Hermione Apparated to the outskirts of the Burrow's orchard, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the familiar yet different landscape. The pouch on her hip rustled, and the vials inside pinged against one another. She placed a Silencing spell on the bag, not wanting to get caught by the slightest sound.
The Burrow, in her time, was a charmingly chaotic structure with rooms awkwardly yet endearingly stacked on top of one another, a testament to the growth of the Weasley family. Now, it appeared more modest and compact, the upper rooms not yet built as the children were still young.
The sight tugged at her heart, a stark reminder of the time she was altering and the lives that were intertwined with it.
Steeling herself, she approached the wards, her mind buzzing with the contrasts between the bustling, fully-formed home she remembered and this simpler, quieter version. With practised precision, she quietly dismantled each of the protective spells, every flick of her wand executed with purpose and care.
Slipping inside, she moved stealthily up the creaky stairs, the house's silence amplifying her every breath. As she reached Percy's room, her heart pounded with the weight of her mission and the bittersweet memories of the Burrow as it was in her time. She had to focus—Peter Pettigrew needed to be captured, and there was no room for hesitation.
The door creaked open, and Hermione stepped quietly into the room, her eyes adjusting to the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the small window. The room was modestly furnished, a clear reflection of the Weasley's humble lifestyle.
A wooden crib stood in the corner, where baby Ginny slept soundly, her tiny fist clutching a soft, worn blanket. The room was filled with the scent of baby powder and the faint, lingering aroma of freshly baked bread.
Scattered toys, from stuffed dragons to wooden blocks, lay strewn across the floor, evidence of the children's playful spirits. She couldn't help but compare this quiet scene to the bustling chaos she remembered. The room she knew was a haphazard collection of memories, a testament to the years of roughhousing and laughter. There were pictures on the walls that will never be, odd marks from childhood mischief that would never be made.
Her mind flashed forward to the room as it would be: Percy's meticulously organised shelves, Ron's chaotic jumble of Chudley Cannons posters, and Ginny's collection of trinkets scattered everywhere. The walls had held pictures of smiling faces, milestones, and memories that would never exist now. She recalled the rough, worn patches on the floor where Ron and the twins had wrestled and played, marks of a childhood lived to the fullest. But in this timeline, those memories were erased, leaving behind an untouched innocence.
Against one wall, a small bed with a faded, hand-me-down quilt marked Percy's sleeping space. Hermione's breath hitched when she noticed an old, toddler-sized crib near Percy's. She crept closer, literally sneaking up on the bed like a thief in the night, and peered inside.
A peacefully slumbering Ron lay on the bed, his red hair tousled and sticking out in all directions, and his mouth wide open. His tattered, hand-me-down blanket slid even further down when he rolled over in his sleep.
Hermione's eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at the baby who had been her best friend. A soft laugh escaped her when Ron let out a devastatingly loud snore and snort all rolled into one.
Classic Ron. Even as a child, he managed to be endearingly loud, his snores echoing through the small room.
She remembered the countless nights they had spent together in the Gryffindor common room, huddled over homework or strategizing for the next Quidditch match. Ron's infectious laughter, his fierce loyalty, and his knack for finding humour even in the darkest times had been her anchor. Here, in this small, shared room, he was just an innocent child, unaware of the burdens the future would bring.
Hermione's gaze shifted to Percy, his small frame curled under the quilt. The precocious boy would grow up to be a stickler for rules, sometimes frustratingly so, but deep down, he cared deeply for his family. She wondered if he had already started showing signs of his future self, perhaps bossing around his younger siblings or trying to read beyond his years.
In the crib, Ginny slept soundly, her tiny fingers clutching a corner of her blanket. The fierce, brave girl who would grow up to fight alongside them in the battle against Voldemort was now just a baby, innocent and unburdened. A pang of protectiveness hit Hermione, and she wished she could shield her from all the hardships that lay ahead.
"Woo?"
Hermione's heart almost stopped. Did someone see her? Did she need to Obliviate—
She whirled around and caught sight of Ron sitting up in his bed, bleary-eyed and confused.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as he slowly raised his arms and mumbled, "Uppie."
Bewildered by his reaction, she asked, "What?"
"Uppie," Ron demanded, still sleepy but sounding a bit annoyed at her late reactions. It was as if he was used to getting picked up and wanted her to do the same—though he didn't even know her (in this time).
"Okay," she muttered and walked over to his bed. Bending down, she picked Ron up and placed him on her hip. He fisted her shirt, dropped his head on her shoulder, and promptly fell back asleep.
Hermione couldn't help but laugh through her tears. What a mess.
Once she was sure he wasn't going to wake up again, she placed him back in his bed and covered him with his blanket. Kissing his forehead, she breathed in the scent of spearmint toothpaste and freshly cut grass.
