2 February 1965, 4:00 p.m.
At St.
Mungo’s, Damien was passing his unremarkable, pleasantly uneventful time in his hospital bed.
On the nightstand to his left, a special assortment from the newly opened Honeydukes Sweetshop in Hogsmeade was stacked precariously high.
Fizzing Whizbees, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs, and a whole array of specialty sweets were crammed so tightly into their basket it looked ready to burst.
On the right stood an elegant bone china tea set, and a wooden side table extending from it held several exquisite afternoon treats.
Freshly baked scones gave off a rich, buttery aroma that filled the ward with warmth.
Half-reclined against his pillows, Damien was engrossed in a thick copy of Hogwarts: A History.
Every so often he would part his lips just enough for Isobel or Catherine to feed him, Muggle and wizarding delicacies arriving one after another, all chased now and then with a sip of warm black tea to cleanse his palate.
“Being the only child for three generations really does feel different,” Damien murmured, genuinely moved as he basked in the meticulous care of his mother and grandmother.
Robert Sr.
and Isobel had three children in all—yet in this large family, Damien was the only third-generation descendant.
Confronted with the treatment reserved for a sole heir, even after having lived two lives, Damien couldn’t help but indulge in it a little.
“Damien, it’s about time.
The Healer said you can’t overtax your brain right now,” Catherine reminded him gently, pulling him from his thoughts.
He nodded obediently and handed the book back to her.
Why was Damien being so cooperative?
Naturally, it was because, in mid-air where only he could see, his System interface hovered—its 3D holographic projection veined with cracks.
His personal data read:
Name: Damien McGonagall
Age: 5 years, 2 months
Height: 4 feet
Weight: 22 kg
Bloodline: Half-blood
Special Status:
Magical Trauma (Temporary / Severe)
(Forced release of magic has caused severe damage to your body.
Due to this special status, your magic release speed is -4, and your magic intensity is -3.)
Damien let out the faintest sigh.
The price he’d paid this time was far too steep.
It all came down to how little he truly understood about the wizarding world.
After all, when you saw those young witches and wizards casting spells as if magic were some all-purpose wish spell, who would expect the backlash from forcibly channelling it to strike so quickly and so hard?
As Damien lay quietly with his eyes closed, resting as ordered, the rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
He opened his eyes, slightly puzzled, just as his father stepped into the ward, leading an elderly wizard in deep blue robes and half-moon spectacles.
The old man’s long silver hair and beard flowed over his shoulders.
His nose was long and crooked, his smile mild, and his eyes sharp yet gentle.
Isobel drew a deep breath and rose quickly to greet them.
“Professor Dumbledore, it’s been a long time.
I didn’t expect Minerva would bring you here!”
At her words, Robert Jr.
let out a soft sigh and hurried to Catherine’s side, quietly offering a brief explanation.
“Don’t say that, Mrs.
McGonagall,” Dumbledore replied, his gentle voice carrying a calm, reassuring strength.
“It is always a sorrow when a child meets with an accident,” the old wizard said quietly.
“If you don’t mind, may I see him?”
He turned his gaze to Damien, who was sitting quietly on the bed, confusion flickering across his small face.
“Oh, of course, of course.
Damien, look, this is the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the greatest wizard of our time—”
“Perhaps you’ll come and listen to my classes in the future, Little Damien,” Dumbledore cut in gently, derailing Isobel’s enthusiastic introduction.
He gave the boy a playful wink, bright blue eyes twinkling behind his half‑moon spectacles.
He leaned forward slightly, studying the five-year-old on the bed with a soft, almost grandfatherly tenderness.
Damien stayed silent for a moment.
Then he reached into the snack basket, took out a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, and held it out to Dumbledore.
“Then, Professor, would you like to try some together?
The flavors are quite unique.”
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then a mischievous smile spread across his face.
“Of course, I know these.
Every bite is an adventure; let’s test our luck today.”
He sat down beside Damien, deftly opened the packet, selected a bean with practiced ease, and popped it into his mouth.
His eyebrow arched.
“Beef-flavoured.
Good luck.
You try one too.”
Damien plucked a bean at random and tossed it into his mouth, a soft chuckle escaping him.
“Strawberry-flavoured.
It seems we both have good luck today.”
Listening to Damien’s still-raspy voice—hoarse even after two days of recovery—Dumbledore’s expression sobered.
A trace of apology colored his tone.
“Although this is a bit unkind, Damien, could I hear you tell me once more what happened that night?”
“Of course.”
Damien gave a faint smile.
He had paid such a high price precisely to reach this moment.
“I will describe it as clearly as I can…”
Dumbledore was a renowned master of Legilimency; Damien had never considered lying to him.
