#vxrmello

{ There is a table, on a veranda. There are two  chairs,  set  at  it.  On  the  table  sits  a  platter, on   the   platter   a   jug,   next   to  the  jug,  two glasses.   The   jug   is   cool   and  dotted  with condensation.   A   man   stands   at   the  edge of   the   veranda,   turns   when   he   hears   an  approach. } 

Finally. Do, come.

{ He  gestures to the table, smiles. It is (or should be) incredibly disarming. } 

             ( the immortal is not used to sadness; )

  "                Do you not hear me -----                  he is G O N E, Lily, he is G O N E.                   "

                  And if you're warm, then you can't relate to me ||                   From the floor to the floor ||                   And the sky to the sky ||                   You've got to love and adore and the rest is awry ||                   And if you're warm, then you can't relate to me ||

    Remus you poor boy, you are no killer. You are no    murderer. But people change. Year pass and lovers    die and children live to be the same as their pa-    rents in retrospect. The veins that nestle under-    neath his eyes reveal themselves, and the fevered    glint in his eye is no longer of youth and mishaps.    His bones are bigger, and have succumbed to darkest    measures; though, strangely, he fills. He fills the    black tarnished suit he wears that has been stolen    from another. It bothers him, sometime, when before    him in his vanity the laugh lines that once graced    his face are replaced with { n e w } scars. His lip,    in a permanent guilt of contour.

           He scoffs, though the smile cannot be. It looks out           of place on his mouth. The girl that stood before            him, his wand on the pit of her neck. He used to be           in love with that neck, he thinks now. The hollow of           pale skin between two elongated bones. He used to be           in love with the fragility of Lily Evans. But he sees           now, that it’s futile. { That love, is futile. }

        You’ve changed, she says. There is no fear.        Only a terribly strong disappointment to it.

        He shakes his head. “I’ve not changed, I’ve        not changed at all. I’ve grown into a better        man, you see. A man in which I can thrive in.”

                He spits these words.

    Remus you poor man, you are a killer. You are a manif-    estation of the Gryiffindor you once were. This is a     life you can finally live. No more surviving. This is    the time to rule with your brethren. Fallen be his na-    mesake, and it is the impurity that he once hated in his    blood that kings his mind now.

              ————- ———      ;; the man he chose to be is                                                not a man at all.

hush actual John hush