This is weird. I'm doing the same type of scene for two different fics. Haha! Well, sorta kinda, anyway. So I'm typing both at the same time! Bwahaha!

On with ze angsty-ness!

Disclaimer: If I owned HP and Co, I would have made Draco drag Harry into one of Madam Malkin's changing rooms and have hot monkey sex. Yes, even at the tender age of eleven. Still think I own it?

Warning: Slash. Though I don't see why I have to put it as a warning. Whatever.

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Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love. Why do I do it, perchance you might ask?
I don't know, but I feel it happening to me and I'm burning up.

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Thunder resonated throughout the place a few moments after the lightning forked across the sky. Rain fell in torrents, and visibility was poor although it was only two in the afternoon.

He stood in the midst of a large crowd of weeping people, onlookers on the interment. The coffins were placed in a large marble tomb usually associated with Egyptian pharaohs and curses. The wind howled in their ears, whipping at their hair and…

I'm telling this all wrong.

For starters, the sun was high in the sky, and clouds were sparse, making the heat unbearable, especially as he was in a suit. There was no sign whatsoever of rain, nor wind.

Remus stood in the middle of the Godric's Hollow graveyard in the centre of a handful of people. There stood Dumbledore, in black robes, the twinkle in his blue eyes somehow missing as he gave his speech. By his side was Hagrid, the half-giant sobbing openly into an enormous blue handkerchief. Minerva McGonagall, the Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor and head of Gryffindor, patted his arm awkwardly.

Other than that, Remus could not, or would not, identify any of the other faces there, few as they were.

A bead of sweat ran from his temple down his right cheek, accompanied by a lone tear. He'd never imagined having to go through this day so soon. To him, accepting the deaths of James and Lily was far, far harder than, say, accepting a dragon as a foster brother.

People were leaving. Already? Time was acting bizarrely, rushing past in great dollops one second, dragging out like molasses the next.

A hand on his shoulder. Remus turned his head slightly, as if unwilling tear his gaze away from the twin tombstones in front of him.

It was Dumbledore.

"Remus…Remus, do not let this…affect you, or your transformations."

"Don't worry, Professor," Remus spat. "I won't go attacking Muggles just because there's no one left for me in the world."

"That's just the thing, Remus." Dumbledore's voice was soft and kind, almost pitying. "There are people left for you." And he was gone with a pop.

Remus sighed. His hair glinted golden in the sunlight. Sirius had always loved Remus' hair, playing with it and twisting it idly between his fingers whenever they cuddled on the couch or in bed.

Sirius.

Fate really hated Remus.

First, his werewolf problems, which led to abuse at home. Shunned from the outside world. Then came Hogwarts, his first ace. Friends, and a lover. What could go wrong?

Everything, it seemed. Three of his best friends dead. His love, his only love, pronounced murderer of all three.

In the poker game of his life, he had been handed joker after joker.

How could the only man who loved him take away all that made him happy?

'By killing off my friends,' he found himself thinking bitterly. Remus had worked hard to maintain his beautiful world, and one Sirius Black had brought it all crashing down around his ears.

He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, the warmth starting to get to him. He chucked it to the side and took a few steps forward, so he was now standing directly in front of the two gravestones he had been observing.

James Potter. Lily Evans-Potter. Husband and wife, side-by-side even in death.

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It was quiet. Too quiet. This being Azkaban, the wizard prison, one would expect it to be so.

Suddenly a shrill scream broke out. That's better.

If Sirius leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the bars in the process, he probably could tell which prisoner had shrieked.

But wait. This was no prisoner. It was a visitor. Visitors were practically unheard of in Azkaban; nothing but the strongest of loves could motivate anyone to stand the Dementors.

A man in Ministry official robes hurried past. Sirius narrowed his eyes. He knew that toothbrush moustache and the meticulously parted hair. Bartimaeus Crouch. He was 'famous' in the prison for sentencing his own son to Azkaban. Why on earth would he be here?

The answer was clear as he saw the unconscious woman in Crouch's arms. His wife, no doubt. Probably had given into grief at the thought of her only son had turned 'evil'. Sirius snorted, returning to his previous position leaning against the wall, his blue-grey eyes never leaving the Crouch couple until they passed out of his line of sight.

A Dementor passed by. Sirius felt the familiar wave of cold pass through him, but he did not shudder, already accustomed to the presence of the dark creatures. After all, they stood guard outside his cell 24-7.

It was a miracle he had not yet turned barmy. Only yesterday had he woken up to be greeted by the sight of the blood spattered walls and floor of the cell opposite him. Prisoner no. 6259, a Jeremy Amerson, charged with the gruesome murders of his parents, wife and six children. His wife had been pregnant with his seventh at the time. Apparently he had tied her up and killed everyone in front of her own eyes, before gutting her.

Now, Jeremy did not have Dementors outside his cell doors all day. Nevertheless, he had lost his mind in a matter of 4 or 5 days. He had committed suicide with his own nails and teeth. That same day (after the cleaning) the Ministry had made sure that all the prisoners were to have their nails cut every week.

Sirius did not know exactly how long he had spent in that cell. He had asked a Ministry official, once, but either she hadn't heard or chose not to. He couldn't scratch the number of days on the walls because he had nothing to scratch it with. Also, he never really had a head for math. But he knew that he had lasted longer than anyone else with the same security measures outside a cell had. This was proved by the frequent 'visits' of the prison's coroner.

When he had first worked out that he was not turning mad, a brief flame of joy sputtered to life in the numbing coldness of his soul. The Dementors had obviously sensed it, and, eternally hungry as they were for happiness, drifted just that little bit closer.

The flame died.

Even so, he pondered why he wasn't losing his grip on sanity. The answer came to him as an image of the macabre remains of Jeremy Amerson flashed before his eyes.

He was innocent.

The only reason people went mad in Azkaban was because Dementors made them revisit their worst memories, and these people had murdered and tortured others of their own free will. Their sins came back to haunt them.

Sirius had been sent to the wizard prison ('Without trial,' he thought darkly) on the charges of passing on information to Voldemort which led to the death of the Potter couple, i.e. second-degree murder. (1)

But it was actually Peter who had betrayed Lily and James. Sirius had taken no part in the traitor's schemes.

He was innocent.

It wasn't a happy thought. It wasn't a question.

It just was.

Sirius clung onto that thought as he lay his head down on the hard cot in the corner of his cell. Sleep claimed him, and dreams of innocence, and amber eyes, filled his psyche.

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(1) Don't know if this is true…can't remember the proper term.

Again, too short. I'm suffering from major writer's block. School started, so sue me. Though, it'll probably mean I might (MIGHT) update more often as an escape from the monotony of school life.

Hey, let's play a game. Guess what this sentence means and I'll send you the next chapter before everyone else gets to read it! I'll give you an easy one:

"Saya memang suka membaca dan menulis tentang Harry dan Draco."

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