prettylikethesun
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“What do you want me to do?” Remus says, tiredly. All he wants is to curl up on his bed. Smoke a pack of cigarettes. Get drunk. He can’t stop looking at Harry.
“Remus...” Dumbledore is gentle. Remus hates when he has that tone. Hates that he knows it will hurt. “There is no one else left.”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “So you’ll curse the poor thing with a werewolf for a guardian?”
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Where I turn my silly little thoughts into silly little poems