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Severus,

this is the... I don't know how many weeks or months or years have passed since the beginning of the exile. I am alone, alone, alone. I have everything I need, not that you worry. I am well fed and properly clothed, and the stone walls around me protect me, and on the nights of the full moon I am no danger to the world though I lack the grace and mercy of the Wolfsbane. The full moon nights are the only time reference I have. The changing of my body from man to wolf to man tells me that apparently life goes on. I neither see the moon nor the sun set or rise, I don't see rain, snow, sun, I don't feel wind, chill, sun, I don't hear thunder, breeze, sun. I have no reference of stars, none of humidity and none of temperature, and I've forgotten what time of year we're in, it might be bright June or misty November, I don't know. I lost track of time long ago. For some time I've kept a calendar, I wrote down the minutes, hours, days and nights, weeks and months, years. Then, one day - and this is the last reliable piece of information I possess concerning time - I burnt the calendar. I had grown tired of counting, of taking notes, I had grown so very tired of being awake all the time, taking those notes, counting, measuring. I have abandoned time, I have freed myself of its burden, of consciousness.

Now, whenever the old man comes to stock my store-room and to check on me, I never ask him about time. I could, of course, if I wanted to but there's no calendar left to keep, no measurements to adjust, no note to be taken anymore. I don't ask him about time, I never speak to him, I do not look at him. I close my eyes as soon as he Apparates in the cave, lest I see lines in his face that haven't been there before, inches of silver-white hair that haven't been there before, treacherous messengers of time. I've created my own references instead. There is thinking of you and dreaming of you. I cannot tell the difference if there is one.

The bruises and tears I leave upon my body while I'm transformed are the frame of reference with which I measure myself. I perceive my being by the means and menace of my wounds, of wounds I've inflicted upon myself when I'm not myself, when I'm my other self. My wolfish self is the only thing that counts now, the only thing that defines me, the only reality left to me. In him I trust, in him I trust.

I should never have agreed to this. When the old man first came up with this twisted idea, I should have told him off, should have sent him away, should have raised my voice and said: No. Never. What I did was: I listened to him. I listened to his mouth forming words, forming sentences, I watched those lips move, I watched the sentences weave a texture of lies with their threads of threats. Then I got furious, much too late. The words had already drenched my soul and were working their way through my being. I screamed at him, I looked at him, I pleaded with him to tell me that he had lied to me, that his suggestion, his plan was a joke, that we had other possibilities. He merely gazed back at me and observed my insides churning, my veins burning with his plan. He told me that I could have all the time I needed to consider what his words had sketched, all the time I needed to weigh the options against each other and that I could tell him the outcome of my negotiations, my decision any time I liked. Questions would be answered as needed, details discussed, dates set whenever I was ready. He calculated with my knowing how urgently my decision was needed. I should never have listened to him. He can be terribly persuasive, the old man, and he always knows where to tackle. He knows me and my weaknesses, he knows where to hit and exactly when to strike. His blows are dead sure and they always find their target. He aims high and strikes low. He is a master of illusion as well as of suggestion and manipulation, and he knows how to work guilt, how to steer emotions. He's a wizard of the mind, a sorcerer beyond imagination, and he plays us like instruments, orchestrates us as he sees fit. His fine-tuning is exceptional. He makes everything sound so very plausible, inevitable, the only way in, the only way out. I know all that and I always fall into the traps he lays out.

Safety was the magic word. Mine. The Order's. And, above all, yours. The Greater Good. There is no greater good, Severus, there is none. However hard we try to convince ourselves after decisions have been made, there is none. The efforts are worthless, the fruits are foul, the grapes we harvest are grapes of wrath. There is no greater good, no higher aim, no sacred purpose to justify what I have done.

Yet I believed him, and, in my weaker moments, I still do. I tell myself that I didn't have a choice, that it was the only way to serve the Cause, to keep the darkness at bay, to keep you safe. That all my suffering and yours are worth what we've gained. No - no, that's not my weaker moments' thought, that's the thought and the knowledge of my strength and wisdom, of my free will, of my inner self. It has to be, or everything is vain. It can't be all useless, fruitless, foul. There has to be some benefit, even if I can't see it. There simply *has* to be. I couldn't take it if there weren't... I couldn't go on, I couldn't bear the pain a second longer. I couldn't hold on without that tiny, oh so tiny, dim spark of hope. Tell me there is an end to these means, please, Severus, tell me there is. Tell me that my decision has brought you at least some good, safety at least, please, tell me...

