A/N: Harry was not the only one affected by Sirius's death. Every member of the Order has to come to terms with the loss, even those who are most unlikely to care.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and related characters belong to J.K. Rowling, unfortunately, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise.

Hating a Memory

"I still hate you, you know."

The harsh words echoed through the still meadow. Though it was still early morning, heavy, dark clouds blocked out the sun's rays. No sane person would willingly choose to be outside beneath that threatening sky.

"You always had to be the best at everything. Couldn't even die quietly, could you?"

There was no answer. The man speaking stood alone in the field, surrounded by dull gray stones. He curled his lip.

"Such a Gryffindor; did you ever give a thought to what would happen if you died? Did you think at all? You've left a hole in the Order, useless as you were. Headquarters is no longer stable, not without a member of the family there to placate it. The very walls seem determined to drive us out." He sneered. "Amazing how you keep pestering me even after death."

A distant roll of thunder echoed through the air. A cool breeze, heavy with the scent of rain, rushed past the man's still form. He took no notice.

"You were always such a fool. So arrogant and reckless. You didn't give a thought to the safety of the Order when you left. Couldn't wait to get out of the doghouse, as it were. Look where it's gotten you now!"

The man became agitated now. He rocked back on his heels, glaring at the stone marker near his feet. His words came faster now. "They all mourn you. He especially; both of them. All of them." The man did not seem to care that his words made no sense.

"He's slipping; he blames himself. No one can catch him, he has to do it himself, but he doesn't want to. Not without you. He's even more of a fool than you were, but at least you weren't expected to contribute. He is. He has to. Don't you understand?" The man's voice, once so cool and venomous, had finally exploded.

"Why couldn't you have stayed put? Why could you not have died in some stupid way, by falling down some blasted stairs and breaking your bloody neck? They'd understand that. It wouldn't tear them apart like this. You're dragging the entire Order after you into death, starting with Dumbledore and Potter. You stupid, brainless, arrogant fool, why did you never think? You had your life back! How dare you throw it away like that?"

This, it seemed, was the crux of the man's rage. He jerked away from the uncaring stone, then turned back, as if unable to help himself. "You had everything in front of you and you wasted it in such a foolish manner! How dare you have the nerve to die when so many people need you? What gives you the right? What gives you the right to give up and die and escape all this, when I cannot?" His harsh voice echoed among the neatly arranged stones, almost drowned out by the approaching thunder. He clenched his fists, trembling.

"How dare you die while I still live?" he hissed. "What gave you the right…" His voice cracked. Despair and deep-rooted pain mixed with the anger and hatred in his voice. He turned his dark eyes, not to the sky, but to the dirt, trampled by the feet of those who had come to mourn here. There was no body resting beneath the green earth. There had been none to recover. The gravestone was symbolic only, one of thousands in the horrible, hateful green meadow.

Sirius Black

May you rest in peace.

He stared for a long time at that simple marker. Finally, in a rough exhalation, he breathed his final words to the silent and indifferent stone.

"Damn you, Black."

The angry, softly spoken words held only a trace of their earlier malice. Instead, they conveyed a strange sense of loss.

His next words were barely a whisper.

"How do I hate a memory…"

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