AN: Hello, there! This is my first HP fanfic, so I'm more than a little nervous, which is a little funny as I don't personally know anyone who is reading this story. But I'm still terrified. Anyway, if you aren't familiar with Borderline Personality Disorder, it is a mental disorder that involves mood swings, bad relationships, self-mutilation, low self-esteem, and impulsive behaviors. There is such a heavy stigma that comes with a BPD diagnosis, as there is no definative cure or cause, that psychiatrists have been known to switch off patients with the disorder in favor of a less permanent one. The research I did for this story was highly disturbing, and I really urge anyone who believes they or someone they love may have BPD to receive treatment ASAP. Also, as I've never actually met anyone with this mental illness (to my knowledge) this is based on web research. If I've gotten anything incorrect, please tell me! I have no Beta; all mistakes are my own. And... I'll stop rambling now and let you read... Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: Ask yourself: if I owned Harry Potter, why would I be writing a FANfiction about it?

And your first clue that something is wrong, truly wrong, with Sirius comes, as most serious Sirius things do, through James.

It's the summer before your Sixth Year, and you're young and in love (secrets) and packing for two weeks at the Potter abode when a fat owl clutching a letter slams straight into your window.

("Oh, that bloody thing?" James tells you a month later aboard the Hogwarts Express. "Just be glad it was the right house, the dumb owl.")

You open your window, and the owl gets into your room correctly this time, clutching in its talons the innocently life-changing letter.

Dear Moony,

Prongs here. Don't come over. Paddie-cakes showed up, and it's bad. He's fine, but, hell, is he in a mood. Mum's pissed cause the house smells of smoke, but she'll get over it. He's like a chimney now. I'll explain later. Already wrote Wormy, so don't bother. Hope your summer is spectacular, as always. Can't wait to see if you succeed in getting a tan for your lady admirers.

Your spectacularly attractive friend,

-JSP (the 'S' is for 'sexy'!)

P.S.: SORRY!

You read it and decide to feel slightly annoyed because you really wanted to go over and have some fun (andseehim). You aren't sure what makes you do it, besides general anal retentiveness, but you underline the words "and it's bad" and put the letter in a shoe box.

James Potter has a lot of discretion as far as secret telling goes. He did, after all, tell everyone when he had figured out your furry secret, but hasn't told a soul anything you've told him about your family's financial 'situation'. And, without fail, he tells you all of Sirius's really serious secrets.

("He's got Borderline Personality Disorder, ya know. Diagnosed when he was fourteen." James admitted to you at the beginning of your Fifth Year. "His parents refuse to get help for it though. His mum's quite fucking mad, and his dad doesn't want anyone to know that 'it' runs in the family." He shook his head in disgust. "We gotta watch closely.")

And you DO watch closely. You watch him so closely that you can tell anyone all about how when Sirius is really upset, he'll laugh a madman's laugh so hysterically that tears run down his face until the laughter fades and the tears continue. You can write papers on how when he's really thinking (becausehedoesthink), his eyes close and he traces the lines on his left palm with his right index finger. You watch him far too closely, you decide.

And so you notice when something changes. You notice that he can't stop smoking or laughing. You notice how he can't stop moving or smiling or talking or yelling or being an absolute idiot. You notice how, no matter how quickly he speaks and how loudly he laughs, that his usually expressive grey eyes are empty. You notice that he's trying to hide it by not making eye contact. You notice all of this, but you know that James will tell any important secrets to you.

And that's why it's a total surprise to you when all you can get out of James as to Sirius's drastic change over the summer are two sentences.

"He ran away. He started smoking."

And so, at about three in the morning, you write these sentences down and date them. They go into the box.

Your next real clues have no particular order. They're simply facts.

Sirius doesn't sleep, and he's lost weight.

The second one is understandable, considering the New Sirius's behavior at meal times. Food is a toy, apparently. The problem is not that he doesn't get food. Oh, no. The food goes on his plate. From there, however, it may go in multiple places, including, but not limited to, Peter's lap, the floor, Lily's goblet, the air, the Slytherin table, and, on one spectacular occasion, the Transfiguration classroom. And Peter and James and all of Gryffindor laugh and laugh and think, 'God, what a weirdo!' and go on with their lives.

But not you.

You notice how his robes hang off of his body. You worry about whether his ribs are showing. You watch, and you consider each bite of biscuit that goes into his mouth a victory. You begin to obsessively calorie count for him and try new and inventive ways to get him to eat. Late night sweet runs to the kitchen become more common, because you know this isn't right and something needs to be done.