I am safe. I can't touch anyone, I can't harm anyone, and nobody can harm me. I am surrounded by walls of stone, there is no window, no light from the outside, no way out and only one way in. For the old man only.

I could do magic in here, if I wanted. I don't want to, I never raise my wand anymore, I'm tired of doing magic. I work with my hands. I cook, I clean up, I make my bed, I wash myself and my clothes, I mend them when they're torn. I rake the fire and I chop wood. I pace the room, the cave, the stony space I live in. I rub my hands against the rough stone walls until they bleed. I cut my hair from time to time, and from time to time I shave. I use a keen blade, Severus, a keen and slender silver blade. I've never cut myself. Not once. I am a coward. I don't belong in Gryffindor. I sweep the floor and clean the stone of my blood. I collect the shreds of skin and flesh that cover the floor of my habitation after a full moon night, I pick them up with my bare hands. I throw them into the fire and I watch them burn. I smell them burn and I refuse to look away before they're completely gone. They take a long time to burn, those pieces of my body. But eventually they are completely consumed by the flames and I can close my eyes. The embers' glow still dances behind my eyelids. The wolf is honest, the wolf is courageous. The wolf is consequent and merciless. The wolf knows no lies, no excuses. The wolf doesn't believe nor doubt. The wolf doesn't pity nor grieve, he doesn't know sorrow and he doesn't know fear. He acts. He is honest and merciless. He is true. In him I trust.

I hope that you are safe as well. It's all I can hope for now, all I dare hope for. Once, my desire, my heart's desire was to make you happy. Before I let myself being convinced. Before I began to listen, before I began to believe in a greater good. Are you happy? Are you at least safe? I wonder, I muse, I think and I dream. Many hours find me dwelling on idle thoughts, trying to imagine what you might be doing at a certain moment, and I picture you eating a meal, raising your glass, staring out of a window, packing a suitcase, boarding a ship, handing money over a counter, sleeping, talking to somebody. Then my chest constricts, my skin starts to sweat, my hands tremble and have to be clenched to fists. I jump up and begin to pace the floor, swearing, screaming, because I'm overcome by jealousy. I am so jealous it feels like it's tearing me apart. I am jealous of everything and everybody, of the beetle you crush under your shoe, the glass that touches your lips, the passer-by whom your gaze caresses, the room that may be filled with your scent, the meat you devour, the piece of clothing you cover yourself with, the people you talk to, the lovers you enjoy, because I am none of that. I am separated from you, can't reach you, can't touch you, miss you, miss you so much... I am so sorry, Severus. Usually I don't begrudge you the pleasures of life. I know that you wouldn't envy anything I relish, but your heart has always been more generous than mine. I try to be calm and gentle, my love, I honestly do. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail.

My intentions in writing this aren't clear to me. I know you'll never read my words, therefore I ask myself why I bother writing them. And I think I know: I want to keep account. I want to render an account of my doings. I want to start a new calendar, a new reference of time. It's a seven-days-schedule I keep, and I slavishly follow it, Severus. I don't think it's possible, but maybe one day you will learn about my life in exile, maybe one day I will be able to distract the old man and slip this piece of parchment into his pocket, and he will, without knowing, drop it in your quarters, maybe one day someone other than the old man will Apparate in my cave, someone I can persuade to be my messenger, Harry perhaps, Sirius, anybody. Maybe one day you will read this and know how much I miss you every day and every night, still and always, and how close you are to me, still and always and again and again. It's still there, you know, the beauty of missing you. Feeling your absence still reminds me of how your presence might have felt, and I still savour the ache with which my body reminds me of the lack of your touch, the lack of your closeness, of your being next to mine. It hurts like hell, and I lean back and let the pain overwhelm me, fill me, sweep away my thoughts, caress my skin, touch me, I let it touch me because it is there, it's always there, and I yield to its fierce caress.

On Mondays (I at one point in time, in the formless, measureless stream of being decided that Monday had started. I may have been completely, utterly wrong in my setting, but to me Monday started then, will always start then, can start any time I choose) I dream of your eyes. I think of your eyes and I open my imagination to their depths and their surface, their glitter and their dullness. I allow myself to remember them looking at me, following me as I moved through the room, along a corridor, across a field. I remember them scorning me, smiling at me, ignoring me, teasing me, caressing me, fighting me, resisting me. I dream of breaking their pride, challenging them to cry, wooing them to shine, kissing them while they're closed, stroking them with mine. I recall silent battles and taciturn recitals, litanies, I glide back to gentle movements and embarrassed looking aside. I envision pride and pain, hatred and hesitation, love and lust. Love and lust. Oh, could I but once more see your eyes cloud with passion or fatigue, could I just one more time see them fill with tears over the sharp, stinging fumes emanating from a boiling cauldron, could I just one more time watch them flutter until they finally close after a fight, could I just one more time feel the weight of their piercing stare on me, could I just once more experience the humiliation of them averting, turning away from me, leaving me naked and vulnerable. I love your eyes, Severus. I loved them while they were my observers, my judges, my praise, my mirror, and I love them the same now that they can't be any of that anymore. Your eyes can be blank as coins and they can be like the sea, calm and peaceful on the surface, a surface no-one may penetrate nor touch without shattering it and thus risking his own life, sinking, downing, dissolving in the abyss. They used to tell me of your love or annoyance, or at least that's what I used to read. I may have been wrong, I may have misread your eyes, but I love them nonetheless. I love them with all my heart, with all my treacherous heart, and with my poisonous thoughts as well. I love your eyes, my darling, my love, my sweet Severus. Now I can call you that, now that I know you will never hear it, never see. That's who you are, you are my love, my darling, my angry and bitter lover, my unbearably sweet Severus. I love you more than I can say, more than I will ever be able to make you believe. I love you, I love you...

On Tuesdays I think of your hands. Tuesdays are difficult days for me. Tuesdays are difficult because I love your hands so much, darling, so very, very much, and to think of them is painful. I miss your hands so much, and yet it is salvation to dream of them. I conjure their image and I let my eyes wander along your fingers as they take hold of a quill, a knife, a rope, as they rearrange your robes, as they unfasten the buttons of your shirt, as they run through your hair, through mine, as they linger on the back of my hand, as they stroke my hand, as they entwine with mine. I let my gaze run along the ups and downs of your knuckles, I let it swim along the lines in your palms that tell of a painful, long life, of great joy and great sorrow, of some sudden death, of courage shaken and regained, and of so much more. I lean into your touch as you cup my cheek, as you caress my neck, as your fingers trail along my throat, along my collarbone, my breastbone, my chest, as they play with my hair and take hold of my erection, I arch into your touch. I take your hands in mine and I carefully stroke them, I raise them to my lips and I worship them with my mouth. I try to envision your hands, working, resting, donning clothes, shedding them, knocking on a wooden door, trembling - I've never seen your hands tremble, my love, or at least I don't remember -, turning over a page of a book, an ancient one, a new one, some book, any book, holding your wand, opening a bottle of wine, drawing a curtain shut, reaching out for me, taking a life, holding a newborn child, balling to fists in rage or in despair, reaching out for me, reaching out for me. My own hands, so eager to meet yours, fly up from my lap, towards you, towards your hands, eager to meet them, eager to hold them, just once, just once, just one last time. I imagine my fingers entwining with yours, like the first time they did, unsure how they could possibly fit, one hand into the other, two hands of different shape, telling different stories, reaching out for each other, they fit together perfectly. I hold your hand. I will never let go of your hand, my love, never. For all the time in the world could be a Tuesday, the day I dream of your hands and think of your hands and there is no difference, at least none I'm aware of.

