AN : A transmigrator reborn as Damien McGonagall—the nephew of Minerva McGonagall.
Growing up beside the Marauders, Lily and Snape.
Watch as Damien becomes the de-facto leader of the group and has adventures with his friends.
Small clusters of houses, scattered like pearls, dotted the sea of vivid green that spread across the Scottish Highlands.
At the northernmost edge of the mountain village Ochertyel, a broad, glassy lake lay quiet and undisturbed, mirroring the calm of the land around it.
If you took a small boat and rowed to the far end of that lake, you’d reach a narrow wooden pier.
Mist curled lazily up from the water, wrapping a lone farmhouse in a thin, drifting veil.
This was the warm, lived-in home of Robert Jr.
McGonagall and his family.
The sandstone farmhouse, with its whitewashed walls and bright red door, stood by the lakeside looking as solid and unpretentious as any other house in Ochertyel.
But unlike its neighbors—none of which were taller than two stories—this farmhouse was… different.
For one thing, it had a small, delicate hexagonal tower tacked on to it.
To the villagers of Ochertyel, that tower was entirely pointless, a fancy bit of nothing.
And yet, the whole house carried a peculiar sort of charm.
From the carefully built wooden pier stretching out into the lake to the small side garden bursting with color and obviously tended with care, every detail suggested that Robert Jr.’s family lived in a way quite unlike anyone else in the village.
Still, if you asked the people of Ochertyel what they thought of Robert Jr.’s family, you would always hear the same thing:
Robert Jr.
was a crazy, eccentric oddball that no one could quite figure out, but the merciful God had taken pity on him and granted him an angel who could save him.
Pressed for details, though, none of them could actually explain why they spoke of Mr.
Robert that way.
At this moment, the “angel” who had saved Robert Jr.
lay stretched out on the bed in the second‑floor bedroom, luxuriating in the rare May warmth of the Scottish Highlands.
The man the villagers called “crazy Mr.
Robert” stood nearby, a plate of freshly washed berries in hand.
He moved with unexpected grace as he offered them to the woman lazily rolling about on the bed.
Catherine’s beautiful eyes fluttered open a fraction.
She looked at the man before her, her gaze soft and full of affection.
Her red lips parted in a lazy, teasing invitation.
“I don’t want to move.”
At her words, Robert Jr.
sat lightly on the edge of the bed.
He lifted a plump berry, still beaded with clear droplets of water, and held it gently to his wife’s lips.
As he fed her, he watched her with tender eyes.
In their gazes, each saw nothing but the other’s reflection.
Naturally, the two of them soon found themselves lying together on the soft bed.
“Oh, my darling~~” Robert Jr.
breathed, unable to hold back a murmur—and, at that very moment.
A loud wail split the air of the pink‑tinted room.
The cry shattered the lingering romance, reminding the young couple that the fruit of their love was also present.
By the window, in a small corner, stood an exquisite little wooden cot.
Inside, a tiny, pink‑skinned baby was bawling at full volume.
“Is Damien hungry?” Robert Jr.
wondered aloud.
“He actually just ate half an hour ago.” A mischievous glint flickered in Catherine’s eyes.
“Oh, then it seems our little man needs a diaper change.” Robert Jr.
sighed, helpless, and picked up the wand resting at the head of the bed.
With a gentle wave—
The baby in the cot rose slowly into the air.
Another flick, and the soiled diaper vanished, replaced in mid‑air by a fresh one.
Damien drifted back down, settling softly into the wooden bed.
“Oh, Robert, we agreed not to use magic when taking care of little Damien,” Catherine protested, displeasure clear in her voice.
“Just this once, dear.
Trust me, he won’t mind.”
As Robert Jr.’s voice trailed off, the room’s atmosphere grew hazy and intimate once more.
On the bed, little Damien let out a tiny, resigned sigh.
The baby in the crib had a healthy flush in his cheeks.
Under the fine, sparse black hair, a pair of dark eyes gleamed with the clear brightness of early childhood.
But in those wide infant eyes there was no purity or innocence—only a tiredness and helplessness that had no place on a baby’s face.
Back when transmigration novels were popular in his previous life, there was a classic running joke about how the actual experience of transmigrating never matched the fantasy.
As a reader, Damien had once laughed till his sides hurt at these miserable transmigration setups.
The more tragic the transmigrator, the funnier the story—when it was happening to someone else.
Now that he was the one on the receiving end, he couldn’t laugh at all.
If he had another chance, Damien swore he would only read those brainless “overpowered genius” stories—it would be best if he were born as the pampered only son of some governor and could live a wonderfully “boring” life to the end.
‘It’s only been five months.
The days are so long.’
Damien let out a helpless sigh.
For a man, being forced to relive life as a weak, helpless infant who couldn’t even control his own bodily functions was nothing short of torture.
Whenever that frustration surged up, Damien would comfort himself by thinking of his “cheap dad” casually waving a wand.
The lure of learning magic was the only thing that let him grit his teeth and endure his current humiliation and suffering.
Even so, as a middle-aged man who had been ground down by real life, Damien remained clear-headed.
Modern society had already taught him, through repeated hard lessons, that good things were rare and misfortune was common.
His father was obviously a wizard, but his mother was a complete Muggle.
Muggle.
The moment he heard that word, he knew exactly where he was.
In the world of Harry Potter, there was such a thing as a Squib.
Still, thinking over the bits of conversation he’d picked up over the past few months, he could barely console himself.
Born in the 1960s, whether he had magic or not, there were at least two roads open to him: business titan or magical prodigy.
Learning magic would be amazing, of course.
But if he couldn’t, becoming a low-key financial tycoon wouldn’t be so bad either.
Just as Damien was feeling smug about having it both ways—
The background noise of his parents’ “adventures” in his ears suddenly swelled.
Damien rolled his eyes and tried to turn his head away from the commotion, only to catch sight of his dad secretly flicking his wand in his direction to cast some kind of sound barrier.
Damien’s eyes flew open as wide as they could go.
Magic is good.
Magic must be learned.
‘What business titan?
To hell with that—he still had to learn magic!’
His mouth practically filled with drool from sheer envy.
At this moment, entrepreneurship and changing the world were completely forgotten.
Leave world-shaking feats to other people; a real man should wield wondrous magic.
Just as Damien was losing himself in fantasies of adulthood—where a casual wave of his wand would grant him anything he wanted—harsh reality reminded him of his current state.
A wave of damp heat suddenly spread beneath his backside.
A thin line of tears slipped from the corner of his eye.
When would these soul-crushing days finally end?
Then his tiny body moved on its own, and uncontrollable sounds burst from his throat.
Wails of infant crying once again filled the warm bedroom.
Amid his parents’ startled cries and under the tip of his father’s wand, Damien began his second childhood.
June 1961
After countless secret efforts, Damien finally set foot on his new path in life.
He could now use his vocal cords to hold simple conversations with his parents.
Regaining this long-lost ability to speak stirred up a tangle of emotions in his heart.
Thinking back on his “evolutionary journey” over the past year—from crawling to standing, then to walking upright—Damien couldn’t help but shed a few bitter tears.
It was just too much.
For an adult who had once lived in the era of the information explosion, this past year had been sheer torment.
No mobile phones, no computers, no endless games or short videos.
Day after day he could only lie in bed, his tiny, fragile body unable to handle any real exertion.
Even communication was reduced to nothing more than crying and laughing.
As he recalled everything that had happened this year, one scene kept looping in his mind: Andy Dufrene roaring at the top of his lungs, right after his prison escape.
Then the shot cut to girls with slim waists and long legs pushing open doors—
Pah, pah, pah!
Don’t go there.
Compared to that, his own life was too pitiful; if he kept thinking about it, he really would start crying again.
Damien carefully pushed himself up from the bed.
His tiny body still couldn’t fully control its balance, and every step wobbled.
