Blaise was dying.

Everyone was denying it, still claiming him to be young enough, and strong enough, to snap back and be well. But I knew. I, who knew him best, had only to look into his eyes to know. And he was dying.

I should have realised that something was wrong when he first had that mild fever. But he had brushed it off as nothing and continued what he was doing. Because he was Blaise and I trusted him implicitly, I believed him. I told myself that it was a bit of a cold and that he would be fine in the morning.

Only, he wasn't.

He wasn't worse the next day, but the fever still clung to him. I told him to go to the hospital wing, but, of course, he refused and I didn't push him. I trusted him too much and let myself be blind.

His health only deteriorated from there. It took a week to convince him to go see Madam Pomfrey. He argued all the way there, but I noticed how thin and pale he was and, when we came to the stairs, he had to lean on me to walk up them. I was afraid for him.

No one in the hospital wing could fathom what was wrong with him. Mediwizards from St. Mungo's fared no better. They wanted to take him away for further testing, but he refused and no one, not even me, could persuade him to go.

His condition continued to worsen. His fever rose and a horrible cough developed. The day after that he began coughing up blood and when he spoke, which was rarely, it was only in a hoarse whisper. He didn't need to speak to me; one look was enough to convey everything he wanted to tell me. Sometimes, though, he didn't know who anyone was, and that made the situation that much more unbearable.

People came every day to see him, to ask questions, to inquire after his will. I never moved from his side, sitting quietly, ever ready to sponge his forehead or help him drink. I had ceased to care what anyone thought of me, because he was dying and, very shortly, there would be no time for us. Appearances and positions could wait because soon there would be no Blaise and I would have all the time in the world to be someone important. At that moment, being near him was everything.

I waited patiently, hardly sleeping or eating. When I did sleep, it was unintentional and I would wake stiff from sleeping in a hard chair. Everyday he slipped farther and farther from the world and, consequently, me. Most of his remaining time he spent in a delirious haze, talking to people who weren't there in that terrible whisper. I answered him calmly, sometimes reaching out to touch his hand. When he was coherent, he allowed me to brush his hair and talk to him quietly about nothing at all. I was the only one he never sent away.

It is human nature to hope eternally, but even as my mind and heart waited for recovery, my body already knew and felt heavy with his death.

The night, the last night, passed strangely - slowly and then impossibly fast. As the first light of dawn crept through the windows, his breathing changed and I knew that he was awake.

I leaned close and whispered, "I love you, Blaise". And I kissed him, not caring if he knew me or not.

His eyes opened slowly and he touched my cheek briefly. He knew me; I will swear it to my dying day. It was to me that he said goodbye.

And then, with a last ragged breath, he closed his eyes and died. I looked at him a final moment, memorizing his features even as I prayed for a miracle. But I knew and, after that moment passed, I got up and went to get the others to prepare his funeral.

There was work to be done.

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