Late Night, January 31, 1965
Damien sat on his bed in the small bedroom, motionless in the quiet.
After days of running through every possibility, rehearsing every step in his head, he had finally made up his mind.
He was going to put on a crude, makeshift little play—cloaked in magic and fairy-tale trappings—and he was going to gamble everything on it being enough to save Remus Lupin, who was about to turn five.
After all, this was the age when Professor Dumbledore himself had stepped out of storybooks and into the real world, his reputation as the greatest wizard at its peak, twenty years after Gellert Grindelwald had shut himself away in Nurmengard Castle.
If Damien wasn’t careful enough, he might not even live to see an owl bring him his Hogwarts letter.
He reviewed the plan again and again, reciting every step in his mind, forcing his brain to carve this rough scheme into something that felt like an inevitable future.
When the clock on the wall finally ticked over to twelve, Damien let his gaze travel slowly around the room he’d called home for the last two years.
Everything felt warm, familiar, almost too cozy.
On the desk by the window sat a cluster of photographs Catherine had taken of him during that time.
The inner tug-of-war had quieted.
The fear and confusion of facing this strange, new future no longer dominated his expression.
“The returns are so high, it would be a shame not to try,” Damien murmured to himself, the words barely above a whisper, yet carrying a steady, iron resolve.
By the time the clock’s hands pointed to one, the house had fallen into absolute silence.
Damien lay back on the bed, drawing in a slow breath.
With a touch of clumsy unfamiliarity, he began to stir the magic in his body.
He used the simplest, roughest method he knew, forcing the magic to gather, completely ignoring the risk.
[Warning, Warning: The host is using magic autonomously ahead of time, which will cause damage to the host’s body!
Please take note, host!]
On the translucent screen before him, a line of bold, blood-red text flashed again and again, the warning almost shrill in its urgency.
Damien stared at the message.
Instead of panic, a faint, unhinged smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
As the magic coursed through him in a harsh, painful torrent, he pushed harder, using every bit of strength he could muster to force that gathered power outward.
BOOM!!!
An invisible, formless shockwave of magic burst from his body, sweeping across the entire room in an instant.
The bed, the desk, even the bright bedroom window—all of it shattered and crumbled to dust beneath the surge, as though they had never existed at all.
The world tilted.
Damien’s strength gave out, his consciousness slipping away.
Through the haze, he caught the sound of Robert Jr.’s hurried footsteps pounding toward him.
“With such a big investment… it must succeed…” he muttered faintly, the words trailing off as darkness closed in.
He could have simply passed out quietly.
Instead, the violent blast sent Robert Jr.
and Catherine into a blind panic.
Forcing down his own fear, Robert snapped into action.
With a flick of his wand, he smothered the magical disturbance and concealed the wreckage of the destroyed bedroom, making sure none of the Muggle families on the southern shore of the Great Lake would notice.
Only then did he and Catherine hastily throw on some clothes, carefully lifting Damien and carrying him out the door.
“Where are we going now?” Catherine asked, voice shaking, raw with worry and helplessness.
The sudden disaster had shown this non-witch, for the first time, just how terrifying magic could be.
She clutched her son to her chest, as if afraid the world might snatch him away at any moment.
“St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,” Robert Jr.
answered, brow furrowed, a trace of anxiety threading through his otherwise steady tone.
Damien’s magical outburst had caught even him off guard.
It was exactly what the whole family had been dreading these last few months—Damien was far too young, his mind not yet fully formed, his control still fragile.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
Now he had to move, had to act, had to save his son.
As a father and husband, he fought to keep his emotions in check.
His hand shook slightly as he held his wand out and gave it a small, practiced wave.
With a deafening bang, a purple triple-decker bus burst out of nowhere into the night, its bright headlamps cutting across the pier.
It roared in like some rampaging beast, scraping mercilessly past the edge of the pier and shearing bark off a nearby Scots pine.
After a wild skid that swung it almost ninety degrees, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt directly in front of Robert Jr.
and Catherine.
The conductor, Ms Hannah, had only just swung the door open.
Before she could even greet them, Robert Jr.
had already bundled Catherine and the Damien in her arms up the steps and onto the bus.
Seeing their pale faces, Hannah immediately hurried Catherine towards the row of horizontal bunks at the back.
She carefully eased Damien onto one of the beds.
Meanwhile, Robert Jr.
strode to the front, his expression grim.
“Ernie, to St Mungo’s, and try to make it fast!”
Before the newly hired Knight Bus driver, Ernie Prang, could answer, Robert Jr.
had already yanked a handful of coins from his pocket and snapped:
“It’s an absolute emergency, Damien is sick!
Don’t show off your lousy driving skills; now is not the time to be a hero!”
Ernie bristled at that.
