Disclaimer: Er, right, if I owned any of this, do you honestly think I'd be writing fanfiction? J.K Rowling deserves to be worshipped. So go worship her, and don't bother worrying about suing me. All you'd get is lint anyway.
Author's Note: Right, I know it's short, and probably not that good, but I was given a plot bunny, and it bit me, and this wouldn't leave me alone. No flames either, and yes, slash is implied. Don't like it, don't read.
The Last Marauder
"Damn you Sirius…You weren't supposed to leave me..." A choked sob followed the words, a small inflection of the voice, just enough to express infinite sadness. Eternal misery and a loneliness that could reach the very stars themselves seemed to reflect in the startlingly amber gaze. A white-knuckled hand gripped the glass far too tightly, his grip sure, but his scarred, pale hands trembling badly as his pain-wracked expression turned to one of somber bitterness. His thoughts were in turmoil, there was no sorting them out. Still, one rang out above the chaos mulling about his head. He was gone. It was a simple thought to be sure, but one in which infinite amounts of emotion was suddenly let loose. A raging tempest of anger, sadness, resentment, perhaps even a tiny bit of hate for the feeling of abandonment he'd been left with.
It just wasn't right. Twelve years they'd been separated, for twelve years he'd hated the man he'd once loved so much it had hurt. Then, the truth had come out, and his heart had been set on the path to healing. Perhaps nothing could ever truly put it together again, no, not after it had broken so thoroughly into a million pieces that fateful Halloween night, but it had tried to repair itself, to lick its wounds. Even the wolf had been joyous. Pack mate had returned, and though the pack was not, nor would it ever be, whole again, they had each other. Now Padfoot was gone, and even the wolf within him knew it. Amber eyes flashed a more deeply golden color than was normal for nights in which the moon let her children be. Nights in which her rays did not draw out the hunter, did not call upon them to sing that sad, oh so very sad, song to which they had long been gifted.
The thought that he was the last had haunted him for years, but when he'd gotten Sirius back, when they'd been together again, the thought had slipped away, and the careful aloof manner he'd built around himself, the high walls of distance he'd erected, were tumbled down the moment those haunted, gray eyes had regarded him so intensely. "We were Marauders. Pack…" The words were trailed off with a bitter sob once more, this time though, the pearly stain of tears were allowed to continue their wayward journey down the scared visage of the werewolf. Pack was everything. Pack was running under the light of the full moon, together, knowing you would be with each other always. Pack was spending every waking minute with each other, even when the moon's sway dimmed, and her hold grew weak over those that were caught in her mesmerizing light. Pack really though, was acceptance, and love, unconditional love.
The candle light dimmed considerably as the night waned, and the fire's embers slowly cooled, dying down until the little flickering flame of the aforementioned candle was all that remained. A mere shadow of what had been, but still, it clung to life as though this alone could save it. The little flame danced, casting larger shadows than should have been possible on the hunched-over form of the werewolf. He too, clung to life, even as he desperately wished for an end of it. They would want him to live, to go on even though they were now together, watching, and waiting. He had no doubts that they would be there when he made that journey, he had no doubts they would run together again. Pack…
A resolute, determined glint set into those remarkable amber eyes. Eyes that his Padfoot had always been fascinated by. He would live, oh yes he would live, if only because that spineless, gutless, traitor-rat still lived. The deaths of Pack could not go unavenged. The wolf howled for retribution, a mournful keening of death that could rival even the phoenix-song that was said to be so beautiful. Of course, they had always said the wolf's song was beautiful, a mystery to him that only they knew. Wormtail would get his, as did all traitors in the end. It was karma, perhaps. Still, the tears still fell, leaving a wet trail down his pale face, the drops falling to their deaths on the floor below, or landing in splotches on the parchment clutched in his cut, bleeding hands. He didn't acknowledge the fact the broken glass had left the cuts, and gashes. They were nothing compared to the pain in his heart, or what was left of his heart.
Still, there was life flickering somewhere in there, for when the time came for his answer, even the fear did little to hold him back, make him hesitate. Perhaps he was just being reckless, perhaps the death of his last greatest friend, his pack mate, had given him a death wish, but he sent his answer all the same. Then in a flurry of movement accompanied by an audible, yet very mournful sigh, Remus Lupin stood, gazing back down at the little candle, still flickering desperately, unwilling to let go of its life. One pale, scarred hand lifted to touch the old photograph of four boys standing there, their arms about each other's shoulders, and grins on every face, and then he jerked back, and with an air of finality, blew the little candle out, and darkness reigned.