Chapter 2
Lupin Cottage – January 19, 1961
The cottage was warm, filled with the scent of rising bread and softly burning wood. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting a golden glow against the old stone walls, warding off the chill of the Welsh winter outside. Thick snow blanketed the garden, ice creeping along the window panes like delicate veins of frost. Inside, Hope Lupin worked the dough in her hands, her well-worn wooden table dusted with flour. She hummed softly, the weight of routine settling over her shoulders like a shawl—familiar, steady, grounding.
Then—tap, tap, tap.
A black sparrow perched on the sill, dark eyes gleaming in the kitchen’s warm glow. It watched her, unmoving, as if it had been sent. An omen. A warning. Hope sighed, kneading the dough with steady hands. The bird was odd, but not alarming. It lingered as if it knew something she didn’t.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three taps. A pause. Then again.
Wiping her hands on her faded strawberry-patterned apron, she crossed the room to the window, but as she neared, the sparrow took flight—vanishing toward the garden door. A sound followed, distant and muffled. Not the wind. A cry.
Hope froze. Just for a moment. Then she moved on instinct.
Her fingers brushed the heavy brass lock, still cold from the winter air. The cry came again—small, fragile. She unlatched the door, pulling it open to the crisp night air. A large wicker basket sat on the snow-dusted doorstep, bundled in soft white wool. Inside, a baby.
Tiny, no more than a few months old, with wild curls the color of damp tree bark and soft pink cheeks kissed by the cold. A single scrap of paper was pinned carefully to the thick wool blanket.
Hermione.
Hope didn’t question it. She should have—should have hesitated, should have wondered where the child had come from, who had left her here, why. But she didn’t.
She simply bent down, lifted the basket into her arms, and disappeared back into the fire-warmed cottage.
Above, the sparrow took flight, its mission complete.
Lupin Cottage – February 24, 1962
Hermione is a baby that cries. Nonstop.
Tears slip down chubby cheeks, paired with ear-splitting wails, her tiny fists clenched as if the sheer force of her distress might shake the world apart. Because something is wrong. Something is missing. Her thoughts are too big for her too-small body—they press against the inside of her skull like a puzzle that doesn’t fit. She can’t form the words, can’t explain what’s wrong to the very kind, very beautiful lady who holds her with such care.
So she does the only thing she can.
She screams.
"Shh now, cariad. Hush, bach. No more tears now, I’ve got you, I have." Hope murmurs, her voice soft as a lullaby."
Hope tries. She kneads her fingers gently over Hermione’s tiny forehead, brushing down the bridge of her nose in slow, soothing strokes. She hums softly, rocking slightly where she sits, the low warmth of the fireplace settling over her like a second blanket.
Sometimes, it works.
Sometimes, Hermione sleeps.
But never for long.
Hope sits in the well-worn armchair in the sitting room, a blanket draped over her lap, the fire crackling low in the hearth. A cup of tea sits on the side table, long gone cold. Across the room, Remus bounces on his toes, full of nervous energy, small hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
He is small—adorably plump, all chubby cheeks and sandy curls, his soft brown eyes mirroring her own.
“Mam?” he asks, his voice bright with curiosity.
Hope smiles and holds out her arms, motioning for him to come closer. He scurries over, eager, and she lifts him onto her lap, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. He settles instantly, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve.
“You want to meet your baby sister, don’t you?” she murmurs, brushing back a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He nods so hard his curls bounce. “Yes, Mami! I careful!”
Hope huffs a quiet laugh. “I know you will be, love.”
She cups his small hands in hers, brushing a thumb over his knuckles as she looks him in the eyes."But listen now, bach. Your sister’s only a little dwt, she is—so small, see? Loud noises will startle her something awful. We’ve got to be real gentle, whisper soft, aye?"
His nose scrunches. “She cries a lot.”
She chuckles. “Aye, that she does.”
He leans forward, peering up at her, his brows drawn together in serious concentration. “She is quite small, and we must be very gentle with her, okay, my love?”
A pause. Then—
Remus nods again, slower this time. His tiny fingers reach out—hesitant, curious—as if testing the weight of the moment.
Hope presses a soft kiss to his cheek before shifting him off her lap. “Alright then, shall we go see her?”
His face splits into a grin, and he grabs her hand, tugging her toward the hallway.
The nursery is bright and airy, the walls painted a pale yellow, little flowers curling along the baseboards. It smells of lavender and fresh linen, soft and safe, the kind of place where good things begin.
