In a shoebox, there are a few strands of hair that clung to their pillow, that last morning, and scrawled letters, and recent photographs, and memories. The trails of scent fade from the house, although every day he tests them as if they could ever grow stronger. The source is gone, evaporated.

Denied a burial, like James. Like Peter, who is for all intents and purposes dead, subsumed into Wormtail.

The wolf hates funerals. It howls in his chest with loss and fury.

Remus clears his throat, wipes his eyes, and goes on. He has lost friends before and survived.

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