Remus doesn't sleep that night. Or the next. He is too numb, frozen, shock having taken the place of adrenaline now that the battle is over. He can hardly even bring himself to speak when Fudge questions him, the words short and dazed until Dumbledore intervenes on his behalf. (At the back of his mind, all of the time, is the fact that Fudge wouldn't listen to the truth no matter how many times he heard it – Sirius innocent, Voldemort returned. If Fudge had listened, they wouldn't be like this now. One more good man would still be living, the wizarding community on guard for the right reason.)
There's a part of him that wants to cry, wants to break down and let it all out. The wolf wants to howl at the moon and tear his skin apart. Both of these things are beyond him – it is not the full moon, and he is too numb. ("HE IS NOT DEAD!" How he wishes he could believe that. He would die laughing, wouldn't he? Arrogant as ever and it aches to remember that, to remember him as he was in his youth – pre-Azkaban and pre-the Halloween which destroyed so much.)
He's not supposed to go back to Grimmauld Place, not until they know for sure who the master is now. But he can't not go back, and walking through those empty halls it's one of the few times he's ever disobeyed Dumbledore. The world has shifted on its axis since they left here only a handful of hours ago (less? he can't tell how much time has passed) and yet the house doesn't reflect it, bar the kitchen fire having burned low. That's where they knelt the evening Harry's head appeared in the fireplace, and that's where he found Sirius asleep so many mornings after late nights, and there, right there, is where he stood the very first evening he came here, the place still infested and falling asunder, Sirius standing by his side.
It's inexplicable how something so small can make him crack a smile now, on this evening, and yet it does. And that crack makes his tears spill forth.
Afterwards, he is still numb, still weakly disbelieving so that he can't sleep. Instead, that night, and the next, he sits with his back to the stone wall, feeding the fire and wand at the ready should those – and he hates to use the name in respect of everything they've been responsible for – cousins show up. It's not that he wants to live or is committed to dying, but maintaining a vigil like this is better than being shown that graceful fall through an arch every time that he closes his eyes.