A/N: This was written as a birthday present for my grandmother, whose birthday is today (August 7th). Yes, she does actually read Remus/Sirius slash—my Remus/Sirius slash, that is. And page-a-day calendars are sort of our thing, so this is for her. Happy birthday!

I am quite aware that there is a 99.9 chance that Word-A-Day calendars existed in 1978, and I have accepted that. Pretend for the sake of the story, though.

I am American, and I tried to write all of the dates British styles, so, Brits (or knowledgeable non-Brits), feel free to correct me if I was wrong.

Rating: T, for language.

Warning: DH spoilers at the end.

Disclaimer: If Harry Potter was mine, do you really think I would be writing fanfiction?

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New Year's. Just past midnight. Remus knows that people are celebrating at the Burrow, clinging to what they have left. He knows that they are gratefully taking a break from the war and the death and the pain, and focusing on life.

He knows that he is in his flat, with no desire to do the same.

He knows he is alone.

As always.

There is a package. It arrived a few minutes after the start of the year. 12.03. Whilst Remus sat on the bed, drinking firewhiskey and trying to forget whom he kissed when midnight struck the year before, it appeared in front of him. At first it didn't seem real; he was drunk, after all. But it felt real.

Now Remus stares at the package warily, lacing his fingers together nervously. He knows who it has to be from, yet he knows that it can't be from that person. Just because Moony is written across the envelope Spellotaped to the top of the package in his handwriting doesn't necessarily mean it's from him.

It's not from Sirius.

Sirius is dead.

But the handwriting is still Sirius's, no matter how many times Remus blinks.

He sighs, because he really doesn't want this. He didn't lock himself in his room with five bottles of firewhisky to think about Sirius. His plan was to forget about Sirius. To forget about everything that took place within the last sixteen years. That is all that he wants.

Yet, the package doesn't agree with him.

Choking down more firewhisky, he reaches for the package. He crosses his legs and places the parcel on them. For a minute, he stares blankly down at the decorated, brown paper and smudged, graying envelope. Before he can lose his nerve, he yanks the envelope off the package and slides his finger beneath the seal, ripping the envelope open and finding a torn piece of parchment inside. It is folded in quarters. He runs the tips of his fingers along the jagged edges, as if he is contemplating whether to open it. It is obvious that there is no choice in the matter, though.

Almost involuntarily, Remus unfolds the note and smoothes it out in front of him. The fading parchment looks out of place on top of the dark duvet.

Remus's eyesight blurs as he looks down at the messy, scrawling handwriting, penned quickly in dripping black ink. Sirius had horrible handwriting before Azkaban, and it became even worse after he escaped. Remus wonders how many other people are able to decipher the writing that can possibly be Sirius's, but isn't, because Sirius is dead.

But his writing is still there.

Dear Moony,

It's 21 May 1996. It should be 1 January 1997 right now. Well, the now when you're reading this. It is, isn't it?

Happy New Year, I suppose. It is really odd to be writing to you now, considering you aren't going to read this for a few months, and I have no idea where you'll be when you do. For all I know, you could be sitting next to me right now (your now, not mine) and your mind could be filled with wonderings of my insanity. Or you could be alone, on one of those Order missions, without me. I hope we're together…but if we aren't, this is what the letter is for.

Yes, this is a New Year's gift, as odd as that sounds. I couldn't help myself. This idea came to me a few days after your birthday. I was looking through some of the things that you had salvaged of James and Lily's, and things from our old flat, trying to bring back some of the memories I lost in Azkaban. And this idea…I was looking at some photographs…it came to me. So I worked on it, and here it is.

There's a charm on it, which is why it flew in without an owl. It is charmed to find you, no matter where you are, and go to you. A bit of a precaution on my part, that I charmed it so early. You know my memory is horrible now. I would have forgotten.

I know this all sounds a bit cryptic, but you know I hate giving away surprises. So, open the box. There's another note of explanation inside.

