Early morning, 6 February 1965
Hogsmeade – The Hog’s Head
Aberforth slouched against the bar, his expression dull but his eyes sharp as they tracked the short, stout young man who’d been drinking since midnight.
The fellow practically screamed “Waste of Space”—his threadbare, grimy robes clashed ridiculously with the exquisite mokeskin pouch at his belt.
‘Another lowly thief,’ Aberforth decided.
He’d wager his brother’s beard that once this one had soaked himself in enough whisky, he’d stagger off to Knockturn Alley and sell that smoke‑stained, alcohol‑reeking pouch for quick cash.
What nagged at Aberforth was how off the picture looked.
Petty thieves were usually lean and nimble.
This one was scruffy and thick‑set, bundled in a tattered coat, moving with all the grace of a stunned troll.
He stank of drink and cigarettes so badly that even a Scouring Charm wouldn’t have helped much.
Which idiot young pure‑blood dandy had been clumsy enough to get robbed by a lout like this?
Mundungus Fletcher couldn’t have cared less about Aberforth’s scrutiny.
Ever since graduating from Hogwarts, he’d had one job application after another turned down, until any hope of a “proper position” had gone up in smoke.
He had slipped instead into the grey zones skirting Ministry of Magic law and, in doing so, had pieced together a surprisingly solid web of contacts.
Yesterday he’d completed the biggest deal of his life—smuggling a batch of rare magical materials from the Americans to a generous pure‑blood family.
He had no idea who, exactly, he’d been dealing with, but when the buyer had checked the goods and then casually tossed him the very pouch that held the Galleons as a bonus, Mundungus had decided he didn’t need to be curious.
On the contrary, he fervently hoped that wealthy young master would come calling again.
And again.
Thinking of that, he took another heavy swig of Firewhiskey, fingers absently stroking the unnaturally smooth hide of the mokeskin pouch hidden under his cloak.
His eyes slit in tipsy satisfaction.
For the first time in nearly two years he felt truly relaxed—no dark wizards chasing debts, no werewolves lurking round dodgy meeting spots, and none of that damned Alastor Moody…
The moment Moody’s stern face flashed across his mind, Mundungus tossed back the rest of the whisky in his glass.
The liquor burned its way down, and after drinking straight through from midnight till now, he was well and truly drunk.
His tongue thick, he grumbled, “D‑damned Alastor… just doin’… just doin’ a bit o’ business, every… every day…”
“Dung, I really didn’t expect that’s how you thought of me.”
The voice crashed over him like a thunderclap.
Mundungus jolted so hard he nearly toppled off his stool.
At some point, Moody had taken the seat opposite him, that scarred face set in its usual hard lines as he reached out without ceremony, grabbed the half‑full bottle of Firewhisky, and took a deep pull straight from the neck.
Mundungus gaped at him, stunned, until Moody thumped the bottle down and released a long, satisfied belch.
Only then did Dung find his voice: “Damned Alastor!
D’you know how expensive a bottle o’ Firewhisky is?
I only ordered three bottles, you damned—”
Moody leaned back in the Hog’s Head’s creaking wooden chair, his unnervingly sharp gaze locking on Mundungus’s eyes.
“I know exactly how much it costs,” he said flatly.
“And I also know those little ‘businesses’ of yours could never pay for this much drinking.
So, are you going to tell me how you suddenly struck it rich, Dung?” His tone held a new weight—serious, wary, and not at all joking.
Mundungus froze, the alcohol seeming to drain straight out of his head.
His round eyes, half-hidden under his messy ginger hair, instantly turned fawning, and his pudgy face folded into a sycophantic grin.
“Alastor, you can’t be like this!
We’ve been friends for how many years now?
Back when you were chasing after Anna from Ravenclaw, I was the one who figured out how to get you those roses.
I lay in the freezing wind for two whole hours just for your big confession!
I’m your most loyal friend!”
“But you also charged me a full five Galleons, Dung.” Moody didn’t so much as twitch.
