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It was Albus who told me that they had found him, one week after the Dark Lord had been gone for good. He had been missing for half a year; one night, on a mission for the Order, he had simply disappeared. No one ever learned about his whereabouts. We had no possibility of finding out whether he was free or captured, whether he was alive or dead – my betrayal had been discovered some months before, and I had been forced to give up spying on the madman who called himself Lord Voldemort.

Only a few days later, it was in every paper. Remus Lupin, member of the Order of the Phoenix, held prisoner for six months by Death Eaters. Found in a dungeon beneath one of the Dark Lord’s latest hideouts, together with twelve lacerated corpses in different states of decay.

The papers gave an account of every detail, and the public gorged them with morbid fascination: that he had been naked when they had found him, curled up in a puddle of excrements on the blood-stained stone floor. That, judging from his appearance, he must have been starved almost to death. That he had been tortured so badly that his spinal cord had been injured, leaving him paralysed from the waist downward. That, at present, he was still unconscious and at St. Mungo’s for further treatment.

A week later, an outcry went through the press. Lupin had finally awoken. If you chose to call his state of mind “awake”. If you chose to say that he still had a mind.

Under the influence of Veritaserum, a Death Eater who had taken part in his capture and torture finally satisfied everyone’s thirst for knowledge. In an earlier state of the war, the Dark Lord had intended to convince the werewolves to join his forces. Luckily for our side, Albus had foreseen this and had sent Lupin to forestall our enemy. Lupin had been successful, and when he had been captured some weeks afterwards, the Dark Lord had wanted revenge. They had kept him imprisoned in the very same dungeon for the entire time, and every full moon they had sent him two other prisoners, who, without access to the Wolfsbane Potion, he consequently had killed. They had not bothered to dispose of the corpses, gloating over his misery at the sight of those he had slain. During the time between the full moons, the Dark Lord had taken pleasure in torturing Lupin with mental images of him killing his victims over and over again. It had driven him insane.

To the press, he was a hero who had sacrificed his mental health for the safety of the wizarding world. They praised him to the skies; he was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, and the Ministry bestowed a regular pension on him. It was downright disgusting. They treated him like public property. Overnight, he transformed from an untrustworthy half-breed into “our hero” – too bad that they only acknowledged his merits now that it was too late.

During the next weeks, one by one, his friends, former colleagues, and the Order members visited. I did not care. I had had no dealings with him except Order business. I did not like him, on the contrary, I had loathed the man with a passion - and I certainly knew of better ways to spend my time than visiting someone who would not even recognise me. At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

I do not know why finally, two months after his return, I found myself in front of an unimpressive white door in the locked ward of St. Mungo’s, half-heartedly listening to the explanations of a nurse.

The first thing I noticed was that he looked far smaller than I remembered. He had always been slender, but now he was fragile beyond anything that could be healthy. There was much more grey in his hair than when I had seen him last, and the lines edged in his delicately chiseled features made him look tired and sad. Traces of tears were on his cheeks. What was the worst, though, was the empty look in the large, amber eyes, which were staring unfocused into space.

I did not know what I had expected from seeing him. Had it been simply curiosity that had driven me to visit him? Had I expected to derive satisfaction from the fact that my last enemy from former days had finally received what he deserved? I must admit that at some moments the thought had crossed my mind. Was it not ironic that finally something had cost him his sanity, and that he almost had done the same to me twenty-two years ago?

Now, however, this thought left only a taste of shallowness. I could not help but almost feel sorry for Lupin, however much I might have hated him before. Watching the unresponsive shell of a former witty and intelligent man, I suddenly felt like an intruder, no better than the reporters who still vainly tried to sneak into his room to take a picture. Would he want me, of all people, to see him in such a condition? I left hastily, with no intention to ever come back.

On a Monday evening five weeks later, I found myself in a chair beside his bed. Why I had returned I cannot tell. I had tried to distract myself with work, had made the attempt to derive satisfaction from giving out even more detentions to my obnoxious students, and yet - since my first visit, his picture before my inner eye would not leave me alone, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that he was not a business of mine.

Now listening to the silence that was enfolding us, I could not help wondering. Wondering at the strange twist of fate that had allowed me, a former Death Eater, to come out of the war unharmed, whereas he, who had not made my mistakes, had been punished in a way that would have been appropriate for my crimes. I had murdered innocent people, had tortured even more, probably condemning some of them to the same fate that Lupin most likely would have to suffer for the rest of his days - outwardly free, but a prisoner of his own shattered mind.

