Sirius Black wept openly that night in the lavatory.
He was humiliated for it. He wouldn't allow her to take his pride away for a second time—especially from the grave.
And so he pretended. An outsider wouldn't have guessed the tragedy that occurred mere days before. An outsider wouldn't have known that the boy had not slept in days for every night the image of the girl appeared before him.
Professor Dumbledore, however, was not an unknowing outsider. He understood the internal pain of the young boy.
Numbly, Sirius sat opposite Dumbledore and kept his gaze on his hands.
"Sirius, I understand that you may feel guilt—"
"She killed herself, Professor. I hadn't a hand in it. If that's all, I'd like to get back to my—"
The boy stood to leave, "Sit down, Sirius." Slowly the boy complied. "Is that how you really feel, Sirius?"
"She killed herself," Sirius repeated. "I didn't do anything."
Dumbledore appraised the boy from behind his spectacles. "Very well. You may go."
Sirius was about to leave when he paused with his hand above the doorknob.
"It doesn't mean anything," he began softly, "…but I keep…seeing her." Sirius muttered. "Every night."