His raspy voice sounded even rougher under the influence of Firewhiskey.
He paused, then went on, “You’re always running about nowadays.
You know exactly how chaotic the world’s become.
Don’t go coveting those Galleons so much—you’ll end up buried in them sooner or later.
Those pure-bloods don’t give a damn whether you live or die.”
“I know, I know.” Mundungus flapped a hand dismissively.
“But they really are generous, Alastor.
I know what I’m doing.
I don’t take jobs that really hurt people, you know me.”
Moody stared at this bad-influence friend he’d had since school and let out a long sigh.
Their values had never quite matched, but he hadn’t expected the gap to become this wide once they left Hogwarts.
He forced his thoughts into order and his tone shifted, becoming clipped and professional.
“Professor Dumbledore’s given me a job.
I need you to go to your ‘furry friends’ and ask around if any of them have had trouble with someone named Remus in the last few months.
If they have, I want the exact details.”
Mundungus’s eyes lit up.
He immediately thrust out his chubby hand.
“Ten Galleons.”
“What?
Raising the price on me again?” Moody barked, slapping the table.
“Do you have any idea what my monthly salary is?
Dung, I swear, if I haul you in, I’ll have more than enough to pay those ten Galleons!”
“Alastor, those are Werewolves!” Mundungus hissed, lowering his voice and glancing around before leaning in conspiratorially.
“What if I get bitten?
Then the glorious story of my life ends right there!” He puffed out his chest, utterly unbothered by the fact that his ‘glorious life’ consisted mainly of pickpocketing and part-time black-market dealing.
“You think I don’t know you’re their most trusted fence?” Moody’s magical eye all but bulged, his expression hardening.
“It won’t even cost you a Knut to ask for information.
Five Galleons.
Or I arrest you and use whatever’s in that pouch to pay the bill.”
“Bloody hell, Alastor, that’s an abuse of power!” Mundungus’s cheeks wobbled with outrage—but it didn’t take long for the familiar crafty smile to creep back over his face.
“Deal.
Same as always: money up front.
I’ll have something for you within three days.”
With a look of deep disgust, Moody dug out five gold galleons and flicked them at him.
He watched as Mundungus examined each one, even giving them a quick sniff, before tucking them away in that mokeskin pouch that had cost more than several months of Moody’s pay.
The anger he’d been holding down finally boiled over.
Moody snatched up the remaining Firewhiskey on the table and downed it in one go.
Mundungus’s wail of protest at the emptied bottle was still ringing in the air when Moody slammed it back onto the table and rose to his feet.
In the bar’s dim light, his silhouette looked especially sharp and unforgiving.
He strode toward the door, leaving nothing behind but his gravelly voice echoing in Mundungus’s ears:
“Dung, I’ll be here waiting on February tenth.
If I don’t get what I want—then you’re going in.”
Moody’s flat, emotionless words left no room for argument.
Mundungus hunched his shoulders and let out a long sigh, eyes following Moody’s retreating back until the man vanished through the door.
Behind the bar, Aberforth Dumbledore had watched the brief clash between the two younger men with mild interest, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He drew a fresh glass of Firewhisky, set it down in front of Mundungus—who was clutching his empty bottle like a lifeline—and, for the first time, actually smiled at him.
“Welcome to the Hog’s Head.
This one’s on the house.”
Mundungus stared, taken aback.
Before he could stammer out a thank you, Aberforth had already turned away, leaving only the amber Firewhisky before him, its surface catching the pale morning light in a hazy glow.
Morning, 13 February 1965, St Mungo’s Hospital
That now-familiar stinging sensation flickered through his mind.
Damien rubbed his temples, movements slow and numb, and turned to gaze out at the rare patch of winter sunlight beyond the window.
Time had slipped by.
He’d already spent two full weeks in this bright, spotless ward.
Under the Healers’ care, the physical pain had faded bit by bit.
