The boys’ chatter slowly faded into the background.
The boy in the seat watched their slightly odd retreating figures with mild curiosity, then shook his head and turned back, sinking once more into his own world.
The train sped along, and by midday Damien and Remus arrived in the industrial town of Cokeworth.
As soon as they stepped onto the platform, they saw a middle‑aged woman in her forties hurrying toward them, waving a sign that read “McGonagall and Lupin.”
Despite the lingering chill of March, she’d already changed into a dress, and there was a bright, bustling warmth about her that was rare among the British.
She greeted Catherine and Hope as if they were old friends.
“Mr.
Dumbledore gave me instructions.
I’ve found a place for you right next door to my house.
“The landlord, Mr.
William, is moving to London for work and won’t be back for at least a few years.
Renting his house is just right for you.”
After this stream of words, she seemed to suddenly remember something.
She smiled apologetically.
“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.
My name is Arabella Figg, and I’m a Squib.”
She said the last part quickly and in a near whisper, but Catherine and Hope had no idea what a Squib was.
So they simply kept chatting with Mrs.
Figg, matching her enthusiasm as they discussed the weather, skincare, and fashion.
Before long, the three women were laughing together, the air around them light and cheerful.
Remus stared, a little dazed, as his mother and the always-gentle Catherine turned into social butterflies before his eyes.
Stunned, he nudged Damien.
“I didn’t know Mum and Aunt Catherine had this side to them.”
“No, Remus,”
Damien shook his head.
He looked at his friend and said seriously,
“My mum and Aunt Hope are just being themselves again; this is how they truly are.”
Something in Damien’s tone made Remus pause.
He didn’t yet understand what those words meant, but he stored them away almost mechanically.
After all, the last few years had taught him one thing: Damien was always right.
The three women wrestled the luggage into Mrs.
Figg’s car with some effort.
Then the two families squeezed themselves into the car, and Mrs.
Figg pulled out onto the road, heading toward Damien and Remus’s new home.
Damien sat in the back seat, watching the scenery glide past the window as his thoughts drifted.
By the 1960s, Britain had begun to emerge from the shadow of war.
In this particular era, the Muggle world was developing at a remarkable pace.
Life for Muggles was already quite prosperous.
Compared with the Wizarding World—closed off and faintly arrogant—the Muggle world, with its airplanes, trains, and rock and roll, was far more dazzling.
Yet Catherine and Hope had willingly stepped away from such a life, choosing seclusion instead.
They no longer lived in fast‑paced modern cities, but like recluses hidden in a forgotten corner of civilization.
Maybe it was for love.
Maybe for responsibility.
Whatever the reason, the price they paid was no less than that paid by Wizards.
Lost in these thoughts, Damien didn’t notice the time pass until Mrs.
Figg, driving with practiced ease, turned into a narrow driveway and pulled into her garage.
Damien and the others climbed out and followed her to the front door.
“My husband passed away last year.
Besides me, there are only a few cats in the house.
I hope you aren’t allergic to cat hair.”
Mrs.
Figg gave them an apologetic smile as she reached for the doorknob.
The moment the door swung open, an all‑white Devon Rex appeared in the doorway.
It planted itself firmly across the threshold, rolling on the floor and unleashing a stream of meows at Mrs.
Figg that could only be described as noise.
But Mrs.
Figg was clearly used to this.
She neatly scooped up the cat and led the way inside.
Miraculously, the little creature that had been yowling nonstop fell silent the instant it was in her arms, letting out a satisfied purr instead.
Figg’s shoulder as still as a stuffed toy.
Its current docility was nothing like the drama it had just staged on the floor.
Mrs.
Figg noticed his look, smiled gently, and said,
“This is Snowy.
It’s a new breed that was recently confirmed; experts call it a Devon Rex.
He’s not bad, just a bit clingy.”
As she spoke, she gave Snowy’s head an affectionate pat.
The slightly bald, curly‑whiskered cat answered with a few obedient little hums.
In the living room, several other cats lounged on the sofa and coffee table.
A pair of Silver Shaded siblings took one look at the newcomers, then deftly hopped off the table and bolted up to the second floor.
The Munchkin cat on the sofa, however, seemed completely unfazed.
It continued to stretch lazily, its short legs extended, body elongated into one comfortable, straight line.
The air held the unmistakable, lingering scent of cats, but Damien didn’t mind.
