She stands in front of the large bay window, looking out into the dismal gray square of London. Soft rays of afternoon sunlight dance lazily across her dyed black hair and dull listless eyes. Her delicate hands are pressed against the glass, her long fingers seeming to glow.

"Say something," he whispers.

She traces a fingertip across the cracked pane of glass, but does not look at him.

"What would you like me to say?"

Her voice is softer than he remembers. She sounds calmer, more subdued.

She sounds wrong.

He takes a step towards her. She doesn't seem to notice, or at least, she doesn't acknowledge it.

"Just talk to me, like we used too. Don't you remember?"

She shakes her head. The dreary sun is momentarily hidden by clouds and the lie of light in her eyes is suddenly gone. He can see now how empty and haunted her eyes really are.

"No, I don't. I stopped remembering and talking to you when you married her."

He sighs. Of course she doesn't. It was such a long time ago. Before school, before they changed and grew up.

"Do you remember when we kissed?"

The question cuts the air like a knife, like the knives she used to use on her pale skin.

"Of course not," he lies, even though he can still taste her on his lips, still taste her, like strawberries and cinnamon.

"Of course not. I didn't expect you to. After all, you and I..." She pauses, as if to think. "Well, we're different, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't remember because you don't want to. And sometimes that memory is the only thing keeping me sane."

He feels a twinge of guilt.

"We're not so different."

"As different as people can be. We grew up under the same circumstances, shared so many things. But we didn't share her. We couldn't share her."

He knows of whom she speaks. The living shadow that crept under her skin and made her its slave.

"And that's when things changed. But you were too busy to notice. Too busy and too blind."

He looks at her then. Really looks at her. She is wearing one of her brother's old tee shirts and a pair of sleep pants printed with snitches. Both are too large, and her small figure is clearly visible. She has gained back some weight but the disease is not gone and it shows. Her black hair has lost its shine and hangs limply to her shoulders. Her arms are crisscrossed with too many scars to count. And he realizes that he lost her long ago, and it's too late to repair the damage now. His wife's cousin, the girl with the bright smile who made tiaras from daisies and had in-depth conversations with dolls is gone. The girl before him is broken and bruised and bears the wounds of battles he cannot begin to understand. A war that required no weapons or soldiers. A war that she waged on herself.

And he thinks perhaps he loves this girl more.

"I love you, Lily," he says suddenly.

She turns to look at him then, for the first time since he has arrived. She tears her gaze from the window and fixes her large amber eyes on him.

"And I loved you, Scorpius."