Captives of the Carousel

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His favorite month is May. May was when Remus forgave him, May was when he bought his own flat, May was when Lily finally said yes; May was pancakes and maple syrup, May was t-shirts and jeans, May was bare feet and silly hats, May was Pure Joy. Sirius refers to a Good Month as May, now, so eight or nine out of the twelve months of the year are referred to as 'May', instead of their given name: there is no June, no October, no December, no April--only May.

His least favorite month is November. November was when he told Snape, November was when he ran away, November was when James refused to speak to him; November was oatmeal that tasted like sand, November was coats and scarves that were never warm enough, November was boots that felt too heavy and ear muffs that felt too warm, November was Self-Loathing.

But this year, December is not May--it is November. Christmas Eve isn't full of warm carols and pudding and reading Dickens by the fireside: Christmas Eve is full of stars that glint and shine coldly, of a gap so wide between everyone and James it could be called an ocean, glimmering with James's tears, if only James would cry. He talks to no one, not even Sirius, and Sirius lies on his bed, his warm tears shattering the frozen shore that separates them all. No one else will cry for the Potters--they will mourn, yes, but they won't cry: Sirius cries. He begins to break the ocean that James has put into place, and swims out closer to bringing James back--because if Sirius can cry, then James can cry.

Lily finds a music box shoved under James's bed. It is in the shape of a golden harp, like the one in Jack & the Beanstalk. She twists it, and it begins to play: Silent Night, Holy Night...all is calm, all is bright. James tells her it was a gift from his mother, when he turned eight, because it was his favorite Christmas song, and he tells her to give it to Sirius, because he doesn't want to hear that song ever again.

James cries.

Sirius cradles the harp in his palms. Remus cradles Sirius on his lap. Sirius asks when this night will be over, and Remus wants to say, Tomorrow, Sirius, tomorrow this night will be over, and the morning will break. But they both know that Tomorrow isn't really tomorrow--it's a long way away, when May comes again, and November fades away.

Remus slides his arms around Sirius's shoulders, his hands warm in the moonlight that slices the darkness in two. Sirius begins to shake, and he asks if he will be next, if he will be the obituary in the paper next week, if he will be but the newest number on the list of countless casualties that no one will remember. Remus assures him that he won't be a number no one will remember, because Remus will remember: Sirius loves melon dipped in custard, Sirius never wears the same pair of socks, Sirius brushes his teeth six times a day, and Sirius is really quite talented at origami cranes. Sirius reminds him that only the two of them will remember such things, and Remus falls silent.

Sirius turns the key on the music box. Sleep in Heavenly peace...sleep in Heavenly peace. His eyes begin to droop, and he slowly becomes limp in Remus's arms, his breathing calm and even for the first time in two weeks. Remus won't sleep, because Remus keeps the Night Watch. He hopes no one will notice the dark bags under his eyes, because then they will begin to worry, and this isn't about Remus.

Remus thinks: A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices--and he prays for peace.

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