Fawley Village, Hampshire.
The village that bore the family name wasn't large. Aside from the grand manor at its far end, there were only about a dozen houses scattered around the area. All of them belonged to Muggles, who had no idea that several magic-wielding wizards lived within the manor hidden behind towering hedges.
In fact, they couldn't even see the manor at all.
A powerful array of Muggle-Repelling Charms blanketed the estate, along with ancient protective enchantments. Even visiting wizards would perceive it as nothing more than an ordinary estate.
According to his memories, Tver used to run into the village as a child, playing with the local kids and vanishing right in front of their astonished eyes. After a few such incidents, his mother banned him from teasing his Muggle friends like that.
At the entrance to the peaceful estate, there was a soft pop as a figure spun into view.
Tver had returned from a long journey.
Before entering the UK, he had used a Portkey to travel between countries. For long-distance transportation, Portkeys were far less taxing than Apparition.
Unlike Apparition, which operated more like teleportation through spatial magic, Portkeys functioned as a type of high-speed flying magic. They were significantly more energy-efficient and safer.
The moment Tver landed and found his footing, the manor gates swung open automatically. Behind them stood a small elf, bowing low in welcome.
The House-elf had bat-like ears and slightly bulging eyes.
This was Jeff, the Fawley family's House-elf.
Unlike most House-elves, however, Jeff wore a clean, neatly pressed white robe.
"Good afternoon, Master Fawley. Welcome home. Your father and mother are waiting for you," Jeff squeaked. His voice was high-pitched, and as he looked up, his eyes shimmered with tears.
"Long time no see, Jeff." A smile spread across Tver's face. Back when he was first cursed by the ring and too weak to move, it was Jeff who had cared for him.
Though House-elves were expected to serve their masters, Tver—being a transmigrator—had never taken Jeff's help for granted.
After some convincing, he had persuaded his parents and Jeff to let him gift Jeff a proper robe and told him that if he ever wished, he could leave the Fawley household and live as a truly free House-elf.
Of course, with Jeff's loyalty to the family, even if Tver wanted to send him away, it would've been impossible.
Jeff wiped at his tears. The young master's return should have been a joyful moment.
"You've been gone for so long. The lady's going to scold you for quite a while."
Tver winced just thinking about it. He wasn't sure whether his father would step in to help—or make things worse.
After thinking it over on the way home, he could only conclude: his father was completely unreliable.
"Hey, look who it is—the future Minister for Magic, is it?"
A woman with delicate features leaned casually against the front door, a bright smile on her face. Time had been kind to her; the years left barely a trace.
This was Brenda Fawley, Tver's mother.
At her voice, a man with a simple, honest face poked his head around the corner. The moment he saw Tver, his eyes lit up.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, Brenda cut him off with a sharp cough.
He gave Tver a sympathetic look—"Good luck"—and quickly pulled his head back out of sight.
That was his father, Mills Fawley. Ever the unreliable one.
"Of course, your gentle, graceful, kind, beautiful, generous, and virtuous son."
Tver deliberately emphasized all the adjectives, then flattered Brenda with two playful pats on her shoulder.
"Oh, stop it," Brenda turned to head inside, her voice tinged with a sob, "My son would never go two years without coming home."
Crap!
To study the secrets of the curse, Tver hadn't come home even once since last summer break.
He wasn't sure why, but his family placed great importance on familial bonds. During his seven years at Durmstrang, he had worn out enough owls to fly two laps around the estate.
Still, it was a comforting feeling.
Especially when he was constantly racing against death—the warmth of family was the main thing that kept him going.
He quickly caught up to his mother, ready to give the explanation he had prepared. But the moment he stepped through the door...
"Surprise!"
His father leapt out from behind the door and waved his wand. In an instant, the ceiling exploded in a cascade of colorful fireworks.
Jeff also jumped out from the side, shouting, "Happy eighteenth birthday, young master!"
The once brightly lit house dimmed, and Brenda walked in holding a large cake. The uneven "18" on top flickered as the candles lit up with a gentle puff of breath, casting a warm glow on her face.
"It doesn't look very good. I've been trying for days and still couldn't make it like your father's. But you're not allowed to say that out loud!" Brenda shot a threatening glare at Mills, who was snickering off to the side.
"No, I really like it," Tver said softly.
"You'd better," Brenda laughed, "Now make a wish before you blow out the candles!"
Wizards didn't typically make birthday wishes, but back when Tver first crossed over, he didn't know that. Like a fool, he'd wished for a long life. From then on, birthday wishes had become a Fawley family tradition.
Clasping his hands under his chin, Tver closed his eyes and silently wished:
"I hope my parents live long and healthy lives."
With Brenda and Mills watching expectantly, he opened his eyes, leaned in, and blew. All eighteen candles went out in one breath.
He flicked the cake toward Mills, who caught it with practiced ease. Brenda didn't even glance at her husband—she just opened her arms and pulled Tver into a hug.
"Happy birthday, son!"
"Thanks, Mum. I'm really happy."
A wave of guilt hit Tver. The original boy had such loving parents, and yet here he was, having taken his place.
The only thing he could do now was live better than the original, to make up for the guilt he carried.
"Don't get too comfortable," Brenda said with a mischievous grin, loosening her hug. "As punishment for not coming home for two years—"
Right on cue, Mills handed the cake back. "You're finishing this entire cake!"
Tver: "…"
So, at dinner, Tver sat at the table, staring at an entire cake he had to finish alone, while everyone else—including Jeff—enjoyed the exquisite French meal his father had prepared.
Everyone knew that cakes were usually passable at worst. But once a cake was bad? It was really bad—no amount of flavor could save it.
At home, Mills was a master of refined French cuisine. Thanks to his previous life, Tver could whip up a few Chinese dishes. Jeff, being a house-elf, was an expert in all the major European styles.
But Brenda? She couldn't even manage the British classic—fish and chips—let alone this cake she'd supposedly spent a week learning to make.
"Alright, come try your father's baked Fire Crab with cheese." Seeing her son's defeated expression, Brenda decided not to push it further and brought over the dish she had originally set aside for him.