And then, on Wednesdays, it's your lips that shape my being: They allow me to breathe or they cut me off from the stream of air that fills my lungs. They whisper to me, they sneer like only they can, they open, they close, they are pressed against each other, thin lines, thin, greyish lines. When you open your lips and your tongue darts out to moisten them, my respiration rests. When you close them again and your jaws clench and the blood is drained from your lips by the claws of your teeth, my breath hitches. When they open and close again to form words, to cut off the stream of air that fills your lungs, I long to die, I long to live. Sometimes you raise your finger to your lips, either to tell me "Be quiet now" or to absentmindedly run it along the outline of your mouth or to rest it against your lips within the course of the thought you're currently pursuing. Sometimes your lips curl into a smile, but only very scarcely. You're not a man to smile frequently, my Severus, but once you do the room seems to brighten and my pain is healed. And the taste of your lips, let me think of their taste! Oh, yes, I've tasted wine on your lips, oranges, tea, sweat, salt, honey, blood, chocolate, fear and lust, fulfilment, cinnamon, aconite, lies, betrayal, almonds, promises, promises, lovers past and lovers to be, dust, dew, delicious spices, abundance, joy, sleep, nightmares, dreams, passion, love. I've tasted myself on your lips after you made me come, after you made me lose myself and caught me with your lips, I've tasted myself on your lips. There is nothing more. Nothing else matters. No other truth exists.

Except perhaps for your breath, which I meditate on every Thursday. I listen to the sound of your breath, steadily flowing, rushing, slowing, speeding up, hitching, stopping and anew. I listen to the nuances of pleasure and annoyance your breath can display, excitement, tension of various origins, thirst, I can hear thirst in your breath, and I can smell your breath when I'm close enough - it smells of life. You use your breath to cool down a spoon full of potion you want to sample as not to burn your tongue, which is another story. You use your breath to fog your reading glasses before you take a clean cloth and rid them of grease and stains. You use your breath to caress my skin, expertly, teasingly, breathing along my skin where your tongue has left its trace before, its wet trace, raising my hair, chilling my blood, stilling my breath. You let your breath play with my skin as if there were nothing else for it to do. But there is, Severus, there is. Your breath keeps you alive, the steady flow of air keeps you alive. Therefore I shall always adore your breath, therefore it will always keep me alive as long as it enters and exits your mouth, therefore I shall always be grateful, humbly grateful. I close my eyes and think of you, think of your chest raising and falling, and my lungs mimic those movements, I adjust my respiration to yours, the one I dream of, the one that keeps me alive. I listen to your breathing and join my own stream of life to yours and we become one. If one tries hard enough and concentrates keenly it has to be possible to find the same rhythm of breathing as the beloved, even oceans apart. Or maybe its just pure coincidence if that happens but it does happen nonetheless. We become one. I feel like I'm cut off from all reality then, weightless, meaningless, unconscious, full of life. Breathing is easy, is no effort, life is no effort when we are one. Life is beautiful and easy and weightless and meaningless when we are one, when our breath becomes one, when we unite. Can I force your breath to become ragged when I force mine? Will your breathing mimic mine by means of concentration or due to a mere coincidence? Do you unite with me the way I unite with you? You're my mate, so sure you do. And may it be purposefully achieved or the result of chaotic connections - there is no difference, at least none that I know of, none that matters. All that matters is to think of your breath and to become one with you again, my mate.

The next day to shape is Friday and I shape and fill it with your voice. Do you know that I can hear your voice from time to time? Do you know that I focus on the sound of your voice and shape all the world by the means of that sound? Your voice is calling me, talking to me, cradling me, covering me, choking me, exciting me, calming me. Sometimes I can hear you talking to me, my love, short phrases, words, a sigh. I can hear your voice inside of my head, echoing from the walls that surround me, burning in my body, deafening, whispering, calling me. I talk to you all the time, even when I can't hear you. I whisper in your ear, I mumble into your hair, I call your name, my voice reaches out for you. Sometimes you answer. I remember your voice, I remember a million different shades of your voice, eager, tired, reproachful, happy, exhausted, defeated, worried, timid, elated, excited, blurred by tears, once, hoarse with want. I can still hear your voice talking to me about how you long to hold me in your arms, and I can still hear your voice grow husky and low. Oh, gods, you know how much I love your voice. With all implications. I imagine your voice making love to me, caressing me, holding me close. When I can't hear your voice, my ears roar with its absence and it seems as if the world is about to collapse, as if it intends to drown me with its silence, with indifference, with emptiness, with nothingness. The meaningless noise gets overwhelmingly loud when I don't hear your voice, your sweet, dark, hard voice, your honey voice, your velvet voice, your arousing, heart-shattering, beautiful, beautiful voice. Sometimes I try to battle the roaring silence with my own voice, I try a whisper, a sigh, a moan, a cry. Sometimes I succeed. I whisper words of love and reassurance, I call you my dearest friend, my love, my lover, my darling, my mate. I cry out for you, my words reach out for you, I promise myself to you. I use those ancient words I've practised within my heart a million times but never had the courage to speak aloud. I speak them and I'm scared by their sound and their boldness every time they leave my mouth and heart but I speak them nonetheless. I say: By the moon and the stars and the sun, I give myself to thee without reservation for as long as the moon and the stars and the sun shall shine upon us. And once I've spoken the words I know that they are the truth. And I'm not scared anymore. I dream that I hear your voice answering, echoing the words I have spoken, and I know that it's nothing but a dream, but that doesn't make any difference. I presume, I jump to conclusions, I dream of you, I think of you, I love you.

