「𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 & 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘」r. lupin

zero

0 a story about love

ATHENA LESTRANGE WAS never fully comfortable in her own skin. She was loud and bubbly, just like her surrogate sister Nymphadora, and was a proud Gryffindor who was well-known and well-liked by a majority of the school. She lived with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, who were very loving and more so her parents than her actual ones. But sometimes she could tell she was different. For one thing, it was the hair. Dark and unruly, just like her mother's. No, scratch that. Bellatrix Lestrange was not her mother. Perhaps she had been the woman to birth her, but Athena would never willingly associate herself with someone so cruel. And she had a temper. A bad one. While her aunt and uncle were calm and pleasant people, and Dora clumsy and kind, Athena was a storm, a force to be reckoned with. When Slytherins got on her nerves, she didn't even have to pick up her wand-her words were hurtful enough to send them running with tears streaming down their face. Or sometimes she would jinx them. Terrible curses that she wouldn't wish upon any of her friends. And then her mind would clear, her anger would dissipate, and she'd crumble in guilt as the walls closed in and she feared that perhaps she really was Bellatrix's daughter after all.

REMUS LUPIN HATED himself. No friends, no family, no long-term job. He lived in his run-down home in misery, spending his days drinking scalding hot tea that never seemed to be able to warm him up, and reading articles in the newspaper, staring at the screaming black and white face of his old best friend. He had lost everyone he had loved-James, Lily, Peter, and so many others to Voldemort, and Sirius, too. Perhaps he was alive, but barely. Surely the Dementors had taken any last bit of good there was in him, if there was any. Remus's heart went cold at the thought of how he had trusted Sirius so much, only for him to kill his best friends with no mercy.
So Remus had no friends, and he couldn't really make any more at his non-existent job. He couldn't date-he felt too guilty letting someone get close to him, if anyone even ever would, and to put them in such danger. He avoided having mirrors in his house because he hated what he saw: a face too worn for its age, eyes sunken and tired, jagged scars running across his sickly pale skin. He wasn't worthy of love, not from himself, not from anyone. He was a monster.