Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Lupin Cottage – December 25, 1966
Lyall Lupin was a good man once. A respected wizard, a world-renowned authority on Non-Human Spirituous Apparitions, a man who had once been fascinated by the unknown rather than afraid of it. He had built a life worth being proud of.
He had joined the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and married the love of his life, Hope Howell—a Muggle with fire in her veins and a laugh that had once felt like the warmest thing in the world. Then came their first child, Remus John Lupin. A little boy with his mother’s mess of sandy curls and his father’s freckles and warm brown eyes. A child so bright, so full of life, that Lyall often felt as though the world had never been so good to him.
And then, a year later, came Hermione. Unexpected, but no less loved. She was different—with her dark curls and brown skin—but she was his. Their family was whole, perfect, more than he had ever deserved.
Until Fenrir Greyback took everything away.
In 1965, the notorious Death Eater was arrested under suspicion of murdering two Muggle children. Lyall had stood in court, his voice trembling with fury, pleading for Greyback to be imprisoned for life.
"They are soulless, evil—deserving of nothing but death."
He had spat the words without hesitation.
And Greyback had been listening.
When Lyall found his son bleeding, marked by the very monster he had condemned, it wasn’t just terror that gripped him—it was disgust.
With Greyback.
With himself.
He had let this happen. He had brought this down on his family. On his son.
And life at Lupin Cottage was never the same after that.
At first, he had thrown himself into research, searching for something—anything—that might undo the infection festering in his son’s blood. He had scoured ancient texts, sought out Healers, alchemists, even those who dabbled in the kind of magic he once would have condemned. But every answer was the same: nothing could cure a werewolf. The moment the words left their lips, he stopped hearing them.
There had to be a way.
But with every dead end, with every rejection, something inside him started to rot. The fire that had once driven him didn’t just burn out—it rotted from the inside, leaving nothing but cold, bitter embers.
He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t take back what he had said, the words that had brought Greyback’s vengeance down on their son.
And the worst part—the thing he could never say aloud—was that he could barely look at Remus anymore. His bright, wonderful boy, the one who used to wrap his arms around Lyall’s leg, laughing, calling for Tad, now carried the mark of the very thing he had sworn to destroy.
And Lyall couldn’t face it.
He began staying late at the office, finding excuses to avoid home, drowning himself in whiskey before he even stepped through the door. Hope would look at him with tired eyes, but she never said anything—not at first. She just held their children closer, carried more of the weight, filled the house with warmth in the places he had gone cold.
She could still remember, hazily, how Mam used to tuck herself into Tad’s side on the settee, her feet curled under her, laughing at something he’d said. Back when his voice had been warm. Steady. Back when she hadn’t been afraid of it.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because every time he looked at Remus, all he saw was the full moon.
And he hated himself for it.
And Hermione was old enough now to notice.
She stands in front of her mirror, smoothing her hands over the embroidered holly leaves on her dress, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The cottage was warm, filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon, but there was always something missing. Someone missing.
Once, when she was very small, her father had lifted her onto his shoulders, spinning her through the air until she was dizzy with laughter. She could barely remember it now. Those memories felt like something out of a storybook—familiar, but distant, like a life she had borrowed rather than lived.
She met her own gaze in the mirror, tilting her head slightly.
Was this dress too fancy? Did it make her look older? She couldn’t decide.
Before she could think too much about it, the door slams open and Remus barrels into the room, an annoyed frown plastered on his chubby face, his left cheek marred with a thick pinkish scar from ear to jaw.
"’Mione," the six-year-old whines, his entire body bouncing with impatience. "What's taking you so long? It's Christmas!"
Hermione turns away from the mirror, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," she says, stealing one last glance at her reflection before taking his hand. "Come on."
For almost two months every year, she and Remus are the same age—a fact they both consider very important when it comes to their frequent bickering. Remus lets out an exaggerated sigh, but his grip on Hermione’s hand tightens as he tugs her forward, practically dragging her from the warmth of her cozy bedroom.
Hermione barely has time to stumble after him before they’re in the hallway, the scent of pine and cinnamon thick in the air. The living room is glowing, fairy lights twinkling along the mantle, their small Christmas tree standing proudly by the window, decorated with carefully hung baubles and strands of dried orange slices. The fireplace crackles, casting a warm amber hue across the room.
