Check it out and enjoy the story further!!
– CODE – 4D172!!
While Daimen was running freely across the green field with his friends, Fenrir was tearing across the wild moors of Ireland like a hunted animal.
After his second failed attempt at revenge, those big shots had downgraded their evaluation of him.
Rumour had it they’d shifted their support to a werewolf in southern Scotland.
It was sheer bad luck, Fenrir thought bitterly, not a lack of savagery on his part.
When the Wizard they sent finally came to “deal with” him, Fenrir had needed only one ambush—one brutal, unexpected strike—to rip apart that idiot who’d assumed he wouldn’t dare to fight back.
But once the Ministry of Magic put a 300 Galleon bounty on his head, there was no longer anywhere for him to hide in the British magical world.
What made it even worse was that Lyall—that bastard who had insulted him, that coward who’d done nothing but spew nonsense from the safety of Scotland—had now actually come after him in person, with his friend in tow.
When Fenrir’s “friend” brought him the news in a taunting tone, Fenrir had almost refused to believe it.
Still, Fenrir was no fool.
He wasn’t about to face two fully armed, well-prepared wizards head-on.
So the chase had begun.
After two months of pursuit and flight, he was finally driven off the mainland of Britain and forced to continue his fugitive life on the Irish moors.
Dozens of kilometres behind him, Robert Jr.
and Lyall—dressed sharply in Muggle clothing—were crouched over a claw mark in the undergrowth.
Lyall held a strange compass in one hand as he examined the mark, while Robert Jr.
stood behind him, clicking his tongue in amazement.
“No matter how many times I see it, it’s hard to believe,” he said.
“Relying on the splicing of magic instead of the logic of alchemy—how did the wizards of the East even come up with that?”
“I’m not sure either,” Lyall replied without looking up.
“I was in the mountains of the Himalayas at the time, helping local Muggles resolve a very particular supernatural incident.”
“I left soon after.
When I was about to leave,” he continued, “a wizard came to find me.
He said I had a true heart.
I still don’t really know what he meant, but he gave me this as a gift.”
“To be honest, he had it wrapped in a piece of blue cotton cloth, and I thought it was some kind of snack box.” Lyall gave a faint, self‑mocking smile.
“Over the years, I’ve only managed to figure out this one use for it.”
“But that one use is far too useful.
We’ve tracked his trail all over Britain, and I’ve got a feeling, Lyall—we’re very close to him now,” Robert Jr.
said confidently.
“Once we catch up to this damned piece of trash, I’m definitely sending him to hell!”
“Lyall, you might not believe it, but this is the first time I’ve been away this long since I got married.
I’m starting to feel a bit homesick.”
“Then let’s get moving, Robert.
Once we deal with this werewolf, we can go home.”
There was a rare note of excitement in Lyall’s usually steady voice.
At that moment, the compass in his hand went still, the needle locking firmly toward the southwest.
“Go!
Go!
Go!
What are we waiting for, Lyall?
Let’s go!”
Unable to wait another second, Robert Jr.
cast a few spells on himself and on Lyall, then the two of them set off again, following the compass needle deeper into the wild.
Meanwhile, Fenrir had reached the Port of Cork.
One of the busiest ports in southern Ireland, it was a chaotic crossroads where all kinds of people came and went—exactly the kind of place Fenrir could exploit.
The air on the docks was thick with the smell of fish.
Fenrir hunched his shoulders and slipped along in the shadows.
He watched for a full half hour before finally picking out a cargo ship taking on a load of timber and preparing to depart.
Timing it with the deafening roar of the crane to drown out the splash of water, he slipped into the icy seawater, relying on the gifts his Werewolf bloodline granted him every day.
Silently, he lurked in the narrow gap between the ship’s hull and the dock, biding his time and waiting for his chance at freedom.
He had no idea where this Muggle cargo ship was headed—but as long as it left the British Isles, those two damned Wizards wouldn’t be able to keep hunting him.
Fenrir ground his teeth.
He loathed Lyall and Robert Jr., who had insulted him to his face and thwarted his attacks twice.
He hated the so‑called big shots even more for discarding him in a panic and even trying to silence him after his failure.
And yet, ironically, even the noble young master who had been his only direct contact had never once shown his face, always hiding behind that elegant peacock‑feather mask.
Fenrir didn’t even know who that “gentleman” who appreciated him really was—nor the identities of those “big shots” behind him.