I stayed for a few more minutes, angrily fighting a guilty conscience, and when a nurse entered and announced it to be time for dinner, I left, thankfully leaving behind the sight of him being fed like a child.

About a month later, I received an owl from a solicitor’s office, the letter informing me that the next afternoon, Lupin’s solicitor would visit. I was highly irritated. What on earth could he probably want from me, who had so little relation to his client? It turned out that Lupin had consigned him to deliver me a letter in case of his death, a sudden disappearance lasting longer than a year or acromania, in the latter case to be delivered four months after the diagnosis had been confirmed. Having explained his task, the man handed me the letter and took his leave, leaving me even more confused than I had been before.

A week passed by. The letter stayed unopened. For some strange reason, I could not bring myself to break the seal. Ridiculous as it sounds, it appeared foreboding to me in a way that made me wish I had never received it. Finally, after another week, I found myself beside his bed once again.

“What does it say that you couldn’t tell me yourself?”

Of course I did not expect an answer. I did not even really know why I had come here again. Eventually, I opened the envelope and read.

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Dear Severus,

I do not even know whether or not you will read this. Maybe you will throw this letter into the fire the very moment you receive it. I could not blame you. Nevertheless, I hope that you have not done so.

You probably wonder why I leave you a letter. What could I have to say that I could not tell you personally? Why should I have to tell you anything, in the first place? We were not friends, we were not even really on speaking terms – at least as far as you were concerned. There is something I have always wanted you to know, though, and since you would never listen to me, a letter seems to be the only possibility.

I want you to know that I am sorry. I am sorry for what happened back in our sixth year at school, when I almost killed you. I know you probably will not believe me when I tell you that Sirius had not let me in on what he had planned, but it is the truth. I did not know. He did not tell anyone, neither Peter, nor James, nor me. I would never have allowed it.

When I awoke in the infirmary the next morning and Albus told me what had happened, all I could think of was you. I had hurt you - albeit unintentionally - and I wanted nothing more than to tell you that I had not known what Sirius had been doing. To tell you how sorry I was. But you would not talk to me. When I tried to make you listen, you told me to leave. You said that you hated me. You were so cold… I never forgot the expression in your eyes. It tore me apart, because I loved you, and I had hoped so much for you to feel the same.

Later, Sirius told me that he had feigned my handwriting to pass you a message, telling you to meet me at the Shrieking Shack and how to get there. He had not even thought about the danger. I will never understand how he could have been that stupid, and our friendship never fully recovered. But I cannot blame him entirely – I am mostly responsible for what happened. I was afraid you would reject me if I told you what I am. It was weak of me, and I cannot tell you how much I regret it. Nothing of this would have happened if I had not been such a coward, and I cannot blame you for hating me. You must have thought that everything that had been between you and me during the previous months had been nothing but a lie. That my friends and I had laughed at you for your naivety to believe I would love you. But I did.

Severus, I loved you, and I love you still. I do not want to leave without you knowing the truth. As much as I have always longed for hearing you say that you forgive me, I know that I do not deserve it, because I destroyed everything that could have been.

I hope with all my heart that one day you will find someone who will be able to make you as happy as you deserve to be.

Yours.

Remus

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Having finished reading, I watched him silently. He did not seem to have gained any weight since my first visit over three months ago. His pale skin, hardly standing out against the white sheets, gave him an almost ethereal appearance. In a way that I cannot describe, he looked innocent and young, despite his faded scars, tired features and greying hair. Younger even than so many years ago, when there had been kisses, touches and sweet promises of love, when I had thought him to be the most wonderful person I had ever met, and I the luckiest one for being allowed to be so near to him. Before I had met his other self. Before I had realised that I had meant nothing to him.

“Let bygones be bygones, Lupin,” I said, wiping off with my handkerchief a small trace of spittle that was trickling down his chin from his slightly parted lips. “I believe you, but it doesn’t change anything. It was over twenty-two years ago.”

After this I buried myself in my work. I wanted to believe what I had said. Let bygones be bygones. Even if he had been able to tell me in person, it would not have changed anything. Too much had happened. Too much had been destroyed. It would never have been the same. And as it was, it did not matter anymore.

