Sirius Black was not in a good mood.
He sat alone at the table, his food still on his plate, perfectly untouched. Nothing moved inside the gloomy manor. Nothing breathed.
Except him.
He tried to remember the last time he'd heard a friendly voice, seen a friendly smile. But there was none of that here, no warmth, no comfort. The only voices here were the ones in his head; the echoes of his past that haunted him every second of every day. And when they started driving him mad, there was only the sound of a single voice, crying, pleading for someone to save them. His voice.
It happened a lot, nowadays.
He closed his eyes, and remembered.
The cottage was in ruins.
White-hot flames licked the charred remains of the once-loving home. They left nothing unscathed, no surface not blackened by their cruel rampage.
Nothing alive.
He was running, running faster than he ever had in his life, his mind utterly blank, his heart paralyzed by the crushing, infinite blackness: death.
Because there was no one there. He called their names, over and over, his voice a desperate, strangled cry. He never imagined his voice could sound that way.
Or that it ever would.
His breath was coming in searing gasps. The truth was so very real, in those moments, so undeniably inevitable. It was killing him inside; he could hear his heart screaming as it broke into a million pieces. This could not be happening. It wasn't happening. He almost convinced himself, standing there in that red hell, that it was all a dream. A horrible, horrible dream, the kind that would make him wake up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest. Maybe none of it was real. If he was lucky, maybe the past two years weren't real. He screwed his eyes shut tight. He would awake in his dormitory, with James standing over him, looking concerned. Nothing to worry about but exams and pranks and finally getting James and Lily together.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he screamed.
James was lying there, his face pale, his eyes closed. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. James was completely still, his glasses askew. It was a prank. It HAD to be. A terrible, stupid little prank. James would wake up any moment, grinning crazily at the look on Sirius's face. He would promptly punch the daylights out of him, pretending to be annoyed but overwhelmed with relief that it was just a joke. James would read the look in his eyes, become sober for a moment, and give him a brotherly hug, telling him he would never leave him behind.
Yet when Sirius looked again, James was still there.
Paralyzing terror filled his body, making him completely immobilized. A numb disbelief was rushing through his veins, taking control of him. James was dead.
And a huge, overpowering rush of unbearable sadness filled his heart. The pain was too much; there was no way he could survive. He felt his selfish little heart beating louder than ever, as if mocking James's dead body, flaunting the fact that it was still alive and he wasn't. He collapsed on the ground, his whole body shaking from the force of his sobs. James was dead. He hated himself so much it was impossible to describe. Each breath that he took was another step away from the only person who had never given up on him.
He tried to move, and a new kind of terror filled him.
Lily was lying crumpled on the ground, her eyes, normally so lively and cheerful, were blank and unseeing. He tried to scream, but it died somewhere in his throat. Her dull eyes filled his vision, and he felt winded. They reflected the burning, fiery hopelessness that the person they belonged to could no longer see.
And he remembered how happy they had been, and how in love, and he wanted to die.
He hated himself. He hated himself with more passion than he had ever felt about anything. His heart screamed to leave, to be anywhere but this cursed place where the bodies of the two most important people in the world to him lay. But his legs wouldn't move. He was dooming himself to more exquisitely painful seconds spent here. He could not forget.
A cry split the night, one so scared and desperate that for a moment he thought he had called out again. But as he lay, consumed with grief, the cry came again. New tears filled his eyes. How sick was it, that after his world had just came crashing down, he had deluded himself into believing that there was some possible way that Harry was still alive? No one could have survived such an explosion.
But suddenly, the cry was louder. He opened his eyes. A small, pale hand was sticking up from the smoldering ruins, a plea for help. "HARRY!" he screamed. He threw himself bodily into the flames, his mind numb, as though it were detached from his body. He felt the fire creep up his sleeves, but he didn't feel it. He grabbed the tiny hand of his godson, and pulled for all he was worth.
Harry shot out of the burning home, straight into Sirius's arms. He frantically looked over every inch of the child, making absolutely sure that he was not on fire. As far as he could see, Harry was fine. He heaved a shuddering sigh, of relief, of sadness, he wasn't sure. He clutched the child like a drowning man clutches a lifesaver, and carried the screaming boy to safety.
"Oh, Harry" he sobbed, running his fingers through his godson's hair, holding him close. "Harry, I'm so…I'm so sorry."
Harry rested his tiny head on Sirius's shoulder, and slept.
Author's Note: One of my finer angst pieces, I think. I'm quite proud of it. I've been uploading so much mediocre stuff lately that I wanted to prove I do have an angsty bone in my body. Please review? I need feedback! *tries to do puppy eyes and fails epically* Oh whatever, just review, por favor?