Love you,

Padfoot

Teardrops fall onto the parchment, marring messy handwriting and creating black pools of wetness. Remus brushes tears off his own cheeks, his ink-smeared thumbs creating black lines across his cheekbones. Frustrated, he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, groaning.

No. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to think about Sirius now. It is a new year. A new beginning. He wants to move on.

That's what he tells himself.

That's what he tells himself night after night, over and over again.

He sighs, then starts to unwrap the package.

He carefully peels off the brown paper, not wanting to rip it. He recognizes as Lily's old wrapping paper. Not really Lily's, though. Not completely. She used to wrap the presents she sent to people in this paper, simple and brown. She would add things to it—a quick note, a tiny drawing, a bit of glitter. Then, each time someone used it, they would add something else. Writing, pictures, bits and bats. Everyone used Lily's paper. It was passed around between friends, families, and Order members like something sacred.

There are doodles of Quidditch players, courtesy of James Potter, in the corners. Lily's elegant hand appears in random places, wishing Remus, Alice, Sirius, and Kingsley happy Christmases and birthdays. There is James's sharp, precise writing wishing Frank a happy day, and Remus's own writing in places, talking to Marlene and Fabian. The last note written, he knows, is a very colorful message wishing Sirius a happy twenty-first birthday. It almost hurts to see Lily's handwriting, so loopy and carefree, insulting Sirius in the pleasant, affectionate way that only friends could. The pain is unbearable, though, when he sees a tiny drawn rabbit, and James wishing Remus luck with his "furry little problem".

Swallowing, he sets the paper aside, refolding it and attempting to ignore Sirius's rather unfavorable drawings of James, and Alice's recipe for the perfect treacle tart. He doesn't even glance in the direction of the traitor's illustration of a rabid cat, although he knows it is hiding beneath the broom of one of James's Quidditch players. He can only handle so much.

Underneath the paper is a plain, brown box. It is nondescript. Harmless. It doesn't bring back as many memories as it could.

He lifts the lid off the box, setting it to the side. Whatever is inside is hidden by folds of tissue paper, something else that Remus is surprised Sirius had. Pulling out the tissue paper, he lets it fall on the bed next to him. There is another box at the bottom; this one plain, too. Remus curiously lifts it, only to find another envelope beneath it. He balances the envelope on his knee and carefully opens the box, not sure of its contents.

It's a sort of calendar; the kind that has a page a day. Remus can tell that it isn't from a Muggle store or a Wizarding shop; the parchment used for the pages is old and stained, with uneven edges due to what he guesses was an imprecise cutting charm. The real indicator, though, is the first page, which proclaims: Mr Moony's 1997 Calendar, created by Mr Padfoot. Wincing, he flips the calendar facedown and reaches for the envelope, quickly opening it and finding the note.

Moony—

If I know you, you took one look at the calendar and opened the letter. Since I do know you, I know I'm right about that. So I'll explain what this is.

Remember the first New Year's Eve we had in the flat? It was the end of 1978. Lily gave us each presents. I think that was the first New Year that she and I actually liked each other. Anyways, she gave you that calendar, remember? It had a word each day. You loved inflicting your new words on the rest of us and seeing if we knew them. Lily and I got about half of them, and James always seemed to get the really hard ones that no one would ever think of. She gave you two other calendars the next two years, too. We all liked those.

Here's my version of it. There are no ridiculous words, because, frankly, no one else except for James could ever incorporate inkhorn into a conversation. But this is better, I think.

I admit to going through your belongings whilst you were on missions and out of the house. I also filched a couple things when we were staying at our old flat. I figure that the end justifies the means, though. You'll love this—I know you will.

I worked on this for quite a bit, but it's worth it. Even if I'm not there when you open this…well, you'll have me now, won't you?

I love you.

