Deep Breaths

There's that sign in the sky.

Sirius would recognize it anywhere, be it stained on his brother's skin or the sky over his best friend's home.

And now's the time when the fear sets in, when "panic" becomes more than a silly five-letter word. His heart is heavy and his mind is foggy and his legs are moving when he wants nothing more than to stay put, to avoid seeing whatever is waiting on the other side of that open door. He's the first to arrive, he realizes. Oh, sure, there's the stray Muggle or two running around in stupid flashy costumes stopping to check out the nicely made haunted house. He gives them a good glare and a finger to boot but they're hardly scared by the man trembling from head to foot with that awful glistening in his eyes. If anything, they think he's the coward.

And maybe they're kind of sort of right. He's just one big coward, isn't he? Too afraid to face life. It took him years to finally man up and leave the hell hole of his family. Will it take so long to find the truth tonight?

He doesn't want it, doesn't want to believe what he knows to be so true, because he's afraid. So fucking afraid. He knows nothing good will come from this, that so many lives will be ruined, that he'll be nothing but a broken shell of a man. But he's a goddamn Gryffindor and he'll carry on whether he likes it or not. Because that's what they do. Bravery and all that nonsense.

And so he picks himself up from where he's fallen on the floor and trudges forward. The Muggles are running by again, squealing about what kind of candy they have in their sloshing, swaying pumpkin purses. Sirius wants desperately to feel what they feel, to be joking about the world with his favorite people. But he can't. Because he's here, in Godric's Hollow, about to face his worst nightmares.

There's a demon in his head, and one in his heart, driving him to darkness. He pushes the door open further, bracing himself for something he isn't so sure of. What he sees is more horrible than he can imagine. Because there's James on the floor, as dead as his soul. He cries out and stumbles over an overturned table and he relishes in the pain upon impact because it's so much more bearable than this.

James. Dead. James is dead.

Funny how one little word uniting the two can make all the difference in the world, isn't it?

He runs a shaky hand through his hair plastered with grimy sweat and he gives a terrible heave and out comes that meal he had made for himself earlier. He laughs grimly, remembering all of the times James had mocked his cooking abilities. It's here for him to see now, right? But that makes the trembling worse and his eyes prickle with those damned watery crystals and he knows he'd be the joke if anyone caught him crying but he can't bring himself to care.

And he can feel his world shattering around him, like the breaking of a mirror reflecting all of the ugly bits of life on each shard. He wants to feel angry, wants to feel something other than this grave misery. He wants to slam his fist into a wall, maybe break a thing or two. But he can't. The anger will come later, he knows. He'll hate Voldemort, hate Peter, hate Dumbledore, hate the world. But now all he has is this pain and his heart is breaking and the tears are coming down fast and oh, Merlin, his fucking Prongs is dead.

His best friend of seven years is gone, the life sucked from him in a bright green flash from the barrel of a madman's wand. The idiot didn't even have his wand on him. Not like he would've stood much of a chance. When Voldemort seeks your death, you will die. But he can't help but wish it had been someone else. He's selfish, he knows it, but he doesn't give two fucks because his best friend is lying dead at his feet.

And he drags himself over to James, to Prongs. He wraps his best friend, his fucking brother, in his arms and sobs and sobs and sobs. He's so young, they were all too young. No one deserved this, least of all James Potter. They were so, so young and innocent. War turns the diamonds into coal. The light into darkness. Who would bring his happiness back again? Because James can't. No one can, not anymore. Not when half of his being is here, lifeless in his arms.

He's dead on this inside. So very dead.

And he's breathing like he learned, to cope with all of the pain.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

He wants to feel the air rush into his lungs, to feel the positive light come in and the dark night to go out.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

And he's trying to breathe but nothing will come out because he's panicking and feeling depression crush him on all sides but he's taking those breaths and it hurts so fucking bad. It all reminds him of him, of that guy lying dead on the floor next to him. You know, the one he would give his fucking life for? Yeah, that's the one. He needs to do something, like punch a wall. Deep breaths, he tries. But isn't that what he said that one day he nearly flipped over something his brother had done?

Deep breaths, Padfoot.

Fuck you, he wants to scream, but he can't because he loves him too fucking much.

And he picks his way upstairs through the rubble and nearly dies all over again at the sight of her lifeless on the floor. He feels his chest constrict and he shoves a fist in his mouth to keep from crying out but he's just so fucking miserable that he'd give anything to just die too. Because she's there, lying dead on the floor in front of him. You know, the one his best friend chased all of those years? The very fucking one. She's nearly his fucking sister for Merlin's sake and he loved her so much and she's gone, both of them, just like that. And there's that kid there, his godson, watching him from the crib through her eyes and he wants nothing more than to hug him and love him and cry with him and wonder at the miracle of his survival.

But there's walls that need punching and rats that need stomping and werewolves that need apologizing and…Oh, Merlin, when did it all go wrong?