Chapter 5
Lupin Cottage, July 15, 1971
Albus Dumbledore sat in the small, cozy sitting room of Lupin Cottage, his magenta robes strikingly out of place against the modest, well-worn furniture. The couch beneath him, though clean and carefully maintained, sagged slightly from years of use, the fabric worn soft at the arms where hands had rested over time. The fireplace crackled low, filling the room with a gentle warmth, though it did little to chase away the quiet tension in the air.
Hermione knew she was staring. Rudely, openly, unblinkingly. But she couldn’t look away.
The old man before her was exactly as she had always imagined him. And that didn’t make sense. His kind, blue eyes, half-hidden behind crescent-moon glasses, the deep wrinkles etched into his face, the way his silvery beard spilled down over the gaudy fabric of his robes—everything about him was so strikingly familiar that it made her stomach twist. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like how her pulse quickened, didn’t like how her skin prickled as if her body knew something her mind couldn’t quite grasp. Didn’t like how she knew him.
And yet—she had never met him before.
Had she?
A few days before the Headmaster’s visit, the Lupin household had been flooded with Hogwarts letters. They came in waves, delivered by owls of every kind—a barn owl tapping insistently at the window, a tawny owl squeezing through the mail slot only to be chased out by their cat, a massive eagle owl landing heavily on the porch, ruffling its feathers as if personally offended that no one had retrieved its delivery yet.
But none of it mattered. Because Remus refused to open a single one.
He had taken one look at the first letter—his name written in neat, curling script—and simply turned away.
“I don’t deserve to go.”
Hope had pleaded. Hermione had argued. But Remus had stood firm, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, staring at the unopened letters as if they might bite. Nothing they said could shake him.
Remus had not been the same since their father’s death. It was as if something inside him had fractured, and instead of healing, it had twisted into something sharp and cold. Where there had once been quiet excitement, quiet hope, there was now only guilt.
He still steadfastly blamed himself for the accident. Still whispered, when he thought no one could hear, “I killed him.” Still flinched, like he was waiting for punishment that would never come.
Hope had done everything she could. She held him tight in warm embraces, whispered soft reassurances, ran her fingers through his curls like she had when he was small. But even her warmth could not pull him back. Even her love could not reach him through the dark walls he had built around himself.
And Hermione—Hermione could not stand it. She would not let this continue.
So one night, when the house was quiet, she snuck into her mother’s room and wrote a letter. Her handwriting was smaller than usual, more careful, more urgent.
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,
My brother refuses to go to Hogwarts.
I am certain you already know this, but I also know you understand why this cannot be allowed to happen. He belongs there, and I believe you, better than anyone, can convince him of that.
Please, do whatever it takes.
Sincerely,
Hermione Lupin
Hermione hadn’t expected a response so soon. With the new school term fast approaching, she had assumed that her letter would either be ignored or lost among far more important matters.
So when a sharp knock echoed through the cottage the very next day, she had barely given it a thought. Hope had been elbow-deep in flour, preparing bread for the evening meal. Remus had been holed up in his room, avoiding them all. And Hermione had simply walked to the door, brushing stray curls from her face, expecting a neighbor or another Hogwarts owl.
She had not expected to open it and see Albus Dumbledore himself standing on their threshold.
His bright robes seemed to swallow the warm afternoon light, his presence almost too large for the small space he occupied. His kind, knowing eyes had flickered over her face, twinkling just so—
“Miss Hermione Lupin, I presume?” he muses, tilting his head as if to confirm an old memory. “I had the pleasure of receiving quite the persuasive letter. One might even call it… resolute.”
And something inside Hermione had gone still.
From his place beside her, Remus stiffens.
Hermione doesn’t have to look to know what expression is on his face. She can feel it—the hurt, the betrayal, the sharp, unspoken How could you? hanging heavy in the air between them.
But she does not regret it.
He has to go to Hogwarts. He has to learn to control his magic, to be around other children, to live outside the walls of this cottage. She knows he doesn’t see it that way. But she doesn’t care. Because Remus can hate her now if it means he won’t hate himself forever.
Still, he hasn’t budged since Dumbledore sat down, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his glare fixed on a spot on the floor, as if pretending hard enough might make the Headmaster disappear.
Dumbledore’s presence, for all its quiet patience, felt intrusive in the small cottage. The sitting room, usually warm and familiar, seemed tighter, as if the walls themselves were listening. The scent of baking bread still lingered in the air, mixing oddly with the faint, sharp scent of parchment and lemon drops that clung to his robes.
