He never dreamed.
At least not the dreams of idealistic wishful thinking. Those were real, even if they weren’t for him.
He never gave them much thought - the vivid dreams his friends and family spoke of. He simply accepted it.
Instead, his nights consisted of the inexplicable void of blackness.
The dreamless serenity.
The escape from the chaos of the day.
As the night would envelop the world, and the stars glistened in the dark inky skies, he would lie in his four-poster bed, staring at a wall of swirling nothingness until he fell into the black abyss of slumber.
Sirius never dreamed.
He preferred it that way.
There was something to be appreciated about the emptiness of his rest.
Sleep offered him a reprieve from the disorder of his days, where his reality was filled with disapproving noise, disappointment and the echoes of sharp cracks and screams.
He couldn’t imagine his dreams would be much better.
So sleep was the only dream he chased.
Until the day his letter arrived, he packed his trunk to the brim, filling it with all the books and trinkets that brought him small delusions of joy.
Until he stepped aboard a steaming red train and sat opposite the boy with hair the colour of his nights.
Until the old worn fabric hat fell upon his head and uttered the words that would sully his house with disappointment for generations to come.
Until then, he had never dreamed.
But that night, his mind was wrecked with visions and sounds of the reality he had only just escaped.
The dark peeling walls of the dank house began to close in on him, pulsating with the weight of prejudice and expectations.
Dark eyes followed him through the simply lit corridors, each step echoing with a sense of foreboding. Portraits of the long dead stared down at him, their disdainful glances piercing into his very soul.
Long tendrils of smoke wafted in front of his face, the acrid smell burning at his nose, beckoning him closer.
He saw himself there, etched in silver thread amidst a sea of black, burning away into ash.
The last few remnants of the frayed and singed fabric fell to the floor. Screams and eyes blazoned with anger and betrayal course through his senses, voices merging into a cacophony of hate.
Sirius stumbled backwards, or at least he tried, his feet rooted to the floor as his body plummeted into the endless depths of nothingness.
Falling.
His heart reverberated in a steady beat in his throat.
Unable to escape the relentless assault.
Until the soft hands of the golden-haired boy shook him from his slumber, whispering soft words in his ear.
Warm hands brushed his dampened forehead, dusting the loose strands of hair from his eyes, revealing the faces of the three boys from the train, all standing around his bed.
“Wh-what’s wrong with him? Is he crazy?”
“Shut it, Peter, he’s just had a nightmare,” the boy with the midnight hair whispered as the boy with the warm hands knelt beside him, “You’re alright, mate. We’re here now.”
Until that day, he had never dreamed. And after that, he never stopped dreaming.
He dreamed of Quidditch pitches and broomsticks, the air racing by him as he rode his broom, urging it to go faster with every ounce of magic he possessed. He could feel his hair whipping in the wind as he soared through the sky, chasing the quaffle while he cheered for his unexpected brother racing after the tiny gleaming snitch.
He dreamed of walking through the noisy halls of Hogwarts, the books in his bag weighing down on his shoulder. Jostling beneath his arm as he ran after the laughing friends who stood outside the classroom, beckoning him into their fold.
He dreamed of conversations he thought impossible, words of acceptance and love filling the air between the words exchanged between them, an unshakeable feeling of warmth and belonging overwhelming him as he glanced between the faces of the family he had gained.
He dreamed of cobblestone streets and mugs with butterbeer raised high above their heads. Moments frozen in time, where worries of his past faded away, replaced by the purest joy and the promise of everlasting camaraderie. He dreamed of the library and the hours he would spend between the ancient tomes, of scratching quills and knowing glances that would overtake his senses.
But most of all.
He dreamed of the boy with soft golden hair and warm chocolate eyes. He dreamed of the days he would run his fingertips over the silver lines that crossed his beautiful face.
He dreamed of gentle touches and subtle smiles.
He dreamed of interlocked fingers beneath worn and weathered pine desks.
He dreamed of whispered confessions and eternal promises.
He dreamed of stolen buttery kisses in broomstick cupboards and revelled in the soft caresses illuminated only by the flickering glow of candlelight.
He dreamed of nights in front of the flickering flames of the common room fireplace in the weeks when the portraits and ghosts were the castle’s only occupants. Where they lay huddled beneath the soft woollen blankets, their bodies moving in perfect harmony to the enchanting melodies of the quiet night. Where their eyes locked, and the world around them faded into oblivion.
He dreamed of moons and stars colliding, lighting up his subconscious’s once dingy and dank spaces.
He dreamed of him.
He dreamed of the moon.
No longer were his nights filled with nothingness. No longer did he beg for an escape of the day. Now he sought refuge in it. Ached for the space between sleep and wakefulness where he could see him again.
Not even sleep would separate them.
He would dream of their future.
A sunlight room in Grimmauld Place, where they sat together, cradling a baby boy with striking emerald eyes and a tuft of unruly black hair. He would dream of the sounds of laughter reverberating around the room, the sound echoing through the old ancestral home, the glimmering joy illuminating its sombre walls.
He would dream of Christmas at Godrics Hollow, watching the tiny boy race after the radiance of his mother. His unsteady legs tumbled beneath him. His voice would call out his name, cheering him on as he stumbled and giggled into his father’s open arms.
But even his dreams could not hinder reality.
Soon the dreams darkened.
Dreams of flooding waters that engulfed a younger version of himself.
Dreams of raised voices and falling bodies.
Flashes of green and shattering streets.
He dreamed of scuttering rats.
An army of them littered the floor, their beady eyes gleaming with greed and malice. They would swarm him in their frenzied dance. Their tails writhing in anticipation of the feast of his friends before them.
He dreamed of the ruins of Godrics Hollow, surrounded by echoes of screams as the blood poured from his hands.
He dreamed of chains and high stone walls encased by cold and unforgiving steel.
He would dream of the accusing stares that burned into his soul. He dreamed of chocolate eyes that darkened into a pit of never-ending shadows and despair.
Now the sanctuary of his dreams had become tainted, replaced with endless nightmares threatening to consume him. Each one tormented him, trapping him in a cycle of grief and anguish.
He dreamed of the moon, trapped behind heavy iron bars, the gentle glow that bathed his cell dissipating into long shadows against the barren walls, a taunting reminder of the dreams he foolishly came to trust.
And soon, he yearned for the days when his sleep was as dark and empty as the cell he resided in. He longed to surrender himself to sleep, to close his eyes and cast himself into the unending void of slumber.
He wished for the sweet release of dreamless sleep, where the emptiness held no memories, no hopes, and no pain.
And yet the dreams remained, and Sirius endured, trapped in a sleeping cycle of dreams and nightmares.
And yet the moon remained.
Even in the depths of despair.
Even in the darkest corners of Azkaban, it cast its ethereal light on a world he could no longer glimpse in his subconscious.
A constant companion, a silent witness to his grief.
No longer warm.
No longer loving.
Its light illuminated the darkest corners of his mind, where he held onto the final remnants of his shattered dreams.
So again, he chased the void.
The dreamless serenity.
The constant comfort of blackness.
Longing for a night of sleep.
A night without the moon.