—Sirius

Remus bites his lip, not wanting the tears to fall. He shouldn't be so affected by Sirius's still-familiar scrawl, even after the years in Azkaban, when his writing became less decipherable and more unlike it was at Hogwarts. But maybe it isn't that; maybe the handwriting has nothing to do with it. Maybe it is just the fact that Sirius wrote this months ago, with the expectation of being with Remus then, or seeing him soon. Maybe it is because they shared their first New Year's kiss since 1981 last year, and, months ago, he expected to be wrapped up in Sirius's arms when the clock struck midnight, not alone in his cold bedroom, reading letters from his dead lover.

He sighs, shutting his eyes and swallowing. His throat burns as he takes another sip of firewhisky, and he knows that he could just put the calendar back in the box, stuff it beneath the bed, and go to sleep. He also knows that this is Sirius, and he wants this, because he's desperate for any part of Sirius.

He carefully tears off the first page, setting it neatly on an empty spot on the bed. His eyes widen when he sees the second page, and he briefly wonders how much time this took Sirius.

1 January 1997 is written largely in the bottom right-hand corner, New Year's Day written in smaller letters just below it. Taking up the left side of the page is a Wizarding photograph. Remus feels tears pricking his eyes after just one glance at it.

It's from New Year's Eve of 1978, he can tell. They spent the year before celebrating at Hogwarts, and Lily was pregnant with Harry when 1980 rang in. In the picture, they are in the living room of Sirius and Remus's flat, and Lily is holding a bottle of firewhiskey. They are all wearing ridiculous hats, and their arms are slung around each other.

Lily stands on the far left, tipsy and laughing, her new engagement ring flashing every so often. James is next to her, nibbling on her ear occasionally, and poking Sirius in the side when he can. Sirius is mussing James's hair with one hand, and slipping his other hand beneath Remus's shirt, a signature smirk playing on his lips. Remus's hand is slightly lower on Sirius, and he is chuckling every time Sirius's expression borders on shock. The edge next to Remus is jagged, and it is obvious a fifth person had been cut out. The only trace left of him, though, is a hand of short, stubby fingers clasped on Remus's shoulder.

Remus can see the faint outlines of words through the parchment. He lifts up the page without tearing it, and reads what Sirius wrote on the back.

1978- Remember this? Lily got unbelievably drunk by the time the night was over; we didn't know she had it in her. When we woke up that morning, we were all passed out on the floor, empty bottles everywhere, and with copious amounts of makeup on. James spelled a 'temporary' magical tattoo on my neck that said Property of Moony. I had to wear polo necks for two weeks before Lily figured out how to charm it off. I was sort of disappointed to see it go, though.

I liked that New Year. It was the beginning of a Prongs and Lily legacy, and the continuance of us. It's amazing to think of it. Who would have thought that we would have made it further than them?

He can remember it. He can remember Lily drunkenly singing (and Sirius being jealous of the fact that she could sing wonderfully both sober and drunk, whereas he could do neither), and James deciding that Sirius needed a tattoo. He can remember waking up to find Lily's lipstick applied to his lips, with a faint memory of Sirius doing so. He can remember other things, having to do with the fifth person, but he pushes those aside.

He flips to the second page, just wanting to see if there is a picture there, if Sirius put a photograph on every page. His throat hurts when he sees a picture of just him and Sirius. They are in front of the Hogwarts castle, holding hands and spinning around in circles as the snow falls around them. Remus knows instinctively that James took the picture, most likely with a good-natured grumble about what poofs they were. They are acting all the world like six-year-olds, when in reality, they were probably fifteen or sixteen. Remus cracks a watery smile himself when the Remus and Sirius in the picture trip over a snow bank and fall to the ground, clambering over each other and laughing as they get up and start to spin again.

1976- I think Prongs took this. I had it in one of my photo albums that you stored, and I stole when I came to stay with you. I remember this—Jim decided to throw snowballs at us so we would 'stop acting like a pair of nancies' and be 'real men'. He wasn't saying that when you and I won the Marauder's Snowball Battle of 2 January 1976. But dancing in the snow was more fun, anyway—especially with you.

