After several thorough examinations at St Mungo’s, the Healers finally declared Damien in perfect health.
To Damien’s complicated mix of relief and guilt, his father and his grandmother, Isobel, both broke into radiant smiles the moment they heard the news.
Only Catherine, who had always been as gentle as water and kept such a calm demeanor, lost control.
The instant the result reached her, she rushed to his bedside, wrapped him in her arms, and sobbed against him for a long time before she could collect herself.
Damien had no idea how to comfort her.
All he could do was awkwardly pat his mother’s back with his small hands, repeating the news of his recovery again and again.
When the commotion of the day finally died down, Damien sat alone on his hospital bed, the slightly rough fabric of the patient robes brushing against his skin.
Soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a hazy silver glow across the room.
Only then did he have the time to look at the system notifications that had appeared after he drank the potion.
He opened his personal interface.
Beside his three-dimensional projection—now completely restored and even rimmed with faint golden light—
Damien skipped over the familiar personal details and went straight to the special status at the bottom:
“Magic Growth—Magic derived from various magical creatures, carefully blended by a Potion master, has exerted a unique power on your body.
Specifically: until you reach adulthood, your natural Magic Growth is +1.”
Staring at the softly glowing line of text, Damien couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from lifting.
‘Professor Slughorn really is a potion master of legendary skill to brew a variation of Liquid Luck; the potion’s effects are solid.
I suppose this counts as good deeds being rewarded.
I won’t ask Remus to pay that debt back, then.’
The thought left him genuinely pleased, his fingers unconsciously tracing the glowing words.
The physical weakness and magic drain of the past few days had hit him hard.
Fortunately, the final outcome was enough to make up for every bit of pain.
And tonight’s good news wasn’t just due to Professor Slughorn’s special potion.
Damien exited the personal interface.
A long string of unread notifications ran down the panel like an overflowing message feed, the dense red icons almost making his eyes swim.
He took a slow breath, then carefully scrolled back to the very beginning and started reading each message in order:
“Detected fluctuations in the current world’s timeline.
The established fate of Nobby Leach (current Minister for Magic) has changed.
System analyzing…”
Damien’s heartbeat sped up before he could control it.
He had assumed it would be Remus Lupin’s fate that had shifted; he hadn’t expected it to involve the sitting Minister for Magic.
He continued reading:
“Abraxas Malfoy caused Minister for Magic Nobby Leach to resign due to severe illness in 1968 by poisoning him with a potion.
The magical materials used for the potion are extremely rare.
Their owner has used them in the magic potion consumed by the host.
The timeline has fluctuated, and the ripples of fate are turbulent…”
Damien’s eyes flew wide.
He had known the potion was expensive, but he hadn’t imagined it would be this costly.
A wry smile tugged at his lips.
‘This time… the favor I owe is truly massive…’ Once he’d steadied himself, he mulled over what he had just read:
‘Abraxas Malfoy… that’s Malfoy’s grandfather, right?
The old man was impressive enough to dare assassinate the Minister for Magic and get away with it.
So how did he end up raising a son and grandson who can’t even figure out how to play both sides properly?’
Shaking his head, Damien forcibly shut down his spiraling thoughts.
Just from this deed alone, this elder Malfoy sounded leagues more terrifying than Lucius or Draco.
Clearly a monster of a wizard.
A five-year-old like him should stick to the only reliable job he had right now—being an adorable child.
“As the ripples of fate surged, the system captured the overflowing energy.
Specifically, the Talent Point Panel has been unlocked.
Please explore the details yourself.
Your current destiny points: 5.”
“Oh, how could I be so lucky?”
Damien muttered in false modesty, the corners of his mouth betraying him as they curled upward.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped out of bed in his hospital robes, yanked open the curtains, and sneered up at the moon:
“That I, Damien, have reached my current level is all thanks to my extraordinary talent…
System, add points!
Max them all out!”
The instant the words left his lips, mortification crashed over him.
Heat shot up his neck.
He didn’t even bother closing the curtains before diving back into bed, squeezing his eyes shut and chanting frantically in his mind:
“That wasn’t me, that wasn’t me, that wasn’t me…”
It took a long time for the sting of his sudden bout of protagonist vibes to fade.