He leaned toward the Munchkin sprawled on the sofa and gently tapped its nose with his finger.
The cat butted its head against his hand in easy familiarity.
The soft, warm fur under his fingertips drew a quiet chuckle from Damien.
Remus edged closer beside him and commented, “Mrs.
Figg has so many cats.
I want to have a pet too.”
Still teasing the Munchkin, Damien replied offhandedly, “When you go to Hogwarts, Remus.
If I remember right, new students are allowed to bring one pet.”
While the two boys were happily playing with the squat little cat on the sofa, Mrs.
Figg had already busied herself in the kitchen.
Catherine and Hope, feeling guilty about sitting idle as guests, soon went in to help her.
Before long, a full British-style lunch was laid out on the table.
Damien looked blankly at the fish and chips, then at the sausages and mashed potatoes beside them, and finally at Mrs.
Figg’s pleased expression.
Well.
He accepted his fate for the next two years.
At first, Damien had been dazzled by the technological boom of the British Muggle world in 1969 and hadn’t spared much thought for his daily living conditions.
But today, watching Mrs.
Figg proudly present a textbook British “state banquet”…
Harsh reality finally knocked on the door of Damien’s heart.
After nine years as a son, he knew very well that Catherine’s cooking hovered somewhere between “fit only for the bin” and “barely edible.”
Aunt Hope’s skills were about the same.
What made it worse was that neither woman had the faintest self-awareness; instead, they often got together to “invent” new dishes.
For instance, today’s fried fish was at least cod.
Just last year, Catherine and Hope had enthusiastically decided to fry a carp.
Damien swore on his past life that it was the most “unable to die in peace” carp he had ever seen.
No one had removed the fishline, no one had peeled out the black membrane—other than some rushed work on the scales and innards, the thing had practically gone into the pot whole.
Such primitive technique was enough to make any cook leap up and hurl both the oil and the fish straight out the door.
Yet that day, under the combined pressure of the two women, Robert Jr.
and Lyall, along with their dear sons, had forced themselves to finish off that two-pound carp.
Now, Damien felt as if that miserable fish had come back to life, flopping at the back of his throat and reminding him of what he was about to endure.
With that thought, he turned, expressionless, to Remus, who was eating a sausage.
“Remus…”
“What is it, Damien?”
“Nothing.
Just enjoy this meal.”
Damien was certain his enrollment at the Cokeworth school had been arranged while he was still lying in a bed at St.
Mungo’s.
The reasoning was simple enough.
He’d been discharged on March 20th and gone straight to Cokeworth, spending a pleasant weekend with Remus.
On Monday, March 23rd, Catherine had already prepared a big schoolbag, stationery, and Muggle textbooks for him.
Then she’d taken him and Remus to the public school, dragging the utterly bewildered boys in her wake.
Now Damien and Remus, each with a black backpack over their shoulders, walked through the school gates behind Catherine and Hope.
The quality of British public education in 1969 was poor and already clearly lagging behind the private schools.
Still, Damien and Remus weren’t actually going to walk the full path of Muggle life; as a short-term stopgap, this was acceptable.
As Catherine and Hope followed a teacher to handle registration for the boys, Remus grew visibly tense.
His hands trembled slightly, his shoulders hunched; seeing this, Damien let out a silent sigh.
“Remus, is football fun?”
“It’s pretty good, feels more interesting than Quidditch, but that guy yesterday played too well, I barely touched the ball…”
“Well, he’s been playing it his whole life.
If you’d started riding a broom at four, you’d definitely be great at Quidditch by now.”
“Maybe, but Dad won’t let me touch his broomstick.
He said I can only earn the qualification to use a flying broomstick after I go to Hogwarts and take Flying Class.”
“I guess Uncle Lyall might just not know how to teach you to use a flying broomstick.”
“Impossible, my dad is very amazing!”
Bit by bit, chatting with Damien eased the knot in Remus’s chest.
It worked—Remus was no longer nervous—but it came with a downside: he relaxed so much that he forgot where he was and started to raise his voice…
Hope, Catherine, and the middle‑aged teacher in black all turned to look at the two little boys who were still chatting away.
The stern-faced woman lowered her eyes to the registration form on the desk, then said slowly to them:
“Mr.
Lupin and Mr.
