A Love Story of a Down-and-Out Middle-Aged Werewolf

Near midnight, the chaotic and miserable day was finally drawing to a close.

In a private hospital in London, in the maternity ward's family waiting room.

A sweet-looking young Witch slumped on a soft, comfortable sofa, her head tilted up toward the ceiling in a lazy posture. Beside her sat a composed middle-aged man.

Bright white lights shone down, making it seem like daytime. The private hospital was unusually quiet in the dead of night. Only the occasional passing nurse could see the two of them and hear their voices, but under the influence of some invisible magic, they subconsciously regarded them as mere furnishings in the room, while the voices became nothing more than ordinary electrical hums.

Nymphadora Tonks had received a wizarding education since childhood, but her father was a Muggle-born wizard, so she was no stranger to Muggle things. This was, by all accounts, her first time entering a hospital.

The place was constantly filled with an indescribable smell. The ever-bright lights felt somewhat cold, yet they also made people feel safe.

It was said to be a place specially for caring for pregnant women. There were often women with swollen bellies moving slowly, needing nurses to support them and family members to care for them, their faces generally carrying happy smiles. There were also slender young women who moved briskly; although expressionless, they somehow gave off a fragile air.

Some people came here so their babies could be born safely. For wizards, that was merely a matter of waving a wand—fourth-year Transfiguration material, basic human transfiguration, or perhaps some Gillyweed essence.

Others came here to ensure that a baby could not be born. That sort of magic was rather obscure and had been classified as part of the Dark Arts for a long time, only being