At last, Damien cautiously poked his head out from under the covers.
After confirming that no one was there to witness his shame, he let out a long breath of relief.
He quickly pulled up the newly unlocked stat-allocation panel.
The sheer number of options made his head spin, like a newbie opening the perk tree in Skyrim for the first time.
“This is way too complicated…”
He couldn’t help but grumble under his breath.
The panel was crammed with choices: professional skills like Potions, Alchemy, and Divination;
Foundations of magical theory and refinements for specific spells;
Even rare talents like Flying, Magical Creature Affinity, and Parseltongue—the list just went on and on.
What really stunned him was that even non-magical skills like Blacksmithing could be leveled.
His finger slid over the panel, and he realized every branch could be broken down further.
Take Potions, for example.
Starting from Basic Potion Knowledge Correction, once that was lit up, it would unlock three advanced traits: Potion Processing Precision, Cauldron Temperature Control, and Wand Usage Mastery.
Everything below those was completely greyed out.
Without activating the prerequisite skills, he couldn’t even see what came next.
“It’s as vast as the sea…”
Damien sighed, his finger hovering indecisively over the options.
He glanced at his miserable 5 destiny points, then back at a skill tree towering like Yggdrasil, and exhaled helplessly.
“Forget it, I’ll save them for now.
I’ll decide after I figure out what everything is.”
After a night of tossing and turning, Damien woke up with enormous dark circles under his eyes.
When Catherine came in to wake him, she was so startled she nearly dropped what she was holding.
“Good heavens!
Damien, are you still sick?
Do you feel unwell anywhere?” Catherine’s voice went tight as she grabbed his arms, visibly shaking.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mom.
I was just…
I was just too excited.
Thinking about finally going home made me so restless I couldn’t sleep.”
Damien forced a smile to soothe her, even as his thoughts stayed tangled in that dizzying point-allocation system.
Catherine shot him a suspicious look but let it go.
After Robert Jr.
ran back and forth twice to handle everything, the discharge procedures were finally completed.
Holding the Calming Draught potion the St.
Mungo’s healer had just handed him, Damien obediently followed his parents out of the hospital.
When they stepped onto the London pavement in 1965, he glanced back at the shabby red‑brick department store front.
The sign for “Purge and Dowse Ltd.” lay under a film of grey dust, the whole place looking utterly abandoned.
Then his eyes drifted to the mannequin in the window.
The stiff-faced dummy suddenly gave him a secret smile and unfurled a narrow slip of paper across its chest: “Good Health”.
Damien burst out laughing.
The mannequin tipped him a mischievous wink, then froze again, just another lifeless display dummy.
His laughter, however, drew Catherine’s worried look.
“What is it, Damien?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mum,” Damien said quickly, steering the conversation away.
I was bored to death in the hospital.
I already finished reading ‘Hogwarts: A History’ these past few days.
When I get back, I’m going to start Professor Newt Scamander’s ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’.”
Catherine’s concern slid neatly into a new worry.
She started in on Robert Jr.
about the state of the house—the dust piling up, the plants left unwatered, the clothes they’d forgotten on the balcony.
“Oh, Robert, those cacti are my favourites!
Without my careful tending, they must be suffering.”
Robert Jr.
answered with every reassurance he could think of, promising to fix everything with magic.
“Dear, don’t worry.
A simple ‘Scourgify’ will sort out the dust.
And as for your beloved cacti, I’m sure that since you love them so much, they’ll do their best to hold on until we’re back.”
After Robert Jr.
had signed off on what felt like a dozen unequal treaties, the family finally reached a narrow, deserted alley.
At the entrance, he drew his wand and stood waiting in silence.
Just as Damien realised why this felt familiar, a purple triple‑decker bus appeared out of thin air, forcing the alley wider as it came thundering toward them at a terrifying speed.
Damien’s mind blanked.
Staring at the massive purple bus bearing down on them, only one terrible thought ran circles in his head: “Truck-kun!!
Not Again!!”
At the last possible moment, the bus swerved with the right‑hand wall and screeched to a stop right in front of them, the powerful inertia making the whole vehicle rock and sway.
The door swung open.
