As he touched her, he couldn't help but compare them. Her curves to his planes; her softness to his firmness. He expected jutting bones and found the opposite. As he ran his fingers over her smooth chin and cheeks, he couldn't help but remember the feel of his thick bristles scratching his skin.

They'd talked about it once after he got out of Azkaban. What the other would do if one of them died in the war. And, while Sirius had protested adamantly, he'd finally agreed that they'd find someone else they could respect and be content with.

Nymphadora Tonks loved him; he knew that to the core of his being. And she knew that he could never give himself completely to her. She knew that a part of his soul was Sirius', would always be Sirius'. She accepted that, and he loved her for it.

And he did love her. He had no reservations with loving her, knew Sirius would be happy that he wasn't brooding over his death. He knew that Sirius wouldn't have wanted him to waste away into nothing.

She knew, when he said to her that he was too old, too poor, too dangerous, he meant it. He wanted her to have better. He wished she could have better. He wanted her to have someone young and whole--in more ways than physically. She deserved someone who could love her with all he was. She deserved more than he could give her.

And always, in the middle of the night when he lay next to her, staring up at the ceiling, her breath hot on his neck, her body soft and forgiving against his, he knew she didn't want anymore than he could give and felt ashamed. Because he should be able to give her more; because he knew if the positions were reversed he wouldn't settle for what he was giving her; because he knew in his heart that he didn't love her enough. And he was ashamed for wishing, in that eternal minute between two-fifty-nine and three, that it was she who fell behind the veil and Sirius laying beside him.

Sometimes, when she touched him, he could close his eyes and almost imagine it were Sirius. Sometimes, when he kissed her, he could almost taste Sirius on his tongue. And he was ashamed of that, too.

Nobody had known about them being lovers, him and Sirius. When Sirius had fallen behind the curtain, everyone thought his reaction was one of a very close friend. And it was. He had grieved for the loss of his lover, the person who knew him better than he knew himself, his best friend. But he grieved alone, in private, where nobody could see the real depth of his pain. Until one night when Nymphadora had opened his bedroom door to see him sobbing desperately with Sirius' pillow clutched in his arms. Then he'd told her what Sirius had been to him, and what he'd been to Sirius. That night she'd said she loved him too, werewolf bite, ratty robes, broken heart and all.

He also thought Dumbledore had suspected. The knowing smile whenever they expressed worry over each other, the twinkle when one left the room shortly after the other. He'd always wanted to tell Dumbledore, but then Sirius had died, and things became suddenly much more complicated. And now Dumbledore was dead; he'd never be able to tell him. Just another thing to add to the long list of could've-should've. Just one more regret among thousands.

Even now, as he ran his fingers through her bright pink hair, his other hand intertwined with one of hers, he closed his eyes and imaged that it was Sirius' hand, Sirius' silky black locks sliding through his fingers.

"I miss him too," she whispered, then kissed him passionately. She knew what he saw when he closed his eyes; she didn't care. Shame and grateful relief warred within him, and she knew that too because she added, "Stop it. I know you love him, and I know you love me, and that's enough."

He hoped it was.

As he allowed himself to be lead to their bedroom--a different one than his and Sirius'--Remus Lupin thought that maybe he could forget. For a little while.

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