Disclaimer: the world and characters of harry potter do not belong to me. Waaaah!
Warning: depressing theme, depressed Lupin. Really short story but something I just felt like I needed to get out. My grandmother unfortunately died today and in the height of all the emotions and such I really just needed to write something and it ended up in this. I hope you enjoy and all reviews and such are welcomed.
My Sweet Dead Hero
The smell was everywhere. In the air, my hair, my clothes; I had a feeling even after I showered the smell would linger on for days. It smelled of coldness, loneliness, sorrow, and despair. Yes the smell of death was easily identifiable to me after the first war, werewolf senses made it hard to forget certain smells. But the smell of this death, this one was harder to bear for me, to accept I suppose you could say. This smell accompanied the smells of a man I had come to associate with family, safety, friend, and love. The others suspected something but they were always kind enough to keep their distance with their questions, verbally at least. The eyes, they could never hide the question in their eyes; the questions, their disgust, their curiosity was all clearly visible through the eyes.
Walking down the hallway towards the room, his room, I thought about him and everything that would change from this day forward. No more phone calls, he hated talking on the phone anyways, no more afternoon tea together, not that he ever drank tea he preferred coffee instead; black like his soul he used to say though we both knew he was just too lazy to add milk and sugar to his coffee. No more kisses from his soft lips, no more being held in his arm as we danced in front of the fireplace on cold winter nights. Those were my favorite times, when he let his guard down and was the sweet young man I knew and fell in love with at school. He would memorize Shakespeare for me and recite him for me when I was recovering from the moon transformation bringing a basket of chocolate with him and teasing me about my chocolate addiction. Chocoholic he used to call me, better than an alcoholic I would respond giving him a pointed look. He would laugh me off and tell me how alcoholics went to meetings, he was simply a drunk and drunks went to parties so no worries for him.
He didn't like it when I worried about him. Called me a mother hen on more than one occasion, but with friends like mine how could one not worry? They made it impossible, and now I guess I wouldn't have to worry about them anymore. No more mother hen Lupin, no more Shakespeare, no more laughing with my best friend, lover, comrade, marauder… The marauders, such a silly name back then for a group of silly boys playing at being heroes. Well I suppose they were heroes for the most part, all except peter anyways. And me.
Entering his room I laid down on his bed inhaling his scent on his blankets and pillows, memories of him flooding my mind. Memories from school, summer, our first kiss, our first flat together, this house, our first time, finding him innocent, seeing him for the first time after all those years. Memory after memory my heart broke piece-by-piece, anguish and despair overtaking all my other senses as I gave in to everything. Damn the war, damn my responsibilities I thought as I passed on to dream world where we could still be together. My hero, my sweet lover, was dead and I could do nothing to save him. I couldn't be his hero and it killed me. My lover was no more and a piece of me had gone with him forevermore.
As I entered my dreams I saw his handsome face looking back at me with that cocky smile on his face per usual. Running to him I was engulfed in his arms once again and my sweet dead hero was dead no more.