Flowers
By Ex-Professor Remus Lupin
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Pure drabble that I'm not sure where it came from. Seventy hours of sleep and you'd be writing Remus/Dora bullshit flower crap too...fuck you guys and tell me how fucking awful this is. Artistic license due to lack of sleep and the urge to write but the inability to properly work on
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Flowers, she had always loved flowers. She had a habit of labeling people by the flowers that reminded her of them. Like Harry, standing over near George, sweet, nearly seventeen-year-old Harry with far too many things on his too thin shoulders. She always saw a lily when she thought of him, the flower his mother had been named after.
Just near them was of course, George's twin, Fred, with Angelina Johnson. They were dancing, talking quietly with each other. Their eyes sparkled with affection. It was an unusual sight to see someone looking so very pleased to be with someone. She wanted to hate Angelina for her luck, but she couldn't fault this dahlia for finding reciprocated love with a foxglove. After all, the Iris still missed
She looked around for a moment, irritated for thinking about something that would no doubt make her hair turned back to its normal mousy brown. The bride was suddenly in sight, standing beside her husband of two hours. She had an air about her that made one think of Peonies for some strange reason.
The bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabriel, the first a rose and the second a buttercup, had purple irises twisted into their hair. The irises turned her thoughts back to the reason she had stood up from her chair and stepped out into the crowd. Moving carefully through a group of people in search of her quarry, she nearly tripped over someone's feet. They caught her elbow and she apologized profusely before moving on.
She spotted a small patch of flowers, anemone she noted with a frown, growing wildly and it was there that she found the Iris she had been looking for. Sitting amongst the white flowers, he had plucked one of the rare beauties and was gazing at it as if it held the answers to the universe. She remembered absently that the anemone had grown from the blood of Adonis. It was a fitting flower perhaps since it also represented death.
"Remus," she said finally, breathing in the familiar scent of the death flowers.
Blinking in confusion, he looked up at her, almost as if he had forgotten who she was and he tucked the anemone away suddenly, looking guilty. She lowered herself carefully down into the patch of flowers beside him. She knew she was being bold again, as she had been at the funeral, but she grasped his hand and held on, looking down into her lap.
"Don't make me do this," the werewolf said after a moment of silence.
"You can leave if you want," she replied, frowning as she dropped his hand. He moved nearer to her and sighed.
"You know I can't," he said after a moment. "I'm alone without you."
"You've got others that love you too you know," she said bitterly. "You don't have to be here catering to me."
"What about you telling me I was being an idiot after Dumbledore," he broke off, looking away from her and at the flowers again.
"I wasn't thinking properly. I'm sorry," she said softly.
"Don't apologize; I'm here because I want to be here," she looked sharply at him.
"Do you really?"
"Y-yes," he answered slowly, stammering over the words. She fell silent, studying him as he began to exam the flowers again. He had read her books on Herbology so he knew what each of the flowers, especially these, represented. It seemed he was associating them as well.
"You miss him don't you?" she asked suddenly
"More than anything," was the quiet, guilt filled reply.
"You don't have to stay," she said after a moment, frowning at the anemones wishing they weren't there. They were better than she was. She was nothing but a thistle it seemed in his eyes; a weed of many colors and shapes, but always weed.
"But I'm going to," Remus said, looking warmly at her for the first time.
"Why? I'm just a replacement to you," she asked, crushing one of the anemones beneath her hand. "You're only staying out of pity for me."
"I'm staying because I want to," he took her hand, fingers warm and gentle in her palm. She looked up at him, surprised at this.
"You still love him," she said brokenly, trying to pull away from his grasp. She could feel the magic guarding her appearance breaking down suddenly. She was sure her hair had turned brown once more.
"Yes," he answered. "But I'm not completely broken you know. I can try. Just – just give me time."
"Time?"
"Yes, time to," he looked around him at the flowers and he plucked one, gazing longingly at the white petals, "time to not miss him so much."
She nodded, her hair flushing with color once more, soft purple to match with the wedding colors. His hand was still in hers and she was glad to hold on. She would wait a hundred years if that were what it took. Perhaps this thistle could become a rose.
"Okay, I'll be waiting right here."