Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or anything else related to Harry Potter; it all belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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Twenty-one months had passed since Remus had been found, ten months since I had realised that I still loved him. Every evening I would come to feed him, read to him, talk to him. Every evening I would stroke his hair and hold his hand. Every evening I would look into those empty eyes, wondering if he could hear me, if he simply was unable to react or so withdrawn into himself that it did not matter at all whether or not I was here.

Every evening I would feel myself die a little more.

Now I had not seen him for three weeks. I had received the message that a grand-uncle of mine, who had been living in Romania, had died, and I, being the last living relative, had had to arrange his matters on location. Bureaucracy had worked incredibly slowly, forcing me to stay far longer than I had expected.

This would not have been a problem, had not Minister Fudge, in all his glorious paranoia, laid down a body of rules for former Death Eaters, which, among other things, banned me from Apparating into or out of the country as well as using the Floo network for this purpose if I did not wish to spend a considerable amount of time at Azkaban. Maybe he was fearing I would try to build up new forces outside the country; I honestly did not care about his imbecilic presumptions. I had been forced to travel by Muggle means of transportation - something which had made it impossible for me to leave my great-uncle’s hometown to visit Remus, since I was supposed to be available every day.

It had been impossible not to think of him. There had of course been no reason to worry about him, but I had not been able to change it. Every day I had grown more restless, more irritable, more concerned. I fear I was not very helpful to the officials, which unfortunately had only delayed closing the matter.

The night of the full moon had been worst. Remus had transformed to his canine shape once more, had suffered horrible pain - and had spent the night alone, for the first time in fourteen months. I had not been there to give him the Wolfsbane Potion myself, had not been there to undress him before the transformation. I had not been there to stay with him, stroking the apathetic wolf, had not been there to comfort the pained, shaking man I loved in the morning before feeding him his usual mixture of painkillers and Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Now, finally, I was back, and I had hardly taken the time to bring my luggage to my house before Apparating directly to St. Mungo’s. It was late, about 10 pm, but no one held me up on my way to Remus’s room. Entering the small, familiar room, I noticed my usual chair to be occupied, my gaze meeting a muscular back and a messy, black shock of hair.

Potter. Other than myself, he was the only one to visit Remus on a regular basis, I knew. But he had always paid his fortnightly visits in the afternoon, thus making sure that we would not meet. Since his graduation seventeen months ago I had seen nothing of him – a fact I did not regret at all.

Upon hearing the sound of me closing the door, he turned his head.

“Professor Snape,” he greeted.

“Potter,” I replied coolly. What was he doing here, at this time of day? And why was he looking so tired and weighed down with sorrow? Not that I cared about his well-being. Probably his training taking its toll – Auror training was not a walk in the park, after all.

He silently got up from the chair to make room for me. Lying in the bed behind him was Remus, seemingly asleep, his skin even paler than usual, deep, dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks were hollow, his body skeletal, from what I could see. His chest was hardly rising and falling with wheezing breaths, a tube was in his nose and a cannula sticking in his right hand. He seemed to be at the verge of death.

I immediately rushed to his side, completely oblivious to the fact that I was being watched. Taking his left hand into my own, I noticed that his wrists were so thin that I could have snapped them effortlessly.

“Potter! What happened?”

He did not seem to be bothered in the slightest by my sharp tone but slowly began to explain. About a week after my departure, Remus had stopped eating. They had tried to feed him for a few more days, but as he had continued to reject the food, they soon had had to put him on total parenteral nutrition. This, however, had done nothing to improve his condition. His metabolism had begun to shut down, and he was becoming weaker with every day. Since the full moon three days ago, he had not woken up once.

“The healers say it seems that he just… doesn’t want to live anymore. That he’s given up,” Potter finished in a flat voice. “They say if no miracle happens, he won’t survive the next two days.”

I felt my chest narrowing at these words. So this was the end, then? I did not believe in miracles, there were only fools who did so. Remus would die. He would leave me, and I would never have the chance to … to what? What was I thinking? He had been out of anyone’s reach for almost two years now – had I honestly harboured some ridiculous hope he might recover one day? Had I honestly hoped for being given a second chance? Yes, I realised with a bitter smile - although I had never wanted to admit it, somewhere in the last corner of my heart I had hoped for nothing less. I had hoped for a miracle. I had been a fool.

“I always wondered why you were coming here,” Potter suddenly said inquisitively, effectively derailing my train of thought.

“That’s none of your business, Potter,” I snapped irritably.

“You never did anything than harrying him before,” he stated, eyeing me suspiciously as I carefully brushed a strand of hair out of Remus’s forehead.

“As I said, I will not discuss this with you,” I repeated, sitting down in the chair.

“Fine,” he spat, before turning and leaving the room. After some minutes he returned with a second chair and sat down at the other side of the bed, glaring at me defiantly. At any other time I would have accepted the challenge, but right now I did not feel up to it. Closing my eyes, I completely concentrated on the trembling hand in my own. Even now the touch provided me with a kind of comfort that I had never felt with anyone else.

Time went by in silence, only interrupted by the sound of Remus’s laboured breathing. When I finally looked up, Potter seemed to be lost in thought, his gaze glued to the sight of Remus’s hand in mine. His posture was tense, and I noticed his own hands to be clenched to fists in his lap. Suddenly, a considerable amount of the hostility I had always held against him dwindled away, be it only for now.