And yet—Hermione’s fingers twitch against the fabric of her skirt, an odd tightness curling in her chest. There was something about the way he tilted his head, the way his fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the couch, something she couldn’t name but felt in her bones. Familiar. Not in the way of a childhood memory, clear and bright, but in the way of something long buried. A whisper at the back of her mind.
She swallows hard, forcing herself to breathe evenly. It’s nothing, she tells herself. Nothing at all.
Hope’s voice is gentle, steady, practiced.
“How do you take your tea, then, Headmaster?”
She asks as if this is just another polite afternoon conversation, as if there isn’t a storm of emotions crackling beneath the surface.
Dumbledore offers a small smile. “Just a dash of milk, and two cubes of sugar.” He holds up two fingers, eyes twinkling. “If you please, Mrs. Lupin.”
Hermione glances down at her hands.
She can feel his gaze before she even looks up—a slow, assessing look. Not unkind. Not threatening. But searching. Like he’s looking for something. Someone.
Her breath catches.
It’s the same feeling as before, the one curling around her ribs, coiling in the back of her mind—that sense of knowing something she shouldn’t. Of being known in return.
But when it seems he doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he simply smiles and turns to her brother.
Dumbledore takes a slow sip of his tea before setting the cup down with a soft clink. Then, he smiles. “Now, I believe I have some convincing to do?”
His voice is light, almost amused.
But Hermione knows better.
This man—this greatest wizard of their age—didn’t come all this way for nothing. He came to win.
“Tell me, Remus,” Dumbledore continues, “aren’t you excited to go to Hogwarts?”
Hermione’s gaze snaps to her brother.
Remus stiffens.
Not visibly, not dramatically—but she sees it. The way his fingers twitch where they rest on his knees. The way his shoulders draw up just slightly. The way his breath hitches before he speaks.
For years, Remus had been gushing about Hogwarts. Excited seemed like a terrible understatement.
And yet—
“I don’t think I will belong there, Headmaster, sir,” he says quietly.
His voice is measured, controlled, careful. But Hermione can see the splotchy red creeping up his neck.
“Ah,” Dumbledore hums, stirring his tea with an air of idle curiosity. “Belonging is a rather peculiar notion, wouldn’t you say? Some seek it, some flee from it, but in the end… does it not follow us regardless?”
Dumbledore’s voice is calm, as if he already knows the answer.
Remus knows it too.
And that’s what makes it so much worse.
If Hermione or Hope had asked him the same question, he would have fought them. Would have snapped, argued, stormed off in frustration.
But no one argues with Albus Dumbledore.
And so, instead of fighting—Remus wilts. His cheeks flush a deep red, his shoulders hunching in defeat.
“I—I… dunno.” He glances down at his hands, his voice small, his breath hitching. Finally, barely above a whisper—“Only… I do want to go.”
Hope lets out a deep sigh, her body sagging just slightly beside Hermione on the couch. She smiles, soft and relieved, reaching forward to touch her son’s knee.
“Then you should go, love. You should.” she urges gently.
But the steel returns to his eyes.
He pulls back from her touch, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I can hurt other people there too,” he mutters.
And that—
That kills the relief in an instant.
Dumbledore’s face remains calm, unchanging. But Hermione feels the shift.
The air has grown heavier, colder, like the very walls of the cottage are leaning in to listen.
And yet, when Dumbledore speaks, his voice is as soft as ever.
“And why do you say that?”
Remus’ hands clench into fists. His breath stutters, his chest rising and falling unevenly. And then, in a voice that cracks on the edges, he bursts—
“I can do things that hurt people! And—I—I’m a monster!”
The words seem to hang in the air, vibrating with something Hermione can’t describe.
Remus is breathing hard now, his face flushed, his eyes wild. Tears threaten to spill over his lashes, but he blinks them away furiously.
Hermione’s fingers twitch—she wants to reach for him, to pull him close, to remind him he isn’t alone.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she grips her mother’s hand, holding tight as if that might anchor her in place.
Dumbledore watches.
“Oh, Remus,” he murmurs, his gaze distant, a shadow flickering behind his eyes. “I have known monsters. I have spoken with them, broken bread with them, looked them in the eye.”
His words are soft, but they carry weight.
“And you are not one.”
Remus flinches.