Hope bustles near the tree, adjusting an errant ribbon and neatly stacking the last of the presents beneath it. Her hair is barely contained by a thin elastic band, strands slipping free in unruly curls. Hermione watches as it strains against the weight, half expecting it to snap at any moment.
But Remus isn’t interested in the tree. His eyes land immediately on the chocolate cake sitting proudly on the kitchen table. His grip on Hermione’s hand tightens—then suddenly, he yanks her forward with all the force of an excited six-year-old. Hermione stumbles, half-running, half-being-dragged as Remus makes a beeline for the cake, his single-minded determination unstoppable.
The moment they reach it, he drops her hand and flings himself into a chair, planting himself firmly in front of his prize. Just as he reaches out—
"Not yet, love," Hope chides, catching him in the act. Her voice is gentle, but there’s no room for negotiation.
Remus freezes, fingers inches from the icing. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, flopping forward onto the table, cheek smushing against the wood as he stares longingly at the cake, as if sheer willpower alone might make it his.
Hermione bites back a laugh as Hope shakes her head fondly. Then their mother turns, her eyes softening as she looks at Hermione.
"Nadolig Llawen, cariad."
Hermione grins and steps into the warm cwtch her mother offers.
“Nadolig Llawen, Mam.”
Hope presses a kiss to the top of her head, her fingers brushing lightly over Hermione’s curls before pulling back.
Remus shifts impatiently in his chair. "Can we open presents now?"
Hope’s smile falters. "We have to wait for Tad first, love, okay?"
For a moment, Remus doesn’t respond. A flicker of something—fear, maybe—flashes behind his eyes. Then he slumps forward again, crossing his arms on the table, his chin resting against them as he eyes the cake.
“I wish he would just disappear,” he mutters under his breath.
Hope gasps, her eyes widening. “Remus!”
Remus’ frown deepens as he stares at his mother, his bottom lip jutting out in defiance. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, curling in on himself like he’s trying to disappear.
Hermione says nothing. She simply reaches for him, her small fingers curling around his arm, warm and grounding. Remus breathes out, unwinding his arms and loosening the tension in his shoulders. Slowly, he takes Hermione’s hand. She squeezes once.
“Don’t be sad, Remus,” she murmurs, offering him a soft, hopeful smile. “It’s Christmas.”
She pointedly ignores the way Hope’s eyes glisten at her words. Ignores the way her mother keeps tugging at the sleeve of her lovely green blouse, as if trying to hide the dark bruise circling her wrist.
Remus stares at her for a moment, then nods resolutely, his grip on her tightening. “Okay, ’Mione. You’re right.”
While Hope bustles away to finish the last-minute preparations for their small Christmas celebration, Hermione takes in their home. The orange glow of the fireplace flickers across the walls, illuminating the strung-together orange slices draped over the wooden shelves. There, among the decorations, sit numerous unmoving pictures—capturing moments of her and Remus frozen in time.
The Lupin family is not rich. Not even comfortable, really. But Hope compensates. She fills every corner of their small cottage with warmth, with care, with love. No matter what.
If Hope is the sun, then Lyall Lupin is the thunderstorm. Every time he comes home, he leaves destruction in his wake. He is responsible enough to be the sole provider. But his love for alcohol has long since surpassed his love for his family.
Hermione has heard Mam muttering to herself over and over again—that he didn’t mean it. That he felt guilty. That he was grieving. That he loved them. No matter what he did.
It is painfully clear that Hope loves her husband. Too much.
And every night, Hermione prays that one day she will realize—She and Remus are enough.
Silence settles over the room. Hope stands by the tree, absently smoothing out an already-perfect ribbon. Remus drums his fingers against the table, staring at the cake like he can will it toward him. The clock ticks. The fire crackles.
No one says it. But they’re all waiting.
Hope glances at the door. Once. Twice. Then she forces a smile. “Would you two like some hot cocoa?”
Remus perks up instantly, his excitement pulling Hermione away from her thoughts. She nods, and Hope disappears into the kitchen, her soft humming just audible over the clinking of mugs.
The warm scent of cocoa curls into the air.
Then—
The violent rattling of the doorknob makes Hermione tense.
