Title: A Thrill of Vengeance
Author: Meg Kenobi
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An angsty, uber quick one-shot. Remus Lupin was never a rash man, always a careful, quiet man, but Disclaimer: I honestly do not own Harry Potter, even if I do like to claim my ickle kawaii Remus ;)
Author's note: SB/RL is somewhat implied. Take it as you will. I wrote this at work, so apoligies for the brevity.
Remus had been the man of quiet logic, the placating hand on the small of his back when the weight of memory overwhelmed yet the tears refused to come. He had been the restraining arm when the bait was too biting and the fight too instinctive. Remus Lupin had been the soft voice dissuading rash action, but he was also the man left behind and betrayed. He had lingered in the house too long as the sun set on tragedy and a full moon rose too soon. As his own mutilated cries of grief and agony chorused with the shrieking of the vile painting in the hall, his shaking hands gripped a photo in a calm rage. In the moments his body arched and the bones cracked and reformed, he implored the face in a somber face in a level voice.
"So help me, if it is the wrong thing to do, stop me, show me somehow," he begged, rocking back and forth, fixated on the image snapped only a few months ago at Christmas, Sirius stood with a grim smile in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and he stood just behind, a hand resting on his shoulder, looking distracted. He had only stepped in to pull Sirius away, why he could not recall. But neither could really smiled, neither could remember a Christmas worth smiling over. "Damn you, stop me --."
"TRAITOR! FILTHY HALF-BREED! YOU PROFANE THIS HOUSE AS YOU DEFILED THAT FILTH THAT SHARES MY BLOOD," and there was no more question in his mind as his body imploded.
And the rat understood, never a clever creature but shrewd in those last few minutes. His desperate eyes cast about the room for salvation or escape, but none appeared. As the steps of the man-beast who would serve as executioner echoed closer, all the little pieces of miserable truth finally interlaced. The Boy would not appear to shelter him, his master would not answer his cries for help, and all lofty proclamations of nobility and morality had left those fierce eyes. There was no more fatigue, no more quiet compassion, but only the cold determination of the kill, his own terrified face reflected in wolf eyes.
The wolf slunk out into the forest of the night, his muzzle stained with blood and his mouth rank with the taste of flesh. As the cold night air settled around him, he waited for the all too familiar waves of guilt and self-loathing to course through his being. The moon hung swollen and vulgar and as he walked beneath her with bold contempt, a strange new sensation siezed him and flared his senses; a thrill of vengeance.