A thin witch stood there and recited, in a well‑worn tone, “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch and wizard.
Fare is eleven sickles.”
Then she got a proper look at them, and her voice softened at once.
“Oh, Robert Jr., looks like Damien’s all better now.”
“Yes, Hannah.” Robert Jr.
fished a handful of coins from his pocket and passed them over.
“Exactly right.
Damien, come meet Ms Hannah, the conductor of the Knight Bus.
She was already working here before I even went to Hogwarts.”
Damien smiled up at her, putting on his most innocent expression.
“Hello, Sister Hannah.”
Hannah, firmly middle‑aged, lit up at once, her eyes shining with warmth.
“Oh, my little gentleman, what a polite lad!
Remember to call me Auntie next time.”
With a quick flick of her wrist, she pressed a large, steaming cup of hot cocoa into Damien’s arms.
Damien accepted the steaming, sweet‑smelling cup of hot cocoa and gave Hannah an even sweeter smile.
“Thank you, Sister.”
Hannah’s own smile widened.
She reached out and gently patted Damien’s head, choosing, this time, not to correct the way he addressed her.
Robert Jr.
and Catherine exchanged a knowing look.
Catherine leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Little Damien’s tongue is so sweet.
Who do you think he inherited that from?”
Robert Jr.
only shrugged, his expression easy.
“My dear, I’m hopeless with words.
It’s just that the muse takes pity on me and lends me the courage to speak my heart in front of you.”
Catherine’s eyes were just beginning to turn dreamy when the Knight Bus let out a deafening roar.
Catherine instinctively leaned into Robert Jr.
He slipped an arm around his wife and, with his free hand, secretly gave Ernie a thumbs‑up.
Damien sat sunk into a soft seat, watching the scenery blur past outside the window.
Thinking back over the tangled events of the past days, he took a small sip of cocoa and whispered to the glass, “Remus, good luck.”
People’s joys and sorrows never quite matched; while Damien could rest, recover, and return home with an easy mind, Alastor Moody had far more weighing on him.
Since handing Mundungus the task of gathering information, Moody had thrown himself back into the relentless grind of Auror work.
But when he returned to the Hog’s Head three days later, Mundungus was nowhere in sight.
After waiting fruitlessly for an hour, Moody left the pub, face like stone.
It wasn’t until that night that Mundungus finally staggered into the Hog’s Head, dead drunk.
His tattered coat looked even more ragged than before, and the reek of alcohol and tobacco clung to him like a curse.
Moody, who had rushed over the moment he heard, was caught off guard by the stench and stepped back twice.
“Dung, we had a deal,” Moody said, displeasure clear in his voice.
“You know how things are now—crime everywhere.
Every Auror wishes he could split himself in two just to keep up.”
Mundungus tipped back a mouthful of Firewhisky and mumbled thickly, “Alastor, don’t… can’t… blame me.”
“I spent a… a whole day drinking just to soften those blokes up, to… to make ’em believe I was only curious, not trying to offend ’em on purpose.”
He lifted the bottle again and took another heavy swallow.
“You don’t know, Alastor, they’re close to losing it.
I thought they were going to jump me on the spot,” Mundungus said, a shiver of fear in his voice.
“The one who crossed ’em was Lyall Lupin.
Right in front of Fenrir—the cruelest werewolf of the lot—he went and insulted the entire werewolf community.
Now Fenrir’s little pack has set out.
They’re saying they’re going to take revenge on the Lupin family.”
Mundungus kept throwing back glass after glass of Firewhisky.
“Alastor, you know me.
I’m no coward.
I was in Gryffindor too—the Sorting Hat itself can swear I’ve got courage.”
“But, but yesterday, I was really scared.
The look in their eyes wasn’t lying—they really were going to make a move…”
Moody watched Mundungus ramble and drink, trying to drown the terror of the last two days at the bottom of a bottle.
It was obvious he’d been badly shaken to bring back this information.
A faint softness crept into Moody’s eyes.
He walked up to the bar and said quietly to Aberforth:
“Please help me fix him something to eat.
When he’s had enough to drink, give me a hand getting him upstairs so he can sleep it off.”
Moody paused, reached under his cloak, and pulled out a small, worn money-purse.