What grew heavier instead was the weight of that special status—
His once keen mind felt thick and sluggish; fatigue washed over him whenever he tried to read magical texts, and a dull lethargy clung to him.
Worst of all was the sporadic sting that flared in his head without warning.
Day by day, the worry lining Isobel’s and Robert Jr.’s faces deepened.
They thought he didn’t notice the soft sighs they let out when they stepped beyond his line of sight.
Only his mother, Catherine, remained as gentle and composed as ever.
Two nights ago, Damien had clearly heard her say to Isobel:
“If he has magic, he has it; if not, he can still grow up happily.
My son is very healthy.”
Remembering that, Damien couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh.
Sunlight spilled warm and pale across his face.
Even so, this rare clear winter light in England couldn’t pierce the gloom coiled in his chest.
Damien found himself turning the same thoughts over and over:
Had he pushed too far?
Reached beyond his limits?
The price he was paying was far steeper than anything he’d expected.
Yet whenever he pictured that man from the books of his previous life—the wretched figure who ran from everything, who didn’t even dare face love, and still remained endlessly gentle—
“Damn it, no matter how many times I think about it, I’d still feel unwilling if I hadn’t done it.” Damien gave a bitter little smile.
In the end, he couldn’t lie to himself.
His own inherent nature wouldn’t let him look away, not when he knew the truth.
As for saving that person, no matter how he did the sums, Damien still felt it wasn’t a losing bargain.
Besides, it was only 1965.
Even if he never walked the path of magic, as long as he studied hard and picked up Russian as a minor, there would be immense wealth waiting for him twenty-six years down the line.
Most importantly, Damien’s gaze shifted to the translucent screen hovering in his vision.
Since it was a temporary status, then anything that could be shown as data could, in theory, be erased with data.
“What are you thinking about, Damien?”
Isobel’s voice suddenly sounded at his ear.
Only then did he realize his grandmother had shuffled up to him on quiet feet.
Seeing his silence, a fleeting look of pity crossed Isobel’s eyes.
She bent down, leaning close to her grandson by the window, and spoke softly:
“Damien, the Healers at St Mungo’s say you can do some light activity now.
Do you want to go for a walk and see the Visitors’ Tearoom and Shopping Area on the sixth floor?”
“It takes up an entire floor.
Do you want to go have a look with Grandma?”
“Okay, Grandma.” Damien glanced at Isobel’s overly cautious manner and felt a bit helpless.
He was, admittedly, a little frustrated, but with two lifetimes behind him, he could still face this unexpected situation with composure.
An adult’s life was never short on accidents; this was just one more.
It was only being treated as a proper five-year-old by his grandmother that made him feel a bit embarrassed.
Isobel took his hand, and the two of them walked slowly down the fifth-floor corridor of St Mungo’s.
Portraits on either side followed them with curious eyes; a few witches and wizards in the frames even whispered and pointed subtly at Damien.
When they came to a portrait labeled “Healer Dilys Derwent,” Isobel deliberately stopped and offered a greeting, and Damien quickly bowed and said hello as well.
“She was once a famous healer at St Mungo’s and also a Headmistress of Hogwarts,” Isobel explained.
“She was close friends with our ancestor from two hundred years ago, Ayzeric Ross, so she’s also your elder.
You must always greet her when you see her.”
The witch in the portrait smiled and waved.
“The little fellow looks like he’s in good spirits, Isobel.
He will recover, don’t worry.”
After saying their goodbyes to the portrait, Damien followed Isobel toward the stairs.
He eyed the nearby wards with interest, but most of the doors on the fifth floor were tightly closed, with “Do Not Disturb” signs hanging on them.
Several times he tried to see whether there were any records of patients or staff on the ward doors, but there was nothing, and he had to give up.
Soon, they reached the sixth floor.
In contrast to the fifth floor’s chill and silence, this level was open, bright, and bustling.
What first caught his attention was the side window of a tearoom.
