I used to have a crush on my cousin Sirius' friend Remus. He was kind and sweet and treated me gently, not all rough-and-tumble like Sirius or the rest of his friends. He always seemed sad. So I tried to cheer him up. Often, I tripped over myself when running to get him to see something.
I was klutzy at five.
At school I learnt about werewolves. I hated them because I was taught to. They killed and raped. I never wondered why they thought so.
I was idiotic at thirteen.
When I was old enough, I tried to become an Auror. Four years later, I succeeded. I hadn't given much thought to the reality of the job. I was only interested in the rush of excitement, the adrenaline singing through my veins, the reputation an Auror garners.
I was reckless at twenty-one.
When I met him again after joining the Order, and finding out that he was a werewolf, I was ashamed of myself. So I talked to him and tried to cheer him up again. I helped out at Grimmauld Place as much as I could. Which was quite worse than when I didn't help. But I helped. Which was something, at least.
I was overeager at twenty-five.
I tried and tried to get him to notice me as more than just a friend, or Sirius' cousin. Sirius was the only one who knew how I felt, though I've no doubt that everyone else except Remus guessed. Then Sirius died and I had no one to turn to. And for the next year I tried to comfort and court him using what I remembered of Sirius.
I was getting desperate at twenty-six.
One day I was writing in my diary and I left it in the kitchen when Kingsley Shacklebolt called me to go upstairs. When I came back down, I found Remus poring over every page. Then he looked up, got up and kissed me deeply.
I am blissfully married at twenty-nine.