Hope stiffens, smoothing down her dress, bracing herself as the door swings open.
Lyall stumbles inside, an amber bottle clutched in his hand.
"He’s drunk again."
Hope doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. Hermione can feel it in the way her mother straightens, her hands pressing down the front of her dress like she can smooth away the tension.
"Hello, Lyall," Hope greets, her voice soft, even. "How was your day?"
Lyall snorts, lifting the bottle to his lips. He takes a long gulp.
"It’s Christmas, for Merlin’s sake." He knows this. Knows what day it is, knows what he’s doing, knows how they’re looking at him. But the weight in his chest has been pressing down for so long—heavy, suffocating, unbearable. And the whiskey is the only thing that keeps it at bay.
"Same old," he mutters, kicking off his shoes and throwing them aside. "What’s for tea?"
Hope hesitates. "I made Goose Cawl."
A dark shadow crosses Lyall’s face. Hermione holds her breath.
Lyall snaps his head toward Hope, glaring. "Of course you did," he snarls, his words slurring together. "Didn’t I tell you I wanted beef?"
Hope’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t look away. "It’s Christmas," she insists. "It’s the children’s favorite. I— I didn’t have enough money for beef."
A cold sneer stretches across Lyall’s face. "Are you saying I don’t provide for you?"
He knows she isn’t. But the bitterness inside him, the self-loathing that clings like oil to his skin, needs something—someone—to blame.
For a moment, there is silence.
Lyall breathes. His grip tightens around the bottle in his hand, fingers clenching so hard his knuckles turn white. The anger curls in his stomach, twisting, growing, sinking claws into his ribs.
It isn’t really about the damn soup.
It isn’t about the beef, or the money, or the way Hope always looks at him now like she’s waiting for him to snap.
It’s about the fact that nothing feels right anymore.
It’s about the fact that when he looks at Remus—his son, his own blood—he doesn’t just see the little boy who once fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. He sees the mark. The curse. The thing that has ruined everything.
It’s about the fact that he wakes up every morning with a hollow, rotting pit in his chest, knowing he should love his son the way he used to.
Knowing he can’t.
Then—
Smash.
The bottle shatters against the floor, glass exploding outward in sharp, jagged shards.
Remus cries out, flinching as a few scatter beside him—one piece ricochets off the wood, slicing into the outside of his arm. Hermione’s breath catches.
"No! That’s not what I meant!" Hope says quickly, her hands outstretched, as if trying to calm a wild animal.
But it’s too late. Lyall is already moving.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Hope?!"
He crosses the living room in an instant. Hope barely has time to react before he is on her. His fingers clamp around both of her wrists, his grip bruising, unrelenting. She flinches, trying to pull away, but Lyall holds her firm, breathing down on her now.
He sees the fear in her eyes. He hates it.
Because there was a time when she never looked at him like that.
When he was still the man she loved. The man she trusted. The man who was worthy of the way she used to laugharound him.
But that man is gone, and all that’s left is this empty, raging shell.
He knows he should let go.
He knows he shouldn’t do this.
But anger is the only thing that makes the weight in his chest bearable.
A man who was once good. A man who is now lost.
Fear and anger collide in Hermione’s veins, a volatile mix of emotions too big for her small body to contain. So she does the only thing she can.
She wails. Loud. A sharp, piercing sound that cuts through the tension like a blade.
Lyall’s grip slackens. His head whips toward her, his furious gaze fixating on his wailing daughter instead.
"Stop that!" he snaps, his large hand clamping down on Hermione’s shoulder. His fingers dig in—tight, unyielding.
Of all of them, Hermione is the one he is least likely to harm.
But Hope is already moving. She steps between them, forcing him to let go of their daughter as she shields Hermione with her body.
“Leave the children out of this.”
Her voice is low. Firm. Unshaking. But her wrists still sting where he grabbed her, and she wonders if this will be the night he finally forgets where the line is.
But Hermione doesn’t understand. Why isn’t Mam fighting back? Why doesn’t she shove him away like she wants to? Why doesn’t she run?
Her cries grow louder.
Remus’ small hands grasp at her, determined fingers tugging at her wrist. "Come on, 'Mione," he whispers, voice urgent, desperate.
She resists—just for a second. Just long enough to hear the first crash. The sound of breaking glass. A muffled cry. Then another crash.