Its completely transparent glass walls were covered in decorative lettering, giving it a rather unusual look.
Several wizards sat inside: some sipping tea and nibbling on snacks, some huddled together whispering, others quietly flipping through The Daily Prophet.
A signpost nearby read:
Left: Gift Shop / Exit
Right: Staff Passage
Isobel led Damien to the left.
The first thing that came into view was a giant St Mungo’s emblem—a pure white bone crossed with a wand.
Beneath the emblem was the Gift Shop.
People streamed in and out.
Damien’s gaze was immediately drawn to the best-selling models of the St Mungo’s building, where tiny mannequins inside kept waving enthusiastically at customers.
The effect was downright unsettling.
This kind of creepy display, which would have fit perfectly in a Muggle horror film, was actually considered a souvenir in the wizarding world.
As expected, Damien still couldn’t quite make sense of British wizarding aesthetics.
The shelves were crammed with every sort of Potion: Cure for Boils, Beautifying Potion, Elixir to Induce Euphoria, Sleeping Draught…
Damien couldn’t help but marvel.
As long as a young wizard studied diligently at Hogwarts for seven years, it really was hard to end up poor; they were taught all the skills they needed to survive.
But remembering Snape’s cold, cutting words, Damien rubbed his nose.
Well, as long as one’s mind was strong enough, it could all be learned.
Minerva and Robert Jr.
burst into the shop at a run, cutting short Damien and Isobel’s browsing.
One look at their anxious faces left Damien momentarily speechless.
“Mother, Damien, we should go back to the ward,” Minerva said bluntly.
“I’ve brought a tonic for Damien.”
Expectation she could barely hide flickered in her eyes, and her fingers were white-knuckled around an exquisite handbag.
Head full of questions, Damien followed without protest.
This time, they made it back to the fifth-floor ward in barely half the time.
Once Damien was settled obediently on the hospital bed, Minerva carefully drew a bottle of golden potion from the handbag she’d been clutching so tightly.
The crystal-clear vial caught the sunlight, gleaming brightly.
The liquid within seemed to hum with restrained power, sending out a faint, reassuring golden glow.
“Professor Slughorn has spent the past few days meticulously brewing this for Damien,” Minerva said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Many of the ingredients came from the private collections of Professor Sprout and Professor Kettleburn.
Horace said this might be one of the works he’s most proud of in his life.”
At that, Isobel finally let out a long breath of relief.
She immediately began to fuss, urging him over and over, “Quick, drink it, little Damien.
Be a good boy and take your medicine!”
Damien accepted the delicate crystal bottle.
The shock in his eyes was almost impossible to hide.
As he gazed at the potion, a brilliant gold flared on the familiar translucent screen before him:
[Slughorn’s modified Felix Felicis] (Golden Epic)
Effects:
1.
Dispels negative statuses.
2.
Your special negative effects will be cleared.
3.
Your natural magic growth during the developmental period +1.
Damien’s eyes widened; his heart hammered in his chest.
His first clear thought was that he absolutely had to learn Potions.
This effect was outright broken.
Then his gaze snagged on the familiar Epic label, and a second wave of disbelief hit him.
With effects like this, it still wasn’t Legendary?
He drew in a deep breath, hands trembling as he eased the stopper from the crystal bottle.
A refreshing fragrance rose with the golden vapor.
Just a whiff was enough to lighten his mood.
Under everyone’s expectant stares, Damien tipped his head back and downed the golden potion in one gulp.
The instant it slid down his throat, warmth blossomed and surged outward, spreading from his gut through every limb, as if countless tiny golden motes were racing through his veins.
For the first time in days, Damien could feel magic coursing through his body.
As the warmth lit up every inch of him, it seemed as though each and every cell was cheering in delight.
In the end, it felt like his whole body had been flung wide open.
He could clearly sense the magic inside him rushing and roaring like a great river in flood.
Along with that wondrous sensation came a crisp chime in his mind: “Ding.”
AN: