Best Birthday?
Svetlana’s parents had been called away to distant Russia, summoned by concern for her ailing grandfather. The house she left behind, however, was far from lonely — for Remus’s birthday was drawing near, and with hearts full of hope and eyes wide with practiced innocence, the two children had made their case.
A pair of pleading gazes, soft as candlelight, was all it took. Their parents relented with fond smiles, and so Svetlana came to stay — as naturally as the moon joins the stars.
Now, the Lupin living room had transformed into a battlefield of laughter and pillows, their joy erupting like sparks in a hearth. Cushions soared like birds, feathers dancing through the air in a gentle storm of delight. Remus, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, dove behind a fortress of blankets, while Svetlana launched her next attack, shrieking with laughter.
Lyall stood in the doorway, arms crossed, trying — and failing — to hide the curl of a smile tugging at his lips. From the kitchen came the soothing symphony of home: the clink of spoons, the soft hum of Hope’s voice as she prepared something warm and sweet, her love stirred into every dish.
Outside, winter pressed quietly against the windows. But inside, there was only warmth — the kind that glows in the hearts of children who believe the world, for now, is entirely theirs.
The next day, the house was alive with warmth. Though the world outside still wore a chill, within the Lupin home there was only celebration. Balloons floated lazily along the ceiling, charmed into hovering by Hope’s quiet magic, and golden fairy lights twinkled like stars caught indoors.
Svetlana, wrapped in a jumper two sizes too big, was helping place candles on the small cake Hope had baked with care. Each candle stood tall and waiting — little beacons of light for the boy who was growing up too quickly, yet still held all the wonder of childhood in his eyes.
Remus watched her, cheeks puffed in concentration, and smiled. There was something different about birthdays when your best friend was by your side — like the day stretched just a little longer, laughed a little louder, and meant something more.
The wind whispered at the windows, but inside the Lupin home, time was momentarily still — paused to celebrate the boy who would soon carry the weight of moons, but for now, was simply four… and surrounded by happiness, for few more hours
As the clock struck midnight and the calendar turned to the 10th of March, the room burst into quiet celebration.
The candles flickered once, then vanished in a breath, their soft smoke curling like whispered dreams into the air. Voices rose in sweet, uneven chorus — the birthday song sung with love, off-key and perfect. Laughter rang as the cake was cut, and balloons popped like little firecrackers of joy, scattering petals of color through the room.
Remus Lupin had just turned four.
And in that glowing, golden moment, his joy soared higher than the stars outside his window. It was his day — a day made of frosting, songs, and the unshakable feeling of being cherished.
To him, it felt like the world had paused just to smile down at him. And maybe, just maybe, it had.
The cake was mostly crumbs, the balloons lay deflated in corners, and the laughter had faded into a warm hum of memory. Upstairs, the bedroom was cloaked in moonlight, silver spilling through the curtains like liquid magic.
Remus and Svetlana lay side by side on his small bed, nestled beneath a blanket that smelled faintly of cinnamon and dreams. The room still held the scent of candle wax and sugar, and their cheeks were flushed with the kind of happiness only children can carry so easily.
They whispered in the dark — nonsense, stories, secrets no one else would ever understand. Svetlana clutched a stuffed bear to her chest, and Remus turned on his side to look at her, his eyes heavy with sleep but still shimmering.
“Did you like the cake?” he murmured, his voice soft and slurred by sleep.
Svetlana nodded, a lazy smile curling on her lips. “I liked everything. Happy birthday again Remmyy”
There was silence for a moment, the kind that speaks more than words. Then Remus reached out, his little fingers brushing hers under the blanket.
“Best birthday ever,” he whispered.
Outside, the wind rustled gently through the trees, and above them, the moon looked down — quiet, knowing, and full of secrets yet to come. But for now, in that small room lit only by starlight, two hearts slept soundly — safe, content, and wrapped in the warmth of a bond that even time would not dare touch.
Absolutely — here’s a continuation that transitions gently from the warmth of childhood into the cruel twist of fate that changes everything, while preserving the poetic tone and emotional depth:
But joy, as the world often teaches too soon, is a fragile thing.