Remus tugs harder, and Hermione has no choice but to follow. He pulls her through the doorway, their bare feet silent against the wooden floorboards. He doesn’t stop until they are inside her bedroom, the door pressed shut behind them.
Even here—even out of sight—the sounds seep through the walls. Loud crashes. Muffled screams.
Hermione wants to cover her ears, wants to drown it all out, but she can’t. Instead, she clings to Remus, fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater like an anchor.
Remus wraps his arms around her, his grip tight, grounding. His hand brushes away the tears on her cheeks.
His own eyes are glistening, his voice thick with something he isn’t old enough to name. "It's all right, 'Mione," he whispers, his breath warm against her hair. "It's all right."
She feels his heart hammering beneath his ribs. His fingers trembling against her back. His voice shakes.
"We're safe here."
Another crash from the other room.
"We're safe."
They weren’t.
Not that night. Not any of the nights after.
But they pretended. Because pretending was easier than facing the truth.
Christmas came and went. Spring arrived in a slow, creeping thaw, bringing brief moments of peace—days where their father was more absent than present, where Hermione almost let herself believe things were getting better.
But then the snow melted. And the bruises didn’t.
Hope still smoothed down her sleeves. Still painted her face with powder and practiced her smiles in the mirror.
Hermione still watched.
And Remus—Remus still held onto that stubborn belief that everything would be okay. That one day, Tad would remember how to love them the way he used to.
Lupin Cottage – July 18, 1967
Hermione stares at the bruise.
It spreads deep purple across her mother’s cheekbone, half-hidden beneath layers of powder and careful blending. The color is stark against her fair skin, an ugly contrast to the gentle curve of her face.
She frowns.
"Mam," she says quietly. "You're hurt."
Hope doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t startle. Just hums distractedly, fingers ghosting over her cheek—right under her eye—before turning back to the kettle.
"Hmm?" she says, as if she hadn’t heard."Bit of honey, love? It’ll warm you up proper."
Hermione exhales softly, knowing a deflection when she hears one.
She watches as Hope moves with careful precision, her hands steady as she lifts the kettle, pouring steaming water into a chipped porcelain cup. The same way she applies her makeup in the mornings, smoothing powder over bruises with the same quiet determination. The same way she stitches up torn fabric, darning holes in worn sweaters as if she can somehow patch up more than just the clothing.
Hope has learned to paint over the damage with soft smiles and gentle words.
Hermione wonders if her mother has convinced herself that makes it hurt less.
It never stops.
It never stops, because Tad always finds a new reason to be angry.
And the worst part? Some nights, Remus believes he deserves it.
She knows, because she’s seen the way Remus flinches. She’s seen the way his shoulders hunch, how his fingers tighten in the fabric of his jumpers.
She’s seen the way Tad looks at him.
Like he’s something to be fixed.
There was a time she thought magic could fix anything.
Then one day, she learned it couldn’t.
She remembers the first time she felt it—
That sudden, impossible shift in the air, the spark of something waiting beneath her skin.
She was six years old.
Not that it had been a surprise. Of course she had magic. Of course she and Remus were the same.
It gave them one more thing to share, one more reason to huddle close in whispers late at night, talking excitedly about the future—about Hogwarts.
Hope had been delighted when she realized both of her children had magic. But she had also been afraid.
Because Remus’ condition could change everything.
She tries to hide her fears, tries to keep her worries to herself. Lyall spouts enough darkness about it—her children don’t need it from her, too.
But Hermione sees.
She sees how hard Mam tries to keep them safe. How she softens the truth, shields them from the worst of it.
But she can’t protect them from everything.
And Tad’s anger is always waiting.
Their house was small. The walls, thin.
One day, Lyall overheard them talking.
Hermione and Remus had been giggling, whispering, their excitement bubbling over as they talked about Hogwarts, about magic, about the future. The kind of innocent, childish joy that should have made a father smile.
But Lyall did not smile.
The word Hogwarts struck something deep inside him, something that had been festering since the moment he saw his son’s broken, bleeding body underneath the bulk of that monster. He had spent years trying to undo what had happened. Years searching for answers, clawing through forbidden knowledge, turning over every stone, drinking himself into oblivion when the answers weren’t there.
