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    IT HAPPENED ONE EVENING IN JULY.

Early July, that is.

     The streets of Munich bid their farewells to Esmeralda Greengrass as she tugged on the cord of her café shutters, a set of vinyl panels flipped downwards, rendering the store blocked out to the quietened evening, the occasional German citizen walking through the cobblestoned pathway, an evening walk in the evening sun.

     The jangle of the till money rang in her ear as she pushed the vending tray back in - bunching up whatever notes she'd collected that day into an elastic band, coins clinking to the bottom of plastic coin bags alternatively. Tables cleared with the chairs upturned on top of them, menus in the filing cabinet, glasses, plates, mugs, cutlery all washed and set to dry in the kitchen in the door behind her. Her little German cafe did pretty well today, so much that there were no leftover goods to feed to the birds; every last almond croissant and loaf of bread had been purchased.

     (Esme makes a mental note to increase the wages of Blair, her waitress. The girl had been an absolute godsend ever since half her staff decided to take impromptu holidays.)

     However, as Esme drags the broom through the dust of her shop's floor, a gust of wind enters the shop, and the old woman has to curse herself mentally as dust and clutter and empty sugar packets fly across the floor. She should've locked the door.

     Tucking a chunk of stray grey hair back behind her ear, Esme turns, ready to shut the door and must halt herself when she sees the door to her shop, shut.

     But a man in a dark cloak standing in front of it.

     "We're closed," says Esme in German. The man was tall and had golden blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, almost ice-like. He wore a smile that one might have thought was charming, had he not just appeared out of nowhere in a cafe that was closed. Esme tightens her hold on the broomstick, knowing her own wand was laying at the bottom of her half-apron pocket.

     "You have me mistaken, Frau." The man spoke in English, accent poised with the same grace her son had, being brought up in England. "I am not here for coffee."

     "What is the meaning of this, Herr?" Esme says, not quite a demand yet, for the man had not posed any real trouble yet. Yet. "Who are you?"

     The man with the icy eyes walks around the cafe, to a wall decorated in photo frames. Of her children, Phoenix and Georgia, when they were younger. And slightly older. And as adults, Phoenix with his children Cassia, Daphne and Astoria and his wife Marlowe. Pictures of Georgia and her husband Zack and their children Orla and Monty. A picture at the very top of her late husband, Isaac... whom she missed the most. Even after moving back to Munich, after his death in the first Wizarding war, hoping to get a fresh start... a part of her died that day with him. And she hoped to rekindle whatever was left with this cafe she built in honour of the love of her life.

     But the man had a disquieting sharpness within his cold eyes as one his long fingers landed on the frame of one picture in particular. Almost twenty years ago, early-teenager Phoenix Greengrass with his red hair a frazzled mess and all smiles standing with his grandfather in their boat one summer abroad.

     "I will ask once more," Esme's voice arose heavier, "Who are you?"

     "A... friend... of your son's, Frau." The corners of the man's mouth curled slightly, brushing the top of that picture with his hand. He arches his head up to meet Esme's eyes. "Could we think young Phoenix had ever imagined the possibility of his future to lie within the walls of Azkaban?"

     She straightens herself slightly. This man... knew about the Wizarding World. And he knew about her son, and that yes, he had been trailed for crimes as a Death Eater - something she never thought possible for her dear son. He was dressed in darkness, and claimed to be a friend... This man had to be a wizard, and he had to be a Death Eater, just like her son.

     (Oh, dear Phoenix, what have you gotten yourself into?)

     "My name is Enoch Abercrombie," the man introduces himself. "And I have come to seek retribution for your son's mistakes, on behalf of the Dark Lord."

     Esme takes out her wand and holds it with an extended arm. "The Dark Arts are not welcome in this province, Death Eater. Magic is forbidden here."

Enoch didn't move. "And yet, you're the one holding the wand, Frau. This would not be the first time a Greengrass acted in hypocrisy of their values."

"You keep my family's name out of your mouth, Death Eater," the older woman's voice threatened. "I will not have you undo everything I have worked for here. Leave, before you make me a true "hypocrite", as you so put it."

"You have me mistaken, Frau," Enoch gestures to the packed-up café. "I have no interest in this corner of yours. My business lies with the Dark Lord, who is not very happy with your son as of this moment."

Enoch takes out his wand, and it hits Esme in a moment. Retribution for your son's mistakes.

"The Dark Lord sent you here to..."

"Yes, Frau," Enoch confirms her worst suspicion, neither smiling like he did when he entered, nor frowning. His face remained a thin line, icy eyes ever cutting into Esme's darkest fears. "It is nothing personal, I assure you."

Esme says nothing, not knowing how to act. The hand holding her wand felt numb, but she knew there was no stopping a servant of the Dark Lord once their mission was clear.

Not when it didn't stop her son, who was always brought up knowing right from wrong, and ended up choosing wrong anyways.

Enoch touches his finger absently to the tip of his wand. "Any last words, Esmeralda Greengrass?"

It takes every milli-ounce of strength left in Esme to keep herself from breaking in her final moments. To know that she'd never see sweet Cassia, Daphne of Astoria again, nor Monty or Orla. She would never see her incredible daughter-in-law Marlowe again, nor her children. She would never see Georgia again, and she would never see Phoenix again.

But she would see her husband again, after all these years.

So Esme stands straight, doesn't let go of her wand despite surrendering in her own way, and tells Enoch, "Not for you."