Just hours after the warmth of Remus’s birthday started it faded into memory, the world shifted. The air seemed colder, the night darker — as if something ancient had stirred beneath the earth.
It happened on a the same night. A quiet evening. A tucked-in bed. A dream still clinging to the edges of Remus’s mind.
And then — a scream.
Svetlana's scream.
It shattered the silence, tore through the Lupin home like a blade of ice. In the moonlit darkness just beyond the garden’s edge, a shadow moved — not a man, not fully a beast. Fenrir Greyback.
Driven not only by hunger, but hatred. Vengeance. He had read the words in the Daily Prophet — Lyall Lupin’s damning speech, branding werewolves as monsters. And so, Fenrir made his answer not with quill and ink, but with claws and fangs.
He chose the boy.
Remus.
Before Hope or Lyall could reach him, the child’s scream cut through the trees — and then was silenced beneath the weight of fur and fury. The bite sank deep. Magic could not undo it. Time would not erase it.
By the time they pulled him from the ground, his small body was trembling, torn and bloodied, the moonlight painting his face in silver tears. Hope collapsed beside him, sobbing prayers into his curls. Lyall stood frozen, guilt sinking into him like poison.
That night, the moon did not let go. And from that moment forward, it never would.
Remus Lupin — sweet, laughing, four-year-old Remus — had been claimed by the curse.
Each full moon, the child would vanish, and in his place, a creature of anguish would rise. Not out of rage, not out of choice — but because destiny, shaped by his father’s own words, had marked him for this path.
No longer was he just a boy of March and birthdays, of pillow fights and whispered secrets under blankets.
Now, he was a boy bound to the moon.
The sterile hush of St. Mungo’s wrapped around them like a heavy blanket. Remus lay still, his little chest rising and falling slowly beneath crisp white sheets. The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of enchanted lanterns and the occasional glow of a diagnostic charm fading into the air.
Svetlana sat curled in a chair beside the bed, her legs tucked under her, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her cheeks were smudged with dried tears, her eyes too wide, too knowing for a child so small.
Hope sat beside her, silent, her fingers gently combing through Svetlana’s tangled hair as if to soothe both the girl and herself. Across the room, Lyall paced restlessly, guilt a storm behind his eyes.
Svetlana looked up at Hope, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Why did that man hurt Remus?”
Hope froze for a breath, her hand still in the girl’s hair. Her heart cracked at the question — at the simplicity, the sincerity.
She glanced at Lyall, who stopped pacing, his eyes meeting hers with silent dread.
Taking a breath, Hope knelt in front of Svetlana, her voice soft, trembling at the edges.
“Sometimes… people carry hurt so deep inside them, it turns into something else. Something dark. And that man… he was full of that kind of darkness.”
Svetlana frowned, her eyes flicking to Remus’s pale face.
“But Remus didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, darling,” Hope said, gently brushing a curl from Svetlana’s cheek. “He didn’t. He was just being a little boy. Our sweet boy. And this happened because someone else made a choice — a terrible choice.”
Lyall stepped forward then, crouching beside them, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it.
“I said something awful, Svetlana. About people like him… like that man. And he wanted to punish me. So he hurt the one person I love more than anything.”
Svetlana’s brows furrowed, her small hand reaching instinctively for Lyall’s.
“But Remus isn’t… like that man now, is he?” she asked, her voice quivering.
Lyall’s eyes filled with tears. “No. He’s still Remus. He’ll always be Remus. No matter what happens. Even if he changes on the outside… he’s still our little boy.”
There was a long silence. Then, in the way children sometimes understand more than they should, Svetlana nodded slowly.
She glanced at the sleeping boy and whispered, almost to herself,
“Then I’ll stay with him. Even when the moon comes. I’m not scared.”
Hope gathered the girl into her arms, burying her face in Svetlana’s shoulder. Lyall reached out, holding them both — a family not by blood, but by bond. By bravery.
And in that quiet hospital room, where pain had crept in like a thief, love curled up beside it — fierce, soft, and unyielding.