning newspaper, quickly folded it as he heard a slight ruffling under the table. Peering down, he discovered his son, James, staring up at him like a deer caught in headlights.
"James, pray tell, what are you doing under the table?" Charlus chuckled, the deep resonance of his laughter filling the room.
James scratched the back of his head, a nervous smile playing on his lips. "Hi dad. If I tell you, you'll tell mom I'm here, and then she'll punish me."
Charlus attempted to negotiate with his mischievous five-year-old. "If you don't tell me, I can't help you, James."
The young Potter adopted a thoughtful pose, tapping two fingers on his chin. "What will you give me in return?"
"You little rascal, come here," Charlus lunged to catch James, who squealed in surprise.
"Dad, stop!" James screamed, attempting to escape his father's tickling.
"James Charlus and Charlus Fleamont!" roared Dorea Potter, the matriarch of the family, appearing in the living room furious. Her usually pristine raven hair was now messy, and pink powder adorned her. The father and son immediately ceased their laughter upon seeing her.
Charlus tried to stifle his laughter, glancing at his wife's disheveled appearance. "Charlie, this isn't funny."
Dorea, trying to maintain her stern expression, stomped her foot like a little girl. "Stop laughing!"
"Dory, darling, it's hilarious," Charlus admitted, fist-bumping his son. "Good one, James."
Dorea, determined to receive an apology, showcased her acting skills, making her lip tremble and her eyes fill with faux tears. She sighed in resignation.
"Don't cry, Dory," Charlus pleaded, genuinely concerned. "James and I didn't mean to make you upset."
"Well, you did," Dorea pretended to dry her tears with a handkerchief, hiding her wicked smile
"I'm sorry, Mom. I won't do it again," James said, opening his hazel eyes wide and making a puppy dog face. Charlus decided to join in, mimicking his son's expression, willing to do anything to earn Dorea's forgiveness.
Suddenly, Dorea burst into laughter, catching the father and son off guard. She revealed her playful deception, and the men realized they had fallen for her prank.
"Mom played with us, and we fell for it like fools," huffed James indignantly, crossing his arms.
"Never try to mess with a woman, James, or you will pay dearly," Charlus laughed, placing a pink kiss on Dorea's cheek. "Very well played, Lady Potter."
"I learned from the best, Lord Potter" Dorea said, looking lovingly at her husband. James, still puzzled, watched the playful interaction unfold before him.
"So, will you forgive me, Mom?" James nervously interrupted the moment.
Dorea embraced her son, showering him with kisses. "Come here, you little troublemaker. I love you, James, no matter how much you exasperate me sometimes, to no end."
"I love you too, Mom," James replied, hugging his mother tightly, the warmth of family overcoming any lingering tension.
Charlus, still grinning, approached the duo. "Your mother's right, James. We can't have you causing too much trouble, can we?"
"I promise, Dad, no more trouble," James declared with an exaggerated solemn expression, causing his parents to burst into laughter again.
Dorea, wiping away imaginary tears, said, "Oh, James. You certainly know how to keep us on our toes."
Charlus playfully tousled James' hair. "Indeed, he does. Takes after his mother in more ways than one."
As the laughter subsided, Dorea looked at her husband with a playful glint in her eyes. "And what about you, Lord Potter? Are you promising to be on your best behavior?"
Charlus feigned innocence, placing a hand over his heart. "Me? Always on my best behavior, my lady."
Dorea rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, then turned to James. "Wash your hands and hopefully we'll be able to have breakfast"
James beamed, and mock saluted before running off. "Aye, Captain."
Screams reverberated through the house, an unsettling symphony of anger and pain. "You're going to be fine," Peter muttered to himself in a desperate attempt to drown out the cacophony. huddled in the corner of his room, his small hands clamped firmly over his ears. Closing his eyes, he tried to escape into the darkness behind his eyelids.
It had all unfolded with a rapid and terrifying momentum. Peter, only five years old, had been innocently watching TV when his father stumbled into the house, intoxicated and belligerent, disrupting the fragile peace. "Woman, bring me a beer," his father bellowed, the demand laced with disrespect. Peter's gaze shifted from the TV to the unfolding drama with a mix of confusion and anger.
His mother, silent and submissive, obeyed, only to receive a degrading slap on her backside. A fiery indignation burned within Peter. He understood, even at his tender age, that his father's actions were wrong. His mother didn't deserve such treatment. Angry thoughts swirled in his young mind as he wished for the beer to spill on his father, a cosmic retribution. In a strange twist, it seemed the universe heard his silent plea, as the beer bottle exploded, crimson liquid staining his father's lip.
"You're one of them," his father spat, disgust etched across his face. Unfocused and angry, he lunged at Peter, grabbing his arm with a punishing force, shaking him violently. "You're a weirdo, Peter, just like your mother."
Tears welled in Peter's eyes as he begged for release, "Dad, let go of me! You're hurting me."
"You are no longer my son. You are a disgrace to the name Pettigrew," his father snarled, towering over him with venomous eyes, casting a dark shadow over the frightened child..
Elizabeth, the boy's mother, intervened, positioning herself protectively between father and son. "The child is not to blame, Hector, He's young, he can't control it" she pleaded, shielding Peter from the storm.
His father's words, however, dripped with disdain. "You're right, Lizzie. You and your family of weirdos are to blame. I should never have married you," he taunted, a cruel laughter punctuating the verbal assault, a sound that sent shivers down Peter's spine.
"Fuck you, Hector! What you wanted was my father's money because you were up to your neck in debt."
The word hung in the air for a moment before a resounding slap echoed through the house. Peter winced, the sound like a whip cracking, forcing his eyes shut as silent sobs wracked his small frame. It was his fault; his father had struck his mother because of him. Frightened and overwhelmed, he fled upstairs, scampering upstairs to the refuge of his room. He locked the door behind him, attempting to muffle the screams and crashing of dishes below. Amidst the cacophony, he clung to the whispered mantra, a fragile lifeline in the storm of his fractured reality: "You're going to be okay."