Even with the system’s protection, the smallest flicker of a microexpression would be enough for someone like Dumbledore to judge the truth.
“It’s as if I’m watching a film,” Damien began quietly.
“In the picture, there’s a boy about my age, sleeping.
His hair looks brown in the moonlight?
I’m not entirely sure…”
He closed his eyes, lashes trembling.
He had rehearsed this scene in his mind for an entire month.
“Then the window opens, and a huge wolf’s claw reaches in.
It’s a Werewolf.
He creeps into the bedroom and gives the boy on the bed a vicious bite…
but he doesn’t kill the boy.
Then… then the Werewolf runs.
As he’s fleeing, he’s shouting…”
“What was he shouting?” Dumbledore asked softly.
“He was shouting…” Damien drew in a deep breath.
“This is revenge, Remus.”
“And then it ended.
That’s what I saw.
But when it finished, it felt like rows of twisted words were being forced into my brain, and after that, I don’t remember anything.”
He slowly opened his eyes again.
His pure black gaze locked onto Dumbledore’s, and he asked, enunciating each word, “Can we help him, Professor?”
Dumbledore rose to his feet with measured calm.
Facing Damien, he answered with the same deliberate weight, “I will not allow this child to suffer such torment.
A good child should live happily.”
Dumbledore left soon after, satisfied that he had obtained accurate information about the prophecy.
Once he was gone, Damien’s days slipped back into their quiet, uneventful pattern of recovery.
Only his occasional, sudden silences betrayed that his heart was far less peaceful than it appeared on the surface.
Before long, the clock reached 21:00.
Catherine gently helped Damien wash up, fussing over him with care, and then began urging him to go to sleep early.
“Okay, Mum,” Damien agreed at once, every bit as obedient as he had been for the last two days.
Catherine tucked the quilt around him with careful hands and brushed a light kiss across his forehead.
“Goodnight, little Damien.”
“Goodnight, Mum,” he echoed softly.
Only after Catherine drew the curtains around the hospital bed and went into the adjoining lounge did anything change.
The moment the curtains fell shut, Damien’s peacefully closed eyes snapped open.
His fingers tightened around the quilt, lips pressed into a thin line, as he replayed, frame by frame, every move he had made over the past half-month.
With his understanding of the Wizarding World limited to what he’d seen through Harry Potter’s perspective, Damien knew full well that trying to pass something off as a prophecy was risky.
It would be easy to spot any clumsy imitation—after all, Harry’s entire relationship with prophecy had been passive acceptance.
So he had spent half a month polishing his wording, imitating Sybill Trelawney’s rare genuine prophecies.
Dozens of drafts later, he finally settled on a suitably ambiguous text.
But if the prophecy became too obscure, he might delay saving Remus.
That wouldn’t do.
He needed something more: a concrete scene, a vision described by an “eyewitness” to provide enough information.
There were no such examples from Professor Trelawney herself—Sybill didn’t even realise she was a true Seer—but there was one other precedent.
Gellert Grindelwald, the first Dark Lord and Dumbledore’s one-time friend, had dreamed at eleven that he would attend Durmstrang and later repeatedly dreamed of the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.
Those were the only two clear, specific manifestations of prophetic power from major figures that Damien could remember.
In the end, using “dreams” to frame the visions he claimed to have witnessed became his only viable option.
However, if a five-year-old simply told his parents, “I had a prophetic dream last night,” the most likely outcome would be the whole family laughing it off.
Nothing would come of it.
So he needed something shocking enough to stun everyone—something fast, dramatic, that would spread through the adults before they had time to fully collect themselves.
Given that the McGonagall family included a Hogwarts Transfiguration professor, Dumbledore’s involvement was all but guaranteed.
Damien had toyed with other ideas: making his own fireworks, pretending to drown…
But then he’d thought of Albus Dumbledore, born in 1881.
Faced with an eighty-four-year-old Hogwarts headmaster—who would remain headmaster for at least another thirty-two years—Damien felt it was only proper to respect that vast life experience.
He simply couldn’t afford the consequences of being exposed.
Deep down, he knew that in front of a mind like Dumbledore’s, even the slightest inconsistency might lead to total disaster.
He had no destined prophecy wrapped around him as protection.
So, two days ago, he had triggered the magic riot.
He traded physical injuries for Dumbledore’s attention and then, sitting before the headmaster, calmly described the scene he had rehearsed countless times in his head.
By the time he reached his closing plea, Damien was certain Dumbledore would take note.
The greatest wizard of the age had his own unmatched talent for rescuing witches and wizards from danger.
