Self-loathing and... Cowardice?
Remus
Remus Lupin adjusted his worn-out coat and shoved his hands into the pockets to protect them from the winter cold. The streets of London were bustling, but he walked through the crowd like a shadow, head down and mind preoccupied. Once again, his path had led him to the small café on the corner of Leicester Square, where he hoped to meet a woman who claimed to have information about Tom Riddle—the man he had been investigating for the past two years at Sirius’s request.
Not that Sirius had provided many details. A name, a date of birth, and a Hogwarts house were all he offered. The rest, Remus had to piece together bit by bit, like a sparse and frustrating puzzle. He had taken on the job because he desperately needed the money—no one would hire a werewolf—but more than that, at the time, he had wanted to regain Sirius’s trust.
The trust he feared he would never be worthy of again.
What he knew so far: Tom Riddle was the illegitimate son of Tom Riddle Sr., a wealthy Muggle, and Merope Gaunt, a pure-blood from a disgraced family. The boy’s father was the first clue Remus uncovered when researching the name through Muggle bureaucratic systems. The father was rich, and his family had been murdered by Marvolo Gaunt, Merope’s father, who one day ran off with the rich boy next door and never returned. Despite this, given the accounts Remus had uncovered, it was much more likely that Merope had used a love potion on the handsome, wealthy Muggle who lived nearby and that the effects had eventually worn off. In any case, Merope ended up giving birth to a half-blood at a London orphanage in 1926—a boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle.
There wasn’t much to discover about the boy during his time at the orphanage, not with nearly all of the place’s records destroyed during the war bombings. Remus had been lucky to uncover the names of orphans who lived there during Riddle’s birth and one account from a young nun who had worked there during Riddle’s final years before coming of age. She described him as a handsome and intelligent boy who had trouble making friends his age. At Hogwarts, he indeed struggled with friendships in his early years, but after reporting Hagrid as responsible for the death of a girl—Myrtle—in his fifth year, he received an award, and his popularity soared among students, both Slytherins and non-Slytherins alike.
Remus didn’t think Hagrid was guilty, but the boy had found out about one of the giant’s pets, so the suspicion wasn’t entirely unfounded. He had discovered all of this from accounts of students from that time, though mostly from those in other houses, as most Slytherins from that period were also the first generation of Death Eaters.
He passed a mirror at the café’s entrance and avoided looking at his reflection. It was always hard—the tired eyes, the prematurely graying hair, the scars scattered across his skin were a constant reminder of the monster creature he carried within. The guilt weighed heavier than the curse.
He needed to get over it and stop blaming the wolf for his life being what it was, even if that was the easier way out.
Sirius trusted him now, but Remus knew this was part of a painful cycle between them. He watched Sirius drink too much, sinking into self-loathing, desperately trying to push away the ghosts of Azkaban, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Sirius fell apart. He had even suggested Sirius seek professional help some time ago when he noticed the destructive pattern. An idea that hadn’t come out of nowhere, as Remus himself had been seeking help ever since Lyra confronted him about his views on his condition.
“Remus?” the woman’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
He sat down and regarded the woman attentively. She looked nervous but determined—a Ravenclaw he had sometimes studied with during exam season. She might have been too young to know Riddle personally, but her mother might have if she was still alive. He had heard her mother’s health had been frail ever since contracting Dragon Pox years ago. Luckily, she hadn’t died, but her health had never been the same.
Remus was out of options, left with nothing but asking people directly because he couldn’t figure out what the boy had done after graduating, and no one else seemed to have that information. Hopefully, if he kept asking, something new would come up.
“You said you were investigating a former Hogwarts student. I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but... my mother was a Slytherin in the 1940s. I asked her about the name you mentioned, and she described him as a true Slytherin. ‘Full of ambition,’ she said.”
“Ambition? In what way?” Remus asked, keeping his voice calm. It was so rare to get an account from a Slytherin of that era that he wasn’t about to let anything slip by unnoticed.
“She didn’t go into detail, just said that everyone recognized him as a true Slytherin—cunning and intelligent, but also powerful,” she hesitated, as if searching her memory for more details of her mother’s words. “I remember she mentioned once that he was interested in... old objects, I think. Magical objects. She said he worked in some shop after graduating but also disappeared for months. She said he traveled.”
Remus nodded, mentally noting the details. Another piece of the puzzle.
“Thank you. That’s more than I knew before.”
When the woman left, he remained in place, watching the café slowly empty.
A true Slytherin? Considering what Remus had learned about the Gaunts—the last descendants of Salazar Slytherin—that could very well be true. Still, powerful? The Gaunts had been a joke in the end, weakened after so many years of inbreeding. Merope herself was barely more than a squib, excelling only in subjects requiring little magical aptitude, like Potions and Runes.
What troubled him most was why Sirius wanted him to investigate this man. He knew that, for Sirius, the war never really ended. But where did Riddle fit into all this? The boy seemed connected to dangerous people but had vanished after Hogwarts, perhaps dead. So why did Sirius seem so desperate for every detail Remus managed to dig up about him over the past few years?
Even so, Remus wasn’t going to question it—not when Sirius was spending his time and fortune researching a treatment for his furry little problem. It wasn’t exactly the definitive solution Remus had hoped for, but it was better than nothing.
That and... Remus felt a little guilty for how he had treated the wolf all his life. It started with his father telling him to lock the animal up every full moon, and Remus had simply continued the practice because it was all he knew. The memory of Lyra throwing the truth in his face still haunted him.
But if the treatment were to work, Remus knew he needed to accept the wolf within him. The idea felt unbearable. He remembered his last session with the Muggle psychologist he had found in a moment of desperation years ago. It had been hard because he had to use analogies to address some magical topics, but it was good to have someone to talk to about it.
