"On purpose laid to make the taker mad:

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;

Had, having, and in question to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shut the heaven that leads men to this hell."

Sonnet XIX, William Shakespeare

He hated it. He hated it so much that all he wanted to do was run to the top of the highest mountain and scream until his lungs were raw.

He wanted to dive through the veil that separated Life and Death, dragging Sirius back just so that he could punch him silly. He wanted to shout and shout at him, telling him that for once in his life could he not be so fucking dramatic?

But he had to calm himself, taking deep shuddering breaths and stilling his rebellious mind. To control his twitching hands he thrust them into the pocket of his rented suit.

By his side Harry placed a soothing hand on his arm. The boy looked too pale in the darkened light of the rainy day. His anaemic face was only emphasised by the redness of his eyes.

Remus knew with a muffled sort of comprehension that he should be comforting Harry. After all, the boy had loved his godfather dearly, despite his problems.

Yet even with this realisation, he could not find the strength to. Didn't he deserve the same succour? He had known Sirius far longer and they had a stronger bond.

In a way, Remus had been the reason that had led to his suicide. 

Remus,

You know this is not a sham, I could see it in your eyes this afternoon. I am sorry to cause you more grievances; I know this year has been hard for you.

My problems always seem to be your problems. It does not seem possible for an egotist such as myself, to have a dilemma and solve it personally. But you always seem so wise and experienced.

I cannot help but turn to you when I feel overwhelmed. Many a time you have helped me… My parents, my alcoholism, my love life and even my homework!

In turn I hope that I have been a source of consolation at some point in your life. I know I was probably not; James was always so much better than me at expressing things subtly.

As you once said, I "have the tact of a rhino". However that is beside the point of this letter.

I am not entirely sure why I am writing this, or even what I'm actually writing at the moment. I just wanted to try and sort out the jumbling mess in my head.

I hope you will not be too angry when I tell you that I have given up all hope. Voldemort is dead; the world is once more a vibrant and free place. He did not go alone though, he took with him the lives of my dearest friends and the souls of those still alive.

Even Dumbledore these days is hollow. There is nothing in his eyes- no spark or glimmer that there used to be when he reprimanded us for our pranks.

The only thought that kept me going recently was that perhaps you would have me. That every night, willingly, you would invite me into your bed and hold me. When I was drunk this thought was allowed to run rampant and I am sorry for using you to satisfy my lust.

Any harm that I caused to you, or Harry, I am sorry for. It will never happen again.

I only hope that James, Lily and all our friends will be able to forgive me in the way that you have (if indeed you have).

You will receive this owl when I am truly dead. Sirius Black never makes the same mistake twice!

Yours forever, in the greatest of debts,

S. Black.

The words of the letter ran through Remus' mind like a never-ending whirlpool. He sunk to his knees as they lowered Sirius' coffin into the ground.

The small crowd of people silently moved away from him until only Harry stood behind the werewolf.

Severus Snape hid underneath a muggle umbrella, watching the funeral from the road that ran through the graveyard. He was unsure why he was here. He hated the man; in life Sirius had never been more than a melodramatic fool with an undeniable gift for hexes.

Shaking his head slowly, Snape wandered out of the graveyard, a twisted little smile on his lips. "Even from the grave Voldemort still manages to kill in his own way," he murmured, laughing as an old woman virtually ran past him.

Nymphadora Tonks watched the Potions Master hobble along his way, and then she turned back. For today she was a Black, the metamorphagus had decided. Throwing a flower on Sirius' grave she briefly embraced Harry then chased after Snape.

Her black dress flapping against the wind as she sprinted, skidding in front of Snape with a forced smile. "Come on, Prof, lets go and get drunk."

She was rewarded with a sour smile and Severus nodded, steering the young woman in the direction of the nearest pub.

Slowly the mourners made their way out of the raining graveyard and to the relative warmth of Grimmauld Place, until all that was left was Dumbledore, Remus and Harry.

"Remus? Will you come back with us?" the headmaster asked kindly, patting his former student's shoulder.

Harry shook his head slowly as Remus stared at the freshly upturned soil.

Dumbledore nodded, "I'll give you a couple of minutes then I'm going with the others. Someone promised me cucumber sandwiches," he offered a slight smile then backed away.

The Boy-Who-Lived crouched down beside his lover, smoothing back his wet hair and kissing his cheek. "Promise you'll come back to the house as soon as you're finished?"

Lupin shook his head, tears clouding up his vision. "There's so much I have to say to him," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "So much I have to apologise for," he added quietly.

Harry embraced him swiftly then left with Dumbledore, reconciled with the ageing wizard through Remus' grief. 

The lycanthrope prostrated himself before the grave, his tears mingling with the soil. He did not care that the ground was wet and would soon be muddy.

"I'm sorry."

On the evening of the same day, Remus was admitted to St James' Hospital with a raging fever.

Harry had returned to the graveyard nearly four hours later and found his lover sleeping on the grass next to the tombstone. His face and hands were blue with cold, his clothes saturated.

With the help of Snape he managed to return Remus to his cottage and they stripped the werewolf of his clothes, wrapping him in insulated blankets.

An hour later Harry was awoken from his dozing by the sound of thrashing. Remus shivered as he tried to push the blankets away from him, his cheeks were flushed and his lips were dry.

In a panic Harry ignored all possible magical means and phoned for an ambulance.

His fever lasted for one day before he slipped into a comatose state, only stirring to murmur words that Harry could hardly understand.