this broken man?
How can a loser
Please help me mend
my broken heart,
and let me live again."
- Al Green
Remus Lupin stared at the world around him through the half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, letting the scenery blur and blend together by the grace of the bottle's curves and his own drunkenness. He had been so optimistic that, after Voldemort's demise, things would be better for him. He had hoped that the ministry as well as the rest of the Wizarding would realize the error of shunning his kind, and, in his happy reveries, they accepted him back into the fold with open arms and apologies.
He now realized just how naive that had been of him.
For years after the final battle, he had watched the wizarding world rebuild around him from the dust-clouded windows of number 12 Grimmauld Place. At first there had been frequent visits and outings. In the wake of the war, many of his former students had settled down, married, and had children. In the immediate wake of the war, there had been weddings and baby showers a plenty to attend, as well as funerals to both mourn the deaths and celebrate the lives of those who had perished in battle.
However, as the months ran on, and the rubble once again took the shape of familiar structures, the spaces in between visits slowly stretched, and Remus found himself yet again alone, save for Neville.
Ah yes, sweet, charming, beautiful, lovely little Neville.
Remus had worried away the hours counting down until the next time Neville came by, and, slowly but surely, Remus' lust and, eventually, love for the young man had increased by alarming leaps and bounds. Every full moon, shackled securely in the cellar, the wolf inside him howled for Neville.
Eventually, it had all become too much for Remus to hold in. Neville was merely a boy, and an ex student of his to boot. Plus, Remus had reminded himself, looking into a cracked mirror at his tattered and tired looking reflection, what would the boy want with an old werewolf?
And so, Remus had yelled, and screamed, and mustered all the bravado that he could, and sent a scared and confused Neville away.
He regrets it a bit now, all alone, crouched in the corner of the sitting room with his scotch bottle, seeing the world through its perspective.
"But then again", he drunkenly expounds to no one in particular, waving his bottle around in an overblown attempt at gesturing, "the boy deserves better."
He giggles, hiccups, and slumps to the floor, leaning against the wall for support, and as the sweet blackness of unconciousness embraces him, he whispers to the empty room;
"nothing but the best for my sweet Neville".
The last thing he heard before going under was the unfamiliar click of a key in the door.
Link to part 2: http://balianblue.livejournal.com/2180.html
Authors note: Pretty please comment, it helps me stay motivated to write more! Concrit welcome