Corrupted Souls | remus lupin

the long winter

"It was Voldemort who did it, Dad. He was just weaponizing people who didn't have a say in the matter."

"Fenrir Greyback is a vile creature who -"

"I'm not talking about Greyback, I'm talking about the others." Neoma traced a finger on the table, repeating a star pattern once, twice, three times. "He's infected so many people now, Dad. He infects them so they have nowhere to turn other than Voldemort's army, and then kills them if they defect. And you've heard of the poor children that -"

"Stop talking about him - please." Nicodemus nearly begged. "Not tonight - I want to enjoy tonight. I haven't seen you in months."

Neoma could hear the pain in his voice, and she wracked her brain for another topic of conversation. "Well, Gryffindor seems to be a likely candidate for the Quidditch Cup this year."

"Is Fleamont Potter's boy still captain?"

"Yeah. He's Head Boy, too."

"Really?"

"Mhm. And Lily Evans is Head Girl."

"Who's Lily Evans?"

"Another Gryffindor."

Neoma didn't disclose the fact that the girl was a muggleborn. Despite her father disagreeing with Voldemort's methods, he did still hold onto the beliefs of segregation between the wizarding and muggle worlds. 'To what end' was the question he now asked himself, and only after his wife's death did he realize that nothing could ever justify Lord Voldemort's means. This new philosophy, however, didn't change the fact that he would say something negative at the idea of a muggleborn being Head Girl instead of his daughter.

--

On Christmas the Notts had no grand breakfast, a tree was not lit, and stockings did not hang over the fireplace.

Nicodemus rolled out of bed in the early afternoon. Neoma was reading through a book on lycanthropy, stretching her toes closer to the fire to keep them warm.

Though many attempts have been made, there is no cure for lycanthropy. Once transmitted, the disease is as much a part of the body as is blood, bone, or skin. There will never be a cure according to the world's most esteemed arcanists and potioneers.

Potion Master Pontificus Leogrande has concluded that a mash of aconite and cinnamon, which can help ease the pain of one's transformation slightly, may be the best that the wizarding community can offer to those infected.

Neoma circled 'aconite and cinnamon' before flipping to the front of the book where the publishing date was printed.

1928.

As far as she knew, no real progress had been made in terms of werewolf welfare since this book was published. She still heard of 'wolf's mash' being used to this day. Maybe the book was right in the sense that no true cure could be created, but she was sure that something of better quality and outcome was possible to make.

When she heard her father's heavy footsteps, Neoma shot up and walked over to the couch where a small package sat, wrapped in dark green paper. Nicodemus was still in his bathrobe, and he grinned at the sight of his daughter in the set of red pajamas that her mother had bought her a few years prior.

"Merry Christmas!" Neoma cheered, shoving the package into her dad's arms. "Sit, sit."

Nicodemus laughed heartily, and with a flick of his wand a box flew down the stairs and settled abruptly onto Neoma's lap.

"Ladies first," he gestured toward the box, which had a pretty red bow tied haphazardly around its center. "Sorry - you know I'm not the best at wrapping."