That was the last time she would ever tug on the cord of her cafe shutters, Esmeralda realised, as she took a breath in the wake of the green light speeding her way.

———

This also happened one evening in July. Early July, still.

     And this time, it saw the rural Hertforshire basked in an evening darkness, and somewhere from afar, the only light that shone was that of the very large country house secluded amongst the trees and the ravines nearby. Most citizens of rural Hertfordshire would look at what was named "Greengrass Manor" and think to themselves, wow.

     Even in the navy darkness, when most of the country had bid the day farewell, the country house still shone in golden light, a gaze-averting sight for those sailing past in moonlit canals and those out to walk their dogs past sunlight.

     Most people would usually see the front entrance and garden of the manor, or what grasses laid adjacent (currently, it was being converted into a makeshift quidditch pitch for the eldest Greengrass daughter, Daphne) but nobody ever saw the back garden much. But to everyone that had, an olympic-level swimming pool sat nicely in the middle, deck chairs along the top.

And so, the brightness from the full moon above hung in the darkened sky, casting its light onto the pool, whose waters rippled a deep teal in the newfound light. A figure burst from within the cascade of water, droplets shaking all down her figure and joining where it came from. Her dark, near-black hair clung to her skin the same way her dampened one-piece swimsuit did.

The light shining from the Greengrass Manor kitchen emitted through the open back door and onto the trail of dripping footprints left by Astoria Greengrass, making her way to the deck chairs. Through the back door of her family's Manor, she was able to spot her mother at the far corner in the living area, laid long on the couch with a book in hands. Her older twin sisters Cassia and Daphne would be somewhere upstairs in their rooms, probably. It's strange how different and quiet the house had became since returning, even with the fact her father hadn't returned too, with his future being imminent in Azkaban. The absence of one person went a long way.

Astoria bent down to sit in the low chairs, perfect for a day of sunbathing. The one thing she always misses when studying away in Hogwarts is her pool. Whenever she's returned for Christmas the body of water becomes frozen, and not enough heat charms can make the liquid last. Times where it's warm and she's home is rare, and Astoria intends to use up every ounce of this time she can get.

     Hence the reason she's here, slipping on her massive t-shirt after dragging her feet post-late night swim.

     Astoria dabs at her wet hair with the towel she'd left herself in advance, knowing she was probably going to sleep on it half-wet and end up with some nice waves in her hair in the morning. The heat had really came on since they'd left school, it was utterly sweltering at the moment, despite the fact the sun had set long ago. She laid down on her chair, the pool water absorbing her skin.

Oh yeah, to add to the point, the wind swaying amongst the trees? The leaves brushing against each other? That wind was far from cold, it was a warm wind. Which would sound pretty good on a freezing winter's day, but it wasn't a winter's day.

Be grateful you even have heat, Tor. Astoria scolded herself.

Something rapped against glass, and Astoria jumps up. She looks high above where the noise came from and sees a curtain drawn against a window, and what was clearly Cassia's silhouetted figure from her lamp.

"Very funny, Cass," She mutters, laying back down.

This time, something rustles into the bushes of the garden behind her. As if something — someone — fell into it. Astoria peeks her head back a little, pissed to have been interrupted a second time. But there was nothing there in the bushes behind her. She grips the handle of her chair.

"Daphne, is that you? Or—Theodore Nott, please don't tell me this is your version of a fun midnight visit?" Astoria turns back, shaking her head as she rested her head. "Swear I'm going mental."

This time when her eyes closed, she lasted a few seconds basking in the nightly heat, until... she went cold.

Which was very strange to happen suddenly. And on a night like this, that Astoria had to hug her arms. She wasn't going to question it, but decided she'd be better off going back inside to dry off anyways, so opens her eyes as she sits up,

And gasps.

Because of the man standing in front of her.

He didn't look like just any man... he had matted grey hair, teeth that appeared yellow in the far kitchen light, and was massive, burly, but crouching with a hunched back over her. She noticed the whiskers on his face, and his hands... had claws. And hairy arms. And Astoria realised...

This was a werewolf.

On a full moon. Yes, tonight was a full moon.

And as Astoria noticed what he was wearing... she realised that no ordinary werewolf would wear Death Eater robes.

Unless his name was Fenrir Greyback.

Astoria screams. But the werewolf had already pounced on her, a clawed hand clamping down on her mouth as she struggled to get free of his grip, the deck chair breaking from all the weight. Astoria's fear made her numb to the impact of her head dropping down onto the grass. She tries screaming again only to have his foul breath snarl into her ear:

"No one can hear you, little Greengrass."

And saw the wand in his free hand, his elbow being enough to cage her. He must have cast a spell, one that would make it impossible for Marlowe to hear her, not 10 feet away.

Oh god.

This escalated fast; her heart was pounding, but there was no way to get out. She could strike him in the groin, or hit him with a piece of broken chair, but she knew... she knew that when she saw the morbid glint in his yellow eyes that there was no use. She's heard the stories of Fenrir Greyback, his dreams of biting children... and to many, Astoria was nothing short of a child.

A single breath of Astoria's hadn't even passed when Greyback sunk his teeth into her shoulder.

***

There laid two notes. One, in the vacant café of Esmeralda Greengrass's in Germany, and one, dampening by the corners of the pool in Hertfordshire.

What goes around, comes around. Phoenix Greengrass's debt for failure has been paid. The Dark Lord sends his regards.

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um... i procrastinated this so much...

i hope now u understand why...

gonna go hide in a cave now xoxox