He cautiously walked from the bedroom into the second-floor corridor, one small step at a time.
His father had set a spell to restrict his range of movement, so he couldn’t go down the stairs to other parts of the house.
But even so, it was far better than lying on the bed like a corpse, staring blankly at the ceiling all day.
As a typical young man ground down by the modern rat race, Damien’s spirit had always been in good supply.
Without the trick of spiritual victories, it would have been hard for him to keep “winning” at all (isn’t that right, Mr.
Know-It-All?).
“Little Damien, come eat some fruit.”
“Okay, Mama.” Damien immediately changed direction with surprising agility.
Who’s ‘strolling’?
I’m not loitering—the bedroom is obviously better.
On the bedside table, a plate of freshly washed strawberries still held a few crystal-clear droplets of water.
Catherine sat beside the bed, patiently plucking off the green leaves one by one so Damien could enjoy this simple dessert properly.
“Mama, thank you.” Years of living together had long since warmed his once-lost soul.
This gentle, loving pair of parents had nurtured this prematurely mature spirit with their affection.
Damien had grown used to this warm, peaceful family atmosphere.
He leaned against Catherine, letting her hand him the bright strawberries to taste.
Then, copying her movements, he clumsily but carefully picked off the leaves himself and shared the sweet fruit with her.
To Damien, this was just an ordinary little act—but it made Catherine’s eyes shine as though she’d received an unexpected gift.
Smiling from ear to ear, she planted a loud kiss on his cheek.
At first, Damien had been uncomfortable with this, but since he couldn’t resist, all he could do was object in a childish voice: “Oh!
Mama!”
Catherine laughed freely.
Watching the child she’d raised grow bit by bit—this was the gentlest joy a mother could have.
Just then, there was a sound from downstairs.
Robert Jr.
had come home.
Damien and Catherine both looked toward the staircase and called out.
Damien simply shouted, “Papa,” while Catherine, brimming with pride, announced to Robert, “Hey, little Damien just peeled strawberries for me to eat.”
“Oh, Little Damien, I want some too.
You can’t just spoil Mama.”
Robert Jr.
immediately teased his quiet son.
This child, calm, gentle, and well-behaved from the moment he was born, was the greatest treasure and pride of Robert and Catherine.
Damien only shook his head in helpless amusement, then carefully prepared a strawberry for his dad as well.
He might look like a one-year-old, but he’d already walked through life and death once.
He’d seen through a lot and naturally wasn’t shy about showing what he really thought.
“Oh, right, Catherine.
My sister is free today and will be coming over in a bit to visit us.”
“Okay, I’ll go tidy up.”
“There’s no need to be so formal.
I’ll tidy the house; it’s just a few waves of a wand.”
As Robert spoke, he gave his wand a casual flick.
Under his smooth, precise movements, the scattered furniture slid back neatly into place.
Scraps of parchment, fruit stems, and other household rubbish fell into orderly lines, hopped into the bin, bundled themselves up, and flew out.
Even the last traces of dust drifted after them and vanished.
Catherine watched him work with a soft smile.
In their three years of marriage, he had always taken care of her like this.
Robert gave his wife a courtly bow, then winked.
“Then I’ll go prepare lunch.
You bring little Damien downstairs.”
Spreading his hands like a conductor before an orchestra, he let the kitchen burst into life.
Steaks vaulted into the cast-iron skillet, sizzling as they met the butter and filling the air with a rich aroma.
Vegetables marched up to be washed and chopped, then waited in proper formation for their turn to dive into the pot.
Hovering above the stove, a Siemens range hood roared dutifully to life, drawing up the steam and smoke—Muggle craftsmanship working in perfect concert with magic to keep the kitchen air clean.
Every time Damien saw this blend of the mundane and the miraculous, he couldn’t help but sigh from the bottom of his heart.
How could Muggle-born students entering Hogwarts in the ’90s, in his previous life, possibly have been willing to study magic with parchment by candlelight?
To have your lifestyle suddenly thrown back by several decades… only a true love of magic could make you endure that.