For three months, it worked. Until the last sleepless August night, when the full moon was shining brightly down on me through the window of my bedroom in my old house I use to retreat to during the holidays. That night, I could not help thinking of him, of how he was right now. As damaged as a wolf as he was as a man, unable to move, with no understanding of what was happening to him, why he had to undergo the excruciating pain of the transformation. Alone.

I did not sleep that night.

Two days later found me in front of his door. When I entered, a nurse was feeding him. She was chattering cheerfully to him about how ‘we’ were feeling today, and I felt an irritation welling up in me that I normally only derive from Potter’s presence. Using my most penetrating scowl, I run her out of the room.

The procedure of feeding Remus was agonisingly slow. He was wearing a bib, because his swallowing reflex was partially damaged and he would often choke on the mashed food. Every spoonful he kept down, though, was a small victory, since he was still appallingly underweight.

When it was obvious that he could not eat more – the dish was not even half-cleared – I cleaned his face and sat down at his bedside again, carefully taking hold of a small, trembling hand. The tremors were an after-effect of excessive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse and would never fully cease. Running my thumb in small circles over the back of his hand, I did nothing but watch him, and gradually I realised that I had been wrong. Even though the past could not be changed, even though old feelings could not be revived and lost time could not be regained - it did matter that I finally had learned the truth. I had learned something about myself, and it did not make me proud.

When the nurse came back to collect the dishes, she was more than surprised at the sight she was presented with. According to her, Remus was afraid of any physical contact and would begin crying and shaking violently the very moment someone touched him. I still do not really know what I felt at hearing this. Was it happiness because he reacted differently to me? Or was it sadness, because this was a remembrance of what could have been, had destiny chosen another path for the two of us? I think it might have been a little of both.

The next evening I returned punctually for dinner, just as the next one, and the one after that. The staff got used to me feeding him every evening, and I got used to sitting at his bedside, watching his small, motionless form, quietly talking to him while stroking a slender, white hand.

After some time, I began reading to him from the books which his friends told me to be after his fancy. They had done so themselves during their visits, but they had lives to go on with, families to care for, other friends to meet- friends who would laugh at their jokes, answer when asked a question and smile instead of cry when being touched. Their visits grew much less frequent. I had no such friends, no family and no life beside my teaching, and I did not mind coming here every day.

In fact, I even found that I missed it if I had to stay away for one or several days. I missed reading aloud to him - illogical as it was, for if you keep it in perspective, it was not different from reading to an empty room. I missed telling him about all the small, nonrelevant things and events of the day – about Albus’s newest robe, uglier than any that I had seen before, about Filch’s never ending requests to be allowed to reintroduce chains in detentions, about Hagrid’s newest absurd pet, the students' latest escapades. I missed the feeling of his hand in mine, missed the soothing effect that just watching him had on me. I missed him.

One evening four months ago, I fell asleep in my chair. When I awoke, the watch told me that it was beyond midnight already. Through the window the nearly full moon threw strays of silvery light on the bed. Remus must have been in the grips of a nightmare, because he was shaking uncontrollably, tiny whimpers escaping his lips, pearl-like tears shimmering on his pale cheeks. He looked so beautiful, so much like a lost child.

Only moments later, he woke with a start, his unfocussed eyes darting around frantically. He was panting for air and still whimpering fearfully between the shuddering breaths. Instinctively, I got up from my chair and lay down next to him on the bed, pulling his frail form into an awkward embrace. Never in my life had I comforted anyone, and I am sure I did poorly, but to him my touch and the soft, meaningless words I whispered seemed to be enough. Slowly, his violent trembling subsided, and after some time his breathing evened out and he was asleep again.

My attention now no longer directed at comforting him, I noticed a sharp, unpleasant smell. Carefully, I disentangled myself from his sleeping form and got up to turn on the light. It was not until then, until I saw Remus lying there in all his fragile, innocent, defeating beauty, the sheets and his hospital-pyjama soaked with his urine, that I finally realised that I still loved him.

Quietly, I performed a cleaning charm on him, the bedding and my own robes before bending down and placing a light kiss on his white forehead. It is the only one I have allowed myself until today.

The next evening, I began stroking his hair while reading to him, and I have done so ever since. I slowly run my fingers through golden brown and far too much grey, the soft strands gently caressing my skin, just like they did so many years ago. He seems to like it- or at least that is what I want to believe - because sometimes, only sometimes, he will smile.

It was one of those small, broken ghosts of a smile that finally made me cry.