Besides, Damien had practically handed him Lyall Lupin’s home address and personal details.
With intelligence that detailed, it would be… strange if Dumbledore couldn’t find Lyall Lupin.
Turning these thoughts over yet again, Damien finally let out a faint, frustrated sigh.
He stared at the thin curtains glowing softly with reflected light and whispered:
“Moony, I hope this helps you change your fate.
I can’t afford the cost of exposure; I refuse to lose my family.
So I’ll stake myself as the price and roll the dice for you.
I want to see a version of you who doesn’t have to hide from the full moon.”
While Damien quietly summarized his experiences under the cover of night, far to the west, outside a small Welsh village, the disaster looming over Moony was already drawing near.
Three men in ragged clothes huddled together in the cold.
“Boss, are you really sure about this?” A short man pulled his threadbare fur coat tighter around himself, rubbing his hands together against the bite of the February wind.
The shabby coat did little to keep out the chill.
Shivering, he glanced nervously at the broad-shouldered Fenrir and asked in a low voice.
“Look, we’ve checked three villages already, and we still haven’t seen that shameless scoundrel who crossed us werewolves.
Maybe—”
Before he could finish, Fenrir lifted a hand and effortlessly hauled him off his feet.
“B–Boss, don’t do this, you’ve got it wrong!
Leon, come on, say something…” The short man didn’t dare struggle; his trembling only grew worse as he babbled for mercy.
“Harland, let me make myself clear.” Fenrir’s voice was low and rough.
“That wizard—Lyall Lupin—insulted me and insulted all werewolves.
So he has to pay.
We’ll teach those wizards to show werewolves some respect.”
He shook the hand gripping Harland, making the smaller man sway helplessly in the air.
Over Harland’s panicked wheezing, Fenrir continued, one word at a time, “So, are you going to betray what you are, stop being a werewolf, and play lapdog for those wizards?”
“Of course not,” the thin man who had been silent until now replied.
He looked at Fenrir, his eyes gleaming with something dark and hard to read.
“From the moment we became werewolves, there was no going back, was there?
Even if we surrender, we’ll just end up on someone’s workbench as research material.”
Fenrir burst into harsh, rasping laughter that rolled out over the empty countryside.
“Harland, learn from Leon.
Either you listen to me, or I tear you apart myself.
Or…” His smile twisted.
“Would you rather fall into the hands of those ‘righteous’ wizards?
Trust me, they won’t treat you any more gently than I would.
Think about everything you’ve done all these years.
You understand, don’t you?”
Harland’s pupils widened in terror.
At Fenrir’s words, he bobbed his head frantically.
“Y–Yes, Boss, I understand.
I’ll do whatever you say.”
Fenrir savoured the fear in his eyes before relaxing his grip and letting Harland drop.
As Harland hit the ground with a muffled thud and bit back a whimper, Fenrir slowly closed his eyes.
His nostrils flared as he drew in the scents carried on the night wind.
In his chest, a wild exultation roared: ‘Soon, Lyall Lupin.
Your scent is getting stronger.
Just wait—I’ll bring you a surprise very soon.
It won’t be long now.’
On the third night after Professor Dumbledore’s conversation with Damien, in the Headmaster’s Office at Hogwarts, Fawkes was singing softly on his perch.
Dumbledore stood by the window, motionless.
Under the moonlight, his robes shimmered faintly with silver specks as he stared out into the ink-black night, Fawkes’s song weaving through his thoughts.
On the table beside him, a silver teapot sent up delicate curls of fragrant steam.
Two small, finely worked silver teacups rested beside it, each filled with tea still giving off gentle tendrils of heat.
As the stone staircase beyond the office slowly rotated into place, the sound of hurried footsteps pounded up toward the door.
A moment later, the elegant oak door was shoved open with little ceremony, hinges emitting a protesting creak.
A man with a slightly stocky build and a perpetual look of vigilance strode into the room.
His robes still carried the damp scent of the outdoors, and every so often a sharp, dangerous light flashed in his eyes.
“Professor Dumbledore, I hope you understand there’s crime everywhere now—everything is a mess!”
Alastor Moody’s voice was rough and grating, like sandpaper, his impatience completely undisguised.
“I had to deal harshly with a dark wizard ambushing Muggles just to make time to come back and see you.
That brat’s probably lying in St.
Mungo’s right now, counting his remaining bones.”
He was explaining why he was late, but the domineering edge to his tone made it sound more like a complaint directed at Dumbledore than an apology.
Dumbledore, however, took no offense.
A brief smile flickered in his eyes before he said gently, “Alastor, I will always trust you.
Come, have a cup of tea and relax a bit.
I want to show you a very unique memory.