As Damien watched his father’s easy, practiced spellwork, still lost in his thoughts, a burst of green flames whirled up from the fireplace.
A tall young woman in emerald-green robes stepped out of the Floo, her expression serious.
A pair of square spectacles framed her eyes, and the slight furrow between her brows made her look even more severe, as if she were burdened with too many worries to bother with small talk.
“Auntie!”
The clear, childish call snapped her from her thoughts.
Damien ran toward her on his unsteady little legs.
Minerva hastily vanished the soot from her robes, took two quick strides, and scooped him up, forcing the habitual crease between her brows to relax as much as she could.
“Little Damien, have you been a good boy lately?” Minerva’s voice was gentle.
Here, she was not Hogwarts’ transfiguration professor, not the stern future head of Gryffindor House.
She was just a twenty-six-year-old young woman, a girl who still wasn’t quite sure how to handle a one-year-old barreling into her arms.
Yes—the biggest cheat of Damien McGonagall’s transmigration, Professor Minerva McGonagall, herself, had arrived.
Damien wrapped his arms tightly around her neck, speaking in a childish, pampered tone as he clung to her.
Even Catherine couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy at the sight.
Behind them, another wave of Robert Jr.’s wand set a lavish lunch on the table, dishes arranging themselves with practiced ease.
It was June 1961.
While hidden currents stirred in the wizarding world, Damien’s warm childhood was quietly unfolding.
September 1964
The gentle autumn sun bathed the endless Scottish Highlands in a sea of gold.
Beside the modest wooden pier near the home of Robert Jr., however, a twenty-meter Scots pine pierced the sky, its deep green needles cutting through the golden expanse like a single, vivid stroke of ink.
Four-year-old Damien sat steadily at the end of that narrow pier reaching into the lake.
His slightly oversized grey bucket hat sagged around the brim, casting shade over his small face.
In his hands, he gripped a tiny fishing rod crafted just for him, its polished shaft smooth under his fingers, a thin fishing line trailing from its tip into the water.
He sat there in silence, waiting patiently for whatever gift fate chose to send him today.
For a four-year-old to be out fishing might have seemed unreasonable to others—but when your whole family had already decided you were a little genius, and your dad adored fishing, then copying him felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Damien stared at the lake, its surface flat and glassy, mirroring the pale blue sky and the golden line of the shore.
A quiet, gentle calm settled in his chest.
In his previous life, he had been driven half-mad by work pressure, fighting to stay afloat in endless competition.
He left early, came home late, and more than once woke in the middle of the night, jolted upright by thoughts of unfinished tasks.
When it came to relaxing, all he could do was scroll through short videos of other people’s romantic, leisurely lives, pretending that he had already gone there, played there, rested there.
But this time, he finally had the time to experience the simple joy of fishing for himself.
“It feels just so-so,” Damien muttered under his breath, though the faint, satisfied curve of his lips betrayed him.
At that peaceful moment, the rod in his hand suddenly jerked, vibrating violently.
Damien grabbed it with both hands, sprang to his feet, and yanked back hard, launching into a tug-of-war with whatever was on the line.
He had been fishing at this lake for half a month, and this was the first time anything had actually bitten.
Excitement shook through his small body as he silently chanted to himself, “Loosen, straighten, shake again, and pull back.”
But before he could even show off the nine little fishing techniques his dad had so eagerly taught him, the force from below dragged him into a staggering stumble.
Damien’s eyes went wide.
Over half a month with nothing, and the first bite is a whopper?
‘Woohoo!
A real fisherman never goes home empty-handed!’
He clamped both hands around the rod and leaned his whole weight back, bracing himself against one of the wooden piles of the pier to keep from being pulled in.
Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Mom, I caught a fish!
Come quick!
If you don’t come, the fish are going to catch me!”
The big fellow in the depths of the lake clearly didn’t appreciate Damien’s “call the grown-ups when you’re losing” tactic.
It thrashed and rolled even harder, turning the calm surface into flying spray and yanking Damien back and forth along the shore.