And yet—here was his son, his son, laughing, dreaming of a future where he could walk among normal children. As if he belonged there. As if he weren’t the very thing Lyall had spent his life condemning.
The anger struck before he could stop it.
"A cursed thing. Bloody tainted, and you think Hogwarts will have you? Demon-marked, that’s what you are."
The words tore through the room, venomous and final.
Remus had crumbled, his small body curling inward, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Hermione had held him tight, glaring up at her father, screaming for him to stop, over and over and over. But Lyall couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in his own mind, over the sound of his own failure.
Hope had come running.
She had found her son on the floor, broken. And Hermione—her fierce, brave girl—wrapped around him like a shield.
The sight of it had snapped something inside her.
She had whirled on Lyall.
Her hand cracked across his face.
The room went still.
For a single, breathless moment, it could have gone either way.
He had almost killed her for it.
Not with magic—no, that would have been too easy. But with the sheer force of his rage, with the years of disappointment curling inside him like a poison, with the unbearable truth that this was his life now. That this was all it would ever be.
That night, Hermione begged her mother to leave.
Hope didn’t.
She had held them close, whispering soothing words, rocking them as her own pain bled through her voice. But Hermione had seen it. The way her mother stared at the door, gripping them just a little too tightly, as if trying to convince herself she was making the right choice.
And Hermione had never forgiven Lyall.
There is a sudden burst of sound—the door slamming open.
Hermione jumps, spinning around just in time to see Remus rush inside, his loud, hiccupping sobs filling the small kitchen. Hope startles, her teacup clinking loudly against the counter, a splash of tea spilling onto the worn wood.
“Remus?” she says, eyes wide with concern.
He doesn’t answer. He just runs straight into her arms.
Hope barely has time to catch him, staggering slightly under the weight of his growing body before she kneels, pulling him close. His tiny hands clutch at the fabric of her blouse, holding on like he’s afraid she might disappear.
"What happened, love?" she asks, cupping his tear-streaked face. "Why are you crying?"
Remus sniffles loudly, dragging his sleeve across his nose.
"Everyone hates me, Mam," he whispers.
Hope stills. Hermione’s hands clench into fists.
"Why do you say that, love?" their mother asks softly, wiping the snot and tears from his face with the sleeve of her blouse.
"I—I just wanted to play with them," he says, voice wobbling. "But they said—"
A gasping breath. A pause. Then—
"They said I’m a freak."
The words hang heavy in the air.
He buries his tearstained face into her neck. "They laughed at me, Mam. They said I was ugly. And— and— they were pointing at my scars and said—said no one would ever want to be my friend…"
Hermione’s heart burns with anger. How dare they? Remus is the best friend anyone could ever have!
"And then—" he hiccups, gasping. "They pushed me down and ran away.”
Hope’s arms tighten around him, protective, unyielding. She pulls him even closer, pressing a kiss to his curls.
"Oh, sweetheart. You are not a freak."
She leans back, gently guiding his chin up so that he meets her gaze. "And you are not ugly," she says firmly, punctuating every word.
Remus sniffs, rubbing his face with his sleeve. "Re-really?"
Hope nods without hesitation.
"You, my love, are so, so special."
She glances up, eyes landing on Hermione. A soft, bright smile breaks across Hermione’s face—reassuring, unwavering.
“And Hermione too,” Hope adds, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. "Both of you are special."
She cups Remus’ face again, smoothing a thumb across his damp cheek. "Because you both have magic. And once you turn eleven, you will meet so many other special people just like you. And they will be your friends."
Remus hesitates. His voice is small, fragile.
"But Tad… he—he said…"
Hope’s face hardens.
For a moment, her grip tightens—just slightly.
"Never mind what Tad says. He’s wrong, love."
Her voice is quiet, but firm, edged with something fierce.
She looks him directly in the eyes, her grip softening, her voice strong, unwavering.
"You listen to me, Remus John Lupin. You are going to Hogwarts, and you’ll make friends who love you for who you are. Just you wait. You’ll see. Cariad, I promise you."
She smiles down at him—soft, radiant, unshakable.
"I will?" His brown eyes widen, flickering with childlike wonder.
Hope presses a kiss to his forehead.
"Yes, love, you will."