She wiped away a tear, her heart aching with the weight of memories and the bittersweetness of seeing her friends so young and untouched by the war. The reality of her situation pressed down on her—she would never have the future she loved, the future filled with the laughter and companionship of the Weasleys. That chance was gone forever, leaving a hollow void in its place. Now, all she could do was try to make things better for others, even if it meant enduring her own suffering.
Hermione steeled herself, silently thanking the universe for the precious moments she had shared with the Weasleys in her own time. She clung to those memories, using them as a source of strength. With one last glance at the sleeping children, she turned her back on the room, determined to complete her mission and ensure a safer future, even if it wasn't the one she had once dreamed of.
Now, for Pettigrew…
She turned to Percy's bed and looked for the rat, but he wasn't there. She crouched down and looked under the bed. A small smile played on her lips when she only found haphazardly stacked books and quills underneath. Percy was definitely on his way to becoming a bibliophile.
Sighing, she got up and was about to leave the room to look elsewhere when the sound of a man's footsteps approaching made her freeze. Her heart pounded as the door creaked open, revealing a dishevelled man with blond hair, dirty clothes, and a large slice of cheese in his hand. He looked like he had been pilfering food from the kitchens.
Peter Pettigrew.
For a moment, their eyes met, and panic flickered in his beady eyes. Hermione's heart raced as she watched him transform, his body shrinking and contorting until he was nothing more than a rat. The slice of cheese dropped to the floor as Wormtail darted towards the door, attempting to flee down the stairs.
Hermione reacted instantly, casting a silencing spell on her feet to muffle her steps. She bolted after him, her movements swift and silent. The rat scampered down the hallway, a small, dark shape against the dimly lit floorboards. Hermione's wand was at the ready, her breath steady as she chased him through the house. She couldn't cast spells inside the house; she might break something—or worse, get caught by Arthur or Molly.
Scabbers squeezed through a crack in the back door, and Hermione followed, pushing the door open and bursting into the garden. The night air was cool and filled with the scent of dew-covered grass. The rat darted towards the shadows, trying to hide in the dark recesses of the garden.
Now that they were outside, though…
"Expulso!" Hermione yelled, aiming her wand at the ground near where the rat was hiding. The spell caused the dirt and plants to explode, but Scabbers managed to dodge just in time, scurrying further into the garden.
This man was the reason Harry was an orphan. This man was the reason Voldemort had returned in her time. This man was the reason so many had suffered a terrible fate at the hands of Voldemort. Fury surged through her.
"Lumos Maxima!" she cried, and a blinding light erupted from her wand, illuminating the garden like daylight. In the harsh glow, she spotted Scabbers trying to slip through a gap in the garden fence.
"Not this time, Pettigrew!" she shouted, her voice trembling with anger. "Incarcerous!"
Ropes shot out from her wand, wrapping around the rat just as he tried to squeeze through the fence. Hermione hurried forward, her heart pounding, and scooped up the struggling, squeaking rat. She held him tightly, her grip firm.
"Got you," she whispered, her voice a mix of relief and determination. She could feel the rat's tiny heart beating frantically against her palm, but she didn't let go.
With a quick flick of her wand, she conjured a small, sturdy cage and placed Scabbers inside. "You're not escaping this time," she said, her voice steely. She secured the cage with multiple locking charms. He was not going to get out on her watch again. Not this time.
Breathing heavily, she stood up and glanced back at the house. The Burrow, with its unfinished rooms and quiet charm, had been a refuge for so many. Tonight, it had been a battleground, but she had won. She had captured Peter Pettigrew.
As she looked down at the rat squirming in the cage, she knew that this was just the beginning. There was still so much to do, but for now, she allowed herself a moment of triumph. She had done it. She had caught the traitor.
Frank's face flashed before her eyes, his curses and hexes still fresh wounds in her mind. Despite his cruelty, she knew she couldn't bring herself to hurt him—his grief over Alice's death was a torment she understood all too well. But Peter...Peter deserved her fury. He was the one who had betrayed them all, and he would bear the full brunt of her wrath.
Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione reached into the pouch at her hip and withdrew a clear vial. Inside, an inky black potion sloshed ominously.
Holding it up, Hermione cocked her head and smiled down at the rat. It wasn't a nice smile, nor one that she often gave baby Neville when he was doing something sweet. No, it was a smile full of malice and rage.
She opened the cage and yanked the rat out by the magical ropes that had bound him tightly. Taking the opportunity to tug the rope a bit more harshly than needed, tightening it around Wormtail's neck like a little noose, she held the rat up to her eye level.
"Now, no one will ever suffer because of you," she whispered breathily.
The rat squeaked and squirmed, but Hermione used wandless magic to keep him levitated. Then, she uncorked the vial and pressed her finger on the top to keep herself from spilling it.
