She also loved him. The way he held her, the way he made love to her, the way his hands became sweaty when they held hands, but she didn't care. He was the only man for her.
He didn't want to hold hands with her in public. Not that he didn't love her, but she was dating his best friend, and that would be treason. He didn't want to hear it when his best friend found out, but every time he tried to tell her goodbye, she would fall into his arms and weep, telling him how she couldn't live without him, and he knew she was telling the truth, so he would just hold her and forget why he was going to leave her, because all that mattered was that she stilled love him.
The night before she was going to marry her fiancé she called him into her bedroom. It was covered in rich fabrics and crystals and it was a dream room. It was at the other side of her fiancé's house. She told him she was committed to God and couldn't sleep with him, so she stayed on the other side of the house, but that was a lie. She had sex with his best friend every time he left the house or they were alone.
"Remus," she said quietly as if she was afraid of what his answer might be.
"Yes Lily," he said, turning from looking around her room in aw to face her, smiling warmly, but she didn't return it. Instead, she stood up and walked up right in front of him. She moved his hands to be on her back, and rested her hands on his shoulders, her arms up against his chest.
She looked up with her big emerald-green eyes into his, as if looking for something, and whispered, "Do you love me?" When he didn't answer, simply stare, she looked away from him, walking away from him. "Go," she whispered, her back to him. "Go!" He could tell she was crying, but didn't want to hurt her anymore. He couldn't tell her he loved her. She deserved better then him. She deserved a good home in which she would never have to worry about money or anything, in which she would feel safe. He knew that when the full moon approached she couldn't help but keep glancing at him. She was frightened but what he would become, but every morning afterwards he would wake up with her sitting next to him, a wet cloth across his forehead, her small hands pushing it into his scars.
He left that night. He didn't look back then. He knew she would be happier with the his friend, who could provide for her better. But looking back fifteen years later as he came face-to-face with her 13-year-old son, he couldn't help but think that if he had told her the truth, told her how he loved her and wanted to touch her and never let go of her and mark her as his own and see her stomach swollen with his child, that maybe, just maybe, she would still be alive.