The title comes from a poem written by Rupert Brooke, and you may find it in its entirety at the end of the chapter.
I dreamt I was in love again
With the One Before the Last,
And smiled to greet the pleasant pain
Of that innocent young past.
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Remus had been walking for an hour now, maybe two. He wasn't sure just how long, he only knew that the sudden cold he felt had finally pulled him out of his reverie. Even as he realised the foolishness of walking into the Dark Forest alone, his gaze came to rest on the path in front of him and the creature lying in wait there.
How trite, Remus thought with a snort. At first glanced it appeared to be nothing more than a large, somewhat furry, rock. Noting how far he had walked coupled with the cold, Remus had been ready to turn around and leave the Pogrebin behind him, when it spoke.
He will never love you.
Remus froze; he knew that a Pogrebin would say something vicious and nasty but was unable to stop the pain its words caused regardless.
He mocks you. He hates what you are.
Remus began to walk away then, trying to ignore the creature. Its words echoed his own thoughts only too closely; its words cut too close to his heart.
Why do you love him, werewolf? Why love the one that is disgusted by your very existence?
Desperately Remus tried to concentrate. Unable to block out the voice, he spoke aloud. "Pogrebin. They attempt to subdue their victim by filling them with a sense of hopelessness, continuing their litany until their prey collapses, at which point the Pogrebin attempts to devour them."
You thought things were different, that he was warming up to you as a friend – maybe more. Then he saw you as you truly are. He told them all that a monster was teaching them. He chased you away from the one place you love and away from him. He never wanted you and he never will.
Remus had stopped reciting long before the Pogrebin had finished. What the creature said was true. Snape hated him, hated what he was and Remus knew this. However, what the creature had said first was also true; he had hoped that Snape was beginning to see him as something more than a monster. They had begun to speak on semi-friendly terms; Snape even smiling at him once. Remus had thought things were changing and he had been ready to act upon his long-term feelings for Snape. Snape's actions of the past week showed exactly how Snape viewed him, however, and it was not in any way friendly.
The Pogrebin was silently advancing to the spot where Remus now stood, lost in his thoughts and in his pain.
Everytime he sees you, he sees a monster. Who would love a beast such as you? He will never feel anything for you but disgust and hatred. Why live if your love will never return your feelings? What's the point in going on with the pain in your heart? Let me help you…
What was the point, indeed, Remus thought. Again, the creature spoke the truth. Snape would never love him; Remus knew this. He also knew he would ever not love Severus Snape, even now. There was so much good in the man that no one else ever saw, perhaps it was that no one else but Remus saw it. Saw how Snape risked so much as a double agent, saw how Snape protected the children he swore he hated, saw how Snape made the Wolfbanes potion every month for him even though it was hard and time consuming – and Snape was a man that hated wasting time. There was so much there, and yet Snape could not or would not see the same in him.
An uninterested glance toward the Pogrebin told Remus it was nearly too close now, and if he wanted to leave now would be the perfect time to do so. He did not move, and watched the creature slowly creep closer. For once in his life, he considered finally giving in to the despair and hopelessness that floated at the edge; letting it overwhelm and consume him. He very well would have at that moment, had a laugh not rang out through the tops of the trees. As it were, the laughter was enough to snap Remus out of his self-pity long enough to take out his wand.
He was angry now. Angry with himself, angry at the creature, angry with Snape. Anger that was a long time in coming and nearly overwhelming in its suddenness and depth. Anger fueled his emotions and his words as he pointed his wand at the Pogrebin. "Stupefy!"
The spell at the desired effect of stopping the Pogrebin, but what surprised Remus was the not-so-faint thud he heard from several feet behind the creature. Although he felt he had had enough of the forest and its inhabitants tonight, he would not be able to leave without knowing if his spell had hit someone or something else, possibly injuring them.
Cautiously stepping around the now silent stone Remus look around, hoping to spot what had fallen. Three trees away from where he had stood, he found what he was looking for and wished he hadn't. Lying at the base of the tree was a woman with silver hair, brown doe breeches, and a white tunic. Around her head there was a wreath made of silver, nearly matching the color of her hair but shining as through a light of its own. A Samodivi. Sighing, he kneeled beside her and took her wrist before speaking softly.
"Madam?"
The Samodivi opened her eyes immediately, in the same movement yanking her hand away and standing. Remus followed suit, knowing his night was not going to be improving any time soon.
"You dare cast a spell at me, wizard?"
"I did not mean to attack you, Samodivi. I merely meant to stupefy the Pogrebin that meant to attack me…"
"That Pogrebin was my pet."
Of course, Remus thought wryly.
"He would not have made to attack you, as you put it, if you weren't in my way. The forest is not a safe place for one as weak as you are; my pet merely fed off your self-loathing. You cannot blame him for that, the fault is yours."
"I apologise, Samodivi."
"I do not want your apologies, wizard. The words of your kind mean nothing to me. You're a foolish race, and you will pay for attacking me." She spoke with a quiet malice that sent cold down Remus' spine, a reaction that sparked his anger to life again. Never had he been quick to anger, but this had not been a good week for Remus Lupin.
"I assure you I did not mean to attack you, Madam. Had I wished to harm you, I would have taken your wreath and made you my slave." Remus thought after that perhaps that had not been the wisest thing to say, reminding the Samodivi of her one weakness, but it was the truth. Had he taken her wreath she would be his to control, although she would have made both of their lives living hell.
Apparently however, she meant to do just that anyway. Lips curled in disgust, she nodded. "Be that as it may, I concede you your point, wizard. You did indeed have the chance to enslave me, and for whatever reason you did not. For that, I will do this for you. You will not die this night, wizard-wolf." Remus noted the wind had picked up, no doubt called upon by the tree nymph in front of him. "Hear this then: The Pogrebin spoke only the truth to you, and so only the truth will harm you. The one you love always will you love, and miserable will you always be. Not only in the matters of heart, but through all you love him with - your entire being will be destroyed. Your only salvation will be to have him love you in return, a pure, full, true love." The Samodivi laughed before fading, but Remus was too shocked to reply. Although he doubted her curse was affecting him yet, the pain in his heart heavier than it had been yet that night.
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I dreamt I was in love again
With the One Before the Last,
And smiled to greet the pleasant pain
Of that innocent young past.
But I jumped to feel how sharp had been
The pain when it did live,
How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten
Were Hell in Nineteen-five.
The boy's woe was as keen and clear,
The boy's love just as true,
And the One Before the Last, my dear,
Hurt quite as much as you.
Sickly I pondered how the lover
Wrongs the unanswering tomb,
And sentimentalizes over
What earned a better doom.
Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,
Strews pinkish dust above,
And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!
But this -- ah, God! -- is Love!"
-- Better oblivion hide dead true loves,
Better the night enfold,
Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,
Should lie about the old!
Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.
But here's the worst of it --
I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,
You ever hurt abit!
Rupert Brooke