How A Silent Voice Shaped Echoing Souls’ Portrayal of Bullying
Detailed author's note on Chapter 1-5 of this fic. ❗Very minor spoiler warning up to Chapter 5 ~1.6k words (This is in no way suggesting my story is anything close to the masterpiece that A Silent Voice is, just how I was inspired by many of its ideas!)
Watching A Silent Voice was the first time I stumbled upon the idea that a bully could change, not just on a surface level, but deeply, uncomfortably, and irrevocably. Many, like ten-year-old me, went in expecting some kind of love story, but what I found was something far more beautiful: a story about bullying, depression, self-loathing, atonement and the difficult path towards learning to love not just others, but yourself. It changed how I understood remorse, and profoundly influenced how I came to write James Potter’s growth in Echoing Souls.
The Attraction in Bullying
Let’s start with the bullying itself. One of the most disturbing yet interesting aspects of Shouya’s past treatment of Shouko is that it inevitably stems from some kind of fascination, hinted at in that early shot where Shouya’s eyes widen the moment Shouko is introduced. He has never met anyone like her — a girl who cannot hear, who communicates differently — and in his childish inability to understand her, he begins to treat her less like a person and more like an object to prod, test and mock. There’s a strange undercurrent of attraction or connection between them too: Shouko repeatedly tries to be his friend, and Shouya keeps approaching her, even as he calls her a “creep.” As a child, I didn’t quite understand what I was watching, but now I see that curiosity can easily mutate into cruelty, in the same way someone might rip the pretty wings off a butterfly to see how it twitches, or tap on a fishbowl until the creature inside flinches. In essence, the bully's unfamiliarity turns into dehumanisation of the victim.
Similarly, it’s possible that James’ fixation on Severus is rooted in that same ugly blend of intrigue and scorn. Severus is different — poor, introverted, inherently feminine in many of his characteristics — and James latches on those differences, because Severus doesn’t come from the same world he does. He feels bothered by this, so he physically provokes him and turns him into an easy target, all while observing him a little too closely. And, crucially, most of it is done in front of a crowd. James’ need to be admired as masculine or strong feeds his insecurity, and so he asserts himself by dominating someone more vulnerable — someone marked as the “other.” Both James and Shouya take on the role of the ringleader in their respective acts of cruelty, chasing a sense of importance by lashing out at what they can't understand. Obviously, none of this justifies or excuses their behaviour, but understanding toxicity can provide a lens into how transformation is possible.
The System that Let it Happen
Then there’s the environment around the bullying: the bystanders, the adults, the school system. In A Silent Voice, most of the students watch and laugh, occasionally making comments that mask as concern for the victim, when in reality, they’re only fuelling the violence. Some, like Ueno, are “aggressive” participants. Others, like Sahara, feel guilty but quietly remove themselves instead of intervening. The teacher sees it all but does nothing until Shouko stops attending school and her mother complains about her lost hearing aids. And even then, he refuses to take any responsibility, choosing to single out Shouya and place all the blame on him without holding himself, or any other student accountable. You could even argue it's a systematic fault, as the school provides no accommodations for Shouko, leaving it up to the kid students to help her themselves. Much of the bullying rises due to their frustration in having to deal with this.
Echoing Souls depicts a similar culture, perhaps more drastically ignorant of the victim, given the complicated tensions surrounding the First Wizarding War and the deepening divide between Gryffindors and Slytherins. The Hogwarts professors clearly have a soft spot for the Marauders, excusing much of their behaviour by framing it as mischief, because they are inherently believed to be good, brave people. They are only forced to confront this when, in a drastic turn of events, Severus dies. Lily is the only one who ever challenges them, but even she never fully grasps the extent of Severus' trauma. As seen in The Prince’s Tale, she accuses him of being obsessed with James Potter and his friends by following them around, overlooking the possibility that his desperation to get them expelled could very much be an attempt to protect himself. Her dismissal of their treatment towards him reveals that her empathy has limits, and is perhaps spurred by a desire to be liked by others, influenced by the same public sentiment that normalises the Marauders' actions and frames Severus as a creepy, unlikable outcast.
