It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

::Moon gun flash pain red home…::

I open my eyes and they burn I part my lips and they crack. I'm so hot, so tired, so alive… The tears burn my eyes, burn my face. They're so hot, I'm so hot. I move and the pain lances through me, white and burning and then it stops. I open my eyes again and look up blurrily at the silhouette above me, speaking in soft tones with cool hands. Hands that run down the burning streak of pain in my side, across the fire in my head. I try to sit up and they're gently insistent as they push against my chest. Long fingers, narrow palm, slender, but not delicate. Capable. The hand stills over a familiar scar and I try to turn away. The fire in me burns again and again the hands are there, cooling, soothing.

" You can't do that. It will just make it worse." The voice is mellow and soft and I know that I lived in England too long before I died.

Even Angels have a British accent now.

I frown as I walk down the street towards where I parked my bike. Dinner tonight had taken a considerable amount of the money I'd allotted for the week. More than I thought it would actually, but damn it, I just couldn't face another night of eating whatever I could find in the pantry. I sigh as I swing my leg over the small motorcycle and sit in a small puddle. It rained while I was eating. Wonderful. Kicking the bike to life I glare at them small town inn as I ride away.

' Note to self; next time eat at different place' or better yet, maybe I should just continue to stay home and pretend that I'm not running away from the war. That I'm not hiding from Ron's penchant for Kamikaze missions as they try to find Harry. That I'm not hiding from Charlie's mysterious letters from nowhere that say he's safe and busy, but never anything else, that I'm not running from the burnt out rubble where Hogwarts was.

But there's no use in pretending cause I am running from all that. And more.

The bike's wheels slip dangerously in the mud and I ease my clenched fists off the throttle, slowing down as I approach the small hidden path to my cottage. The low rumbling of my engine is the only sound as I hop of the vehicle, killing the engine and walking it under a small lean-to like structure. Walking around to my door I stop, the skin on the back of my neck tingling. Slowly I pull my wand, edging around the corner.

He's outstretched in a puddle, the reflection of the moon wavering around him as he makes the slightest of involuntary movements. The blood seeping into the rainwater makes the moon's glow crimson around his head. Slowly I walk forward, scanning the area around my home. There are no footprints. Wand held on him, I crouch and turn his head towards me.

He looks haggard, pain-filled, but most importantly, the skin bared on his left arm is smooth and bare.

" Mobilus corpus" The blood begins to drip steadily in a stream, almost pouring from a wound in his side as I lift him with my wand. " Bloody fuck." Of course it couldn't be easy. It's never easy.

He drips a crimson trail across my tiles my carpet and finally begins to spread a thick red puddle across my comforter as I maneuver him onto the bed. I'm panicking as I rip the tattered robes off him. Me, panicking. Fred and George would laugh until they cried, if they were here and not somewhere building things for the war. The wound is a small, perfect circle that slips through his upper side. Below the lungs, above his kidneys, if I can stop the bleeding, he'll be fine.

Many tense minutes and more cursing than one Weasley alone should be able to produce, his side is closed and I've found another problem, a line that curves around the side of his forehead, gouging away the flesh, letting blood flow over into his face and hair. It's very bloody, but I read somewhere that there are lots of tiny blood vessels in the human head. That even a minor wound bleeds profusely. I wouldn't call this minor, but mum wouldn't wash my mouth out either as I work to make the flesh close together

" Accio" A facecloth and a small bowl of water land gently on the nightstand. My hands are shaking as I gently wash away the blood and mud and dirt. A vaguely familiar face appears slowly. Olive skin, dark eyebrows with a faint arch, straight nose and a full mouth with an upwards tilt to the lips. I frown, trying to imagine the beard and moustache surrounding it trimmed down neatly. Giving him black eyes and a less destroyed look.

Sirius Black. Harry's Godfather

Tiredly I sit on the edge of the bed, burying my face in, my hands. Suddenly I hope I did a better job. That my good enough was more than that.

Because if Sirius lived, that was one more reason for us cosmically why Harry needed to live too.

He sits up suddenly, waking me and pulling at the stitches I just put in less than a day ago; moaning and crying out, tears running down his face. I brush against him and could kick myself. I had forgotten about infections. His burns at the very touch as a fever rages inside him. I push him back down gently, running my hands across his body trying to find where the heat is greatest, looking for the source of the infection.

" Shh, I need you to lay very still Sirius." Of course he attempts to arch up against my hands when I find the tender area of the wound. " You can't do that, it will just make it worse." I'm not sure how he could possibly screw up the botch job I managed to pull off any worse than it is, but he settles down, groaning low in his chest as I push firmer onto the site, feeling it grow cooler under my fingers. Again there's that rush of guilt that these hands should be in battle, finding fallen schoolmates, doing this for them…so they can stand up and kill again. The sour sweet smell of infection has faded from his side and head, but I can't fight the fever under my hands. It's beyond me.