I should have written him a note. I know I should have. There was a moment before Maria sealed the envelopes, when I could have just slipped it in casually. She'd have read it, though. I like Maria well enough, but sometimes she makes me want to scream. And if she had read it, the high holy hell Dear Old Mum would raise! Else Maria would keep the knowledge for a more opportune moment. Spend the rest of our mutual life with that hanging over my head? I think not.

Now here's a question I could ask him, if I dared to face him alone. How do you tell your wife-to-be, her mother and your mother that you couldn't possibly care less about cakes and dishes and flower? For efficiency's sake, I should say it. However . . . it might be hazardous to my health. I continue to dream up a creative excuse every time. Safety first.

I never wanted this traditional wedding. He knew it, I knew it, everyone in earshot knew it. I never wanted a traditional girl. I can't imagine what he must think. No. Wait. Scratch that. I can.

Why did I do this? As I've said many times to many teachers, "It seemed like a good idea at the time." In some ways it still does, in more ways I want to hang myself. I guess that makes me resigned.

But let me make one thing clear. The reconciliation with my mother was a perk. Not a motive. This isn't about Dear Old Mum. It's about him. Not that he did anything wrong, he never does. He's my personal saint. There's no other way to put it. But it is about him – and about me. The coward that I am. At the time I thought I was being noble.

I was scared of losing him. That's what it comes down to.

In today's world, it would have been too dangerous; it would have been too easy to forget to lock the doors and windows one night. In the eyes of our world, he's less than me. Our rank is different. Contrary to popular belief, I do read the papers for more than the crossword. I know what sometimes happens to the impure partner in mixed marriages. And besides, so many, in both our world and the Muggle one, are violently prudish. I hate to think what could have happened to him. To both of us, really.

But he lives alone now. Not living with me might move him down a few places on the presumed list of targets, but he's still on it. Of course he is, being who and what he is. So I've accomplished – probably nothing.

I don't know if I was right to invite him to the wedding. James was no help in the decision – he was quietly simmering. Still is, really. It might help to sob out a declaration of love on his shoulder, but pride makes me practical: It wouldn't help much. I have to admire his loyalty. I'm hurting our friend, terribly, and yet James is in my wedding. I'm surprised Dear Old Mum didn't pick out my best man for me too.

I must say, I'm not disappointed that she let me back into her heart. I'm rather glad she picked Maria. The more traditional my wife, the less likely it is that I'll be known for associating with those below me. And, hopefully, the safer he will be.

I take risks. It's the way I am. But I will not risk him. Every time I think this out – and I've thought it out many, many times. I've layered his ghost through every chamber of my brain. I've heard many hours struck off on many long nights. I've watched the moon through many phases while I went over it and over it.

Every time I think it out, I come back to that. I can't risk him. Maybe he can accept the risk, but I just can't.

A letter. If I'd written him that letter. If I'd written it, I could have told him: Not to hate me, please not to hate me. That I love him still. That I couldn't bear to lose him. That it was easier to let him go so I can hold him always, a perfect memory of a living saint, mostly good and silver-pure. His memory will never be in danger, you see? That's probably all my letter would have said. That I'll remember him always, my saint, my friend, my lover, my Remus.