The icy wind of Ochertyel couldn’t chill the warmth of Robert’s and Lyall’s families, but the winter gusts sweeping through Hogwarts only made Minerva McGonagall’s heart grow colder.
After traveling through the night, she stepped back onto the castle grounds feeling as heavy as if she were made of lead.
There was almost no chance to rest.
The moment she returned, a full day of Transfiguration classes awaited her—four consecutive year levels, back-to-back.
At Hogwarts, crushing academic pressure did not fall on students alone; the teachers bore it just as heavily.
A House-elf pressed a cup of aromatic coffee into her hand.
The bitter warmth barely eased the fatigue furrowing her brow.
She rubbed at her temples, forcing herself to push aside her tangled thoughts and focus entirely on the day’s lessons.
By the time the moon had climbed over the horizon and the last complex class of the day finally ended, her body was spent.
Yet the doubts in Minerva’s heart surged beneath the moonlight like a restless tide, each wave breaking against her exhausted mind.
Her body was worn out, but sleep would not come.
Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the Muggle Harland had killed—
She didn’t even know the victim’s name.
Minerva pressed harder at her aching temples.
At last, unable to endure the ceaseless questions battering her from within, she rose from her second-floor office and strode toward the Headmaster’s Tower.
She needed answers.
Desperately.
In his office, Albus Dumbledore was writing rapidly behind his great desk.
On a nearby spindly-legged table, a collection of strange, silver instruments turned lazily, chiming now and then with clear, delicate notes, each sound punctuated by the soft puff of tiny clouds of smoke that drifted and curled to some invisible rhythm.
When Minerva’s tired figure appeared in the doorway, her footsteps heavy, Dumbledore had just fastened a letter with golden thread to Fawkes’s leg.
The phoenix nuzzled Dumbledore’s finger affectionately, then, with a bright, ringing cry and a flare of dazzling fire, vanished.
Dumbledore looked up.
Behind his spectacles, his blue eyes shone as they found Minerva, and a familiar, gentle smile curved his lips.
As though he had been expecting her, he spoke before she could organize her thoughts, his tone soft, inviting:
“Minerva, I imagine you must have many thoughts right now.
But if you don’t mind, please watch a memory with me first.”
Minerva saw no reason to refuse.
Since she had accepted Dumbledore’s invitation to teach at Hogwarts in December 1956, she had always followed his lead.
For so many years she had been his most trusted deputy.
Once again, the Pensieve from the black cabinet was brought out.
With his wand, Dumbledore carefully drew a strand of silver mist from his temple, fine as spider’s silk, and lowered it into the Pensieve.
Minerva drew a steadying breath and leaned forward beside Dumbledore, plunging her face into the silver vortex.
A powerful sense of weightlessness seized her, and when it passed she was standing in a dilapidated room.
The light was miserably dim; only a narrow, pathetic excuse for a window admitted any daylight at all.
Outside, the wind howled, forcing its way through the single pane and stripping away what little warmth the room possessed.
Great blocks of black stone jutted from the walls, their rough surfaces bristling with jagged protrusions.
On the room’s only piece of furniture—a hard wooden bed—Minerva saw that unforgettable figure once more.
“Grindelwald!”
The name escaped her almost as a groan.
The Dark wizard who had once been dashing, elegant, and aristocratic—yet also ambitious, cold, and cruel—now resembled a candle guttering in a draft.
The eyes that had once shone like stars were cloudy and dim; the refined, gentlemanly face, once so carefully maintained, was carved deep with the unforgiving marks of time.
After twenty years of imprisonment, the former Dark Lord was clearly worn down, body and soul.
Dumbledore appeared behind Minerva without a sound, his voice so soft and level it was almost devoid of emotion.
“A few days ago, I visited him at Nurmengard to ask him some things.
I think you should perhaps hear these conversations as well.”
The memory resumed its quiet flow.
Yet the Dumbledore and Grindelwald within it looked anything but calm.
One stood by the door like a statue, lips parting several times, yet no sound emerging for a long while.
The other slumped on the narrow wooden bed, trying more than once to haul himself upright.
Years in prison had mercilessly ravaged his body.
After several failed attempts, he finally sagged back, leaning against the cold stone wall of Nurmengard in defeat.
Only after a long silence did Dumbledore exhale, the sigh breaking the oppressive stillness.
“Gellert, there are some things…
I want to ask you.”
At that, Grindelwald slowly raised his head.
Beneath the wrinkles, there still lingered a faint trace of the elegance and nobility he’d possessed when he strode across nations.
