Sometimes, when the moon was big and bright as exposed bone, Remus dreams. He dreams of red, flashes of green light bright enough to kill. He dreams of screams, tears, and muttered incantations. Once he dreamt of a black veil, gigantic and dark, like the black holes he had once read of. Everything tumbled in, and you could never get it back. Remus would wake from these dreams, shaking and cursing, face covered in tears, body covered in sweat. Then Sirius would be there, his arm's wrapped around him. Anchoring him. Whispering reassurances and love.
Then Remus would really wake up, alone and cold in an empty bed. Sirius hadn't been there in years, but Remus still dreamt it. Could still feel warm arms draped across his chest, could still smell skin and the faintest hint of dog. He did not know why he never let go. How he could still be in love with the man who killed his best friends. Who had been his best friend, who had held him close, who Remus had kissed like he might never kiss another again. Maybe he wouldn't.
Remus never cried. He thinks he ought to, but the only tears he shed were in dreams. He still carries hope in his heart: that Sirius was innocent, it was all a mistake. James and Lily didn't die that night but went into hiding, little Harry with them. He wouldn't mind them not telling him, as long as they are safe.
Remus spends his days cleaning, working in the sparse garden behind his sparse house. Then he sleeps. Then he dreams. Sometimes he wishes to never dream again. To forget all he has seen experienced, to start anew. Sometimes.