Casting the Homorphus Charm on a still struggling Wormtail, Hermione waited impatiently. A head shot upwards in mid-air; limbs sprouted next; then, Peter Pettigrew was levitating where the rat had been, cringing and trembling from head to toe, his eyes wide with fear.
"Let me go!" he squeaked, his voice high-pitched and shrill. He was probably terrified of her—as he should be. "What do you want from me? Who are you?! Let me go, I say!"
Without giving an explanation or a long monologue like a movie villain would have done, uselessly wasting time, Hermione stepped forward, grabbed Peter by his face, and forced the contents of the vial down his throat.
Peter choked and gagged as the ink-like substance slithered down his throat. He shook his head fervently, trying to spit out the unknown potion, but Hermione tightened her grip on Peter's face, knowing she would be leaving bruises but not caring either way.
"Drink," she spat at him, her body trembling with rage.
Peter's eyes widened. "Wh-what did you—what did I—"
Hermione smiled and finally let go of his face before stepping back. The potion was about to do its job. Oh, this should be fun to watch.
Peter's eyes almost popped out of his head; his face began to purple as his airways constricted. He looked quite funny, if Hermione was being honest, like a giant bug about to be squashed under her foot.
His body convulsed violently, his eyes widening in terror as the potion seeped into his veins. Gradually, his frantic movements slowed, his muscles stiffening unnaturally. His limbs grew rigid, locked in a grotesque mimicry of his last futile struggle. The terror in his eyes remained, frozen as his body became a lifeless statue, entirely at her mercy.
The night seemed to hold its breath, shadows deepening around them, as if the very air recognized the dark magic at play.
Hermione knew that helping the future become a better place sometimes meant embracing horrific violence. If she got killed in the process, that was an acceptable consequence. No one would miss her anyway. A voice within her, reminiscent of the Horcrux she had once carried, whispered insidiously, "No one will miss someone so dark like you."
She had used a dark potion on Peter, paralysing him so thoroughly that he couldn't move or escape. There was no known cure for the potion; Hermione had made sure of it. She had found the recipe in one of the Black family's grimoires and had memorised it just in case. The memory of brewing the potion in her room at the Longbottoms' house, knowing its true purpose, made her feel tainted.
"You're no better than the enemies you fight," the voice taunted. "Using dark magic, paralysing your foes. Do you really think you deserve any better?"
She shook her head, trying to silence the internal torment. But the doubts persisted. "Maybe I am dark," she argued with herself. "Maybe I deserve to have no one." The faces of her friends, of Harry, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Luna, floated through her mind, but they seemed distant, unreachable. She had crossed lines they would never understand.
"This is the only way," she reminded herself, the conviction wavering. "If my darkness can bring about a better future, then so be it."
She had to believe that. She had to believe that her sacrifices, even those of her own humanity, were worth it. She was walking a path that distanced her from the light, but if it meant protecting those she loved, it was a burden she would bear alone.
Hermione stepped away from the Burrow, each footfall heavy with the weight of her past. The house, once a symbol of warmth and family, now stood as a bittersweet reminder of the life she could never return to. She cast one last glance over her shoulder, silently saying goodbye to the memories that would forever haunt her. With a determined breath, she turned her back on the house and Apparated to the Ministry of Magic.
The Ministry loomed before her, its grand structure bathed in the eerie glow of streetlights. It stood silent and imposing in the dead of night. She approached the entrance cautiously, her wand at the ready, the paralyzed Peter Pettigrew levitating behind her like a macabre puppet. Her heartbeat echoed in the stillness, the only sound in the deserted streets.
Inside the Ministry, the vast atrium stretched out before her, illuminated by the flickering light of enchanted torches. The Fountain of Magical Brethren stood in the center, its golden statues casting long shadows that danced on the polished floor. Hermione paused, staring up at the figures – the wizard, witch, centaur, goblin, and house-elf, all frozen in their serene poses. The fountain had always been a symbol of unity and cooperation, ideals that felt almost mocking now.
Without hesitation, Hermione directed Peter's rigid form toward the fountain. She released the spell keeping him afloat, and his body thudded onto the ground with a dull, final sound. With a flick of her wand, she cast a Sticking Charm, anchoring him to the spot. Even in his paralyzed state, she wouldn't take any chances. The atrium seemed to hold its breath, the statues watching over the scene with unblinking eyes.
Hermione took a step back, her eyes still on the petrified form of Pettigrew. This was it – her chance to make a difference, to rewrite the future. She felt a strange sense of calm wash over her, mingled with a deep, unyielding anger. This man, this traitor, would pay for his crimes. She would see to it personally.
Turning on her heel, Hermione walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silent atrium. She didn't look back. There was no need. The Burrow, her past, her innocence – they were all behind her now. Ahead lay a path shrouded in uncertainty and darkness, but she would face it head-on. For the future. For justice. For those she had loved and lost.