He curled his lips into a slightly wicked smile at Dumbledore, who still stood at the door, and answered in a hoarse voice:
“Albus…
I am at your service.”
“I…
recently…
received a prophecy, from a child only five years old.”
There was the barest tremor in Dumbledore’s voice; clearly, he was far less composed than he appeared.
He paused, as if forcing his emotions back under control.
After a long moment, he went on in a steadier tone:
“The child saw some future scenes in a dream, but at the end of it, some special words suddenly appeared in his mind.
In the end, this child even triggered a violent magic riot, leaving permanent trauma on his own body.”
At those words, the calm on Grindelwald’s face slowly melted away, replaced by clear surprise and confusion.
He frowned slightly and said, low and thoughtful:
“That shouldn’t be.
In my childhood, I also saw fragments of the future in dreams many times, but I never saw any ‘special words,’ nor did it cause a magic riot, much less injure me.
After all, no matter what kind of talent it is, it won’t come at the cost of harming oneself.”
Dumbledore nodded heavily.
“I thought so too.
So, Gellert, as an experienced master of prophecy, can you help me judge whether this child’s situation is a true prophecy?
Or…”
His voice suddenly hardened, a cold, sharp light flashing in his eyes.
“Or is someone behind the scenes deliberately guiding, or even using this child…
to manufacture a prophecy?”
Grindelwald fell silent.
His gaze drifted, as though he had slipped back to eighteen, to the days when they discussed advanced magic, spoke of their ideals, and promised never to hurt each other.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Time had carved his face without mercy, yet it still held a hint of wicked charm as he spoke slowly.
“Albus, if you’re asking me…
the first half of this prophecy, the scenes the child saw in his dream, might be true.
However, those ‘special words’ and the ensuing magic riot—I dare say they were certainly not something the child produced on his own.
No talent would inflict such direct and malignant harm on its bearer, unless…”
“Unless someone prepared all of this on purpose…
to attract someone’s attention.”
Dumbledore’s and Grindelwald’s eyes met.
For a heartbeat, it was as if they were looking into each other’s eyes from their youth.
Sixty-six years later, when these two men—once inseparable, then estranged—found themselves discussing a problem again, they still possessed that same sharpness, that startling, seamless understanding.
This peculiar understanding, belonging only to the two of them, drew a soft chuckle from both at the exact same moment.
The laughter died away, leaving the two no-longer-young wizards brutally aware of their reality.
The air fell back into that same suffocating silence as at the beginning.
Dumbledore lowered his head, refusing to meet Grindelwald’s eyes.
His lips pressed together and moved once or twice, as if he meant to speak, but in the end he only turned, awkward and uncertain, and walked toward the door.
He left behind a faint, almost soundless murmur in the air.
“…I’m leaving.”
Minerva watched Grindelwald—alone, desolate, all his old elegance stripped away—sitting in the attic of Nurmengard’s tower.
Then she looked at the Dumbledore inside the memory, hurrying away in disarray, his composure shattered.
A tangle of emotions surged in her chest, and she could not stop a heavy sigh from escaping.
She turned to the Dumbledore standing behind her in the present, who still maintained his usual poise and refinement.
“Albus, you could actually…
let him out.
If you were willing, you could always find some plausible reason or excuse.
No Ministry of Magic in any country would dare to check if Gellert Grindelwald is actually serving his sentence in Nurmengard.”
At her words, Dumbledore inclined his head a fraction, neatly sidestepping Minerva’s searching gaze.
Deep in his eyes, where no one could see, a flash of complex, indescribable pain flickered and vanished.
His voice was as calm as ever, though it carried the faintest, almost imperceptible tremor:
“But, Minerva, there are enough people waiting with extreme eagerness for his return.
The situation is already chaotic enough; I cannot add fuel to the fire.
Perhaps…
after I have resolved these current chaotic problems…”
He let the sentence trail off.
With a small wave of his hand, the memory in the Pensieve dissolved around them, and the two of them rose out of it together, returning to the Headmaster’s office.
The swirling silver mist thinned and faded.
The liquid in the stone basin settled, once more smooth and still.
“So,” Dumbledore asked softly, “do you now understand why I insisted that you handle the Werewolf problem on the night of the full moon?”
His tone was as gentle as ever, as if the exposed, tangled emotions Minerva had brushed against in the Pensieve were already sealed away and perfectly under his control.
Minerva exhaled again, another heavy sigh.
