I don't know why I'm in the mood for writing angsty stuff, but it just came tumbling out of my head. It's about that picture, you know? The one with the Marauders in, it's summer, Harry sees it on Sirius' bedroom wall along with the muggle girls in bikinis and motorbikes. I forget the exact description, I left my copy of Deathly Hallows in my flat when I came home for Easter (I know, I KNOW, I should burn in wizard hell, may Merlin curse me, Morgana eat me sideways and Circe hex me into buggery etc etc)

Also (yes, I know I'm going on and on) but a shout out to Lady Vonne, Jani, Talia32 and OOHPRETTYLIGHTS for reviewing my other works, The Wheat Field and Like Heroes. It was much appreciated to know that someone reads my stuff and takes time to review. Did I mention reviews would be much appreciated? ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did, Remus and Sirius would be going at it like rabbits, Lucius and Hermione would be having lots of little frizzy blonde babies, and Snape would be handcuffed to my bedpost wearing nothing but a blush and a red bow on certain pieces of his anatomy. I'm just playing with a bucket and spade in JK's sand pit for a while. =] Enjoy

That picture makes Remus Lupin cry.

He can't help it. It's an ache in his chest, in his heart, and it grows and grows and grows until he can't breathe and his throat is burning and his eyes are stinging and he wishes so hard for it to stop, for it all to end.

But it doesn't.

When James and Lily died, when Peter disappeared, when he betrayed them, the wounds were fresh, open, for weeks, months. The entire wizarding world was celebrating, but it had never felt more wrong. So many were dead, so many families torn apart, so many shattered dreams.

In the darkness of his kitchen, when he can't sleep, when the dreams of blood and screaming and death become too much, he paces, slowly reciting their names in his head-

Marlene, Edgar, Caradoc, Fabian, Gideon, Benjy, Dorcas, Frank, Alice... Peter. And Lily. And James.

Losing James and Lily and Peter, and Sirius even, it was all his dreams shattering like glass. It wasn't just losing a loved one, losing a huge part of his past; it was losing a huge part of his future as well, all those summers watching Harry play in the garden, learning to walk, to talk, growing up... And his own children, the children of his future, James and Sirius and Peter would be there, the three goofy uncles, his best friends, his past, his future, his entire life...

That rat. That foul loathsome pathetic little rat. Slow burning anger and bitterness wells up, and he can feel himself remembering the pacing, the names, the dreams of blood and screaming and death, and he can't help but blame it on him. That rat. And he can't help but see the ghost of James in Harry, can't help but remember the James of his dreams, the dead James, covered in blood and screaming, the endless screaming...

But the world keeps turning. People move on, friendships are rekindled.

When Sirius dies, it's different. There's no raw pain, no open wounds, no crying, no rage. Only numbness. And that night, he resumes his pacing, gritting his teeth and digging his fingernails into his palms as hard as he can, to feel something, anything, until there are red crescents, stark against his pale skin. But there's no sadness, no pain, only numbness. Blissful numbness.

Marlene, Edgar, Caradoc, Fabian, Gideon, Benjy, Dorcas, Frank, Alice, Lily, James... And Sirius.

As she slides her arms around his middle, pressing the full length of herself against his back, her head resting between his shoulder blades, he runs his fingers over the picture, found in the bottom of a drawer, forgotten beneath piles of old newspapers. He shows her it, and the look she gives him makes his heart break. Not pity, but understanding. And in that moment he knows why he loves her. She understands him. She knows he longs for the past, for the best time in his life.

Two months later, as he holds his son in his arms for the first time, he glances over at the picture, in a frame on the cabinet, where she had placed it, and he imagines they are here, congratulating him, smiling, forever happy, squabbling over who would be godfather. He looks over at her, and as she smiles, he can see that she knows that he thinks of them, of how they should've grown old together, how their children should have played together, grown up together...

If nothing else, those four best friends will live on, in eternal sunshine and happiness, in their perfect world, captured forever on paper, where there is no suffering, and no betrayal, and no death.