As bitterness and rage churned in his chest, the cargo ship let out a long, low whistle.
Fenrir seized the moment, hauling himself up and slipping quietly into the cargo hold.
He drove his unnaturally long nails into the wooden rack beside him, gouging deep furrows as he muttered to himself.
“Just wait.
Till I raise another pack, Lyall—you just wait.
I’ll turn your son into a werewolf with my own hands.”
When Robert Jr.
and Lyall reached the bustling port, both unconsciously frowned.
Muggles were packed in on all sides, and ships were constantly arriving and departing.
With this kind of chaos, Lyall had a sinking feeling: Fenrir had definitely slipped away. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
The compass in his hand confirmed it.
The needle trembled erratically, but no matter how it shook, it refused to lock onto Fenrir’s position again.
Unwilling to accept it, Lyall cycled through tracking spells from several different countries, one after another.
In the end, none of them could pinpoint Fenrir’s whereabouts.
At last, Lyall let out a helpless sigh.
“He’s left British territory.
To go abroad, we’d need permission from the Ministry of Magic—and that takes twenty working days to process.”
“The worst part,” he added through clenched teeth, “is that we’ve no idea which country that damned piece of trash ran off to.”
The usually gentle, composed Lyall had grown hard‑edged in the face of the man who had attacked his family twice in a row.
“But he’ll definitely come back,” Robert Jr.
said firmly.
“That beast won’t let go of its prey.
He’ll be back, and he’ll bring more werewolves with him.”
“We can’t rely on the Ministry,” he went on coldly.
“They’re useless to us.”
Lyall’s frown deepened.
Since ancient times, there had always been thieves striking again and again—but no one could stand guard against thieves day and night forever, let alone against a pack of werewolves who could strike his family at any moment.
“We have to go home, just the two of us, brother,” Robert Jr.
said, cutting straight to the point.
“My sister has already done ritual magic for Catherine and Hope.
Once it’s completed, they won’t be detected by magic at all.”
“So they’re safe.
But our house in Scotland is exposed.
That damned trash will definitely come again, even if I don’t know how long he’ll need to get ready.”
“But I’m certain of one thing: when he comes, I’ll make sure he gets a surprise.”
Murderous intent laced every word.
The once cheerful, optimistic Gryffindor lion had fully awakened after his family was disturbed again and again.
He would lay a patient enough ambush and wait there for this executioner who had destroyed countless families.
Lyall nodded.
He, too, had resolved to keep this villain—who had tried to destroy his family—forever away from his wife and children.
Day after day, thick smoke billowed from the Cokeworth Steelworks, its sooty haze staining the clouds and blurring the passing of the seasons.
Two years slipped by in this seemingly peaceful routine after Fenrir’s escape.
At last, the day of the children’s graduation ceremony arrived.
Catherine and Hope awkwardly fielded the gossiping parents around them, answering the same question over and over about which public school their children would be attending.
Behind them, Daimen and Remus were trading small gifts with classmates, the still-naive children wrapped up in their own little world of farewells.
Under Daimen’s smirking gaze, Remus gently sent off the fifth girl who had brought him a present.
When he turned back and caught Daimen’s expression, his sunny smile collapsed at once.
He groaned and begged.
“Daimen, please, just for today, tone it down.
I can’t take much more.”
“Remus, I haven’t even said anything yet…”
“Daimen, you’re saying things I don’t understand again.
Sure, you didn’t open your mouth, but the way you look is no different from speaking.”
Remus rolled his eyes in despair.
After years with Daimen, he had to endure some form of teasing almost every day.
There was no real malice in it, but it always left him feeling mortified.
“Remus, look at you, always misunderstanding me,” Daimen said, hand over his heart in mock offense.
“With my kind and righteous character, could I ever do something to make things difficult for you?”
Remus stared at his friend’s smug face and sighed, looking utterly worn out.
He didn’t want to answer at all, but he knew that if he stayed silent, Daimen would only follow up with even more scandalous remarks.
So he forced himself to reply, going completely against his true feelings.
“I don’t think you would either.”
“Exactly.” Daimen’s grin widened.
He leaned in at once, nudging Remus with his elbow and arching a brow.
“I just want to learn how you pick up those little girls.
We’re only eleven—you’re being far too thirsty…”
Remus was not surprised in the slightest.
His expression clearly said, I knew it, as he resigned himself to listening to his troublesome friend’s teasing.
And just like that, between casual banter and goodbyes, their Muggle school life quietly came to an end.
After celebrating all afternoon in the park with Lily, Petunia, and Severus—who had made a special trip over—Daimen and Remus dragged themselves home, exhausted, only to find that Catherine and Hope had already finished packing their luggage.
Daimen blinked at the sight, a little startled, and turned to Catherine in confusion.
“Mum, what does this mean?”
“You’re staying at Mrs.
Figg’s house this summer,” Catherine said simply.
“But why?” Daimen wailed, then immediately traded a quick, relieved look with Remus.
“No why,” Catherine replied firmly.
Her tone softened into earnest seriousness.
“Hope and I will pack everything you need.
You’re moving in tonight.
You can come home to play during the day, but you must sleep at Mrs.
Figg’s at night.”
“Alright… alright…” Daimen dragged out the words.
Then he grabbed Remus and, shouldering their packed luggage, headed for Mrs.
Figg’s house next door.
Upstairs, Hope was still carefully sorting Daimen and Remus’s books.
Catherine came up from downstairs and called over to her.
“Those two ungrateful little brats didn’t even bother to pretend.
They’re already almost at Mrs.
Figg’s house.”
Hope smiled gently at her.
“Isn’t that perfect?
The children have grown up.
Shall we have a drink together tonight?”
“Of course!” Catherine nodded, delighted.
“It’s rare to have a few relaxing days—we have to celebrate properly.”
As she spoke, Catherine moved over to help Hope finish packing.
While they worked, she lowered her voice and asked.
“Have you thought about what I told you last time?”
“Is there even a need to think?” Hope snorted softly.
“If it weren’t for Remus, I wouldn’t have come here at all.
It’s not like I’ve never shot those wolves before.”
Her firm answer brought a genuine, relieved smile to Catherine’s face.
“I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.
The ritual Minerva provided lets Daimen and Remus live as Muggles by our side, and no magic can trace their information.”
“But now they have to go to school.
To avoid any problems when Hogwarts sends the Acceptance Letters, Minerva specifically told me to have them stay at Mrs.
Figg’s, so it’ll be easier for the owl to find them.”
Hope summed up Catherine’s idea in one sentence.
“So the two of us can use this chance to train more.
Once those little brats head off to Hogwarts, we’ll take our guns and ammunition back to Ochertyel.”
“Exactly,” Catherine replied, her eyebrows practically dancing with excitement.
“And we’ll get to see what those two men have turned the house into after living there alone for so long.”
Hope’s eyes lit up as the thought took hold.
“We’ve both got our driver’s licenses now.
We’ll buy a car and drive straight back.
It’s just over three hundred kilometers.
We’ll give them a surprise attack and show them how much we’ve improved!”
While the two women plotted their triumphant return once the children were settled, Daimen and Remus were busy demolishing dinner.
To be fair, Mrs.
Figg’s cooking wasn’t amazing—but after living in the Dark Cuisine World for so long, getting to eat normal food now and then felt like a rare luxury.
Mrs.
Figg watched the two boys eating like a storm with a gentle expression.
After two years together, she already regarded them as her own.
And in that time, sharp-eyed Mrs.
Figg had also fully grasped the extent of Catherine and Hope’s “skills” in the kitchen.
She knew her own cooking was nothing special, nowhere near a professional chef’s level.
But compared to her two rivals—Catherine and Hope, whose culinary rating was firmly in the negatives—Mrs.
Figg could proudly declare herself: the God of Cookery.
Across from her, Daimen crammed the last chip into his mouth, and a tear slipped from the corner of his eye.
It had been too hard.
Far too hard.
With his whimsical mother and the overenthusiastic Aunt Hope teaming up, every mealtime had become a crisis he had to survive.
Right now, Daimen wanted to howl to the heavens—
“Two years!
Do you have any idea what I’ve been through these past two years?!”
“I’ve even eaten fish scales!!!”
That had been one of Catherine’s “special recipes” she’d dug up somewhere.
The baked fish scales reeked so strongly it was as if the fish had died with its eyes wide open in protest.
Under their daily assault, the slightly chubby Daimen had been successfully whittled down into the scrawny boy he was now.
If not for Mrs.
Figg’s occasional “feeding rescues” and the fact that he could eat lunch provided in the school, Daimen reckoned he’d be suffering from malnutrition by this point.
As Daimen lost himself in the variety of fish and chips Mrs.
Figg served day after day, time slipped by almost unnoticed.