His round, owl-like face flushed a furious red as he puffed out his chest.
“Give it a rest, Robert, I have a Muggle driver’s license!
Just watch, I’ll get you to St Mungo’s quickly and safely, I guarantee there won’t be any mistakes!”
At Ernie’s side, Ms Hannah quietly took the Sickles, nodded to Robert, and murmured:
“You’d better go to the back to be with your wife and son.
Ernie’s driving…
isn’t very stable.
You should be prepared.”
Before Robert Jr.
could respond, the horn gave two low, muffled blasts.
The Knight Bus’s lamps flashed twice—and then the whole vehicle shot forward like a fired cannonball, hurtling straight toward the very Scots pine it had only just missed.
At the last instant, the Scots pine seemed to flatten itself as if under an enchantment, its trunk and branches pressing aside to open just enough space for the Knight Bus to squeeze through.
Thrown off balance, Robert Jr.
staggered his way down the aisle toward his wife and son.
Ms Hannah, well prepared, had already grabbed a handrail and dropped into a nearby seat, giving him a quick, knowing wink.
As Robert Jr.
let out a weary, helpless sigh, the Knight Bus thundered through the night toward St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
On the far side of Caithness, Isobel was jolted awake by the low, ancient hum of a clock.
Under her anxious gaze, a hand on the clock marked “Damien McGonagall” trembled, then shuddered into place over the section labeled “Unconscious.”
St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Fifth Floor: Department of Magical Accidents and Afflictions
After the panicked, chaotic night Robert Jr.
and Catherine had just endured, time inside the hospital seemed to crawl.
By the time the slanting light of evening crept through the ward’s windows, Damien finally stirred.
He blinked blearily and forced his eyes open.
“Ugh, a ceiling I don’t recognize…”
Before his thoughts could fully settle, a muffled, choked sob came from his side, pulling his attention away from the unfamiliar room.
To the left of the bed, Catherine sat hunched on a small stool, her shoulders trembling.
Both hands were clamped over her mouth as she stared at her son, her eyes overflowing with a mother’s love and fear.
Standing just behind her was Robert Jr..
Bloodshot veins streaked his eyes; exhaustion weighed on every line of his face.
He reached out and gently patted Catherine’s back, wordlessly trying to steady her.
A fleeting glimmer of relief crossed his tired gaze as he saw Damien awake.
Damien’s sudden magical outburst, it was plain, had shaken more than just Catherine.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Damien told himself silently.
‘I definitely won’t be so impulsive in the future, but…
this opportunity was truly…
too rare.’
He forced his eyes open wider, turned his head slightly towards his father, and rasped, as clearly as he could manage, “Dad.”
The word scraped out of him, dry and harsh, as though dragged over the roughest sandpaper.
A sharp, burning pain flared deep in his throat.
The backlash from forcing his magic out had been far more severe than Damien had imagined.
Robert Jr.
hurried to the water stand, poured a glass of fresh water, and returned to the bed.
Together with Catherine, he carefully lifted Damien’s head.
They pressed the cup to Damien’s cracked lips, letting the water trickle in, drop by drop, to their son who had just been savaged by violent magic.
Damien let them fuss over him without resistance, yielding to their gentle hands.
Only now did he sluggishly notice how weak he was.
His arms and legs felt boneless, as if all strength had been drawn out of him.
It was like slipping back into infancy—utterly helpless, completely dependent on others.
A cold, delayed fear washed through him, seeping into his limbs.
‘I was too arrogant,’ he admitted to himself.
From now on, I have to hold a fundamental reverence for magic.
Anything that can be tested in advance needs a plan in place.
While berating his own recklessness, Damien made a silent vow.
After a few careful sips, the burning in his throat eased a little.
He lifted his gaze to his father.
His voice was still hoarse and thin, but a hint of urgency pushed through.
“Dad, save him.”
The sudden, seemingly senseless plea made Robert Jr.
falter, his expression instantly tightening.
He leaned closer over the bed, forcing his voice to stay gentle.
“Son, did you see something?
Tell Dad.
No matter what it is, Dad will help you deal with it.”
He had expected to hear about some immediate danger—a Dark wizard passing through in the night, perhaps, or a magical creature’s influence still clinging to his son.
Instead, Damien’s next words struck like a blade, each line driving a sharp, stunning edge into Robert Jr.’s mind.
“…When the blood moon hangs low, the claws of the dark night will tear the cradle of the innocent…”
“…On the eve of celebration, cruel talons will tear happiness apart…”
“…The cub born in March will face suspicion and wariness for a lifetime…”
“…The father’s words brought lifelong pain to the son…”
“…Only love and family can dissolve it and wear it away…”
Spoken low and slowly, the words churned in Robert Jr.’s thoughts.
