Everything belongs to J.K.Rowling.
"But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face."
W.B Yeats
Wolfsbane. She accepted the nickname with far more pleasure than she ever acknowledged, a secret joke between them, a whisper in the darkness. There had been too few nights shared like that, quiet time when his age and her inexperience had faded into nothing. He had laughed when she altered her appearance to try and please him, kissed her cheek and dragged her off to bed again telling her she was perfect as she was.
And it had been... perfect.
The air around them was cooling, glancing up Nymphadora watched the Dementors approach. There was still time to run, still time to save herself. Her wand was within reach but she merely looked at it dispassionately, her patronus had died with him, as had any desire to fight.
Not long now she thought to herself. His skin was still warm, the hand she clutched like a lifeline still supple; if she ignored the blood he could almost have been sleeping. Theirs was not a fight that would be described with hushed reverence in years to come, an Auror and a werewolf slain by Death Eaters - they would be lucky enough to make the second page of The Daily Prophet. They had fought well, the bodies of several Death Eaters lay tangled in the rubble of Honeydukes sweet shop - had it been a misdirected spell of hers that had brought the roof down or one of their attackers? Turning back to Remus' body the question did not seem to matter.
It had taken so long.. Wearing down his defences gradually, parrying his never ending arguments - "too old, too poor, too dangerous." Stupid man, as though any of it mattered to her. There had been no more pretending after her outburst in the aftermath of Dumbledores' death, no forced politeness between them. He had accompanied her home with the excuse that members of the order should not travel alone and had never left. A rumpled, ragged werewolf with tired eyes and a sad smile, the only man she would ever love.
It was up to Harry now. Merlin knows they had done their best, fought and fallen one by one - the idea that good can conquer evil an ideal best left to muggle fairytales. The knowledge came as little comfort, and despite herself she felt a twinge of guilt. She had made a promise to The Order, she had made a promise to him.
Aurors do not wait for death to claim them.
Reaching out she curled her fingers around the slender wand and shook the dust from her shoulders with a defiance she did not feel. Letting Lupins' hand drop she kissed his cheek briefly, and turning to face the Dementors she raised her wand with a flicker of a smile.