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When he was still a little boy, not long after the bite, his parents shuffled him from one specialist to another in the hopes of finding a cure. Those first twelve months were the hardest. He could see the sadness on his mother's face, the resigned acceptance on his father's, and yet despite this, his youthful hope shone bright. In those moments after the Full was over when his mother fussed over his self-inflicted wounds, Remus would say, "Maybe next month, Mum." His greatest wish however, was to greet her with the sunrise and say, "It worked, I'm cured!"
They'd taken many precautions to get him to Hogwarts, stories concocted to explain his many absences, reasons for his trips to the infirmary. He'd thought his life was over when his three dorm mates discovered his secret. They'd given him the greatest gift of all when instead of rejecting him, they found ways to share his curse with him, to make those Full Moon nights bearable. They were all growing up, however, and though he belonged, he still stood on the outside looking in. When he watched as James and Lily disappeared out the Entrance Hall doors into the night sky, he wished that he too could say, "Let's go walk under the moonlight."
It was bitterly cold the day they laid James and Lily Potter to rest. Dumbledore wouldn't allow him there at the cemetery -- he was too broken by grief, having lost everyone who had become his family in one fell swoop. Remus has always wished he'd been there to whisper, "Goodbye. I'm sorry. I'll avenge your deaths if it's the last thing I do. And I promise, I'll watch over Harry." Instead, he'd faded into obscurity and left the child who was as good as a nephew to the damned Dursleys, something he'll never forgive himself for.
When Harry turns those eyes on him, the accusation and the grief in his gaze telling him that the boy is broken inside, that he's lost whatever little innocence that had been left, Remus wishes he could tell him that it was going to be okay. Instead, he offers what little comfort he has to offer and then watches helplessly as Harry tears himself away from his hold and chases after Bellatrix. The croaked out, "I can't lose you too," is lost in the confused clamoring of voices echoing around the room. Perhaps it's best. He wishes he could've saved Sirius, could've stopped the Boy Who Lived, wishes he'd had one more chance to say, "I love you, brother," and had actually taken it.
She's tenacious in her pursuit, he'll give her that. Remus doesn't know what else to tell her to get her to leave him alone. She's rejected every argument he's raised, every fact he's pointed out. He wonders sometimes if she's being purposely obtuse -- it is a Black family trait, after all. All the same when he sees what his rejection of her has done, he can't help the twinge of guilt and remorse and regret ride him hard, especially in the darkest, loneliest days after Dumbledore's death. It's then that he wishes most of all that he had the courage to say, "Okay, you win."