Remus ignores the lump in his throat and starts flipping through the calendar absently, skipping days and weeks, searching for certain moments. 21 June 1978—the last day of seventh year—with Sirius, Remus, James, and a cut-out face in a dog pile in front of the school, Lily looking down condescendingly before jumping on top of James. He finds the day in July, a little over a year before Harry was born, that James and Lily married on nearly eighteen years ago. He manages a small smile as his blurred eyes flit over a picture of the wedding party, with the ever-missing person cut out. He flips back to a ridiculous picture of James's stag night, and finds one that James and Lily sent from France whilst they were on their honeymoon, dancing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

There are some pictures he expects—he and Sirius curled up asleep under the tree on Christmas Eve (James teased them endlessly about their canine tendencies after he snapped that picture), James dressed in a bunny costume for Easter (it had been Harry's first), Lily cradling a new-born Harry in her arms on 31st July. But there are others that he wouldn't have thought of—Lily lying asleep in the snow on 30th January, an eleven-year-old Remus fidgeting nervously on Platform 9 ¾ on 1st September, Remus with icing on his nose from the infamous Icing Fight of '77 on 10th March.

He remembers James continuously snapping pictures throughout their years at Hogwarts. That was something that he and Lily had in common—photography. The number of pictures only got worse after they double-teamed to take as many photographs possible to document the lives of themselves, Sirius and Remus, and the fifth person. He feels thankful now, after the years that he spent groaning as he shuffled into a pose, for the Potters' obsession. Each time he sees a picture of he and Sirius that he knows a camera wasn't charmed to take, he feels thankful.

It takes him many more sips of firewhisky before he has enough courage to flip to That Page. He finds it odd that—until this moment, of course—he hasn't thought of the fact that he shouldn't be flipping ahead. That is a debate that he and Sirius always had—Remus hated it when Sirius checked the word for the next day, declaring it "cheating"—but this is different. He doesn't have Sirius to debate with. He doesn't have Sirius at all.

Slowly, as if prolonging the process, he flips to the correct page. His eyes briefly flutter shut, but then he is forced to open them. Through slightly hazed vision, his eyes fall on the date 7 August 1997. Written underneath it, in the neatest handwriting that Sirius had used throughout the entire calendar, is Our Day.

He flips to the back before looking at the photograph.

1980- We never really got a chance to celebrate the anniversary of Our Day. The one year anniversary was at a time where we didn't trust each other, and we didn't trust ourselves. I remember that day, with us watching each other warily, not saying anything. It hurt me, and I know it hurt you, too.

We were so fucked up then, weren't we? I'll never forgive myself for not trusting you. I know you forgive me, but I don't forgive myself. You're so good, Moony. You could've never done that to us.

I know you probably guessed that I had a hidden camera charmed to take pictures. I blame Prongs's influence, along with Lily's. The two were terrors separately, and together they were even worse. But it's good, isn't it? We wouldn't have all of these photographs without them.

Happy Our Day, if you're reading it on 7th August. If not, I love you.

I just do.

Remus swallows, turning the page back so he can look at the picture. It is just like he expects, but it still hurts as much as if it had been a surprise.

Our Day. 7th August for them was going to be what 19th July had been to Lily and James. It was going to be the anniversary of them, the celebration of them, the wedding anniversary that Lily and James had and that Remus and Sirius would never get.

The photograph brings him back to that moment. That beautiful, glorious moment, like the calm of the storm that was the war. Only a week ago had Harry been born, and all seemed to be well. Sirius later said that he was spurred by all of the love at the time, and decided they needed more. Even though they never told James or Lily or the traitor, it was perfect, to them. A small secret that made it all the better. Secrets seemed romantic then, but in the end, it was secrets that destroyed them.

Remus swallows as his fingers play on the edges of the photograph. He wants desperately to close his eyes, yet his pupils rake over an anxious expression, silky black hair, and a body crouched on one knee. The other figure is just as painful to look at—worn robes, graying hair, and a shocked expression belonging to the man—him—standing above the nervous romantic.

Without noticing it, Remus begins to cry.