A suffocating fear coiled around her, threatening to swallow her whole.
Her throat felt dry as she forced out.
“Yes, Albus, I understand.
The scene that night…
was exactly as described in Damien’s prophecy, without the slightest difference!
When Moody and I arrived, that Werewolf was climbing the second-floor window of the Lupin family’s house!
And behind that window was the bedroom of that poor child—Remus Lupin!”
Her voice shook slightly, weighed down by the implications of the prophecy.
A hard, icy glint flashed through Dumbledore’s eyes.
His conclusion was firm and immediate.
“So, this prophecy is real.
That attacking werewolf was not an actor specially sent by someone.
What Damien saw and spoke was a true and genuine prophecy.”
Minerva seemed to crumple.
All strength drained from her limbs; she leaned weakly against the desk, nodding in a daze, her face as pale as parchment.
“Yes, Albus.
It was a true and genuine prophecy.”
Dumbledore began pacing the length of his office, his robes whispering over the floor.
Countless thoughts crashed and tangled in his mind.
On the walls behind him, the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses had all fallen silent, watching him intently.
The Headmaster’s office was thick with a heavy, oppressive tension.
At last, Dumbledore stopped and spoke slowly.
“Phineas was right about one thing; I can tolerate those small, deliberate thoughts and behaviors.
But all of this cannot come at the cost of a five-year-old child’s trauma.
If Horace hadn’t had some special stock, this child’s whole life would have been changed.”
He met Minerva’s eyes, his expression grave.
“Minerva, next, I need you to maintain the status quo and continue teaching Damien, but observe carefully to see if anyone is secretly contacting your brother’s family.”
Minerva held his gaze and answered with quiet resolve, “Understood.”
While the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts were laying their plans to save Damien, by the lake in Ochertyel, Damien lay in his warm bedroom and, to the accompaniment of the cold wind howling outside his window, drifted into a sweet, untroubled dream.
Minerva paced and fretted over her poor little nephew, certain that someone must have secretly hurt him.
Meanwhile, that same “poor little nephew,” after a few days of carefree peace, was finally turning his attention to what really mattered to him.
Namely, how to squeeze the most out of this cheat system.
Fifty‑five points sounded like a fortune, but faced with such an absurdly complex panel, Damien found himself completely paralyzed by choice.
Because honestly, no matter how many serious magical options you scroll through, once you spot “dual‑wielding greatswords” at the bottom, it’s hard not to just throw a token point into Lumos and call it a day.
…Yeah.
Gandalf has really ruined people’s tastes.
Damien sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the thick tome propped open in front of him.
From outside the window, Hope glanced over and saw what looked like a child studying diligently.
In the face of his mother’s vanishing patience, Remus gave up his toy broom without protest and obediently picked up “Hogwarts: A History.”
But in Damien’s vision, there was nothing except the long, seemingly endless list of options on his system panel.
If Mrs.
Lupin actually walked into Damien’s bedroom, she would realize that the page of “Magical Defense Theory” on his desk hadn’t been turned once all evening.
Magic Theory, Transfiguration, Potions, Flying, Dual‑wielding weapons… Damien let out a helpless sigh as he stared at the interface that looked like it had no end.
He wanted every single one.
Ever since he first got his hands on destiny points, he’d been wrestling with which path to invest in.
The timeline was already completely off the rails—who knew when he’d ever see more destiny points?
But dragging things out day after day wouldn’t help.
Untapped talent, in the end, wasn’t much different from having no talent at all.
His gaze lingered, hesitant, on the “special gift” section of the interface.
It looked almost exactly like a pay‑to‑win mobile game.
A single line of text floated there:
[The Fate‑Player standing at the crest of the tide has opened his possibility of flight for the first time; generous fate shall bestow the most beautiful gift.] The source of this chapter is NovelPing.
[Your first point allocation will be presented in the form of a random roulette.
Brave one upon the River of Fate, please pursue the unknown destiny to your heart’s content.]
Damien rubbed his hands together and silently prayed to every god he could think of.
Then, bracing himself, he tapped the draw button.
At once, he felt something like waves of knowledge being forced into his mind—but the content was:
How to act completely clueless after something happens.
How to make yourself seem more trustworthy…
Enduring the light vertigo from the information rush, Damien pulled up the result of his allocation:
[Deception — Basic Deception Theory (After allocating points, you will gain the most basic common sense of Deception—Ordinary people say what they want to say, while the wise say what others want to hear).]
A bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead.
Bloody hell—what kind of cursed luck was this?