He counted five galleons into his palm and pressed them into Aberforth’s hand.
“This is for Dung’s expenses tonight.
If it’s not enough, put the rest on my tab.
I’ll square it when I get my salary at the end of the month.”
Aberforth studied Moody, a fleeting softness in his eyes.
He stayed quiet for a moment before saying, a bit stiffly:
“Maybe you could ask…”
He hesitated, as if the words tasted wrong:
“…ask my brother for a bit of gold.
Far as I know, the pure-blood families have been ducking taxes lately, and the Ministry’s coffers are running dry.”
Moody fell silent, then answered in a firm, flat tone, “Hard times don’t last.
We believe Minister Leach will see us through them.”
The flash in Moody’s eyes and the unshakable certainty in his voice made Aberforth’s cheeks burn with sudden shame.
He mumbled something under his breath, unable to find a proper reply.
Moody gave him a small, unexpectedly gentle smile, then turned away.
He stepped out of the smoky, dim light of the Hog’s Head and disappeared into the deep night beyond the door.
Aberforth’s gaze drifted to Mundungus in the corner.
Aberforth let out a long sigh and headed for the kitchen.
Before long, the sharp, comforting smell of sizzling fat and hot oil drifted through from the back.
Mundungus lifted his head, nose twitching as he followed the smell.
The alcohol had dulled his senses; his eyes wandered to the empty chair across from him.
Out of nowhere, he broke down in tears.
“Alastor,” Mundungus choked, voice shaking, “I really am not brave enough.”
Alastor Moody had no idea what Mundungus had lived through, but he knew exactly what he had to do.
He apparated back to London as quickly as he could and headed straight for the familiar main hall of the Ministry of Magic.
Wizards hurried past in robes of every color, files and memos flying, but most of them still lifted a hand or called a greeting to the travel-worn Auror.
Moody, a rising star who always worked the front lines, already had a solid reputation in the ministry.
He answered them only with brief nods, lengthening his stride toward the Auror Office on the second floor.
He pushed into his office—a cramped wooden cubicle, more like a storage closet than a workspace.
Piles of parchment teetered on the desk in chaotic stacks.
Old food remnants, Merlin knew from when, had leaked grease over time, staining several documents with weird, mottled patches.
Moody didn’t spare it a glance.
He began rifling through the papers one by one.
In the middle of the mess, he came across a slightly dusty file and flipped it open.
On the cover, in stark lettering:
“Chairman of the Werewolf Review Committee Attacked; Wrongfully Released Werewolf Escapes”
Moody read the report through, his face set.
By the end, he was sure: the attacker the child had seen could only be that infamous werewolf—Fenrir Greyback.
At the back of the file were names, details, and contact addresses.
Moody turned to the page he wanted.
Neatly written there:
Lyall Lupin
Defense Against the Dark Arts Master
Dark Creature Identification Expert
Non-Human Paranormal Events Expert
Ministry of Magic Special Consultant (Dark Creatures)
Son: Remus Lupin
Address: Northern Outskirts of Tredigar Village, South Wales
Moody let out a long breath, tension loosening slightly from his shoulders.
He slipped this single sheet of parchment free and tucked it carefully inside his cloak.
Then he strode out of the Ministry without wasting another second.
He had to get to South Wales and find out whether there were any signs of the werewolf there.
While Moody was racing toward Tredigar, far from the village, deep in the northern woods…
On a level stretch of ground, the Lupin family’s stone cottage stood under the moonlight.
Within its wooden fence, the courtyard was an unexpected oasis: flowers bloomed in riotous color despite the February chill, and the air held a faint, living fragrance.
Beds of common fruits and vegetables grew plump and tender, as if they were in the height of summer rather than the dead of winter.
In the ground-floor hall, the fireplace blazed with an Incendio.
Warm light and crackling flame wrapped the Lupin family’s evening in a soft glow.
Lyall sprawled comfortably on the sofa, stretching his limbs before leaning back.
His deep, magnetic voice filled the room as he recounted tales of his adventures to his son.
“At that time, the outer walls of that ancient castle were covered in emerald-green vines,” Lyall said, eyes shining with memory, as though he were standing there again.
“One look and I knew something was wrong.