Believe me, it is quite interesting.”
With a small, graceful motion of his hand, a silver teacup floated over to Moody.
The tea steamed gently, just the right temperature, releasing a warm, comforting fragrance.
Moody snatched the cup without ceremony, tipped back his head, and drained it in one gulp.
He immediately frowned, curling his lip as a low, disgruntled growl rumbled in his throat.
“Oh, Dumbledore, next time make it Firewhisky!
You know this is the only place I can take a temporary break.
Those idiots outside have turned the Ministry into a complete mess.”
His scarred fingers tapped against the rim of the teacup, his gaze keen and predatory, sharp as an eagle’s.
“Dark Wizard attacks are everywhere.
If you ask me, most of it is the work of those pretentious pure-blood families.
But Minister Leach is in a tight spot right now.
“Old Malfoy and those pure-bloods are targeting everyone and forcing through policies that benefit them.
I can’t add to his burden, so I just have to endure those idiots’ pathetic excuses for fooling the Ministry of Magic…”
Moody grumbled on, every word laden with frustration at the state of affairs.
Dumbledore simply listened in silence, then with a gentle wave of his hand, summoned the Pensieve to the table.
He pressed the tip of his wand to his temple and slowly drew out a thin, silver thread of memory, guiding it with care into the Pensieve.
The instant it touched the swirling surface, ripples spread outward; the silver light deepened and grew brighter.
Moody’s complaints cut off at once.
His gaze was drawn irresistibly to the silver vortex, and a rare flicker of curiosity crossed his rugged face.
Dumbledore offered Moody an apologetic smile.
“Alastor, as you know, my main priority now is still to deal with the Tom issue.
Once Tom is dealt with, I believe Nobby will be able to handle those troublemakers with ease.
After all, the people’s hearts have always been on his side; these difficulties are only temporary.”
Moody’s lips twitched, and he muttered under his breath, “The great Albus Dumbledore is always right.”
His attention dropped back to the Pensieve, curiosity now plain on his face.
“So, you dragged me out from that pile of damned reports and suspects and called me to Hogwarts specifically to show me what kind of prophecy?
About when old Malfoy will pass away?”
Moody didn’t wait for an invitation.
As Dumbledore spoke, he simply bent over and plunged his scarred face toward the Pensieve as he peered into the swirling memories.
A few minutes later, when his consciousness resurfaced, the change in him was obvious.
The curiosity from before had drained away, replaced by confusion.
He fixed his gaze on Dumbledore, brows drawn so tightly together they nearly met, as if demanding an explanation for what he’d just witnessed.
“Dumbledore, I don’t often go down to the Department of Mysteries to stare at those damned Prophecy Orbs, but this prophecy…”
He trailed off.
His fingers had begun to turn the teacup between them, rubbing absently at the rim.
“You find it very strange too, don’t you?”
A keen glint flashed in Dumbledore’s eyes.
When he spoke, he went straight to the heart of it.
“Compared to most prophecies, it is far too detailed.
It reads almost as though someone had watched the events unfold and then described their eyewitness account.”
His voice dropped, growing more grave.
“As far as I know, only one person possesses such an ability.
But he left no descendants, and his family line has never intersected with any bloodlines in the Scottish Highlands.”
Moody, of course, knew whom Dumbledore meant.
But since Dumbledore chose not to say the name, Moody had no intention of dragging that particular unpleasantness into the open.
He simply pressed on, summarizing his thoughts.
“And this prophecy even has a neat little conclusion at the end, like it’s pointing us in the right direction.
That’s too bizarre.
Prophecies aren’t supposed to be that straightforward, unless…”
“But that child’s injury is real,” Dumbledore cut across Moody’s speculation, a weight settling back into his tone.
“I’ve examined him myself.
His body has indeed been eroded by magic; an injury that severe cannot be faked.”
“That alone is enough for me to believe that certain things are truly set in motion.
Robert Jr.
and his family would never willingly inflict that kind of harm on their only blood relation.”
Moody blinked, momentarily thrown.
“That serious?
Hogwarts has no way to help?”
“I’ve already asked Professor Slughorn to brew a special restorative for Damien.
For that, I even dipped into a small portion of Professor Sprout’s private stores.”
Dumbledore held his hands a wand’s width apart to indicate the amount and shot Moody a playful, almost boyish smile.
Moody’s stern expression loosened in spite of himself.
“Lucky brat,” he muttered.
Then his eyes hardened again.
He stared straight at Dumbledore and asked, his voice abruptly sharp:
“So, you want me to track down that fellow Remus, then find a way to nab that damned werewolf?”
“No,” Dumbledore replied, face suddenly all seriousness, to Moody’s visible surprise.