As far as sleeping is concerned, you're a hypocrite. After the fun has died down and Jamie and Peter fall asleep and snore, you stay awake and watch. He sits on the window sill every night and smokes until 3:00 AM. He sucks in and blows out, and his eyes are unfocused as he stares out the window.

(Second Year, an hour after being cornered:

You're eyes are swollen and you're sitting cross-legged in bed. He's sitting across from you, but you won't look at him.

"Do you ever watch the stars?"

And you glance up. They said they didn't care, but it still feels weird when they speak to you. "When?"

"When you're not you." His eyes are wide, and he looks like a five-year-old. "When you're something else. Do you ever just look up and wonder?"

"Wonder what?"

"Why the sky looks the same, even though the world's so different."

You pause. "I can't remember if I wonder anything. When I'm not me, you know."

And he smiles, and he looks so much older than twelve, and your stomach twists. "I do.")

At around 3:00, the spell is broken, and he takes a final look around and walks out for a few hours. He usually reappears right before dawn breaks. He's a little more disheveled and a little less alive, but he's back.

You remember to breathe (inandout).

Every time he leaves, you count the minutes and wonder when he won't come back at all.

Observations are studiously copied and stored in your secret stash of shame.

Strangely enough, the Hogwarts library carries a rather large selection of muggle books, most likely for use by those in Muggle Studies. On Monday, you check out a Sherlock Holmes novel and a book on medicine. You corner Sirius on Tuesday night armed with a piece of scratch paper and the truth.

It has gone on long enough.

Now James, who refuses to be outdone, and Peter, who refuses to be left behind, have started kidnapping drags and packs.

You hate this half-life.

"What the fuck do you want?"

He's smiling and blows that stuff onto your face. You cough and sputter and you feel the answer come out.

"Forty-eight seconds."

"How long it takes for you to get off. We are playing Jeopardy, right?" He laughs, and it's so fake and hollow even though the words are just careless enough to be believable for someone who doesn't watch him.

"No. You asked me what you wanted. I want forty-eight seconds. Don't take them from me."

You have his attention now, and he takes a thoughtful drag. And suddenly you're angry, and The Monster in you stirs. You throw the fag onto the floor and crush it under the ball of your foot.

("Did you have fun last night, Moony?" Peter asks in your Fifth Year after a full moon.

"I can't remember.")

"What did I just tell you?"

"Jesus, Moony," his laugh's a little more nervous and a little more genuine, and your temper cools. "I don't know what the hell you want from me!"

"I did the math."

"I hate math."

He's determined to ignore you, but you're right and know it. "Every fag you smoke reduces your life by eight minutes. The average smoker takes ten puffs per cigarette. That means that every drag takes forty-eight seconds. And that's not it – "

His grey eyes flash at your own. He's angry, which isn't as good as happy, but it's something (somethingreal). "Oh, it's not, is it? Well, you can take your fucking math and – "

"For every pack, you lose two hours and forty minutes. Most smokers go through a pack everyday. One week of smoking means eighteen hours and forty minutes. There are four and three tenths of a week in a month, so that is exactly three days, eight hours, and sixteen minutes less of your life." You're blinking back tears, because he just stares blankly with those grey eyes. "After a year of sucking fags, you can bet on dying five weeks, five days, three hours, and twelve minutes earlier than you should. That's over a month."

"Sucking fags? Fuck, if I'd known you felt that way – "

"When you're twenty-five, you can sleep knowing that you are a year closer to death than you should be."

He looks curious, and, for the first time since the school year's started, the walls are down.

"And forty-eight seconds? That's all you want from me?"

"That's everything."

There's a long pause, so you continue. "Besides," you give a watery smile, "you don't want wrinkles, do you?"

And the air thickens. Before you even know what's happening, he's lit another and pushed you up against the wall.

"Twenty-five and one year gone, huh? How long'd that take you to figure that out, Remy-kins? Fuck. Don't give me that shit. Fuck you. I'm gonna get wrinkly, and my teeth'll turn yellow, and my lungs'll turn black, and I'll smell like smoke, and no one'll wanna be around me, and, yeah, I'll fucking die. But I'll have lived." He blows smoke into your face, and you're choking and crying and something in you is dying a little, too. "Maybe you should stop doing arithmetic and pick up a pack and live a real life, for fuck's sake. Get drunk. Get high. Get on your knees, if it'll help you get down to the world's level." And he's shaking you and your head is slamming against the wall over and over again and you see stars.

"Sirius, I – "

"DID I SAY YOU COULD TALK TO ME? Don't. I'm gonna get wrinkles. And that bothers you. Why?"

Cough. "Siri – "

"What is life but the journey to death? Tell me, you – you – you – you…"

"I'm in love with you." You sob brokenly, and he lets go of your limp body. You slide down to the floor and bury your head in your arms. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorrypleasedon'tleavemealoneineed – "

"You're lying." The door slams behind him, and when you finally manage to lift your head, you notice that he took the paper with your calculations with him and left you a pack of cigarettes.

The box is getting full.

You find him in the Astronomy Tower. He's staring at your scratch paper intently through a veil of dark bangs.

"You aren't in love with me."

You didn't even realize he noticed you. "Why not?"

"Because that's not the way it's supposed to go."

You slide down next to him. "I thought you didn't do rules."

"I don't." He looks up at you with haunted eyes and that devastatingly lopsided smile. "Did I hurt your head?"

"What?"

He parts your hair tenderly before you realize there's a need for it. Sure enough, though, you feel pain and hear a soft swear from him. "You're bleeding."

(In Fifth Year, after the first full moon the Marauders witnessed, James becomes distant. He doesn't even look at you for days. Knowing that someone is a werewolf must be very different than actually seeing The Monster, you realize with a pang.

"Do you want me to leave Hogwarts?" You finally ask him late one night, when Sirius and Peter have already started snoring.

"What?"

"You think I'm a Monster. It's okay. I understand."

He looks shocked and miserable at those words. "Jesus, Moony, I don't think that at all. It just –"

"Was different than you expected."

His eyes dart around the room. "When you were transforming, you were screaming. I thought you were gonna die. Padfoot had to hold me back. I just –"

"What?"

He takes a deep breath. "Are you okay?"

You're touched. "I'm fine.")

"I'm fine." (whosaliarnow)

He laughs hollowly. "This is why you can't love me. People like you get some young, rich mover-and-shaker to fall in love with you. Someone who buys you nice things and changes the world for the better. Someone who's sane and sweet and smart and any other 's' words you can think of. Someone who can make you happy. You go along and meet other movers-and-shakers and settle down and every once in a while you donate money to a charity and think about people like me with just the right mixture of pity and fear."

"People like you?"

"Shits. Ingrates. Whores." He isn't looking at you anymore. He's just staring at the paper with his death written all over it. "Cowards. Freaks. I'm pretty, but I'm worthless and bad for you." (beautiful)

You put your head on his shoulder, and he takes a shuddery inward breath. "Have you ever had to do something you really didn't want to because you were too fucking weak to stop it?"

You're thinking about every month when The Monster in you comes out. "Yes."

There's a long pause. "How do you get that control back? How do you get your life back?"

You think. "I guess I don't. I try to be in command of any situation I can and ignore the ones I can't."

He lights another cigarette, and you don't stop him. "Forty-eight seconds gone." He blows smoke carefully away from your face before smiling down at you. "I chose that."

"That isn't control."

"Isn't it? I'm deciding when I die. I'm deciding how I die. I think that's the very nature of control." Sirius looks pleased and enlightened, like he's figured out one of life's very mysteries. For the first time since you've met him, you hate his smile. His eyes meet yours, and you realize that this is a situation you can control.

"Shut up."

And before he can say anything else that's sick and disgusting and inherently wrong, your tongue is down his throat, and his hands are down your pants.

You spend the night exploring and risk-taking and pretending not to notice the self-loathing you can't quite erase from his eyes.

The scrap paper is stolen from him for his (andyour) own good.

This is wrong.

You aren't sure what you imagined 'Life with Sirius' to be, but it certainly isn't this. With James romancing (stalking) Lily and Peter more than a little sick, you and he have the world to yourselves.

Perhaps that was an exaggeration. Really, you have the alley behind the only seedy bar in Hogsmeade that happens to ignore/condone underage drinking.

You're drinking firewhiskey straight from the bottle and leaned up against the wall, your hands tangled in dark, sweaty hair because – Jesus, he's good with his mouth.

And when it happens, it's a little less romantic and dignified and a little dirtier and seedier than you imagined it would be. You're dizzy, whether from the booze or Sirius grinning up at you from his knees, and you slide down the wall next to him.

"Fuck."

And he laughs, and it's so natural you almost go blind to the pain still simmering beneath the surface. "You're the only motherfucker who can make 'fuck' sound proper."

You pass the bottle. "Why d'you think I don't say it that often?"

"You're wasted as shit."

You blink twice, and it's much more difficult to open your eyes afterward than you ever remember it being. "That sounds about right," you finally slur.

"You're fucked-up."

You're response is fueled partially by alcohol, teenaged bitterness over Sirius's much higher tolerance, and the fact that trying maintain common sense after being sucked off spontaneously in an alleyway is practically impossible. "So are you."

He barks out a laugh. "I'm not fucking sloshed."

"You're still fucked-up."

He doesn't refute this, choosing instead to light a cigarette.

"Hey –"

"Uh-uh-uh!" The fag is dangled just out of your reach and he grins like a madman. "You lose all lecturing privileges after getting me to blow you. Besides, you shouldn't touch this. There's a distinct possibility that this fag'll ignite off of your booze fumes. And THAT would be one hell of a tragedy."

You wonder if that's all this is to him: a way to stop Nagging Moony from doing what he does best.

"It's supposed to snow."

His smirk widens. "I don't think the weather's 'supposed' to do anything."

"Padfoot, you can't be philosophical while I can't even tell how many of you there should be. It doesn't work that way."

"Fine," he pouts around his fag, and you hope for a minute it'll fall out of his mouth. "Why, yes, my dearest Moony, I do believe it will snow tonight. James'll flip a shit."

"Why?"

"Because he's secretly eight."

Drunken Remus finds that a lot funnier than Sober Remus would, and your laugh only encourages Sirius. "I'm not even lying! And that's even being generous. He'll probably even put his snitch jammies on inside-out-and-backwards."

"I love the snow," you add through your chuckles without even knowing why.

It's his turn to laugh. "No, you don't. You fucking hate it. You just like for everyone to think you like it."

Your head is fuzzy.

"When it snows, you go out for about ten minutes, and then find an excuse to get inside and spend the rest of the day curled up next to a fire reading. You hate the snow. Why do you care?"

"I don't know," you respond, and it's true. You don't.

"James starts snowball fights, builds forts and snowmen, makes snow angels, and frolics like a fucking eight-year-old; he loves it. Really loves it. Wormy doesn't care either way, really. He just likes it because it makes other people happy. And you stay inside and look out."

Sober Remus would be offended, you're sure. "What do you do?"

"Me?" There's this sort of black energy emanating from every pore of his being. Heroin seeps from his pores and infects the air with both apathy and enthusiasm at the same time, addicting all who dare to be in his general vicinity. You are most definitely addicted. His cigarette is dangling between two long fingers, and his light eyes are darkly staring into your own, both beacons and vacuums at once. Oxymoronic. Tragically beautiful and beautifully tragic. Tenderly hateful, whether of you or of himself, you can't discern. Whichever it is, it is horribly contrary to the fact that you love him. The whole thing about alcohol taking away the ability to be philosophical is shit, because that was right deep. Maybe someday you'll write it down, so it will really mean something to someone who needs meaning. "I like to go out barefoot after everyone's gone to sleep. I just stand there with snow between my toes until I can't feel 'em anymore, just to see how long I can take it. I like to see how much numbness I can take before having to get in. Sometimes I even time myself."

"How long can you do it?"

"Not long enough," he takes a drag. "I wuss out eventually."

It shouldn't have surprised you, really.

In your heart of hearts, you know he isn't happy. You know his late night disappearances haven't stopped. You know that he's never even gotten off with you.

It shouldn't have surprised you, especially since you fancy yourself an expert on all things Sirius.

But it does.

And so you start your New Year with a bang, the bang being the sound of your fist crashing into his haughty face. The impact knocks the cigarette out of his mouth and shatters the porcelain mask he wears so well, and they both crumble to the floor, leaving only a bloody lip and wide, blinking eyes that seem to beg you for more.

But you don't care (pantsonfire) because you've already given him everything.

(An hour earlier:

"Moony," James's hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and he can't meet your eyes. "I have to tell you something."

And The Monster is displeased.)

"You fucked Marlene McKinnon."

"I –"

"I loved you." Tears are streaming down your face and present tense doesn't do justice to the way you feel.

"I just thought you just wanted me to get you off," he breathes through his blinks. "I didn't think you wanted –"

"I loved you."

The façade is reconstructed in a millisecond. "No, you didn't," he grins, and red is smeared on his front teeth. "And this, this is why."

And the hours turn into days, and the days into weeks.

You loved him.

His and your play, once a romance, has split into two distinctly tragic character studies with only sets and supporting roles in common. Sirius: A Two-Act Drama is a fantastical tale, with more than enough drugs, sex, and cigarettes to draw a crowd and a Tony. Meanwhile, The Lone Wolf, in the theatre across the road, lacks plot, action, and (ohgod) SEX. You feel like a theatrical voyeur, sneaking out at intermission to watch and take notes on the competing play, because while your own life is in desperate need of new direction and purpose, your Stalker Box is fuller than ever.

You loved him.

And you can almost convince yourself that the past tense isn't a lie.

And the days turn into weeks, and the weeks into a month.

You find him in the Astronomy Tower (again). It's snowing.

He's facing the wall, and you're about to scream, or yell, or hit him again, or do ANYTHING that'll make him hurt the way you're fucking hurting and hate him himself the way you fucking hate yourself (notproper), or even kill him, because The Monster takes no prisoners except for those that turn into Monsters themselves (hesalreadyaMonsteryouknow), when –

Drip.

You blink. Had that onomatopoeia actually occurred, or are you going insane? (haveyougone)

Drip.

And you feel sick to your stomach when you realize, that, no, you aren't/haven't. And that isn't water, it's –

Drip.

Oh, fuck.

"Sirius?"

Drip.

"Padfoot?" Your hands are shaking. "I need to talk to you. Will you please turn –"

And he does.

Drip.

You almost vomit up all of the potions Madame Pomfrey just gave you.

His perfect face is covered in a myriad of gashes, leaking blood onto the floor. He'd be unrecognizable through the gore and devastating ugly, had it not been for his pale and unmistakable eyes staring out at you through long lashes. And you can hardly see past the deathly pallor and improvised war paint.

"Sirius, Jesus, let me –"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

His wand is up and aimed unsteadily at your head by a shaky, red hand, and he climbs unto the ledge with unsteady legs. You wonder if the Bloody Baron draws his inspiration from the macabre marionette that is Sirius Black. And he bleeds.

Drip.

"Please," you hate the way your voice cracks, "get down. We'll go to the hospital wing, and everything'll be alright."

And he laughs. "No, it fucking won't, because I'll still have tried to use you to off Snape, and you'll still hate me." He licks blood off of his lips. "And it doesn't matter if they fix my face and make me all fucking pretty again. I'll still be fucking ugly, and you'll know it." His laugh reaches hysteria. "Ain't it poetic?"

"No."

"You've never read Poe, have you?" You begin to respond when you realize it doesn't matter anyway, because he's turning the world into a grotesque finger painting of spilled beauty.

Drip.

"Do you still wanna fuck me?" It's sudden, and you're shocked. His free hand is unbuttoning his trousers, and he's still giggling like a madman (butonlybecauseheisone).

"What?"

"I found your fucking box." And he's unzipping with wet, slippery and shaking hands. You must be a pervert, because you're staring so intently that don't remember why you're seasick on land until -

Drip.

It splatters like mini-waterfall (fromhisfaceohgod).

"Stop it."

He pauses. "But this is what you want, isn't it? That's what that box was. A fucking how-to guide to telling if Sirius is fucked up enough to suck your cock." He's starts to sob, and tears mix with the blood on his face. "But smoking is a no-no for whores, because then they get wrinkles all over their pretty, little faces and their teeth turn yellow. And your dick is far too nice for a cancer-mouth." His pants are down, and he's standing before you in his boxers and a shirt. "Don't worry, though, Moony: I've been a good slut and haven't smoked since you clocked me for being too dumb to realize that you didn't want me to pick up any diseases. I've been saving up those seconds you wanted so badly." And his boxers hit the floor. "Now, fuck me like I know you've been practicing with your right hand."

'This must be what Jack the Ripper saw,' your mind tells you, but this is one of the un-sexiest things you've ever seen, what, with the streams of pain and self-loathing painting his body.

Drip.

"Sirius –"

He's sobbing like a toddler, now, and he scrubs at his eyes with his free hand, and the stuff just smears and is almost a bigger mess than it was before. "It's because of my face, isn't it? I should've known you wouldn't want me like this."

"Stop it." You're going to puke. You know it. "I love you." And there's no past tense, because you can't lie to him now, not when he's bleeding and looks like a wind'll knock him over and he'll tumble over the edge like a wet rag and float for forever and ever and leave you all alone.

"NO, YOU DON'T! You don't need to romance me any longer. Just put on a rubber and pay my father on the way out, and I'll try to stop crying like a good blow-up doll."

Drip.

"What?"

He starts to giggle again, finding humor in something so devastatingly not-funny it should be (is) an after-school special. "The fucking Ministry started snooping in matters that are no business of theirs, and Father wanted me to stop being an ingrate and help the family. And I was too pretty and too weak to stop them." If you weren't so intent on saving him, you would think that he was dead, because his eyes are deathly blank.

And you know.

Drip.

No, you realize, you aren't Sherlock Holmes, because he would have solved the case long before it got to this point. But that doesn't matter. What does is the fact that the man you're in love with is having a mental break down on the ledge of the Astronomy Tower and you can't help him because he won't take his wand off of you.

"Please come down, Sirius. I love you."

"Why?"

Drip.

He's stopped cry-laughing and shaking. He's just staring at you with curiosity. If it weren't for the blood still streaming down his face, he'd look lucid.

"What?"

"You keep saying you love me. Why? All I do is hurt you."

Drip.

You take a breath. There are too many things you can say. Because I was pissed at you when your life interfered with me seeing you. Because I thought I knew everything about you. Because, as much as you berate me for being a good student, you only make me a better one. Because I've always know that I'm a monster but have never remembered what that feels like. Because you're a moron, but also an oxymoron so I can't figure you out. Because you only fucked McKinnon because you thought I didn't love you. Because my play fucking sucks without you as a co-star. Because I've spent my entire life trying to get control, and it turns me on that you can take that all away from me. You say none of that. What you do say, after quite a bit of deliberation, is: "Because I know I should walk away, but I can't."

He blinks twice. "You're fucked up."

You consider it. "I agree with that statement."

"I think I love you, too."

"Why?"

"Because I can stop you from walking. And I've felt powerless for way too long."

"That isn't love."

"Moony," he smiles like a maniac, "I think it's the closest that either of us'll ever get, so we might as well fucking go with it."

And maybe, just maybe, you take a step closer instead of one away.

There's a pause. "Remus?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm mooning the Forbidden Forest."

And you both laugh and feel () eight-years-old and blissfully whole again (forthefirsttime).

("Fuck, Remus, it's snowing. The ground is frozen. Of course digging's gonna suck balls," Sirius grumbles next to you a couple of hours from now.

"Shut up," you glare up at him from your hole. "I'm doing this for you, you know."

"No, you're doing this because you're far too anal to just light it on fire like God intended."

You drop your box in it and begin to fill it again. "Two out of fifteen forest fires in England are actually caused by wizards being too lazy to take care of trash in another way."

"Exactly! Who the fuck knows that? Besides people with the middle name of 'Anal'."

"For the last time, my middle name isn't 'Anal'!"

"It is to me."

"Done!"

"Finally!" He rolls his eyes as if it had taken years. "Now, then, shoes off."

You comply.

"Now, what?"

"We stand."

"… I don't feel anything."

"That's means it's working, you whiney faggot."

"Or I'm getting frostbite."

He sighs and grabs your hand. "Stop bitching, Remus Anal Lupin."

"I love you, too."

And you do. You aren't slow. You know there are still problems. Sirius's face is lit up like a ghost: all faint scars that your potion hasn't quite healed yet only illuminated by the snow and eyes that aren't alive, yet, but are closer than you've ever seen them be for a while. And you aren't picky. You've proven that time and time again.

There is no cure or happy ending, just a less sad one than loneliness, you suppose.

No, this isn't perfect by any definition of the word.

In fact, once you and Sirius stop risking hypothermia, you plan to spend the rest of the night in the Room of Requirement talking about things. There are still many tears to be cried and scars to be discovered and (though you hate to admit it) cigarettes to be smoked, you know. But you also know that it'll be worth it, fragments be damned.

Because love isn't chocolate-covered strawberries, Shakespeare, stolen kisses, or even anything that is remotely connected to reciprocation. Love is control and detective work and standing barefoot in the snow for forty-eight seconds longer than you would've of your own accord. And that's everything.)

AN: PLEASE REVIEW! Constructive criticism, if possible. I really want to improve!