McGonagall, I hope you understand that although you’ve only just returned to Britain because of your parents’ work, and it’s understandable that you’re not yet familiar with the local educational environment or the expectations for individual students, as gentlemen, you should at least know this much: while your mothers are working hard for you, you mustn’t let them down.”
This, clearly, was a teacher who knew exactly how to handle students.
Her short lecture not only frightened Damien and Remus into silence, it also greatly improved both mothers’ opinion of her.
Catherine, who was more sentimental by nature, even had redness in her eyes.
Noticing the warm, approving look she gave the teacher, Damien mentally slapped his own forehead.
Knowing his mother, there was no way tonight was going to end well.
But he didn’t have to wait until tonight for things to go wrong.
The teacher immediately announced their punishment: five strokes of the cane each, followed by standing in the hallway outside the classroom.
When Damien heard the words, he went completely numb.
What about human rights?
What about freedom?
In his previous life, the worst he’d suffered was detention.
He had never been thrown out of the classroom to stand as a punishment.
In this life, he was getting a brand‑new experience.
How was it that Harry Potter could be chased and beaten by Dudley at school every day without a single teacher caring, yet he was getting caned just for chatting with Remus?
The double standard was ridiculous.
He vaguely remembered that the school Harry attended hadn’t exactly been a good Muggle school, either.
Clearly, Damien didn’t understand how British education had changed over the years.
At least in the seventies, where he was now, the quality of basic education in Britain was still quite solid and hadn’t yet “evolved” into the more… “quality‑oriented” system it would become later.
The most obvious difference: at this time, British schools were still allowed to use physical punishment.
So this unlucky soul who had arrived in the wrong era could only stand obediently at the classroom door after receiving five sharp strokes of the cane, side by side with Remus, whose eyes were red and expression pitiful.
Having learned his lesson, Damien didn’t dare talk to Remus anymore.
The two of them stood quietly at the door and didn’t say a word.
Only when the first English class ended did the teacher finally pull them back into the classroom and introduce the two new transfer students to everyone.
Remus and Damien hastily introduced themselves and were given their seats, just in time to get ready for the upcoming math class.
Damien had just thought he might be able to muddle his way through these basic courses when the math teacher who walked in hit him with a metaphorical blow to the head.
He stared, stunned, as the teacher handed out a thick stack of practice problems, then immediately launched into the monotonous cycle of “do the problems, then go over the problems.”
Damien looked at the pile of simple geometry tools in front of him, torn.
Should he copy the rhythm of his classmates and carefully measure and solve them one by one, or rush through them so he could rest?
At that moment, he suddenly thought of Remus, who was taking a Muggle class for the first time.
Sure enough, Remus was staring at the geometric problems and unfamiliar measuring tools, his face full of confusion and helplessness.
He was clumsily imitating the students around him, fumbling with the set square and protractor, but it was obvious he had no idea how to actually use them to solve the questions in the workbook.
Even with a Muggle mother, once a child shows wizarding talent early on, the focus of family education inevitably shifts toward the magical world.
These systematic bits of knowledge that only Muggle schools bother to teach naturally get pushed aside.
So, as Damien tried his best to blend in and keep a low profile among his classmates, Remus was soon called up by the math teacher to solve the questions one by one on the board.
The teacher might have meant to give him more chances to catch up, but in practice, it only threw Remus into a thoroughly embarrassing situation.
Watching poor Remus suffer, Damien couldn’t help silently crossing himself for him in his heart.
When the maths teacher finally finished drilling Remus and turned to Damien, Damien answered every question with calm, fluent ease.
His reasoning was clear, his answers precise.
The teacher’s brows lifted in approval, and with a satisfied nod he let Damien sit down amid a roomful of startled, newly respectful stares.
With Remus’s shaky performance still hanging in the air, Damien’s display came as a real shock.
But among all those admiring looks, one pair of eyes held only hurt and simmering indignation—Remus’s.
When you’ve run around together from the age of five to nine, sharing every game and scrape, and then your best mate suddenly pulls a stunt like that in front of everyone, it’s hard not to feel that way.
Now, in the minds of the entire class, the labels had already settled: “useless Remus” and “brilliant academic genius Lord Damien.”
Catching the disbelieving glances Remus kept shooting him, Damien could only smile bitterly to himself.
He’d have to figure out how to comfort his friend once the lunch break rolled around.