To Remus, it feels like being wrapped in his favorite blanket.
The baby lies in the time-softened wooden crib, swaddled in a light blue quilt, only the wild dark curls on her head visible. Remus walks carefully beside his mother, holding tightly to her hand. Hope bends down, scooping up the tiny bundle without waking her. She hums as she sways in place, eyes soft as she looks down at her boy.
“Why don’t we go sit?” she says gently. “If you want, you can choose a book, and I’ll read to you both.”
Remus gasps, delighted, and darts from the room before she’s even finished speaking, his footsteps light against the wooden floor. Hope chuckles, shifting Hermione against her chest as she listens to the quiet rustling of books in the next room.
A moment later, Remus returns, gripping his very worn copy of Goodnight Moon in small, determined hands.
Hope settles into the rocking chair, reaching out a steady hand to help Remus climb onto her lap. It takes a moment—he is still young, still clumsy with his excitement—but soon, she has them both tucked into her arms. Hermione rests against her chest, warm and small, while Remus curls at her side, his head nestled against her shoulder, soft sandy curls tickling her neck. The book settles into his lap, and with small, eager hands, he flips it open. Hope smiles and begins to read.
“In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon—”
The room is warm, filled with the soft hum of her voice and the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair. The steady cadence wraps around them like a lullaby, weaving a quiet sense of peace. Remus’ eyes grow heavy, his little body relaxing as the words pull him toward sleep. The book tilts slightly in his grip, his breath deepening as he drifts.
And then—Hermione opens her eyes.
The movement is small, barely noticeable, but Hope sees it. Hermione blinks, her gaze drifting to the little boy beside her. His chocolate brown eyes blink back. He is so small, his skin still carrying the soft pinkish hue of youth. Something about him feels familiar. She knows him. She thinks she knows him. But the thought slips away, quiet as a whisper.
The gentle rhythm of Hope’s voice carries her away once more, and she drifts back into sleep.
Lupin Cottage – February 16, 1965
Four-year-old Hermione Lupin stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is still impossibly curly, a deep, dark brown that coils around her small face. Her eyes—rich chocolate brown—stare back at her, just a few shades darker than her mother’s and brother’s. Her only shared feature. Everything else is different.
Her skin is darker, a shade that never quite matches the warmth of her family’s. It bothers her sometimes—this quiet, unspoken difference—until Remus barrels into her, calling out, “My-knee!” as he wraps his arms tight around her. And just like that, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Remus is her best friend, her brother, her world. His bright laughter fills her memories. His never-ending joy softens the quiet worries that sometimes creep into her mind. His hugs make everything okay. Even today, when she fell and scraped her hands, he had been the one to wipe her tears away—turning her cries into giggles with his ridiculous faces and silly voices.
Now, they are wrapped in a cwtch on the rug, warm and safe in the flickering firelight. Hermione thinks about asking to sleep in his room tonight. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t ask. Instead, she crawls into her own bed, clutching the soft teddy bear he had given her, pulling it close to her chest.
A strange, heavy feeling settles over her. She doesn’t understand it. But as she closes her eyes, she feels the prickling burn of tears she doesn’t know how to name.
It is this night that her brother is bitten.
The full moon is hidden behind heavy blue-gray clouds, casting the world in shifting shadows. The night feels thick, oppressive, the kind that settles into bones and refuses to leave. Hermione wakes to a dull thud against the wall she shares with Remus. She holds her breath, her yellow-and-blue patterned quilt clenched tightly in her small fists.
It’s cold.
And something feels wrong.
Another thud. A muffled whimper.
Her heart pounds as she pushes back the covers, her bare feet hitting the wooden floor. The chill seeps into her skin, but she ignores it, creeping toward the door, every step careful, deliberate. The door to Remus’ room is slightly ajar. She peeks inside.
And freezes.
A large, hunched form looms over the bed. Remus’ small legs kick weakly beneath it. A low, guttural chuckle.
Then it lifts its head.
Hermione meets its eyes.
Gold.
But wrong.
A sickly, unnatural gleam, shining like the edge of a knife in the dark. Too bright. Too sharp. Too knowing.
They glow with something feral and monstrous, something that makes her stomach drop, something that tells her—
Run.
She does.
Her feet slam against the wooden floor as she sprints down the hall, tears streaming down her cheeks. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even think, just launches herself onto her parents’ bed.
"Re-re-Remus! Mami! Tad! Please! Wake up!"
