When Minerva stepped into Damien’s living room again, worry tugging at her, she found that one child had become two.
Remus sat beside Damien on the sofa, and nearby, Remus’s mother, Hope, watched Minerva with a small, tentative, pleading smile.
Minerva immediately understood what that hope in Hope’s eyes was for.
Before the woman could lower herself to ask anything for her son, Minerva spoke first.
“Remus, Damien, good morning.
Today I’ll be teaching you Transfiguration.
I hope you both listen carefully.”
Seeing that Minerva had already slipped into her teaching tone, Hope’s lips trembled slightly.
Catherine, standing at her side, gave her arm a reassuring pat.
The two women quietly retreated from the living room, leaving Minerva alone with the boys.
Minerva simply didn’t want to force a mother to beg over something as trivial as a few lessons.
Besides, this child’s fate had already been turned upside down because of her nephew.
Compared to that, teaching him some Transfiguration was nothing; even if he turned out to be a slow learner, it wouldn’t matter.
Yet when the hour-long lesson ended and they paused for a break, Minerva still couldn’t quite hide the shock in her eyes.
Remus didn’t have Damien’s solid foundation or his well-trained logical thinking, but the flashes of insight he displayed, the odd, imaginative angles from which he approached Transfiguration theory, made Minerva grow fonder of him as she watched.
So the three of them passed a satisfying morning together.
After the two families shared a generous lunch, Minerva used the excuse of taking a walk to pull Damien away from the napping Remus and led him down to the grassy bank of the lake.
On this quiet afternoon, the warm sunlight took a little of the bite out of the Scottish Highland chill.
Damien ran ahead over the dry grass, his energetic figure and the nursery rhyme he was humming adding an easy, peaceful note to Minerva’s mood.
She was still considering how to coax information out of him when his sudden question shattered her composure.
“Auntie, does that Uncle Urquart like you?”
The innocent voice made Minerva’s steps falter.
She almost stumbled, then caught herself, heat rushing up behind her ears.
Bending down so she could meet Damien’s gaze, she asked very seriously, “Damien, who told you about Urquart?”
“He told us himself!
At Christmas, he sent us loads of French snacks, and he even wrote a letter saying he’s on good terms now with Mr.
Sloan from the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
He said if we like them, he’ll ask someone to bring more.”
Damien looked straight into Minerva’s eyes, his expression solemn.
“It’s not just our house—he sent some to Uncle Malcolm’s and to Grandpa and Grandma’s too.
But Dad and Uncle Malcolm have never worked at the Ministry of Magic, so…”
“So you think he sent you Christmas gifts because of me, is that it?” Minerva asked softly.
Damien grinned and gave her a conspiratorial wink, his dark eyes gleaming.
In a low voice, he pressed, “So, does Auntie like that Uncle Urquart?”
Minerva fell silent, pulled into her own thoughts.
She could have brushed him off with a casual answer, but Damien’s precociousness made her reluctant to fob him off with a lie or a joke.
She thought it over for a long time before finally saying, “He did propose to me, but I refused.
He truly is an excellent man, but for now, I can’t accept spending the rest of my life with him.”
Damien kept a polite, well-behaved smile on his face, but inside he was roaring: Yeah, because you’re heartbroken and won’t get over it until 1982.
More than once, Damien had wondered whether J.K.
Rowling had some deep misunderstanding about marriage and love when she wrote the books.
Minerva had sealed her heart away for twenty-eight whole years over a relationship that had lasted only a few months.
In his previous life, when he’d first seen this bit of expanded lore, he’d been stunned—and at the same time, he’d felt a genuine respect for Urquart, who had been pursuing Minerva since 1954.
To keep going for that long, with absolutely no visible progress bar, was, in its own way, a mark of integrity.
Though Damien was ranting internally, outwardly he kept up the act of a curious child.
“Why?”
Minerva flushed with embarrassment.
She really didn’t want to tell such a young child her nearly tragic love story.
But having already answered his first question truthfully, her naturally upright character made it hard for her to stop now.
Watching his aunt’s perpetually furrowed brow—the same stern line her students saw at Hogwarts—he couldn’t help remembering that Professor McGonagall, so dignified and forbidding in class, was only thirty this year.
In his previous life, a woman that age would still be reveling in youth, insisting she was eighteen every birthday.
Yet Minerva now already resembled the fifty-something witch who would later welcome Harry Potter to Hogwarts.
Damien didn’t believe this stiff, prematurely withered version was her real self.
Given the choice, he still wished that the aunt who had turned into a cat to entertain him when he was small could smile more often.
And handing this particular matter over to Urquart, who had been loyal for twenty-eight years, was clearly the right move.
Minerva turned the problem over and over in her mind and still couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse.
Irritated, she pivoted abruptly and headed back toward the living room of Damien’s house.
Seeing her so obviously troubled, Damien didn’t press her for a decision.
He simply followed at a leisurely pace, snickering quietly at her flustered retreat.
Any reaction, he thought, was better than none.
Between two people, what matters most is whether the other responds to you.
Any kind of response means you occupy some space in their heart.
There were plenty of “simp” classmates in his past life who worked themselves to the bone, only to discover in the end that no one but themselves ever cared.
They’d never made it into the other person’s heart, so everything they did only moved themselves.
Damien watched as Minerva hurried toward the gate of his family’s courtyard, a little dishevelled.
She, too, seemed to realise how undignified it looked to flee so quickly.
She halted, straightened a bit, gave Damien a brisk nod and said, “I suddenly remembered I have to take the Gryffindor Quidditch team for training this afternoon.
I’ll answer your question next week.”
Confronted with this way of procrastination, Damien pretended not to notice.
He had no wish to make things harder for his aunt.
Instead, he flashed her a bright smile and wished her good luck, saying he hoped Gryffindor would win the Quidditch Cup.
That unwitting “below the belt blow” pierced Minerva’s heart again.
In recent years, Hufflepuff and Slytherin had taken turns ruling the skies, while poor Gryffindor was almost at the point of not even being able to beat Ravenclaw.
Watching Minerva’s expression sink even further, Damien blinked in understanding.
So that was why she would one day rate James Potter so highly.
Spring gave way to autumn, year after year, the current of time never slowing.
In the blink of an eye, Remus’s ninth birthday arrived.
On a quiet evening, the two neighbouring families gathered once more, soft lamplight pooling warmly over their faces.
Robert Jr.
and Lyall seized this rare chance to drink their fill of beer, keeping their voices low for fear their wives might notice.
Catherine and Hope sat to one side with glasses of red wine, chatting in low tones as they traded the latest gossip from both the wizarding and Muggle worlds.
As for the main character of the night—the birthday boy, Remus—he sat with Damien at a desk in the corner of the living room, utterly absorbed in a game of Gobstones.
Unfortunately, he was still no match for Damien.
Only three shiny silver Gobstones remained in his hand, and his young face was almost entirely coated in the foul liquid the stones had spat at him.
The stench clung to his nose.
Even facing certain defeat, Remus refused to give in.
Brow furrowed, he focused with all his might, vowing to make Damien taste that awful smell as well.
Sadly for Remus, he had no idea that Damien had, through sheer “practice”, already mastered the special talent of being ambidextrous..
His nimble fingers were on a level Remus simply couldn’t reach through hard work alone.
Inevitably, Remus’s valiant counterattack ended with another full-face blast of Gobstone punishment.
Across from him, Damien still wore a mischievous grin as he suggested, “How about we try Wizard’s Chess next time?
Otherwise, you’ll have to spend ten minutes washing your face every time.”
Watching his friend hopping about in glee after yet another victory, Remus felt a surge of undaunted determination.
He said firmly, “Just you wait.
I’ve already figured out the trick.
Next time, I’ll definitely get you sprayed too!”
“Gryffindor, indeed…”
Warm light spilled through the windows, soft and golden, blurring into the lingering mist and wrapping the hazy night in a gentle yellow glow.
While the two families enjoyed their peaceful evening, an ugly little boat was sliding soundlessly across the lake.
Hunched in the prow, wrapped in rags, a man stared at the two warmly lit houses, his bloodshot eyes fixed and unblinking.
He looked half-starved, yet radiated a feral danger.
This was Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who had failed to attack Remus four years earlier.
After that failed assault on the Lupin family, Fenrir’s life had crashed to the bottom.
Once the Ministry of Magic got a clear look at his face, wanted posters went up everywhere, and even the Daily Prophet splashed his many crimes across its pages beside an enormous moving photograph.
The Aurors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement also tightened their screenings of Muggles found near victims during missions, forcing him to tiptoe through every full moon attack.
What used to be easy slaughter became a careful, miserable game of survival.
Worst of all, Leon—the werewolf Fenrir had personally turned, the one who had followed him loyally for years—had surrendered and become a Ministry test subject.
That damned traitor.
After his arrest, Leon had actually volunteered to test potions for the Potions Masters, which eventually led to the creation of the Wolfsbane Potion.
Then he’d gone even further and reported every possible hideout and habit Fenrir had, filling nearly two feet of parchment with details.
For his “service,” the former Minister for Magic, Nobby Leach, had specially approved an expensive monthly supply of Wolfsbane Potion for Leon, free of charge.
Those blows, one after another, drove Fenrir to flee to Ireland.
There, he lived like a street dog—hiding, starving, and far from the wild, unrestrained life he’d once enjoyed.
Then, not long ago, a few mysterious “important people” sent someone to find him.
They said a certain “Gentleman” had taken an interest in Fenrir and in the werewolves he could rally to his call.
For a stray hounded to the edge of the world by the Ministry of Magic, it was a lifeline.
Fenrir wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t about to let such a chance slip away.
But he named one condition—his only condition: he would personally turn Remus Lupin into a werewolf and put an end to the humiliation that had haunted him to this day.
Months later, Fenrir could still clearly recall the surprise—and the faint contempt—in that young pure-blood noble’s expression when he heard the request.
Those bright eyes had practically said, I’m offering you such a huge opportunity, and this is all you want?
Fenrir couldn’t care less about the opinions of those high-and-mighty little lords.
All he wanted was to reclaim his “dignity.”
The new Minister for Magic, Eugenia Jenkins, had plenty of charisma but lacked raw magical strength.
She had quickly been pushed to the sidelines by the entrenched pure-blood families in the Ministry.
Because of that, Alastor Moody’s debriefing report on the attack on the Lupin family four years earlier was dug up, passed around, and eventually landed in Fenrir’s hands.
Only then did he finally understand why he had failed back then—though he still had no idea where that damned prophecy had come from.
Now, Fenrir sat silently in the bow of the boat.
Spring in the Scottish Highlands was still bitterly cold.
A thin veil of mist rose from the freezing lake, hiding his shape but mercilessly leeching the warmth from his body.
He rubbed his hands, stiff from the cold spray, but his eyes burned with vicious anticipation.
On the next full moon, he would tear his past disgrace to pieces with his own claws—he, Fenrir Greyback.
The oars slid through the water without a sound.
Fenrir, like a vengeful spectre, melted into the night, drifting away from the island of warmth and laughter.
In his heart, he howled: Laugh!
Sing!
Enjoy it while you still can!
Because the great Fenrir, is about to begin his hunt!
His silhouette vanished into the depths of the night.
Back at the houses, the Damien and Lupin families remained wrapped in the cheerful glow of the birthday celebration.
Only after hearing that Fenrir had fled the British mainland had Robert Jr.
and Lyall finally let go of the fear that had clung to them for two long years.
Now, both families kept only the original defensive magic in place, adding nothing more.
Whether through carelessness or fate, Fenrir had chosen a perfect moment to take his revenge.
The quiet days slipped by, one after another.
Just when Damien thought his childhood would pass calmly, without so much as a ripple until he turned eleven, the gears of fate had already begun turning in silence.
On the night of March 15th that year, under a full moon high in the sky, Damien gained a memory he would never forget.