Still, it was a freebie.
Hard to complain too much.
…?
Damien stared at the still‑glowing draw button, baffled, a figurative question mark hovering over his face.
Wasn’t it supposed to be a one‑time thing?
He clicked again on impulse, and a new prompt appeared—
[Wave‑Wrestler upon the River of Fate, your heroic actions have significantly altered the future course of destiny; the generous and unknown fate shall grant you a generous gift.]
[You have obtained an extra draw chance.]
So, still muttering prayers under his breath, Damien decisively hit the button again.
The familiar dizziness hit, and once more, fresh knowledge flooded into his mind.
This time, his expression turned very odd.
The new information was all about the limits of human motion and various “special” coordination techniques.
For example… Rabbits rutting, tentacles… Stop, stop, stop!
Face dark with metaphorical black lines, Damien carefully read through the description:
[Special Movement — Basic Theory Detailed Explanation (After allocating points, you will gain the most basic knowledge of Special Movement.
Didn’t you say it was your first time?)]
Staring at that suggestive introduction, Damien felt as though whatever innocence he had left evaporated on the spot.
He silently cursed his luck a few more times, then forced himself to refocus on the skill panel.
After those two random draws, his mind was finally made up.
Switching back to the magic side of the interface, Damien unhesitatingly poured his points into the Transfiguration page.
[Basic Transfiguration Theory (After allocating points, you will gain basic theoretical knowledge of Transfiguration — Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration…
I hereby declare that you have graduated from first-year Transfiguration at Hogwarts!)]
Damien’s gaze moved down the page.
Three new branches had appeared:
[Transfiguration Casting Speed +1]
[Transfiguration Casting Precision +1]
[Transfiguration Spell Duration +1]
He lit up Casting Speed first.
To his surprise, the other two were still selectable.
So he simply activated all three options in the second row.
Then he looked to the third row.
This time, the mist parted to reveal two new options.
However, each now required 4 points.
“A geometric progression… the further you go, the more it costs,” Damien muttered.
Even so, he didn’t waver.
As an adult who’d once been ground down by society, he understood all too well that being truly skilled in one area was worth far more than being mediocre at everything.
With his innate talent, focusing on Transfiguration was the best return on investment.
He clicked without hesitation:
[Transfiguration Area of Effect +1]
[Transfiguration Casting Range +1]
On the fourth layer, after a brief internal struggle, Damien finally chose:
[Casting Precision +2]
[Casting Speed +2]
[Casting Intensity +1]
[Advanced Transfiguration Theory]
By the time he was done, his original 55 destiny points had dwindled to a mere 8.
He hesitated, but the itch in his heart still drove him to open the Dual-Wielding Weapons interface.
To his surprise, the starting talent here wasn’t some dry basic theory.
It was:
[Left-Handed: After allocating points, your left hand gains the same flexibility as your right hand.
The weak always have weaknesses, but we are the strong; we can use both hands with equal skill.]
The odd tone of the introduction made Damien chuckle.
He lit it up without a second thought.
This time, no unfamiliar knowledge surged into his mind.
Instead, a faint tingling ran through his left hand.
When he picked up a quill and tried writing with it, the handwriting was no different from what he produced with his right.
Originally, Damien had planned to stop there and keep the remaining 7 points as a safety reserve.
But then an option on the second layer caught his eye:
[Ambidextrous Combat—After allocating points, your left and right hands can perform different actions simultaneously.]
What was there to hesitate about?
He clicked.
Impulsively burning through another 2 points, Damien hurriedly slammed the panel shut, swearing to himself that unless he got his hands on another large haul of points, he absolutely would not open this interface again.
With this long-standing headache finally resolved, Damien looked up.
In the distance, Remus was nodding off over a massive hardcover book.
Behind him, Hope was walking toward him step by step.
Under Damien’s sympathetic gaze, little Remus was hauled to his feet by the ear.
For what followed, Damien simply pulled the curtains closed; he really couldn’t bear to watch.
In truth, Remus’s early childhood had been very happy.
His reading spanned everything from Muggle comics to Wizarding fairy tales, and Lyall and Hope had never placed any academic burdens on him.
But ever since Catherine had casually mentioned at a gathering that Damien had almost finished the entire first-year Hogwarts curriculum through self-study, poor Remus’s carefree days had come to an end.
The soft sound of Remus’s quiet sobs drifted through the still night air.
Damien couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he turned toward the window and whispered, almost apolegetically, “Goodnight, Remus.”
AN: