No Quiet Find

At three o'clock in the morning, an exhausted Remus Lupin stumbles into his bedroom and collapses onto his bed, already half-asleep.

Curling on his side, Remus lets out a small yawn. It has been a long day at work, and he is ready to black out until morning.

A loud bark dashes Remus's hopes of peaceful slumber to smithereens.

Moaning, Remus rolls over and pulls a pillow over his ears. But the beast has done its damage. The bark resounds in Remus's head over and over, echoing maliciously, laced with pain.

All it takes is a bark of the neighbor's bloody dog, or a whiff of chocolate, or a stranger that on first glance has his eyes.

Every night, the same torment. Every night, the same haunting, infernal laughter. Every night, the same picture of him, alone and in the dark.

It was not always this way. That's the painful part, really--knowing that you've been in love, and had it ripped away. Knowing that you were foolish enough to love, foolish enough to trust what falters. Knowing that there are people in the world who are heartless, who can betray all those who love them in a second and not bat an eyelash.

It was not always this way. They had been happy, once. Long ago. They had laughed and smiled and teased and loved one another, and Remus had made the fatal mistake of thinking that it could last, that everything would be all right as long as Sirius Black existed.

Now, he just wishes that he had died.

If Sirius was dead, he would never have to question his loyalty or devotion, or feel his betrayal like a knife in his chest. If Sirius had died, he could have mourned his lover in peace, content with the fact that their love had never really died: that it was still there, and that Sirius was in heaven smiling down on him at this very moment.

But Sirius Black isn't dead. He is very much alive; he lives in that bloody neighbor's dog, and in the scent of chocolate and the perfect strangers on the street. He lives through them, and he lives to haunt Remus with his traitorous existence. He lives to punish Remus for believing in never-ending love and human perfection.

His existence is proof that there is no such thing as perfection.

These thoughts, these pictures predominate Remus's thoughts whenever he puts down his head. They leave him restless and horrified, and he knows that he cannot sleep.

Pulling himself into sitting position, Remus catches a glimpse of his reflection. Wrinkles. Baggy eyes. Tousled hair. Scars. Wrinkles. That is all that is left of him now. Scars, wrinkles, and memories.

The moon is shining overhead, surrounded by stars twinkling mischievously. Someone, somewhere, is probably staring at the moon at this very moment, and cackling as he does.

He knows that he has won.

Eyelids drooping, Remus settles himself down in his bed again. He feels numb, and almost doesn't hear the howl of that horrendous canine. Almost.

Maybe, if he can manage to fall asleep, he'll wake to find it was all just a dream, and that the knife in his chest is Sirius's absence, not his presence, and that there really is pure love, and that it never ends.

Maybe.

Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.