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A summer holiday without homework was especially beautiful.
Every day, Remus would drag Damien along to knock on Severus’s door, hauling that boy—sharp-tongued but honest in his actions—over to the front of Lily and Petunia’s house.
The five of them wrung every last drop out of this final stretch of time together.
Petunia, of course, knew all this.
Soon, those four would be leaving for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she would be going to Smeltings Academy instead.
Fate was about to push them onto two completely different paths.
But Petunia didn’t have much time to mope; what weighed on her mind most was her dear sister’s Sorting.
Everyone had a different version of the story.
Severus said you had to choose the only harmless one from ten bottles of potion and drink it to pass the test.
Remus insisted you had to survive an ambush by three Chipmunks just to get into Hogwarts; anyone who failed would be sent straight home.
And when the anxious Petunia turned to Damien, his answer was that he didn’t know what the exam would be—but he’d been studying magic since he was four, so he was sure he’d pass…
Petunia immediately thought of Lily, who had never had any real contact with the wizarding world and had never even read a book about magic.
Damien, ever the mischievous observer, watched Petunia fuss and fret day after day.
She worried herself sick over the idea of her sister turning into some sort of freak, hiding in the depths of the forest brewing potions—an anxiety that had gone madly out of control after the one time she’d seen Severus’s mother.
Other times, Petunia twisted herself up over the opposite fear: that her sister might not pass the entrance exam to that magic school at all.
If Lily couldn’t learn magic, wouldn’t she be crushed?
Soon enough, dark circles formed under Petunia’s eyes.
Under the eager anticipation of the four children—and Petunia’s mounting anxiety—the Owl finally arrived.
On the morning of August 1st, 1971, when Damien woke and opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a beautiful white owl gently tapping its beak against his bedroom window.
He jolted upright, scrambled out of bed, and fumbled with the latch, his hands trembling slightly.
The pure white bird hopped with calm elegance onto his desk and, with a touch of dignity, extended one leg to reveal the parchment envelope tied there.
Damien’s fingers shook as he untied the string.
He first pulled out the beef jerky he’d prepared as a snack, tore it into pieces, and fed the diligent courier.
Only then did he turn his full attention to the envelope and the address written on the front in copper-green ink:
Cokeworth, Ballintoy,
12 Lown Tree Lane, Second Floor, East Bedroom.
To Damien McGonagall.
He read it three times over before he could bring himself to crack the deep red wax seal on the back and look at the words he’d dreamt of in his past life more times than he could count.
His fingertips glided over the familiar lines.
Every word seemed to carry its own enchantment, each letter knocking, one by one, on the doors of his old memories.
He could have recited the entire letter from memory, but seeing his own name written at the top this time made his chest surge with emotion, impossible to steady.
Staring at the strokes of emerald green ink, Damien let out a small, disbelieving chuckle as his eyes slowly reddened.
Only now did it truly sink in: he was really going to Hogwarts.
While Damien was lost in his thoughts, the owl finished the last of the jerky.
It tilted its head, studying this odd young wizard who actually cried when he received his acceptance letter, utterly bewildered.
In the end, it couldn’t resist.
It gave him a gentle nudge with its beak and extended its right leg again, clearly asking for a reply.
Damien hastily wiped his tears and carefully composed a response to the Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall—who was also his aunt.
The content was very simple: See you in September.
The owl couldn’t read, but even it was taken aback by how short the reply was.
It seemed everything about this young wizard was confusing.
With a very human-like shake of its head, it launched itself from the second-floor window and disappeared into the sky.
Watching the owl grow smaller in the distance, Damien suddenly found himself fretting over a new question: what kind of pet should he get…?
He was still happily tangled in this sweet dilemma when a thunderous shout blasted through the door: “Damien!
I got my Hogwarts acceptance letter!”
Before the echo of that excited voice had faded, Remus burst into the room, face flushed, joy written all over him.
Damien lifted his own envelope with exaggerated elegance, signaling to Remus.
“Don’t shout so loudly about something that was to be expected; Aunt Figg is still resting.”
“Oh.” Remus’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and he reached up to awkwardly scratch his hair.
Damien hadn’t meant to pour cold water on him.
It was just that Mrs.