When my night ends on a Saturday morning my awakening places me next to your body. Before I even open my eyes I sense the warmth your body radiates. And while I lie on my back and inhale your scent and let your warmth penetrate my skin and creep through my muscles and bones into my heart I realise that I am the most fortunate man on earth. I am allowed the indescribable gift of lying next to you, of being your beloved, your mate. There is nothing else to wish for, nothing else to desire. I have it all and it makes me smile. Even if you left me, even if I opened my eyes and you were gone, the bed empty except for my body, I would still feel the bliss of your love. But you haven't left me yet, so I dare open my eyes and look at you. Like I look at you on the photographs I took with me before I left you, photographs that I somehow managed to smuggle through the old man's search of my body, my precious treasures. But for now I've you resting next to me, breathing, warm and wonderful, alive, beautiful beyond imagination and within my arm's reach. And this is what I do: I reach for you and touch your body. As soon as my fingertips make contact with your skin I blink and you are gone, and all I can do is remember. And remember I do. I remember your smile, your face, the soft skin of your cheeks I'm so desperate to kiss, the curve of your brows, the flutter of your eyelids, the rise and fall of your chest, your tempting, oh so tempting collarbones, a line I ache to trace - and cross, your nipples, your heartbeat, your arms, your belly, your legs, your feet, your back, your cheeks, I kiss everything I remember. My eyes close again and your body returns. I watch you as you sit up against the headboard and open your arms. Your faint smile seems to invite me but I am so scared to follow your invitation. I am so afraid. Knowing that this is just a dream makes me almost go insane. I blink and you're still there, holding out your arms, reaching out for me, inviting me. My breath is shaking and my eyes water. With all the courage I can muster I lean forward and let myself sink into your embrace. You close your arms around me and hold me, close, closer, closer still, and tears begin to roll down my cheeks and I am so happy. I am so happy, my love, I am in your arms and you're holding me... I can feel your body against mine, you hold me in your arms and I know everything is going to be all right. And once again, nothing else matters.

Today is Sunday, the last day of the week and the first. This is the day when I write it all down, my memories, my dreams, my thoughts, my desire, my longing, my pain, my sorrow, my grief and my love. This is the day when I clear the table and take out my quill and ink, when I smooth a roll of parchment against the wooden surface of the table before I begin to write down my account. This is the day I write to you. I know it's just words. I know that it's very likely you'll never read them. Words are powerless. Still, I write to you. And, like before, it feels like making love to you. I can caress you with my words and cover you with my sentences, drown you in my metaphors, excite you with punctuation, soothe you with vowels and arouse you with consonants and vice versa. My words mirror my need. I need to get close to you, I need to be held close by you, I need to approach you, to tear down your borders, to tear down mine, I need to touch you, to stroke you, I need to penetrate you and to be penetrated by you. Oh, I want you, I want you so much! I want to claim you for my own, I want to mark you, and I want your mark on my body, too. I want to possess you and rest awhile in your possession, even if it's only for seconds. It will last for a lifetime. I will never let you go.

See, I can still share my life with you, may my words be powerless or not. Despite what I have done I can at least think of you and dream of you. I can still accuse myself and doubt. I've left my mate, and that is a crime beyond words, a felony no punishment will ever be able to extinguish, a sin that can't be measured. And yet I have hope to be forgiven one day. I dream of your redeeming kiss and embrace. I rearrange my world around the whisper of your voice. It tells me "Yes". When I open my heart wide and let go of all my fears I can feel it.

I am not alone. I love you and I am thine, still and again and always. In that I trust.

Remus