“You should go home,” I suggested. He definitely looked like he could use a good night’s sleep.

His head snapped up and he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, obviously startled by the absence of the usual sneering quality to my features – which was hard enough to maintain.

“Why?” he then asked. “Why can you… touch him? Why is it different with you - and no one else? Not even…” he trailed off, a sad expression on his face.

“I don’t know,” I replied levelly. I would certainly not bare my soul to him, of all people, telling him some heartbreaking story about missed chances and lost love. Not to anyone, to be precise.

“Go home,” I repeated. “Sleep.”

He did not answer but merely pointed at something behind me, and, turning my head, I noticed a folding bed standing at the opposite wall of the room.

“You are sleeping here?” I must have sounded rather incredulous, because suddenly Potter’s eyes were flashing with anger.

Of course I’m sleeping here!” he all but yelled. “He’s my godfather, and he’s dying! Where bloody else should I want to be?”

He was right, I realised. Albus had told me that after Black’s death the two of them had become very close. They had found comfort in each other’s presence, and by the end of Potter’s sixth year, Remus had become his official godfather. Of course Potter would want to be by his side now – and it would be most inappropriate to put up a fight at Remus’s deathbed.

“Well, lie down, then,” I said as conciliatory as I could manage. “I will wake you if necessary.”

He shook me a doubtful glance, but finally, accepting the offered truce, he obeyed. I did not feel like talking this night, and so I stayed quiet, motionless except for the small circular movements of my thumb on Remus’s hand.

In the morning, Potter urged me to get some rest, and although I had not expected to be able to do so, I slept fitfully until about noon. The rest of the day crept by slowly, minute after minute, hour after hour. The healers made their regular check-ups, but all they had to tell us was that his condition had not changed. The tense silence between Potter and me did nothing to lighten the grave atmosphere. About midnight, I could convince him to lie down, again promising to wake him, if need be. For some time I heard him tossing and turning, but finally he seemed to be asleep.

Watching the dying man I loved, I felt that we were running out of time. Remus’s face looked both, pained and beautiful, like an ivory sculpture, too delicate to be touched. He was fading away, and there was nothing I could do. There was so much I had wanted him to know, so much I had never told anyone, not even him during the last ten months. I had to be frank with him, this once, even though he could not hear me. I needed to tell someone, and I knew I would not be able to open up to anyone but him. And so I did. Slowly running my fingers through his soft hair, I spoke.

I told him everything that had stayed unspoken during those short, far too short four months of secret meetings, shy kisses and careful words twenty-three years ago.

How I had not been able to believe him when he had approached me some days after the incident at the day of the O.W.L. exam, apologising for his friends behaviour - and his own cowardice. How I reluctantly had allowed myself to hope when he would not give up to try to befriend me at the beginning of our sixth year. How, after some time, I had realised that I wanted to be more than friends with this intelligent, kind, breathtaking Gryffindor, and how much it had hurt to know that what I was craving could never become reality. How it had hurt even more when he had kissed me for the first time, just because I was not used to this - to being treated as worthwhile, to being touched so painfully gently. To feeling loved.

How almost every night, awaking from another nightmare about my father, I had imagined him to be with me, holding me, until I was asleep again. Back then, I had not been ready to tell him about my father, about the things he had done to me. It had been too early. Now I told him, stumbling over my own words, and in a way I was glad he could not hear me, although the pain of the silence afterwards – where so many years ago I had almost dared to dream of receiving gentleness, comfort – was overweighing this gladness by far.

I told him about the time after the incident at the Shrieking Shack, when I had realised - or, rather, had thought I realised - that nothing between us had been real, that it had been nothing but a bad prank, set up by someone whom I had foolishly allowed to see me, the real me behind an attitude of arrogance, indifference and snide comments.

I told him how I had finally been accepted into a group of my own housemates, and how we all had pledged allegiance to the Dark Lord short after graduation. How I, an embittered and power-hungry 18-year-old, had embraced the darkness and the cold to soothe the fire of pain and despair inside me. How two years later I had realised my self-delusion, looking into my father's eyes, whom I was supposed to kill at the Dark Lord’s command for his refusal to join us. How I had obeyed under the threat of paying disobedience with my own life, only then realising that even my thirst for revenge for what he had done was nothing compared to the monstrosity of a son murdering his father, of one human taking another one’s life – even though I had done so too many times before.

How after this I had crawled to Dumbledore’s doorstep, begging him to send me to Azkaban – and how instead, I had received an undeserved second chance.

How I had for the past ten months, despite all logic, still hoped for a second chance for the two of us.

How I felt now, knowing there would be none.

Dawn had approached unnoticed. My throat was dry from long speaking, and I felt a strange mixture of sadness and relief. Above all, though, I felt achingly tired.

“I’m so sorry, Remus,“ I whispered as my stroking hand finally fell still. “You wrote you longed for hearing me say that I forgive you. I would, if there was anything to forgive. But there isn’t. You were afraid of rejection - a fear that I understand better than I would like to. And now I will never hear you say that you forgive me. For never hearing you out. For taking away from you the happiness you thought you could have found with me - although I doubt that. I will never understand just what you were seeing in me…”

It was just when the first silent tears were trickling down my cheeks that I felt a pair of gentle hands being placed on my shoulders from behind.

“I think I do,” Potter said quietly, and I knew he had not slept that night. For a long time, neither of us moved.
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