A/N: I don't know. Really, I don't know. See summary?
And what's up with no indents? Bugger.
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The leather is coarse against Remus's fingers as he trails them along the thick spine. Five lines, thin and smooth, form a path in the coating layer of dust. He laughs bitterly and quietly, his gaunt features contorted in a sick form of mirth; it looks like an animal scratch. Perfect. Wonderful. Ironic, and, he thinks, conspiratorially so- he has decided once and for all that fate was never on his side, never will be. Even with things as petty as dust, Remus Lupin is not spared.
A cough, shallow and ragged, rips from his throat. But then, everything is of that nature now- old, calloused, on the verge of a painful death. He opens the album.
It is surprising how quickly the tears spring to his eyes, hot and painful and threatening. He doesn't like this, this wearing of emotions on his sleeve, this bearing for the world to see and take pity on until he wants to explode. He doesn't want their pity. He's not a fucking charity case, goddamnit. His woes are not a fucking bloody gimmick for the world to coo and coddle about until he thinks he might be sick all over something valuable and he finds himself desperately pitying those poor animals on exhibit in Muggle zoos.
Two figures wave furiously from a photograph, grins of utter and complete happiness playing on their lips as they laugh and swing their clasped hands about. The ebony-haired one sticks his tongue out and promptly flicks it back in his mouth as he leans in to peck the amber-eyed one on the cheek, every captured moment effusing teenage boy and youth and beginnings and happily-ever-afters and blissful naivete.
Their smiles clearly say, "Forever."
"Rubbish," Remus mutters.
The sobs come soon after.