She sat staring at the wall when he entered the room, her back to the window. One of the healers had placed a picture on the wall in a misguided attempt to add some cheeriness to the drab ward. He stared at it unwilling to look at her, his hands clutching nervously at the box, sweaty fingers slipping on the smooth cardboard. The painting showed a bowl of fruit, it stood unmoving and dull. He supposed they wouldn't want to frighten any of the people here with pictures moving unexpectedly. His gaze shifted to the window again, it was almost painful to look at her. He shuffled his feet, it was fitting he supposed that the weather was as stormy and grey as he felt. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"I've brought you some butterscotch." He set the box down lightly on the nightstand and instantly regretted it. He felt somehow more lost without something in his hands, "I know it's your favorite."
He finally looked at her. She gave no sign that she had heard him, staring fixedly at the wall her eyes blank and unknowing. He walked in front of her, wanting at least to feel as if she saw him. He didn't look her in the eyes at first, his own eyes jumping to the painting again. It bothered him. Paintings were supposed to be full of movement and color, a reflection of life. This was dull and lifeless, not a trace of vibrancy or inspiration. He did his best not to compare it to her. If he hadn't been so lost in his own bitter thoughts he might have noticed the brief flash of recognition in her eyes, gone as quickly as it had come.
"I've gotten a job." He wasn't certain why he had volunteered that particular piece of information, the time when she might have acted as his confidant was long gone, and he had lost any right he might have had left for that privilege months ago. "It's a good job." He wished that he could stop talking, but couldn't bear the silence. She had once been so bright and energetic, chattering and laughing; now she was unnaturally still and silent. "I'm grateful for it." And he was, in a way. He didn't want to have to teach a bunch of brats, but he knew no one beside Dumbledore would give him a chance.
"Isn't the weather beautiful?" her sweet voice startled him from his musings. It was so very very wrong. Faint and weak and lacking the happiness it had always held.
"What?" he gasped, off balance.
"Spring is my favorite time of year you know." He did know, he knew her as well as he knew himself. At least that had been true once. "Remember when we were younger? And we used to sit on the banks of the lake when the weather started to get warmer." She smiled.
"I remember." His voice was choked, the memories were too happy; he didn't deserve even the memory of her, not after what he had done.
"This weather just reminds me of those times you know? Before all… this." She gestured vaguely still staring at the wall instead of the window. He turned to face the wall, willing it to turn into a window showing the beauty of springtime. He had reduced her to this. "It was then you know, when I realized the truth. About, how I felt about you." His breath caught in his chest.
"I think I always had felt that way about you from the moment we first met." Could she be saying what he thought? That was all he had ever wanted, once. It seemed like an eternity ago. Now he would give anything just for her to live. Memories flashed to the front of his mind from where he had been doing his best to smother them, himself pathetically begging his master to spare her, to kill the others, but to spare her. He wondered whether it was worth it. She probably would have preferred to go down fighting, the way Potter had. Not tortured slowly till there was nothing left in her mind but faded memories.
"I love you." Her words ripped a hole in his heart, guilt weighing heavily on him. Was it worth it now that he knew? She had loved him and he had destroyed her just the same.
"I have always loved you. … James." He froze. James. Of course. It was foolish of him to assume that because she had spoken she had recognized him. She loved James, he had known that. Besides, he thought with a cynical smile, she had been reliving good memories.
"I loved you." She whispered again, sounding broken and lost, her voice tinged with a hint of betrayal.
"He knows." He said, his voice cold and detached. The difficulty he had had speaking to her before was gone now. He felt empty.
"Goodbye Lily." He didn't say anything else. There was no point in saying "I love you." And "I'm sorry" could no longer have meaning after what he'd done. He turned and left the ward with quick even strides desperate to escape. If he had turned back he might have seen the look of malicious triumph of her face, the way her eyes flashed full of vengeance for the briefest instance, before it vanished once more into nothingness. When the healer made her rounds five minutes later she found Lily Potter sitting staring blankly at the wall, an unopened box of butterscotch candy stuffed into the wastebasket.
AN: I am on this site to improve my writing skills, so feel free to give constructive criticism.