There was no mistaking it—Damien McGonagall, his own son, had just delivered a prophecy.
Robert Jr.
stared at him, stunned.
When he finally spoke, his voice shook.
“Damien… is that what you saw?”
Exhausted, Damien shook his head slightly, his breath uneven.
“Not exactly,” he managed.
“It’s like these words suddenly appeared in my mind out of nowhere, very clear.
But… I also seemed to really see a pair of cold, gleaming claws, striking at… a child about my age.
Dad, can we… can we find a way to save him?”
Robert Jr.
nodded slowly, gravely, locking onto his son’s anxious, hopeful eyes.
“We will,” he said, his tone firm, allowing no doubt.
“Damien, you must trust Dad.”
Around six o’clock, when Isobel arrived at St.
Mungo’s with dinner, Robert Jr.
drew her aside.
He murmured a few low words in her ear, his expression unusually grim.
Then he left the ward without a backward glance, leaving Isobel standing there with open worry and astonishment before she moved to sit with Catherine by Damien’s bedside.
With his mother’s help, Damien drank a little milk and then lay back, replaying everything he’d done over the past two days.
‘This prophecy will definitely reach Auntie,’ he thought.
After that, it depends on whether Dumbledore takes it seriously.
Do your best, greatest wizard.
Now, what else can I do?
Pray.
All that’s left is to pray.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he offered a silent plea:
‘Merlin, protect that innocent one.
Professor Remus Lupin the Werewolf was gentle and good, but if there’s a choice…
I’d rather he be Remus Lupin the Wizard.
Maybe that life wouldn’t be as “great,” but he deserves it.’
Meanwhile, at the main gates of Hogwarts, Gryffindor Head of House Professor Minerva McGonagall stood in the cutting wind, her rigid posture and the chill in her expression warning anyone nearby not to come too close.
Until, through the whirling snow in the distance, Robert Jr.
Apparated onto the path outside Hogwarts Castle with a sharp crack.
Minerva saw him at once.
She stepped forward without hesitation, striding briskly to meet her hurried younger brother.
“Explain everything clearly, Robert,” Minerva said, face utterly devoid of a smile, her expression grave.
“Damien gave you a prophecy?”
Her sharp gaze fixed on him, and there was a hard edge in her tone.
“As far as I know, there hasn’t been a single notable Seer in our family for several generations.”
“Sister, it’s like this—”
Robert Jr.
began speaking quickly as he hurried to keep pace with Minerva, who had already turned and was leading him into the depths of the castle.
“Last night, the magic inside Damien suddenly erupted—violently.
It was strong enough to blow up his entire bedroom.
Catherine and I stayed with him at St.
Mungo’s until he finally woke up this afternoon.”
“And then—”
He drew in a deep breath and went on.
“Damien gave me a prophecy the moment he woke up.
I listened carefully, and it sounds like… a Werewolf attacked an innocent child.”
Minerva walked in silence for several steps, her brother’s words echoing in her mind.
Her deep-set eyes grew thoughtful as she turned the matter over, saying nothing.
After a short pause, she spoke with crisp resolve.
“Come with me.
We’re going directly to Albus.
I’m certain he will have a solution.”
Minerva led Robert Jr.
swiftly along the ancient stone corridors of Hogwarts Castle.
Students of all ages greeted her respectfully as she passed, pressing themselves against the walls to give her room.
No one failed to notice Professor McGonagall’s presence; the quiet deference around her made the weight of her authority unmistakable.
Robert Jr.
followed close behind, doing his best to make himself small and unobtrusive.
Minerva’s clear, stern voice rang down the eighth-floor corridor:
“Mr.
McLaggen.”
Her tone singled out a younger boy with his back turned, wand raised mid-spell.
“I have reminded you many times: casting spells in the corridors is forbidden.
Two points from Hufflepuff House for this.”
The round-faced boy flinched, shuddering, and hastily shoved his wand back into his robes, wearing a miserable expression.
Minerva flicked her own wand.
A younger student who had been clinging to a window ledge, frozen in place and afraid to move, suddenly relaxed, as though released from a curse.
“Mr.
Davis,” Minerva continued, her gaze now fixed on an older student nearby, “I believe you are well aware that casting a Trip Jinx on your classmates is not the kind of example an upperclassman should be setting.
Twenty points from Ravenclaw House.
Furthermore, go to Mr.
Apollion Pringle at once, state your transgression, and accept the punishment you deserve.”
The student called Davis went pale, his body trembling slightly.
He didn’t dare argue; he only managed a weak, “Yes, Professor.”
“And you, Miss Greengrass.”
Minerva’s eyes moved to an older girl whose slim-fitting wizard’s robes were covered in skull patterns.
“Do not let me see you in such inappropriate and eccentric attire in this school again.
Otherwise, I will write to your father personally and inform him in detail of your performance at Hogwarts.”
The girl, who had looked entirely fearless until then, froze.
Her shoulders tensed, and she lowered her head in a stiff, reluctant bow.
“I’m sorry, Professor.”
As Minerva swept down the eighth-floor corridor, it was as though Moses had parted the sea; the crowded passage opened up before her.
Under her scolding, the students became as silent as cicadas in winter.
By the time Minerva led Robert Jr.
through the Great Hall, he had instinctively fallen half a step behind, following his sister almost on tiptoe.
When the last murmuring students had drifted away from the eighth floor, Minerva brought Robert to a large stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office.
She faced it and spoke the password clearly:
“Iced Lemon Juice.”
The gargoyle spun aside, revealing a spiral staircase.
Minerva led Robert Jr.
upward, finally stopping before a gleaming oak door.
She rapped lightly on the brass griffin knocker.
The door swung open at the sound, and a warm laugh drifted from within the Headmaster’s office.
“Minerva, you are always so polite.
Would you like some Fizzing Whizbees?”
Robert Jr.
trailed after his sister into the office—his first time ever setting foot in the Hogwarts Headmaster’s domain.
Before he could take in the portraits or the odd instruments ticking in the corners, a white-bearded wizard in deep blue robes strode toward him, smiling, a box of Fizzing Whizbees in hand.
“You must be Minerva’s younger brother, Mr.
Robert McGonagall Jr.
Come now, don’t be shy—have some sweets.
This is a new product I discovered recently; the taste is simply wonderful.”
Confronted with Dumbledore’s easy warmth and the unexpected gift, Robert Jr.’s mind stalled.
He could only accept the box with a stiff, mechanical smile.
Minerva, however, had worked with Dumbledore for many years and was long used to his eccentricities.
She merely drew herself up, expression stern, and fixed him with a faint frown.
Under Minerva’s serious gaze, Dumbledore’s voice gradually tapered off.
He cleared his throat and hastily wrapped up his recommendation to Robert Jr.:
“It’s from Honeydukes in Hogsmeade.
You can pay them a visit when you go back.
That young man has given me many pleasant surprises.”
He added a conspiratorial wink in Robert Jr.’s direction.
“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Minerva said, her tone carrying a suppressed warning.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, then he smoothly shifted to the point.
“Minerva, you mentioned you’d be bringing your brother to see me tonight.
Is there something you require my help with?”
Minerva let out the slightest of sighs.
“In fact, I think it’s best if you see it for yourself.”
“Robert Jr., extract your memory and let Professor Dumbledore view the process of Damien telling you the prophecy.”
At once, Robert Jr.
set the sweet box on a nearby table.
Drawing his wand, he carefully drew a wisp of soft silver memory from his temple.
Dumbledore leaned in, watching.
He caught the silvery strand with the tip of his wand, then flicked his left hand.
A black cabinet in the corner of the office swung open.
A stone basin filled with swirling silver liquid rose gently from within and floated over to land on the desk.
Dumbledore guided the silver thread from his wand into the Pensieve.
“Now, Mr.
Robert,” Dumbledore said with a gentle smile, “would you mind taking Minerva and me to revisit this prophecy?”
“Oh—oh, of course, Headmaster.”
Robert Jr.
nodded quickly.
The three of them stepped around the Pensieve and bent over it.
The liquid within turned clear.
They were pulled into the memory, watching a five-year-old Damien weakly recounting his experience to Robert Jr..
Dumbledore’s smile faded by degrees as the scene played out.
By the time they rose back out of the Pensieve and stood once more in the office, his brow was deeply furrowed.
“Minerva, as you know, I have some understanding of Seers.
If it were only a prophecy, it should not have caused a magical riot in a child.”
He fell silent, thinking.
Then he said, “Here is what I propose: tomorrow we will go together to see little Damien.
Perhaps we can offer him some help, so that he—”
Dumbledore paused, searching for the right words, then finished quietly, “So that he understands that gifts and talent are not things to run from.
Used well, they will allow him to help many more people.”
While Dumbledore stood in his office, heart full of mixed emotions, far away in a small mountain village in South Wales, three suspicious-looking men were making their way through the remote countryside.
“Fenrir, no offense, but are you really sure that piece of trash who looks down on us lives here?” a thin, hunched man asked nervously, glancing around as he followed the broad-shouldered man in front.
“He can’t hide from my nose, Leon.
They’re definitely here.”
A cruel sneer twisted the corner of Fenrir Greyback’s mouth.
“Lyall Lupin, didn’t you say werewolves only deserve to die?
Then let’s see—when your son becomes a werewolf too, if you can still…”
“Kill him!!!”
AN: