Wednesday 17th February 1965
Poppy Pomfrey had spent years tending to the sick and injured, but she had never known a pain like this.
The boy—her boy—lay in Minerva’s arms, trembling, his small body wrecked with fever. Sweat dampened his sandy hair, and tiny whimpers escaped his lips even in unconsciousness. A thick bandage covered the ragged bite wound on the side of his stomach. It tortured her to know that there was no charm, no potion, no whispered prayer to the damage placed upon the sweet little boy that was her son.
Fenrir Greyback had sunk his teeth into her child.
Her hands, usually so steady, shook uncontrollably as she wrung out a cool cloth and dabbed at Remus’s forehead. The intoxicating scent of Wolfsbane and antiseptic hung heavy in the air. But no matter how strong it was, it was still unable to mask the deeper, more primal scent of blood and fear.
“I should have been there,” she whispered, her voice raw. Face stained with red tear streaks.
Minerva, sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, cradled Remus with an uncharacteristic softness. Her face was pale, her mouth set in a thin line, but her fingers stroked the boy’s curls with infinite care. “Oh, Love.” She looked at her wife with a look mixed with terror and love. “You couldn't possibly have known this would happen to him.”
“But I should have been there!” Poppy’s voice cracked. Her heart ached with helpless rage. She had spent years mastering healing magic, learning every spell, every potion, every remedy, and yet—this. This was beyond her. Lycanthropy was not a wound to be mended. It was a curse.
Minerva reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “We will find a way,” she murmured, fierce and determined. “He is still our Moonbeam.”
The days after the attack were a blur of fever, fitful sleep, and quiet sobs. Poppy and Minerva took turns tending to Remus, ensuring he was never alone, never lost in the darkness that lurked in his dreams.
When the fever broke, he woke, his wide amber eyes filled with confusion and exhaustion. Poppy was at his side in an instant, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and whispering calm, soothing words. But he was different now. He ‘d changed in ways they could not yet see.
Minerva read every text on Lycanthropy she could get her hands on, her brows furrowed with worry as she poured over ancient tomes by candlelight. Poppy researched every possible medical advancement, exhausting every contact, every healer who might offer hope. But there was no cure.
And then, the first full moon arrived.
They had prepared as best they could. The cellar was reinforced with the strongest charms they could weave, its walls lined with cushioning spells to protect him from self-inflicted harm. Minerva carried him down, clutching him close to her chest, whispering assurances into his curls, her voice unwavering despite the fear crushing her heart like a vice. Poppy followed; her wand clenched so tightly in her hand it shook.
When the moonlight touched his skin, the transformation began. His screams cut through the night, horrifying and bloodcurdling. It shattered their hearts to hear. His small body convulsed, his bones reshaping, his cries morphing into desperate, agonised howls.
Poppy sank to her knees outside the door, pressing her hands over her ears, tears streaking down her face. Minerva stood still as stone for a few moments, her jaw clenched, her eyes burning with unshed tears, before she too sunk to her knees and pulled her wife into a hug, both trembling at the sound of their son’s cries. All they could was wait.
As soon as the sun began to rise, they unsealed the door and found him curled in the corner, trembling and covered in scratches. Their hearts shattered anew.
Minerva lifted him into her arms, holding him close despite the dirt and blood. Poppy cleaned his wounds with gentle hands, whispering soft comforts. They didn’t know how long they sat there for, but they sat curled up into each other holding each other in an attempt for comfort. They didn’t want to move because they knew they would have to do this again. And again. And again.
But he was theirs. He was still their Remus. Their Moonbeam. And no curse, no monster, no fate could ever change that.
As the years passed, Remus grew into a bright, kind-hearted child with an inquisitive mind and a mischievous streak that made Minerva proud, and Poppy exasperated. They taught him magic, filled his life with love and warmth. They shielded him from the cruelty of the world for as long as they possibly could.
But the world was not kind to werewolves. And when the time came for Hogwarts, they fought tooth and nail to secure him a place.
Albus Dumbledore listened. He understood. And he made arrangements.
The night they told Remus he would be attending school, his eyes shone with hope.
“Really?” he whispered, as if afraid to believe it.
Poppy cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin. “Of course, darling. You’re brilliant. You deserve this.”
Minerva stroked his hair. “And I expect nothing but the best from you, young man. You are a McGonagall-Pomfrey, after all.”
He laughed, throwing his arms around them both.
And as they held him tight, they knew they would always fight for him. Always stand beside him. Because no matter what the world said, no matter what the moon did, he was their son. And he was loved.