August 14, 1981

Prologue

Peter Pettigrew was not a horrible man. Not by any means. He was a man that knew how to survive, and thrive. He knew how to hide when the situation called for it, to run if needed, and to cower and submit when demanded. This instinct, a rat-like instinct if you will, had saved Peter's life and pride on so many occasions.

He'd used it early on at Hogwarts to become a true marauder, to escape their pranks and not fall further in the eyes of his fellow lions. He'd done it at work, knowing who's shoes to kiss and who's contempt to fear. On this fateful night, the rat did it again. He'd managed to somehow convince Snape, of all people, to meet with him at the three broomsticks.

'Slimy bastard', was all Peter thought of Snape, 'slimier than me…. no, pathetic'.

Peter also thought Snape was rather dull. What man rejects the power and protection of the dark lord? Peter understood how the world worked. He knew if he wanted to survive, the Dark Lord was his only chance of making it through the war, and he was a bloody Gryffindor! Snape, being a Slytherin, still had not managed to enlist himself into the service of the lord. The fool was practically asking to be killed!

Which is exactly why Peter was here today. It would be beneficial to the lord if he was able to bring a young potions prodigy to the fold. It took a lot of persuasion, however, to even get Snivellus to show up. Peter was, at least in name, a marauder. However, certain promises were able to sway the slimy git.

When Peter arrived outside the door of the three broomsticks, he took a quick look around. Thankfully the moon was bright enough on this night to illuminate the deserted streets of Hogsmeade. How he hated this loathsome place. So supposedly 'cheery' and great. His worst memories were from Hogsmeade. Being picked on, attacked, chased after. It was, of course, his status as a marauder that had protected him after fourth year. Even then, it did not grant him the status and power he truly craved. No, he was a lesser marauder. The most powerful James Potter and Sirius Black were the ones who dictated the terms. Peter spat at an innocent-looking white plant beside the door. The plant reared back and before Peter could realize he had aggravated a magical plant, it snapped forward tearing his trousers.

"FUCK!" yelled Peter. He quickly pushed into the inn before the plant could have another go at him.

The inn's clientele gave him odd looks as he walked in. It wasn't every day you saw a full-grown man make a fool out of himself in front of an audience. Peter only scowled and took a seat at the bar.

Madam Rosmerta waddled over to him, "need a drink, Peter?"

"I'm waiting on Sni-", Peter stuttered, "Snape"

"Oh, he went up to the rooms, were you meeting with someone else up there?"

Peter paused, "yes, yes we are," he got up and went up towards the rooms. Madam Rosmerta scowled at the young man as he spread his grimy hands around her inn. His shabby grey coat and ripped trousers made him stick out like a sore thumb. That wasn't to say any of her other customers were much better. With a sigh, she set out to serve the next foolish drunk who wanted another firewhisky.

Peter had stumbled through enough of the rooms to realize that either Rosmerta had played him as a fool or Snape had simply decided he didn't want to talk. He didn't quite notice Snape as he turned the corner and kneed the young man, who was, for some reason, crouched against the wall. Snape pushed Peter back hard and motioned for him to keep quiet. Seeing Peter's confused face he had nothing else to do than to allow him to join in on listening to a rather interesting conversation that was playing out in the room beside them.

Peter put his head against the door and listened in.

"... quite fine, I do believe it was just some young ones stumbling off to enjoy their youth in the privacy of their rooms,"

They heard a quiet cough, "Uhm, if you believe so, professor," then something was said which Peter wasn't quite able to catch.

"I do, so as I was saying, I believe we may have to explore certain other options if you have not been able to manifest a true prophecy as of yet, Sybill. As of now, I cannot justify hiring someone with no experience or credible work."

"But professor, please, believe me, my inner eye has responded so many times. I was correct about these three quidditch wins, see? It was published in the quibbler!"

"Sybill, please, I truly believe I cannot do anything in this matter, if the position is not filled within a week I will still contact you, I hope this is acceptable?"

"I was hoping for more, professor, but I will-," the voice cut off. Peter reared back, fearing they'd been discovered. Then a rasping sound came from within.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies... Born before the last, yet amongst the first…"

"Well then, I believe this changes things greatly, Sybill."

"I'm sorry, Professor? I think I lost my train of thought for a moment there."

"Peculiar…. Well, nevermind that Sybill, I'd like to offer you the position at Hogwarts"

"I'm not quite- No, actually, of course, professor, I'm glad you've come to realize my talents. I wholeheartedly accept"

Peter stumbled back, shock and worry evident on his scrunched-up face. Snape, equally shook, looked at Peter. Suddenly, the door was opened and Snape fell into the room. In his fear and worry at being exposed, he didn't notice that Peter had disappeared. Not even Dumbledore took notice of a common rat scurrying through the halls of the inn.

Peter, however, knew. Peter knew his time had come. The rat quickly scurried out of the three broomsticks, transforming in the dark outside the inn into a human. The man quaked as he realized the implications of what he had witnessed. His lord would know. His lord would reward him!

Albus looked into the young Snape's eyes.

"Professor, I-"

"It's quite alright, Severus, I hope you realize I can't let you walk away with this knowledge," Dumbledore said, determined.

"Pro-"

"I'm sorry, Severus," Snape continued pushing himself backwards, away from the door.

"Professor, no!"

"Obliviate"

Then Snape remembered no prophecy, no meeting at the inn, and perhaps to the greatest misfortune of a certain Potter family, no scurrying rats who'd heard things they weren't supposed.

31 October,1981

Peter basked in his victory. Somehow, he had convinced his friends James and Lily to rush off to the Samhain meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. The soon-to-be obsolete order had only rejected Peter's attempts to learn more about their plans. Peter had, of course, been a member. He was, however, not a crucial one. As such, he had been kept on a need-to-know basis for everything. Something that had led to great disgrace in front of his lord. Following his revelation of the prophecy, and his closeness to the apparent prophesied boy's family had led to Peter rising swiftly within the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers. He had been allowed access to inner circle meetings. His failure, however, to replicate this success had led him to face the wrath of his fellow death eaters, for being ranked so highly and yet bringing in so little.

He'd struck gold today, though. Peter remembered with glee how Sirius had decided to make him the secret keeper after convincing James and Lily. He'd said that he wanted to make sure no one could find them even if he was kidnapped and tortured. Peter had immediately moved to prepare his lord's vengeance to take the lives of the supposed 'chosen one'. On this night he had gotten the Potter parents out of the house, and run off to tell his lord that he'd become the secret keeper.

His lord had not been very pleased that Peter had been the secret keeper for upwards of two weeks, but had chosen to tell him on that day. In between the cruciatus curses his lord threw at him Peter was able to convince him that it was beneficial that he'd ensured that James and Lily were gone on the day his lord were to strike.

Peter's pleas for mercy and the dark lord's cackle could be heard far into the distance.

That same night, after Voldemort was finished torturing Peter and was satisfied that his words were the truth and his loyalty still lied within the Dark Lord's camp, moved upon Godric's Hollow.

He smiled with glee as his death eaters surrounded the house that had eluded him for so long. As he shattered the wards placed there by James and Lily Potter, almost nothing shook his positively frightening mood, except, of course, the wizard and witch left behind to protect the twins. Harry and his twin, William's grandparents were there. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. Voldemort's grin did not diminish even as he realized perfectly pure and noble blood would be spilled today.

"Euphemia! Go protect the children, get them out of here! I'll hold him off!" Fleamont cried. The protective instincts within him rose and his magical abilities were magnified beyond anything he'd been able to muster in a while. Fleamont nearly held his own as he transfigured a table into a wall, a vase into a boulder. He shot off spell after spell to attempt to hold the dark lord back.

Voldemort smiled as he pushed on through. Upstairs, Euphemia Potter quickly gained a grasp on the situation. They could not apparate away, the floo network was disconnected from the fireplace, and the house was surrounded. She pushed back panic quickly rising to engulf her and thought about what she could do. While the quickly deteriorating magical powers of Fleamont held his own for far longer than it should have been able to, the senior witch remembered. She remembered something her mother-in-law had taught her a while ago. The female Potter family magics. Passed on from mother to daughter, or mother to daughter-in-law. Now, believe me, family claimed magic can be dangerous. They can be impossible. But they can also be extremely powerful. Lady Potter had shown her how to practice a long-forgotten blood ritual. Illegal, of course, but legality hardly mattered in a life or death situation. Euphemia Potter knew how to save her grandsons. She began the ritual, begging the powers that be to give her time.

Downstairs, Fleamont fought with the power of five wizards. Never before had the Dark Lord seen such power manifest in such an otherwise weak and ordinary man. Fleamont had almost gone on the offensive against one of the most powerful wizards alive. Clearly, this was not an ideal situation for Lord Voldemort. He grew increasingly angry as the man continued to survive. His grin had turned into a deep scowl. His earlier playfully dooming magic turned to powerful spells lined with murderous intent. The house was seemingly tearing itself apart under the weight of such power. His followers grew nervous as the fight refused to end. They had not seen many wizards be able to hold off their lord for as long as this man had.

Voldemort could sense that this power that was challenging him, was not just this man's alone. He could feel great magical strength pulsing into him from above. Specifically, from within the house. This magic faltered, and the man stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, Voldemort pulsed great power into his final killing spell.

He stepped over the body of Fleamont Potter as he made his way up the stairs. Voldemort paused for a moment as he considered the dead man's face. A content expression was set upon the man. He continued up the stairs, shaking off the ominous feeling he received from the corpse. The door to the nursery slammed open, revealing an elderly woman sitting on the floor in front of a large cradle. Her eyes opened slightly as Voldemort came in. She did not react greatly, she simply stood up and raised her hand, her wand lay in her other limp hand. Voldemort quickly cast the killing curse and shrugged her aside as she fell to the ground, dead.

Voldemort looked upon the two innocent faces staring up at him. The two boys had yet to understand what had just occurred. Voldemort looked down upon the children. He did not know which was born last. All he knew was that the one born second-to-last was the chosen one. It was quite an odd prophecy, after all. He did not think twice before deciding he'd simply kill both of them.

He raised his wand and yelled, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The curse shot off, obeying the will of its conjurer. The boy on the left was suddenly enveloped by a green light. Time suddenly slowed and Voldemort, no, Tom Marvolo Riddle, his alter ego pushed forward and his eye's slightly opened wider. He didn't know what'd happened but suddenly the shimmering light around the boy concentrated at the child's hand and shot back out to Tom.

With a great scream, one of terror, pain, and anguish. The man known as the Dark Lord Voldemort disappeared. Magical power exploded outwards, demolishing most of the already damaged house. The anti-apparition wards fell. The death eaters surrounding the house felt a terrifying pain on their forearms, their dark marks dimmed and they felt a great urge to claw that part of their arm off. With fear and panic, the death eaters fled. The more coherent ones apparated away to safety, the ones who were driven to a form of madness by the pain simply fled into the night. There were some, however, that collapsed to the ground, dead. Peter Pettigrew, however. Peter was a rat more than a human. Even when he suffered great pain, the drive to survive and live overpowered his pain. In his calculated panic he stumbled towards what remained of the Potter house. Within, the cradle continued rocking as two twin brothers cried, hand in hand.

Peter cried in anguish as his hopes and dreams of power and safety fell apart. The dark lord was gone. All that remained were two small twins. Peter knew how to survive, however. He quickly grabbed the twin with the gash on his head and stumbled off into the night, before apparating away. What Peter had not noticed, however, was that the true chosen one, the boy who lived, still lied within the cradle. A lightning bolt-like scar on his hand. A brother was left behind, crying for the loss of his twin. William Potter had survived that day but had lost his brother. Harry, taken by Peter, had been silenced by magic, yet the pain of loss was still present in the eyes of the one-year-old. On that fateful day, magic had chosen, and Fate had continued doing what she had always done, written the story of life.

Peter Pettigrew couldn't use the international Portkeys. It had been four hours since the attack. Three since he became Britain's most wanted, and two and a half since the dementor's kiss had been authorized for him in the case that a dementor was able to find him before an auror. Peter had instead opted to engage in chain apparitions across Europe. He had arrived in Estonia, an hour after the ministry had realized he had fled the country.

Peter could barely stay standing while he threw open the door to an empty muggle house. He transfigured a table into a crib and fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed in the room

Peter snapped and destroyed what was left of the bed he had slept on the night before. The boy he had so carefully seized from the house that day was not the boy who lived. This boy, this pathetic child had drained him of his final piece of leverage. He ripped apart the copy of the Daily Prophet he had managed to snag from a newspaper stand catering to international news. Right there, on the first page was the picture of William Potter, the true boy who lived, the firstborn son of the Potters by a minute, the defeater of the dark lord, and the chosen one.

Peter stared at the lightning bolt gash on the boy's hand, and then the same bolt on Harry's forehead. This was the most disgusting trick Fate had ever played on him. Afraid his rage would lead to him murdering the boy and triggering some protection from the local magical government, he apparated outside a muggle orphanage. It was there that he left the still crying Harry and disapparated.

That day, Saint Martin de Porres orphanage received a new child. A child so cruelly abandoned outside their doors. A child who was surely abused, as shown by the scar on his forehead. However, the nun that had received the child felt a strong aversion to informing the police. Looking up and questioning the heavens for their actions for the third time that day, the nun went back in. This child would suffer no longer, the nun had decided.

On that day, Harry Potter died. Harry, an orphan of the St. Marcus de Porres orphanage was found anew.