Hope sits up instantly. As soon as she sees Hermione’s tear-streaked face, she pulls her close, pressing a hand to her head, as if she can shield her from whatever horror is spilling from the next room.
"What is it, cariad?" Hope murmurs, sleep still clinging to her voice.
But before Hermione can even speak, the bed shifts. Lyall is already moving. By the time Hope’s feet hit the floor, he’s down the hall, wand in hand.
Then—
A guttural growl.
A sound so wrong it makes Hermione’s stomach drop.
And then—
Remus screams.
The moment Lyall entered that room, he wasn’t a father anymore.
He was a hunter.
And there was a beast in his son’s bed.
The werewolf was still hunched over Remus, its thick, matted fur glowing silver in the moonlight. Lyall didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t even breathe.
He struck.
A furious snarl tore from his throat as he slashed his wand through the air—wild, vicious, too fast. A spell cracked against the wall—
Inches from Remus’ head.
For a single, frozen second—
The world stopped.
The werewolf’s head snapped toward him, its lips curling into a grotesque grin, blood shining on its teeth.
But Lyall barely registered it. His son. He had almost hit his son.
And yet—
His grip on his wand tightened. Because this wasn’t just a werewolf.
This wasn’t just a beast to be put down.
This was Fenrir Greyback.
And Lyall knew—he had done this on purpose.
The last words Lyall had spat in the Ministry came roaring back, sharp as a blade, mocking him, cutting deep:
‘They’re animals. Dangerous. Worthless. They should be put down before they infect the rest of us.’
And now—Greyback was proving a point. A cruel, merciless point.
No.
Lyall’s chest burned. His fingers ached from how tightly he held his wand.
You don’t get to live.
Not after this.
The werewolf lunged.
Lyall met it midair with a curse that sent it flying through the window, shattering glass in its wake.
Hope rushes inside—
And stops.
Blood.
So much blood.
The metallic scent clings to the air, thick and suffocating. It stains the sheets, soaks into the mattress, seeps between the floorboards like it’s trying to become part of the house itself.
Remus is curled in on himself, trembling, his small body shaking with muffled sobs. His little hands clutch at the blankets, as if they could shield him, as if he could disappear beneath them and pretend none of this was real. Her stomach lurches.
She pulls back, looks at Hermione—her baby girl, wide-eyed and shaking, silent in her terror. Hope smooths her daughter’s curls away from her face, her fingers trembling slightly. Her voice is soft, but firm.
"Hermione, love, I need you to listen to me, okay?"
Hermione sniffs, her tiny shoulders jerking with each sharp, uneven breath. She nods, fat tears rolling down her puffy, red cheeks.
"I need you to sit right here, right outside the door, and promise me—promise me you won’t look. Do you understand?"
A beat.
Then, Hermione nods solemnly.
Hope sets her down gently in the hall, her hands lingering just a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let go. Then, without another word, she turns back to her son.
She kneels beside his bed, the fabric of her nightgown pooling around her, soaking in red. The warmth seeps into her skin, a cruel contrast to the ice lodged in her chest.
"Remus, bach." His name is barely a whisper. He blinks up at her, big brown eyes swimming with pain. His little frame trembles, his breath shuddering in his chest. When he exhales, it’s a whimper—small, broken, aching.
"Mami." His voice is a quiet rasp. "It hurts."
The words fracture something inside her.
The tears spill over, tracing a path across his nose, dripping onto the red-stained pillow beneath him.
She forces her voice to stay steady.
"Okay, love, where does it hurt? I need you to tell me where all this blood is coming from."
Her voice is gentle, careful, but beneath it lies a tension she cannot shake. She needs to know. She needs to hear him say it.
A pause.
Then, voice small, barely there—
"My—my shoulder."
Hope’s breath catches. She peels back the fabric of his pajama top, her fingers careful, almost afraid to touch him.
And then she gasps.
A jagged, gaping bite wound tears across his shoulder. The flesh is torn, raw, and the blood—so much of it—seeps from the wound in sluggish rivers. The skin around it is already swelling, turning a sickly mix of purple and red.
For a moment, everything is silent.
The only sound is Remus’ unsteady breathing, the occasional hitch of a barely-there sob.
Hope swallows back her panic. There isn’t time for that.
"Okay, love. We’re going to St. Mungo’s."
She shifts, trying to lift him, but he whimpers, his small fingers fisting in her nightgown, clinging to her like a lifeline.
