The thing's not without its merits. Of course, the merits would be the repeated themes. That the sky's always full of so many fucking stars, the classical allusions to the most heroic of myths (the ones with the worst endings of course, you can't forget that), and yes, finally, the most delicious thing of all, the fleeting hope that just because there was a space, a pause, a mere breath of time to feel, to know, and to fucking life, that it makes the thing worth it.
Here's the thing, though. It isn't. Not worth it, not heroic, not tragic, not even worthy as a footnote to an endnote.
Look, no magical words were spoken, their communication degraded long before jokes about magical words and cliches were all the rage. There was not 'I love you' or dignified admissions of true love, and there was, and this is indeed the real tragedy, there was no fleeting, comforting sex to make the lie all the better.
The thing is not important really, in the short run, in the span of life it takes to think on it, to remember, and to collect all these experiences and convert them to faulty memory, at a very sharp decline, considering the value's gone down significantly.
Better to trade all your hopes and dreams and get a dash of salt tossed over some stranger's shoulder, for all the good it'll do you.
Fuck the world if there's some set of guidelines in how to work it out and there indeed be millions of realities, a slew of infinite universes, and enough 'what ifs' to keep a person from ever daring to slink into that cowardly realm of slumber, than there's no reason to do anything about what was lost.
Because, the thing is, it was lost, at the very beginning, and not the end, of the story. It was lost before the heroes stepped onto the page in dead words, in dead ink, on dead paper.
So what if he had no grand last words and never had the chance for that great, stirring moment, when everyone would gasp in shock, because yes, that is a real moment, in a fantasy sham of a life - that is almost worth something.
The thing - the story - is not without its merit.
But that will never make it a true story.
Remus Lupin and Sirius Black loved each other deeply, lost each other greatly, managed to survive despite the horrors, and their story was a tragedy - as all good stories must end.
the fucking end, as always.