"For decades," Bates said, voice low and steady, "what kept me going was the belief that I needed to look after the families of my fallen comrades. I have a farm in Scotland—I've shared the rent with them every year."
"I always felt it was my duty. I was the only one who came back alive. That had to mean something. So, year after year, I watched those people—people I never even met—pass away, one by one. And yet, I'm still here."
He paused.
"The widow of the last comrade passed away not long ago. After that, I had nothing left to hold on to."
"Then, one day, the mayor came to me and said I had a distant nephew. A boy who'd suffered some tragedy. He needed a place. A home."
"I said yes. And a few days later, they brought you to me. You were covered in mud, barefoot, in tattered clothes…"
"You know the rest."
Loren listened quietly, a strange warmth in his chest. He looked at the deep lines in Bates's face, the silvery beard, the haunted eyes—and felt a twinge of sorrow.
Because of one night long ago, this old man had lived his whole life in penance. He could have had medals and family. Instead, he'd chosen exile. He'd chosen atonement.
Loren didn't know how to respond. He simply placed a hand on Bates's shoulder.
"…Thank you."
Bates didn't reply. The two of them sat in silence, watching the pale moon bathe the wilderness in silver.
In the days that followed, Loren never brought up the werewolf again.
He had so many questions. Were werewolves really immune to bullets? Did silver actually work? Did they crave raw meat?
But every time he looked at Bates—his beard, his weary eyes, his quietly worn solitude—Loren swallowed those questions. They didn't matter anymore.
Bates taught him bits of fieldcraft and survival—scouting, hand-to-hand combat, army tricks—skills that he said every young man should know.
When not training, Loren lost himself in the two mysterious books. He read them over and over, searching for clues. Was Nicolas Flamel really the seller? Or just a name slapped onto a stranger's story?
The more Loren thought about it, the more he felt he had heard the name Flamel before—perhaps in his previous life. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember where.
Time passed. Quietly.
And then came 1991.
Loren turned eleven.
The summer in the mountains was cool, the hills green with good grazing grass. Goats scattered across the slope, and Loren sat by a rock, reading The General Solution of Pictographic Symbols for the umpteenth time.
There wasn't much else to do in the mountains.
Pete, his old friend, had long since left the shepherding life. First to study, then to learn car repair with an uncle in the city. Now Loren was the one herding goats.
Bates had said he'd eventually send Loren to a boarding school—one of those public schools in the city.
Loren hadn't protested. He didn't have any other plans.
A sudden stir in the flock made him look up.
A gray-brown owl soared overhead.
Loren blinked. An owl? Out here? He'd never seen one in these mountains before.
As the bird approached, he realized it was clutching something in its claws—an envelope.
A jolt ran through him.
He knew this feeling. A memory stirred—something from long ago, a distant lifetime. His eyes widened.
The owl landed awkwardly in front of him and released the envelope into his hands. Then it stared up at him with big, intelligent eyes.
Loren hurriedly rummaged through his bag and offered it a piece of cheese. The owl accepted, fluttering its wings and rubbing its beak against his fingers before nibbling on the treat.
Loren stared at the envelope. There, in the center, was a large, ornate H, flanked by four heraldic beasts.
His heart thundered.
He opened it.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(President of the International Confederation of Wizards, First Class of the Order of Merlin, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)
Dear Mr. Morgan,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
The second page was a list of supplies.
Uniform:
Three plain work robes (black)
One pointed hat (black)
One pair of dragon-hide gloves (or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
All clothing must be labeled with the student's name.
Books:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) – Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic – Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory – Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, by Phyllida Spohr
Magical Pharmacies and Potion, by Arseny Giger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, by Newt Scamander The
Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Defense, by Quentin Trimble
Other Equipment
A wand
A crucible (pewter, standard size 2)
A set of glass or crystal vials
A telescope
A brass balance
Students may bring an owl or a cat or a toad
Parents are kindly reminded that first-year students are not allowed to bring their own broomsticks
Loren's hands trembled as he unfolded the letter.
This wasn't just Britain in the 1980s.
This was the magical world of Harry Potter.
Loren sat there stunned, the envelope trembling slightly in his hand. He had once imagined building a future in Silicon Valley or conquering Wall Street with knowledge from his past life—but Grandpa Bates's stories had always reminded him that this world wasn't normal. Not by a long shot.
He had lived cautiously, always anticipating some strange twist of fate. And now, that twist had arrived, delivered by owl post.
For the first time since waking up in this world, Loren could see the road ahead—clearly. It wasn't a dead-end of dull routines or whispered rumors of the supernatural. It was a living, breathing world of magic.
He spent the entire afternoon studying the letter from Hogwarts, poring over the paper, ink, and handwriting with reverent fascination. He read it over and over until he had it nearly memorized. Somehow, it still didn't feel real.
As the sky turned golden and dusk crept across the snow-dusted hills, Loren herded the sheep down the mountain with a heart full of joy and purpose. He practically ran the rest of the way to the cabin.
"Grandpa Bates! I've got amazing news!"
Bates looked up from the half-built chair he was crafting, only to see Loren rushing toward him, face lit up with excitement. The boy thrust the envelope into his hands like it was a priceless artifact.
Bates raised a bushy eyebrow at the seal, rubbed his calloused hands against his trousers, and carefully unfolded the letter.
He read it in silence.
When he finished, he grunted skeptically. "A magic school? Are you sure this isn't some sort of scam?"
He didn't doubt the existence of magic—being a werewolf had made that impossible—but elaborate magical cons were still within the realm of possibility.
"…It shouldn't be," Loren said cautiously, struggling to find a way to explain without sounding insane.
They were still debating when a figure appeared on the path.
A middle-aged woman in a black robe approached briskly from the side of the road. Her square-framed glasses reflected the last glimmers of daylight, and her steps were measured, purposeful.
Something was wrong.
Bates, who could normally detect movement on the mountain long before it reached them, hadn't noticed her approach until now. She hadn't come up the usual trail.
He tensed.
But the woman raised her hand calmly. "Apologies. Another student's enthusiasm delayed me."
She offered a polite nod. "I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Loren's heart nearly stopped.
Professor McGonagall.
The woman who had once turned a desk into a pig in front of Harry Potter. A powerful witch. A stern but fair teacher.
McGonagall explained the situation to Bates and Loren with practiced efficiency. She described the school, the term dates, the curriculum, and the process for buying supplies.
Bates still looked skeptical—until McGonagall pointed her wand at the pile of wood by the steps and transformed it into a circle of living, purring tabby cats.
The cats rubbed up against Bates' boots, mewing softly. One even leapt into his lap.
That settled it. No man could disbelieve a woman who could conjure a dozen cats from a plank of pine.
Bates finally nodded, subdued but accepting.
Loren was stunned silent with awe.
McGonagall, satisfied that her task was complete, smoothed her robe. "I'll return tomorrow to take young Mr. Morgan to Diagon Alley. We'll get everything he needs."
Then she turned and vanished down the mountain trail, disappearing as swiftly as she had arrived.
Loren and Bates stood in silence for a long time.
Tomorrow, everything would change.