"I know, my love, I’m sorry. I have to pick you up. I know it hurts."
Still, she hesitates. Just for a second.
"Lyall!" She calls for him again, louder this time, voice sharp with desperation.
"Lyall!"
Nothing.
The silence stretches, deafening.
Her stomach twists. Where is he?
She pushes herself to her feet, rushing to the window, heart pounding against her ribs.
And there he is.
Standing at the tree line. Not moving. Not speaking. His wand hangs limp in his fingers, his face unreadable.
Hope’s throat tightens.
"Lyall!" Her voice is raw now, splitting like the night itself. "For the love of God, Lyall, he’s hurt! I can’t do this alone!"
Her voice should shake him. Should break through whatever wall he’s hiding behind.
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t turn.
Doesn’t come back inside.
Hope stares at him, waiting—**praying—**until she realizes:
He isn’t frozen in shock.
He isn’t lost in grief.
He’s choosing this.
The knowledge slams into her chest, and she sways on her feet. The weight of it is suffocating, pressing into her ribs, curling tight around her lungs. Her hands tighten around Remus.
Fine. Let him stay there. Let him do nothing. She doesn’t have time for cowards.
Turning away from the window, she lifts her son into her arms, shifting him carefully, trying not to jostle his injury. Remus whimpers again, pain trembling in his breath, but she soothes him, pressing a soft kiss to his matted curls.
"Shhh, baby. I’ve got you."
She carries him from the room, steps sure, unshaking.
Behind her, Hermione gets up from her place on the floor and follows, trailing after her mother in silence.
The house feels hollow.
Hope doesn’t look back.
Lyall stands at the tree line, watching. Hope is calling for him—his wife, his son. He hears her. Every word.
He does nothing.
His wand feels heavy in his fingers. His legs refuse to move. He had spent years condemning werewolves, had stood in the Ministry and called them animals, had believed, beyond a doubt, that they were nothing but threats.
And now—his own child was one of them.
Something cracks inside him, but it isn’t grief. It isn’t fear. It’s something worse. Something that should make him run back inside, fall to his knees, beg. Should make him chase after them, call out Hope’s name, reach for his son—
Instead, his hand loosens. His wand slips from his fingers, landing in the cold, wet grass. His breath curls in the freezing air, sharp against his lips, and still, he doesn’t turn around.
Hope is gone. Hermione is gone. Remus—his Remus—gone.
And Lyall stays behind.
Hope clutches Remus to her chest as she rushes into the living room, Hermione trailing close behind.
"Hermione, love, I need you to grab the Floo powder."
Her daughter doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles onto the stool by the fireplace, grabbing the small drawstring pouch with trembling fingers. Clutching it tightly, she jumps down, rushing back to her mother.
Hope shifts Remus in her arms, wincing as he lets out a soft, broken whimper. "Okay. We are going to St. Mungo’s. I can’t carry both of you, so I need you to grab onto my leg once we’re inside and hold on as tight as you can, okay? Do not let go. Do you understand?"
Hermione nods furiously, her little hands clinging to the pouch. "Yes, Mami."
"Okay."
Hope steps into the fireplace, her nightgown heavy with blood, sticking to her skin. Remus stirs, but his eyes don’t open.
"Now grab on tight."
Hermione latches onto her leg, small fingers digging into the fabric.
Hope throws down the powder. "ST. MUNGO’S!"
Green flames explode around them—
And just before they disappear, the front door creaks open.
Lyall steps inside.
Hope catches a glimpse of him—standing there, bathed in moonlight and too-late regret. His eyes meet hers, wide, stricken—full of something that looks like sorrow. And for a second—just a second—she thinks he might move. Might step forward. Might say something.
But he doesn’t.
And then—she is gone.
The green glow vanishes. The house is silent.
Lyall stands just inside the doorway, staring at the empty space where they stood only seconds ago. The air still crackles with magic, a lingering presence that feels almost accusatory. His eyes drop to the floor.
Blood.
Smudged footprints. Hermione’s little handprint, stark against the wooden planks where she must have steadied herself. His wand is outside, lying in the grass where he dropped it. The wind howls through the trees. He should go get it. He should do something.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there. Listening to the silence.
He doesn’t move.
He swallows hard, his throat dry, his fingers curling into fists.
Hope’s voice lingers in his ears. Lyall! He’s hurt! Please!
He had done nothing.
His son.
His own son.
Gone.
And he doesn’t know if they will ever come back