“Find Remus, but give no warning to anyone.
Prepare sufficient manpower, and only move when that werewolf is climbing the wall and about to come through the window.”
“You want to test whether this prophecy is genuine?”
Surprise flickered in Moody’s eyes, followed by a long, weary sigh.
“Professor Dumbledore, with all due respect, you think too highly of me.
Aurors are flying everywhere right now, running themselves ragged trying to keep up with all the chaos.
I don’t have enough people to spare for an ambush.”
“To be honest, I’m the only one who can see this through.
There’s only one full moon a month—if I push myself, I can just about carve out one night.”
“Minerva and her brothers will assist you.
Once you’ve pinpointed the location, they’ll lie in ambush every full moon until that werewolf is caught,” Dumbledore said, smiling as he laid out the final piece of his plan.
Moody couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his scarred face, though there was a sharp edge of bloodlust and anticipation in it.
“Poor wolf cub.
I can’t wait to see the look of surprise on his face.”
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be going.
I’ll first find out which Remus is so unlucky and yet lucky, and then I’ll wait for this wolf cub’s performance,” Moody said, turning toward the door.
“Alastor,” Dumbledore called, his voice bearing a quiet weight.
Under Moody’s puzzled gaze, he spoke gravely:
“Constant vigilance.
Be careful of those Dark wizards.
Danger is everywhere now, and ordinary wizarding families are relying on you.”
For the first time that night, Alastor Moody’s lips twitched into a faint smile.
He didn’t answer aloud.
He simply lifted a hand in a brief, almost gentle wave, then strode out of the Headmaster’s office.
At this time, Moody was still young—hard-edged and fearless.
His legs were whole, his eyes clear, and his belief in justice was honed by practice rather than scarred by loss.
He did not yet have the magical eye that would one day whirl beneath his brow, nor the heavy thud of a wooden leg on stone floors, nor the curved hip flask that would rarely leave his hand.
His silhouette soon vanished down the spiral staircase.
Dumbledore remained where he was, watching the slowly closing oak door for a very long time.
Leaving the warm glow of the Hogwarts Headmaster’s office and stepping into the knife-edged north wind of the Scottish Highlands, Moody cast his thoughts toward the mist-laden rain of Wales.
There, a fate he could not yet foresee was quietly taking shape.
The cold rain in Wales had its own character.
Those who had been caught in it often knew: when that fine, mistlike drizzle met sudden gusts of north wind, what was merely uncomfortable became something else entirely—an icy sting that drove straight through flesh and into the bone.
Fenrir and his pack were feeling it now.
The three werewolves huddled beneath a tall oak, trying to find the slightest scrap of shelter.
But the rain, fine as a net, still blew in under the broad branches, lashing them without mercy.
Their tattered clothes were soaked through, and the marrow-deep chill slowly seeped into their bodies, clawing at their very souls.
This time it was Leon, usually the quieter one, who turned on Fenrir.
“Fenrir, how much longer are we going to search like this?”
Impatience roughened Leon’s voice.
Days of fruitless hunting, coupled with this freezing, ceaseless rain, had all but stripped the thin layer of restraint from two men who had never been good sorts to begin with.
Fenrir sat with his back to the oak’s rough trunk.
Rainwater streamed from his matted hair, but he seemed not to notice.
He lifted his head slightly, wild eyes sweeping coldly over the anger simmering in Leon’s face, then gave a low, disdainful snort from deep in his throat—a sound edged with animal threat.
“Leon,” Fenrir’s voice was low and rasping, like gravel grinding over glass, “your brain works a bit better than Harland’s, so I’ll only say this once.”
He rose slowly.
In the slanting rain his thick, powerful frame seemed even larger, more menacing.
“I, Fenrir Greyback, am the alpha.”
Fenrir’s eyes, brimming with cruelty, suddenly widened, fixing on the thin Leon like a pair of searchlights.
He enunciated each word:
“Remember exactly who it was that turned you into werewolves—who gave you a new life.
Everything you have comes from my gift, from the great Fenrir Greyback.”
Rainwater streamed down Fenrir’s scarred face.
He slowly ran his tongue over his lips, the motion clearly stirring some memory, and a flicker of morbid excitement flashed in his eyes.
“I’m about to find him.
I can feel it.
Lupin, you can’t escape.
Soon—on the next full moon—I’ll make sure you understand that no one insults Fenrir Greyback.
No one insults the noble werewolves.”
Leon and Harland didn’t dare utter a word.
They stood shaking in the downpour, terrified not only of the merciless February rain in Wales, but of the creature before them—colder and more ruthless than the storm itself.