7th August. It should have been everything. They should have celebrated it every year, with ridiculous and sentimental gifts, and hours spent in the bedroom. There should have been dinners and surprises and memories of everything that they went through, happy and sad. It should have been perfect, beautiful, something that belonged to them and only them.

What should have been never was.

1981. They weren't speaking. 1982-1993. Sirius was in Azkaban.1994. Sirius was in hiding. 1995. Remus was on an Order mission. 1996…

Sirius was gone.

Remus sighs. He feels tired, exhausted, like he wants to sleep for ages. He covers his hands with his eyes and looks at the photograph through splayed fingers. He isn't sure what he is accomplishing, because it certainly isn't helping matters. Nothing seems to help anymore, though, does it?

Photo Sirius stands up slowly, a grin on his face. Photo Remus launches himself at his lover as soon as they are both at their full height, their lips meeting and a ring being slid over a finger amidst the passionate flurry.

Remus, the real Remus, can smile at the picture. He will smile. He squeezes his eyes shut and the corners of his lips curve up. It's almost painful. It's forced, it's not real, but it's something. Yet it fades away, as all unreal things do.

"I want to marry you."

His eyes fly open, against his will. His fingers shake whilst he toys with the edge of the page.

"I know we can't get married, but we've been together longer than Prongs and Lily, so we should be able to."

He clenches his hands as they begin to tingle in an unwanted anticipatory way.

"I really don't care if this is legal, because, really, illegal things are fantastic. Which is why this should work out."

He flexes his fingers and reaches for his wand off the bedside table.

"Even though there'll never be a wedding, we can have it better. It will all be better. All of it; the whole marriage thing."

He swallows and stares at his wand uncertainly, as if it is trying to convince him of something that he is dubious about. He is being convinced, but not by the wand. He can control the wand.

But he can't control himself.

Not now. Not at this moment, when Sirius is running through his head and Sirius's voice is echoing in his ears and the whole room seems to be filled with his lover's presence, nearly suffocating him. There is no control anymore; no semblance of it.

Sirius had always been the one to make Remus lose control.

"We'll never have to hire a minder to watch our sprog whilst we go out on romantic dinner dates for our anniversary. It'll just be us, and no one else. No children. Just the two of us, together, always."

Closing his eyes, he mutters the charm.

"I have this ring. It's the most unconventional ring I could think of, and I think the jewelers wanted me locked up in St. Mungo's ward for the insane. But…it fits. Us."

A ring appears on the fourth finger of his left hand. The weight of it is always there, but he rarely sees it anymore. It's too noticeable, too suspicious, he usually tells himself. He really knows that it is his own weakness. He can't bear to see the ring, but he feels like sobbing at the thought of losing it.

"A dashing disowned heir and an extremely handsome werewolf. Really, there is nothing conventional about that. So, see? It's perfect."

The band is crimson, but tiny gold spikes rise out of it. They are spelled not to poke him, so he never feels them dig sharply against his third and fifth fingers. He hasn't felt the spikes in years. Not since…

He's not going to think about that.

"Like a dog collar, you see? It's fitting. Perfect for the dog Animagus and the werewolf. I have a matching one. Except it's a bit different…read."

A tiny golden plaque is in the middle of the ring. It flashes Padfoot loves Moony, albeit weakly. The charm isn't as strong as it was over sixteen years ago, vibrantly displaying their love. It's tired now—tired of all it has been through. It has spent too much time with Remus, because he sympathizes. He is tired too. Tired of life. Tired of it all.

"Yes, you may ridicule me for being perfectly girly and poncy and wanting this. But I do, no matter how strange it seems. I want you, Moony."

He pulls his glance away from the ring, teeth tugging on his lower lip. He attempts to focus his dissipating attention on the photograph in front of him. His fingertips slip beneath the edges and he tugs, detaching it from the page. He holds it delicately, watching the photo replicas of he and Sirius behave so joyously. It's a strange concept, to believe that he was once that happy. Almost foreign.

"Because I'll always love you, no matter what. I promise you, Moony. Always."