In a castle with no one to maintain it, how could the vines be so fresh?”
“Dad, why do emerald-green vines mean there’s a problem?” Little Remus asked from his place on the rocking horse, eyes wide with curiosity.
Only five years old, yet the sharpness in his gaze already outstripped that of most children his age.
At his son’s insightful question, a flicker of pride lit Lyall’s face.
He straightened up from his lazy sprawl.
“That’s a detail most wizards overlook, son.
They only look for magical fluctuations or traces of Dark Arts, and ignore the answers nature itself is giving them.”
He leaned forward, his tone patient and instructive.
“Vines that have grown for years turn dark brown.
If they’re emerald green, it means they’ve only just grown—so someone cleared the place not long ago.”
Remus’s eyes grew even rounder.
“So you found those dark creatures!”
“Exactly.” Lyall chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair.
“Sometimes, noticing the details is far more important than memorising stiff magical theory.”
At the dining table nearby, Hope sat with a thick mystery novel open in her hands.
She read quietly, the corners of her mouth curved in a small smile as she listened to the exchange between father and son.
From time to time, she lifted her head, her gaze soft and content, drinking in the warmth of the scene before her.
But on this peaceful night, in the deep woods outside Tredigar, danger was drawing near.
Fenrir Greyback crouched in the shadows beneath the trees, his feral gaze cutting through the dark as he stared toward the distant village.
The scars contorting his face looked even more grotesque in the moonlight.
His sharp nails absently carved deep grooves into the bark of the tree beside him.
Behind him, Leon and Harland exchanged a glance, something strange flickering in their eyes.
“The taste of revenge is always exceptionally sweet.”
Fenrir drew in a long breath, as if he could already scent blood on the wind.
His bright red tongue slid over his razor-edged canine teeth.
“Finally…” His voice shook, trembling with excitement he could barely restrain.
“Lyall, your son will soon be my wolf cub.
You despised ‘vile werewolves,’ didn’t you?
I want to see how you’ll face your own son then.”
A low, hideous chuckle rumbled from his chest.
In the gentle moonlight, Fenrir’s eyes gleamed with animal hunger, and his bone-white teeth flashed with a cold, sinister sheen.
“Leon, that wizard looks hard to deal with,” Harland muttered, voice quivering, deliberately lowered so Fenrir would not hear his fear.
“That Lyall Lupin doesn’t seem weak, and the permanent magic on that house is very strong.
Fenrir will definitely use me as bait, Leon…”
“Shut up.”
Leon cut him off icily.
In the thick darkness, a chill light flickered in his eyes.
“If you follow Fenrir’s orders, maybe you’ll only be torn apart by Remus’s magic on the night of the full moon.
If you defy him, you’ll be torn apart right now.
Simple choice, isn’t it?”
At those words, a whimper slipped from Harland’s throat before he could stop it.
The sound, thin and broken, still reached Fenrir’s ears.
The Alpha’s head snapped around, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.
“So, a wolf cub wants to defy the Alpha’s orders?” Fenrir’s low voice rolled through the trees as he advanced on Harland, step by deliberate step, his heavy boots grinding dry branches and dead leaves underfoot.
Leon quietly edged back, abandoning Harland to the Alpha’s fury.
Harland shook so hard his legs nearly gave out beneath him.
“No, absolutely not,” he babbled, staring up at Fenrir.
“How could I dare to defy you?
How could I dare to defy the great Alpha Fenrir?”
Fenrir’s huge shadow fell over the scrawny man.
He bent down until his lips were almost brushing Harland’s ear.
“I remember your younger brother is married with a child, isn’t he?
How old is your little nephew now?
If I recall correctly, three this year?” His tone was almost conversational.
“It sounds like you really want me to go pay him a visit—so he can sing with you under the full moon.”
A strangled wail tore out of Harland.
His legs buckled, and he sank slowly to his knees.
“No, please— I’ll obey your orders, any order!”
Fenrir bared his teeth in a satisfied grin, savoring the rush of power over the wolves he had turned.
Hidden deeper in the shadows, in a spot beyond Fenrir’s notice, Leon watched Harland kneeling in the dirt.
A faint, thoughtful light flickered in his eyes.