Figg had been truly kind to them, looking after the two of them for the past two years.
There was no need to wave their acceptance letters in front of this poor Squib like a taunt.
Mrs.
Figg and Petunia would probably be over the moon if they could use things like that.
Of course, that all depended on getting those ridiculous ministry regulations changed first.
For something that troublesome, it was better to leave it to the greatest wizard of the age.
And, to be fair, the old man had done a decent job—by the time Harry enrolled, the Wizarding world’s attitude toward Muggles and Squibs was worlds better than it had been in the seventies.
By the time Damien led a now-calm Remus downstairs, Mrs.
Figg was already awake.
She greeted the two boys with a beaming smile, offered her congratulations, and laid out an especially lavish breakfast for them.
Yet as they ate, the envy and quiet loneliness in her eyes were impossible to miss.
Damien was suddenly struck by a vague, inexplicable guilt.
Maybe, in the future, he could spare a few points for Alchemy and let Mrs.
Figg enjoy the conveniences of magic a little earlier than fate intended.
With that idea taking root, Damien quickly polished off his breakfast.
Then he took Remus to say goodbye to Mrs.
Figg, eager to tell Catherine and Hope the good news first.
However, just after Damien finally managed to pry the little white cat off his shoulder and set it on the sofa and stepped out the front door with Remus, he spotted a cat sprawled lazily along the garden railing, basking in the sunlight.
Before Remus could even register what he was seeing, Damien let out a shout, sprinted across the garden, and scooped the tabby into a tight embrace.
Under Remus’s wide-eyed stare, the cat blurred and stretched, transforming in midair into a witch in her thirties, who wrapped her arms around Damien.
She looked at the two boys and said gently, “Damien, Remus, long time no see.”
With Damien and Remus flanking her, Minerva flashed a broad smile at Catherine, who had just woken.
Under the boys’ watchful eyes, the two women shared a firm, familiar hug.
For the past two years, Minerva’s Animagus form had prowled the area countless times, especially on every full moon.
But this was the first time they’d actually spoken face-to-face.
After the family sat down and shared a pot of black tea, Minerva finally rose to take her leave of Catherine and Hope.
“Although I’d love to stay for lunch, schoolwork calls.
I need to deliver an acceptance letter to a Muggle-born witch in Cokeworth and give her family a bit of basic instruction.
So”—Minerva’s smile took on a hint of apology—”I must be going.”
Off to the side, Damien and Remus exchanged a look, their expressions suddenly odd.
Then Damien asked:
“Auntie, is that witch named Lily Evans?”
“Yes,” Minerva replied with a curious nod.
“So, you know her?”
“Of course.” A mischievous grin tugged at Damien’s lips.
“If you don’t mind, Auntie, I suggest you bring along another wizard who’s starting this year from Spinner’s End—Severus Snape.
I think he’d be very happy to help you.”
Remus’s pupils blew wide in shock, and then his expression shifted into barely contained anticipation, as if he were settling in to watch a show.
Seeing the boys’ reactions, Minerva understood the gist of it.
She knew Damien was smart; if he was making the suggestion, he had his reasons.
After a brief pause to think it over, Minerva’s mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.
“I’ll go, then.
Are you two coming along?”
Damien caught Remus just as he was about to nod eagerly and pulled him back, shaking his own head in refusal.
“We’ve got better seats for watching.
Auntie, you can go find him yourself.”
Minerva only shrugged and turned to leave.
Behind her, Catherine and Hope had already joined the ranks of eager onlookers.
Everyone knew children this age were still clueless about love, but that was exactly why such gossip was most entertaining for parents—because you could be sure it was purely a matter of the heart, nothing more.
And who could turn down harmless gossip?
Catherine and Hope packed up some snacks as gifts and, led by the two children, set off toward the Evanses’ house.
While Damien and Remus’s families were on their way to Lily’s, Minerva had already slipped into her tabby cat form and was racing along the walls above the street.
As Hogwarts’ famously tireless workhorse, she juggled her duties as Transfiguration professor, Head of Gryffindor, organizer of half the school’s affairs, and occasional handler of Dumbledore’s whims.
Under that kind of pressure, slipping out as an Animagus now and then was the simplest, most reliable way she knew to ease the strain.
Her body moved with effortless grace; in a few light bounds she crossed two whole blocks, her sudden appearances along the walls startling the neighborhood cats into an indignant chorus of meows.
Amid their offended complaints, Minerva ducked into a narrow corner.
With a smooth twist she shifted back into human form, startling two stray cats that had been preparing to defend their territory; they bolted, tails puffed, scrambling away. This chapter was taken from novelping.com without permission.
Watching their hasty retreat, Minerva allowed herself a small, mischievous smile.
For a moment, she felt as though she were seventeen again, freshly graduated from Hogwarts and not yet weighed down by titles and responsibilities.
Then she calmly straightened her robes, schooled her expression into its usual stern composure, and walked toward Spinner’s End at an unhurried pace.
Inside the cramped brick house at 22 Spinner’s End, Mrs.
Prince sat with Severus’s acceptance letter in her hands.
She ran her fingers slowly over the smooth, high‑quality parchment, tracing the emerald‑green ink of the words.
Age‑dulled eyes softened with nostalgia; for once, the numb hardness carved into her expression by the years seemed to loosen and fade beneath the weight of that letter.
Severus stood off to the side, watching her anxiously.
He had no idea why his mother was looking at his letter with such a tangled, unreadable expression.
But under her long-established authority, he didn’t dare move, only stood there obediently, as if the slightest misstep might provoke her anger.
“Ding-dong!”
The doorbell rang.
To Severus, it felt like a sudden reprieve.
“I’ll get it,” he blurted, and hurried to the front door.
But when he pulled it open, it wasn’t Damien and Remus standing there as he’d expected.
Instead, a woman with a stern face and an air of chilly dignity filled the doorway.
Severus instinctively shrank back a little.
He craned his neck to look up at her and stammered, “Hello, may I ask who you—”
“Mr.
Severus Snape, is that correct?”
Minerva’s voice was calm and precise.
In that instant, she stepped fully into her familiar role: Hogwarts’ Transfiguration professor, Head of Gryffindor, and Deputy Headmistress.
“Yes, I am.”
Overwhelmed by her seriousness, Severus nodded quickly, looking rather small and pitiful in the doorway.
“I am Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts.
You may call me Professor McGonagall.
Perhaps you might let me come in and sit down before we discuss the matter at hand.”
Only then did Severus’s brain catch up.
Rattled by his mother’s shifting mood, he had completely forgotten even the most basic manners.
He stepped back at once, gesturing her inside with awkward politeness, and called toward the living room, “Mum, Professor McGonagall from Hogwarts is here!”
At the sound of this, Mrs.
Prince hastily tucked the letter away, smoothed her hair, and moved to greet their visitor.
But the house was so small that before she could even leave the living room, Minerva had already entered, guided in by Severus.
Minerva gave the flustered Mrs.
Prince a brief nod.
“Good day, Mrs.
Prince.
I am Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts’ Transfiguration professor.
I apologize for coming unannounced, but there is a matter for which I require the assistance of your son, Mr.
Snape.”
Even as a former Hogwarts student herself, Mrs.
Prince was taken aback by the request.
What business could a professor possibly have with a young wizard who had not even started school?
Years of delving into the Dark Arts sent a dozen possibilities flashing through her mind at once.
She calmly reached out and drew Severus away from Minerva’s side, guiding him to stand closer to her.
As she retreated a step, angling herself nearer to her wand—still lying where she’d casually set it on the table after reading the letter—she said politely to Minerva, “Please, have a seat.
Forgive my presumption, but this child of mine is clumsy and untidy; I’m afraid he won’t be able to manage anything too impotant.”
At Mrs.
Prince’s wary reaction, Minerva realized at once that she’d been misunderstood.
She hurried to explain, “It’s like this: my nephew, Damien, gave me a suggestion.”
The moment Minerva mentioned that name, the tension in Mrs.
Prince’s shoulders eased.
Only then did she connect the dots: this Professor McGonagall had the same surname as the boy who so often came over to play with her son—McGonagall.
Beside her, Severus’s eyes were bleak with despair.
He was certain his friend was about to use this so-called suggestion to set him up for yet another prank.
Severus would have sworn on his gift for potions that this premonition was absolutely correct.