The Aftermath
Now, one of the most haunting parallels between the two stories lies in the aftermath, not just for the perpetrators, but for everyone who stood by and did nothing. In both cases, the majority of bystanders and adults never really grow or admit their role in enabling the harm. Instead, they shift the blame onto one individual — Shouya, or in the Marauders' case, Sirius — and offer the victim hollow sympathy, as though they weren’t a part of the problem too. In this regard, Shouya bears a more striking resemblance to Sirius than James narratively. They are ultimately isolated from their peers and subjected to severe consequences: Shouya becomes a social reject, bullied by the very friends who laughed alongside him; Sirius is expelled from school, cast out of Gryffindor and forced to suffer Walburga's abuse. They become scapegoats, punished not only for their own actions, but for everyone else's refusal to acknowledge theirs.
Yet emotionally, it is James who mirrors Shouya most closely. Like older Shouya, James is no longer the same boy he was when the bullying happened. Once he is forced to confront the full weight of what they did to Severus — the fact that it cost his life — his sense of self shatters. He falls into deep despair, convinced that he deserves neither forgiveness nor companionship. He self-destructively isolates because he believes that loneliness is the only appropriate punishment. And the most powerful narrative choice is that they respectively begin to embody the person they bullied: Shouya covers his ears, imposing deafness onto himself, while James constantly wanders the halls by himself, effectively shunning himself from the other students.
This is where the visual language of A Silent Voice becomes so powerful. Throughout the film, Shouya is constantly drawn hunched over and withdrawing into himself. We often see the world from his perspective, with his gaze cast down and struggling to meet others' eyes. The faces of his classmates are literally X-ed out, a visual metaphor for his belief that connection is no longer possible. He imagines them whispering about him, condemning him, even when they aren’t. It’s a rich, visceral depiction of depression and internalised shame — a mind convinced it is unworthy of affection.
James experiences something deeply similar in Echoing Souls. After Severus’ death, he convinces himself that he deserves nothing — not his parents' love, not McGonagall’s protection, not concern from housemates like Mary. He reads pity as judgment and kindness as naivety. He withdraws from people, not because they've turned on him, but because he believes they should. The motif of him drowning in silence — in his own emotional bubble, sealed off from the world — is my personal interpretation of depression, where he physically cannot bring himself to see that people still reach out for him and genuinely care about him.
Atonement and Learning to Live With It
Healing for both of them begins when they choose to reach out.
Shouya's journey is not about erasing the past, but about learning how to live with it. At first, he reaches out to Shouko out of guilt, as a way to atone for his sins. But what unfolds is far more delicate than a simple plead for forgiveness or a perfect redemption. To me, it is a moving portrayal of how his original childish fascination transforms into careful, intentional understanding. He finally offers her friendship as an indication that he truly wants to know her as a person. Their connection is far from perfect; it's full of miscommunication and individual self-blame. Yet there is beauty in that imperfection — in watching two broken people slowly find a rhythm alongside one another, figuring out how to forgive and love themselves.
James, too, never demands forgiveness. He sits beneath Severus’ tree, hoping, grieving, trying to see him through all the remnants he left behind. And when Severus does return — changed, ghostly, but still very much himself — James is relentless in his efforts to truly understand him. He sets aside his old recklessness and impatience, to immerse himself in the study of ghosts, death and memory, desperate to make sense of why Severus remains tethered to this world; desperate to help Severus make sense of it, too. Though borderline obsessive at times, his sincerity is unmistakable. The relationship that grows between them is unconventional, fragile, and tinged with all the impossibilities of the living and the dead. But James accepts it, because he doesn’t seek a perfect resolution. He seeks connection. He seeks to do better, no matter how late. And together, the two of them also begin to learn how to live, even the one that's already gone.
There is something intriguingly redemptive in this cycle. That the same hands which once inflicted hurt can, through time and persistence, offer gentle care. That fascination, when stripped of ego, can evolve into human empathy. Into love.
