Sirius was alive.
That was all Harry knew, as he sprinted down the darkened corridors, the light at the tip of his wand just barely permeating the blackness that surrounded him. He didn't know where he was, exactly; just a cold, stone building with echoes of evil reverberating off every wall. His godfather was somewhere in this place, alive, he knew it to the very depth of his soul. And he, Harry, would not stop searching, not until death caught up with him.
There was a door at the end of the hall, heavily barred, locked from the outside. It blew off its hinges before Harry could even cast a spell, his tension and energy were so great. The light entered the chamber as he approached, revealing its contents.
There. On the floor, by the far wall, the figure of a man lay still and silent. The teenager fell to his knees beside the body, gently rolled him over onto his back. Blood seeped through the man's clothes, soaking the front of his shirt. Harry placed his hands on the man's pale face.
"Sirius! Sirius!"
There was no breath, no life left in him it seemed. Harry's shoulders slumped, and his hands slid down. But wait – he felt the neck – blood thrummed beneath his fingertips. He felt warm jubilation sweep through him.
"Sirius!" the boy yelled again, shaking the man's shoulders in an attempt to rouse him.
Finally, finally, Sirius took a long, shaking breath, and exhaled in a fit of coughing. His eyes slowly blinked open, and focused on the face of his godson above him. He took a few more shallow breaths.
"'Ello, Harry."
Harry Potter sat straight up in his bed and frantically looked around, taking in the familiarity of his bedroom on Privet Drive. His body was covered in a cold layer of sweat, and his breath came in rasps. He reached under his pillow, fingers curling around the handle of his wand, and then he remembered.
Sirius was dead.