Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and all characters and situations therein
belong to J.K. Rowling, whom we no longer worship as a goddess, but only
cordially respect for her writing skills despite the fact that she is a
murderer. By the way, don't read my author's note unless you have read all of
_Order of the Phoenix_ and know who dies.

Author's Note: In case you hadn't noticed, I am pissed - really pissed - at J.K.
Rowling. Of all the people she could have killed, she just had to get my
favorite character. Evil, evil woman. I'd murder her if she didn't have two
more Harry Potter books to write. Yes, I know why she killed whom she killed -
she wanted to keep Harry an orphan, not give him any "parent" figures to take
care of him, and it's a very good plot device - but it still made me cry.

I wrote this poem several years ago, but never really got around to posting it;
I decided I might as well post it now, seeing as one of the "authors" is
dead. I now dedicate it to the beloved memory of Sirius Black.

The speakers alternate - you can tell who wrote which stanzas - but the last
nine lines are a collaborative effort, seeing as they pertain to both Sirius and
Remus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Measure the Night
a poem by Padfoot and Moony

~~~

Measure the night in stones,
The stones that line the walls.
I know their rank and order;
I know their number,
And every dent and scratch,
Battered by the despair
Of the prisoners they keep,
Mute and deaf and orderly.

Measure the night in scratches -
Count the raw gouges on the wooden floor,
The wounds of years and interminable seconds
Of maddening hopelessness;
Gashes inflicted by a wounded animal,
Lashing out in pain and fury,
Trying to break free of the bonds holding it,
Trying to stop the endless hurt.

Measure the night in bars,
Dark iron of cold and suffering,
The bars that make up the cages of men.
The wings of fluttering souls
Break upon those bars
In their futile beating to be free;
Too-regular lines that cast linear shadows
On the bright, shapeless essence of hope.

Measure the night in screams -
Number the shrieks that rend the air
Like sharp knives;
Animal howls of anger
And hunger for flesh, for comfort;
Soft, low moans uttered
For lack of voice and will
To express the pain and despair.

Measure the night in memories -
Torture more merciless than darkness,
Pain more acute than loneliness;
Count the memories that pass
Through the anguished mind,
A parade of taunting, haunting shadows,
Shadows of innocence,
Of love and possibility long lost.

Measure the night in bloodstains -
Old reminders of self-inflicted wounds,
The blood spilled now rust-colored,
The vicious cuts now never-healing scars.
Count the new drops of blood,
Fresh and red with cursed life;
Number the stabs of agony as fangs,
Seeking vengeance, tear into flesh.

Measure the night in paces -
Footsteps restlessly beating a hollow rhythm,
Pointlessly going nowhere,
Finding no escape from the cage of each night,
From the prison of a tortured mind.
Measure the night in stars that mockingly twinkle
Around the bright, full moon that glows in her scorn;
Measure the night inch by agonized inch.

It is a long, long night.