"We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."

- Charles Bukowski

Remus

I thumb through the pages of my book lazily, with my other hand curled around a steaming mug of tea. The others are all asleep and James and Peter's curtains are drawn, but I relish the peacefulness of the night and the soft glow of the stars to put me to sleep. Tonight is a particularly clear one and the window is open, welcoming in a cool breeze to flutter the pages of my book.

The air is still and the only sound is of the boys' sleeping breaths. And then Sirius sits up abruptly and the dark grey eyes that find mine are widened in terror. I pause at the sudden movement, and my heart shudders to a halt.

"Nightmare?" I whisper softly, still terrified of scaring him, and Sirius only takes a deep breath, dark hair plastered to his temples. I nod and quietly pull back my covers, and I can feel my pulse humming erratically at the base of my neck as Sirius pads towards me. I can only think how he looks so much older than seventeen. Dark circles plague his under-eye, no doubt from a lack of sleep, but his eyes are as wide and bright as the day we met.

I know that from where he lays, Sirius can see the night sky and the great expanse of stars. I also know that at some point, I will wake with his arm wrapped around my side and his head buried in my shoulder. I know that I love him.

But what I don't know is how to fill the gaping hole in his chest. The Grimmauld Place-shaped hole that keeps him awake at night and spawns the terror that turns his dreams to nightmares.

Everyone is having their fair share of nightmares. Last week, Dorcas Meadows' mother was murdered, and her father stole her away from the school the following morning. The week before that, a prominent member of the Wizengamot was found floating in the Thames. We are, no doubt, about to wake up to read a newspaper with an obituary column turned short story.

Beside me, Sirius' sleeping form shivers and then lays still, his breathing becoming deep and drawn out. Staring up at the ceiling, I bite down the lump in my throat. Sleep is unlikely, even with Sirius lying beside me.

--

I am right about the newspaper, lots more dead names to add to the list. The Ministry is in a state of distress. Everyone is in a state of distress. Breakfast is devoid of the usual hum of voices. Everybody's throats have closed up.

Across from me, James is staring determinedly down at his toast, Lily hasn't bothered to come down, Sirius doesn't eat breakfast, and Peter is quietly sipping his orange juice. I am not even in the room; my soul has fallen through the floor. I imagine a huge gust of wind comes along and rips the ceiling off so that everybody has the dust shaken from them.

And the mornings continue like this, and more people die and more people break and the only thing I look forward to is the nights where the sky spills into my room and fills the world with hope. And when Sirius' hand slips into my own, for a split second, everything feels exactly as it should be.

It's one of those nights - where the sky joins the earth and the stars are close enough to reach out and touch. James and Peter walk ahead and Sirius is at my side as we stumble into the darkness towards the lake where we plan to waste the night with cheap fire whisky and an invisibility cloak.

The moon is half full, but still, I can't help but lend it a glance every so often as if it might change its mind. I imagine the others doing the same.

Earlier in the day, Sirius shredded a desk in a fit of rage, and I never managed to find out what it was about. His anger is something you can't explain; sharp and hot and something you can't take your eyes off. He is shaking fists and trembling teeth and spitting, burning blood. But it doesn't last long; soon enough he burns himself out and that is perhaps the worst part of all.

But when he looks at me now, I can see none of the rage in his eyes, none of the anger that burned beneath his skin only hours before. He looks free outside. Somehow the castle seems too small to contain him; as if he's about to burst out the walls. I couldn't blame him. Grimmauld Place was an awful place to be confined. To be locked inside anywhere after that... Well, I could not begrudge Sirius any of his rage.

--

Sirius

In the light of the moon, Remus glows. The scars on his face and neck reflect the light in such an odd, entrancing way. I am trying not to stare, but the urge to look is overwhelming.

I think he notices because he tucks his chin into the collar of his coat self consciously. It is a gesture so utterly him I want to smile.

We are fairly matched in height; Remus is only an inch or so taller. I glance at him while we walk, but he isn't looking at me.

"It's stupid that you do that," I say, breaking the silence.

He only gives me a sideways glance.

"You shouldn't hide your face like that," I continue. "I don't mind your scars if that's what you mean by it."

Remus laughs incredulously. "Well, thank the Lord for that!"

I grin. "I quite like them, actually. It makes you look dangerous."

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard," Remus replies, but he is laughing properly now. His eyes crinkle sweetly at their corners, and his mouth is stretched wide in happiness.

I am conscious that I am looking at him for too long. I can't help it, it's like he drips sunlight.

--