As viewed from the northern hemisphere, the star, Sirius, reaches its highest point at midnight on New Year's Eve.
Zenith
The Weasley's frozen garden provides a welcomed respite from the too-cozy living room, filled with the cousin's hopeful glances and Molly's reproachful ones. No matter how many times he says it and to whom, the women of the Order seem determined to pair him off, more to ease their own sorrow than his. Not that she isn't pleasant company, quick to smile, possessing a kind of grace that has more to do with softness and curves than with how she moves, all elbows and knees and hereditary recklessness. Not that it wouldn't in some ways be easier, to not think about it, not feel through it, to lose himself in what she wants him to be, and not bitterness of what he wanted and wants and can't bring himself to fully live without.
Remus throws back the firewhiskey; it burns like Wolfsbane behind his Adam's apple, leaving his throat raw. He keeps his head tipped back, watching the star at its highest and brightest in the southern sky, the star that bears his name, a name he still can't say because it burns more than any potion. Tears, not entirely from the whiskey, prickle at his eyes, making the star twinkle more fiercely in the blackness. As the first notes of Auld Lang Syne drift across the garden, whispering over the snow and signaling that midnight has arrived, Remus presses his fingers to his chapped lips, a frozen parody of a kiss.