“You don’t have to love every part of yourself, Remus,” the man had said, with a gentleness that had almost undone him. “Just learn to coexist with them because they won’t simply disappear.”
Coexist. There was no coexistence with the monster wolf that overtook him every full moon. But maybe... just maybe, there was a chance. If Sirius still believed in him, perhaps he could try too.
What he knew for sure was that the way things were, Remus might as well have been dead because the idea of continuing like this hurt. He hated looking in the mirror and seeing how sick he looked after his last dose of Wolfsbane because sometimes he just got scared and decided it was better to take the potion to avoid risks. Then, immediately after, he regretted it because he knew it hurt the wolf too, not just him.
A vicious cycle he so desperately needed to escape.
With that thought, Remus left the café, carefully storing away the new information. He had a goal. Finding Tom Riddle was only part of it. Finding peace with himself? That was the real mission.
Neville:
He was in the main hall of the old family mansion, a dark and oppressive place with walls covered in portraits of deceased Longbottoms who watched him with critical gazes. His uncle Algie had a peculiar smile that day, the kind of smile Neville had learned to fear.
"Today’s the day," Algie said, his voice brimming with a sick sort of excitement as he adjusted his glasses. "I’m sure the boy just needs a little push. His parents were powerful, and if you’re really their son, it’ll be fine."
The boy, on the other hand, tried not to cower in the corner of the room, wringing his hands nervously, because if he dared to cower, he would be punished for being insufficiently Gryffindor, unlike his parents. If his parents were here, they would protect and love him even if he wasn’t perfect, wouldn’t they? Neville wasn’t so sure, but he liked to fantasize about it.
He knew what was coming. He had already been subjected to countless "attempts" by his relatives to awaken his magic: forced to hold enchanted objects, locked in closets full of cobwebs for days on end, denied food and bathroom access, and even pushed into dangerous situations. Neville knew that whatever his uncle had planned this time, it wouldn’t be good. It never was.
"Come on, boy!" Uncle Algie waved his wand, and Neville found himself floating, unable to fight against the rise up the stairs. He could scream, but past experiences had taught him that screaming for help would only draw an audience that would watch his torment and laugh at his failure. "You don’t want everyone to think you’re a Squib, do you? Think of the shame on the family!"
Neville tried to break free, groaning with the effort and feeling his face flush with fear and desperation, but the man was far too strong. He floated up the stairs, being guided to the highest floor of the mansion.
"U-Uncle Algie, please... I... I’ll try!" Neville stammered, panic overtaking his voice. The inability to fight against his uncle’s magic left him desperate. "I swear I’ll try harder!"
Why were they going so high? What was his uncle planning to do?
"That’s exactly what we’re doing, Neville. Trying," Algie mocked with an eye roll, his tone cold and devoid of compassion.
They reached the fourth floor. Neville felt the cold wind coming in through the tall, open windows. Seeing his uncle look at the open window as if that was the goal made his heart pound in his chest.
"Now, just a little push," said Algie, mockery and disdain shining in his eyes. He moved his wand, and Neville started floating toward the window, saved from a fatal fall only by his uncle’s magic. "If you can manage to do some magic, you’ll get dessert tonight, but if you can’t... Well, at least you’ll save the family from the shame of a Squib."
Neville always knew magic was important to his family, but he never thought they might get rid of him. He was his parents’ child. Shouldn’t that matter? Grandma was always taking him to the hospital and reminding him of how incredible his parents were and how his father would’ve been a great Head of the Family. Didn’t any of that count for something?
Wasn’t there anything of his parents in him that his family thought was worth saving? Was he really that disposable?
He felt the wind lashing his face, his arms flailing uselessly as he tried to grab onto something to pull himself back to safety, but everything was too far away. Neville couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything.
Magic was a scary thing.
"Please, Uncle! I’ll try harder, I promise! Don’t do this!" Neville sobbed, but his gasping pleas fell on deaf ears.
And then it happened. Algie released the spell, and Neville fell. The wind whipped around him, and his stomach churned.
For a moment, everything was silent. He felt the emptiness beneath him, the wind roaring in his ears as he plummeted. The ground approached quickly, and he was sure it was the end.
But, surprisingly, when he hit the ground, he bounced and fell again. It hurt, but he didn’t die as he had expected. He landed with a dull thud, but he was alive.
Looking up at the sky, too shocked to move, his eyes wide as he realized what had just happened. Neville wasn’t sure if surviving was a good thing, though.
From above, he heard Algie’s voice:
"What? He survived? Well, it seems the boy has magic after all!"
Neville trembled from head to toe, his whole body aching. He looked to where his uncle was, but instead, he saw his grandmother’s face gazing down at him, standing beside him. There was no relief or concern in her expression, just cold satisfaction.
When had she arrived? Had she been there the whole time? Neville had been too terrified of the height and his uncle to notice.
"Well done, Neville. I’m proud," she said with satisfaction, her voice sharp. "Now stop acting like a baby and get up."
Neville forced himself to stand with difficulty, his knees almost giving way. He didn’t respond; there was nothing to say. He just lowered his head and started walking back into the mansion, following his grandmother, the weight of it all piling onto his already fragile shoulders.
That day, Neville didn’t cry. Not in front of them. He buried the fear, the humiliation, and the terror deep within himself, in a place where no one could see it. And there it stayed, growing, taking root, becoming a part of him.
Neville had magic, but he wasn’t sure he wanted this thing inside him, this thing that only hurt people. This thing that hurt his parents, that was always hurting him, and that his relatives valued so much they were willing to kill him for it.
A part of him — the optimistic one — almost wished he really were a Squib.