He folds the photograph in half. He can't look at it any longer. Each second he stares at his ancient happiness, it feels like a whip is slicing into his heart. Mustering up what self-preservation he has left, he slips the picture beneath his pillow. He feels safer now that it is hidden from view, but he doesn't feel truly safe, and he knows he never will again.

"Say yes, Moony. Please say yes. I love you."

He fiddles with the band around his finger, resting his head on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. The firewhisky sits beside him, unnoticed and uncared for. He doesn't want to need it. He can't become attached.

"It'll be everything, Moony. I promise. It'll be Our Day."

He closes his eyes.

"I can never say no to you, Padfoot."

He was so naïve.

"You never want to."

He didn't know the consequences of becoming attached.

"Because I love you."

He didn't know how much it would hurt to lose the best things in his life.

"Too much for your own good."

He was so in love—too in love—to realize that love was dangerous during the war. It may have saved Harry…it may have helped James and Lily…but it didn't help Remus. It only made it hurt twice as much when Sirius started avoiding him. When they didn't speak at all on that dusty August day.

"Extremely too much."

Remus made the same mistake twice. He lost Sirius once, and it was the most unbearable feeling that he ever felt; worse then a hundred transformations. Then he went back to him, and lost him again.

"So…what do you say? Our Day?"

He and Sirius rekindled their romance. After years. After lies and distrust and hurt and betrayal. They got back together, despite everything, and had those moments where everything was perfect, where the stars shone for them and the wind blew for the sole purpose of ruffling their hair. Where the crescent moon did nothing but smile at them as they made love under the stars.

"Our Day."

When Remus thinks back to the graceful arc of Sirius's body and the ghost of a laugh on his face as he fell through the Veil, he feels like sobbing. He sometimes does. He tries not to, but he is only man. He is only so strong. Sirius was his life for years. At times, Sirius was the only thing he lived for. The only thing he loved for. And now his life and his love are gone. He doesn't have enough strength to ignore that.

"Forever?"

He doesn't have the protection of hatred that he did when Sirius was sent to Azkaban. It wasn't even real hatred then; no, it was a cheap imitation, something he formed to mask the lingering love that he still felt, that made him feel disgusted with himself. Now his broken heart doesn't have the cushioning of that false hatred. It can only rest amongst regrets and shattered dreams, and the memories. The memories of laughter and loving and happiness that hurt to think about.

Sirius was his laughter. His loving. His happiness.

And Sirius is gone.

He's never coming back.

"For longer."

Choking back a sob, he buries his head into the pillow.

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

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7 August 1997

He looks at the picture-less page with sleep-heavy eyes. The sun is rising in the distance, and his tea is cold. His dressing gown smells like Sirius.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn photograph. The edges are now torn, and there are creases interrupting the action. It doesn't matter, though. It is still as perfect as it was seventeen years ago.

He sips his cold tea in silence, watching as the sky lightens. When he pours himself a new cup, three sugars are put in. Sirius's preference.

He absently reaches for his wand, watching the picture all the while. He is in a drowsy, lethargic state, and it takes effort to register the small things. Lack of sleep does that to you, especially when the lack started three days ago, when he realised what day was coming soon.

When he realised that he had two anniversaries, and this one felt more important to him.

As the sun claims a resting place in the sky, Remus doesn't see it. His eyes are closed, and he is almost asleep, for the first time in days. Still, his fingers are toying with a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. A ring that belongs on his finger, unlike the gold band sitting on his bedside table. A ring that means something, everything, to him.

A ring that doesn't disappear for the rest of the day.

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7 August 1998

Remus doesn't need a picture. He doesn't need a ring.

He has the real thing.

"Happy Our Day, Moony," Sirius mutters into Remus's hair, sleepy and content. "Happy Our Day."

Remus can only press a kiss to Sirius's collarbone, his voice escaping him in the wonder of the moment. Sirius smiles, and soon his lips are on Remus's, and they are both very much awake.

Then the sun rises, and everything is perfect. Everything is Sirius and everything is Remus and everything is how it is supposed to be.