Bit by bit, Damien began to inch toward the water, each step harder to stop than the last.
Behind him, Catherine, who had rushed over at his shout, spotted his small, flailing figure from a distance.
She froze for a heartbeat, then broke into a full sprint, calling out in alarm, “Damien, let go!”
But Damien refused to abandon the prize that was almost in his grasp.
He glared at the wildly whipping fishing line.
In his past life, he had given up more times than he could count; an ordinary person never really got to have their cake and eat it too.
Now that he had crossed over once, if he started this second life by giving up from the very beginning, how could he ever hope to be a winner in the future?
The veins in his neck stood out as he tightened his grip on the rod and bellowed, “Get up here!!!”
Then something miraculous happened.
Damien’s mind went blank for an instant, and in that instant, he seemed to see the rod sweep upward as a great golden fish burst out of the water.
The next thing he knew, the dragging force was gone.
Instead of being hauled into the lake, he had actually swung the rod up.
A carp at least three feet long arced out of the water with the motion of the rod, hanging motionless in midair as if frozen there.
Yet what stunned Damien wasn’t the hefty catch itself but the string of small yet bold blue worda that appeared before his eyes:
[Magic fluctuations detected.
Young Wizard’s ability assessment in progress…]
[First magic outburst recording complete.
Wizard Growth Auxiliary System automatically starting.
Program loading…]
Damien blinked.
Before he could think it through, Catherine had already rushed over and crushed him in a tight hug.
By noon that day, the McGonagall home was overflowing with noise and warmth.
One after another, robed wizards stepped out of the fireplace, faces alight with genuine delight.
The star of the hour—a carp three feet and one inch long—hung motionless in mid-air above the living room, held there by magic.
While everyone exclaimed over it, Damien found himself squeezed into the very center of the sofa, the focus of every gaze.
“So our family has another Wizard, right?
Lord, please forgive my joy.” As the only church pastor present, Old Robert Sr.
McGonagall prayed devoutly, his wrinkled face shining with happiness.
“Hey, Dad, there’s no need for that.
This is talent.
I’m sure some of it comes from your side of the family.”
Malcolm McGonagall himself wasn’t sure whether he was trying to comfort his devout father or twist the knife a little.
Robert Jr.
flicked his wand, floating a massive cake onto the living room table, then slung an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“Malcolm, stop winding Dad up.
Today’s a great day.
My son not only caught a big fish; he also awakened his magical talent.”
“So in your eyes, a magic riot isn’t as important as that big fish?” Isobel McGonagall demanded, pointing sternly at the carp still hovering over their heads.
“Mom, of course that’s not what I meant.
I mean, um, look—little Damien is just over four years old, and he’s already awakened.
He clearly has a lot of talent.”
Realizing he was talking himself into a corner, Robert Jr.
hurried to change the subject.
Without magic, he hadn’t even managed to catch a one-foot-long fish.
Thinking that, he glanced up at the carp hanging in the air, envy plain in his eyes.
“Naturally, he’s talented.
After all, when you were seven, you blew up the cupboard just to get at some biscuits, whereas four-year-old Damien not only avoided any damage, but he even brought up a big fish.”
Minerva stepped out of the fireplace just then.
She fixed Robert Jr.
with a severe look.
“Robert McGonagall Jr., you’re already the father of a four-year-old.
I would have thought you’d know better than to leave Damien alone by the water.
Catherine is not a careless woman, so—what did you do?”
At his sister’s tone, Robert Jr.
shuddered.
After a few useless stammers, he finally gave up on excuses and confessed.
“I told Catherine I’d laid spells around the pier so no fish would come.
I did put up interference charms at first, but I got lazy today.
I only cast a water-repelling charm so Damien wouldn’t fall in, and then I left.”
“Oh!!!”
Everyone burst out in an uproar.
Damien’s eyes went wide as he stared at his father in disbelief.
He really hadn’t expected Robert McGonagall Jr.
to be such a bastard.