“Magic can be dark, yes,” Dumbledore continues, as if stating something as simple as the weather. “But it can also be light. It can heal, it can build, it can protect. At Hogwarts, you can learn how to use it to help people.”
He does not push. Does not argue.
He simply places the idea in front of Remus and lets it settle.
For a moment, Hermione sees it. Sees the way Remus’ lips part, the way his fingers twitch, the way something in his eyes wavers.
He wants to say yes.
She knows it.
Dumbledore knows it.
But then—
He shakes his head. His expression tightens. His breath shudders.
And he retreats.
“I am,” he insists, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “I am a monster. You don’t understand!”
His hands are trembling now.
Hermione’s chest aches.
Dumbledore, however, is unmoved. His gaze remains steady, kind. And then, finally—he speaks.
“I do understand, Remus.”
Remus’ breath catches.
“I know your condition,” Dumbledore continues, his voice soft, patient, unwavering. “And I know that it does not make you a monster.”
The words seem to fill the space between them, heavy and deliberate.
“My boy, you are a wizard. And wizards belong at Hogwarts.”
Remus’ shoulders slump.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t push back.
He just sits there, staring at his hands, as if the fight has finally, finally drained out of him.
Dumbledore doesn’t let the silence stretch too long.
“It is common for young witches and wizards to display accidental magic before coming to Hogwarts,” he continues, voice lighter now, more matter-of-fact. “You are no different.”
He pauses, glancing toward Hermione.
“In fact, I suspect your sister has had more than a few bouts of accidental magic herself.”
Hermione snaps upright. “Oh—yes, absolutely!”
She nods vigorously, too fast, too eager, desperate for Remus to believe him. To believe this. To believe in himself.
Dumbledore leans back slightly, setting his tea aside. His half-moon glasses glint in the dim light as he watches Remus carefully, as if weighing his next words.
Then, he speaks.
“If you come to Hogwarts, Remus,” he says, “we can teach you how to use magic to protect those you love very much.”
Hermione holds her breath. Remus’ fingers tighten against his knees. She leans in, her voice soft. “You won’t be alone, you know. Not ever, see?”
He hesitates.
Then, finally, he glances sideways—at their mother. At Hermione. And his voice is barely above a whisper.
“But I can hurt them too.”
Hope’s breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt.
Dumbledore doesn’t even blink.
“Then,” Dumbledore says simply, folding his hands over his lap, “you choose, my boy. Knowledge or fear. To wield magic—or be ruled by it.”
The silence stretches.
For one long, terrible second, Hermione thinks—he’s going to say no.
And then—
Slowly, slowly—
Remus breathes out.
His chest rises and falls with a deep, unsteady breath.
Then, with more conviction than before, he nods.
“Okay.”
Another beat.
Another breath.
And then—
“Okay, I’ll go to Hogwarts.”
After Remus says okay, Dumbledore doesn’t react immediately. Then—his lips quirk, just slightly, and his eyes twinkle with something knowing, something pleased.
“Well done, my boy,” he says, voice warm. “A most excellent decision.”
There’s something in his tone—something quiet, assured. Like a man who has just tipped the scales in his favor.
Even as the words settle, Remus still feels…off-balance. Like he’s stepped onto a moving staircase, shifting beneath his feet. Saying yes should feel like relief, shouldn’t it? So why does his stomach still twist?
Dumbledore rises, smoothing the front of his robes as if brushing away invisible dust.
“I will, of course, make the necessary arrangements,” he muses, his voice light, his posture unhurried. “You may expect your supply list within the week, Mrs. Lupin.”
Hope nods, but her fingers remain curled tight around her cup, knuckles paling. She watches Dumbledore for a long moment, lips pressed together as if weighing something unsaid. And then, slowly, she stands, cradling her cuppa in one hand as she walks toward the door with him, just out of hearing range of the children.
Hope’s fingers tighten around her teacup, though her expression remains even. “Can you promise me he’ll be safe, then?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Dumbledore studies her for a long moment. “As safe as I can possibly make him.”
A pause. Then, as if sensing she needs more—“I will take precautions. His… condition will be managed with the utmost care.”
Hope exhales slowly, nodding. She does not look reassured. “And if he struggles?” she asks quietly.
Dumbledore’s gaze flickers to Remus, then back to her. “Then we will help him.”
Hermione lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. It’s done. Remus is going to Hogwarts.
But when she looks at Remus—at the way his hands still tremble in his lap—she thinks, perhaps, this isn’t an ending at all. Just the start of something else.