Disclaimer: If it seems familiar to you, chances are, I don't own it.

He was falling; down… down… down… as blackness consumed his senses. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move; he couldn't think. All he ever knew, all he ever loved, was like a long-lost dream. It seemed impossible that anything could, or ever had, existed beyond the darkness he was now in.

Like a small, dim light that glow brighter and brighter, time began to slowly return to him. He could see again, think, smell, hear…

"SIRIUS!"

That voice… He knew that voice… He knew the name too, but it didn't seem nearly as important as that voice…

"HE'S NOT DEAD! SIRIUS!"

Dead… Why would Sirius not be dead? Weren't they all dead here?

He could see them clearly now; the faceless forms of those who had passed from a better place. They swarmed, a soft hum that some considered words gently pouring from their closed mouths. The ghostly pale skin and clouded eyes showed no signs of their anguished torment, and he knew there was no point in fearing them. They were here because they were meant to be here; that was all there was to it.

But where was 'here'? Was there any reason he did not know? He was meant to be here, though, was he not?

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS! I'LL KILL HER!"

So Sirius was dead… And he was going to be avenged… Avenged by whom? Did anyone here deserve to be avenged? Was there meant to be anyone who would care enough to take revenge against one who had killed one who was here? He didn't think so. It didn't seem right.

"Hey, Padfoot," a familiar voice said to him. But however familiar the voice was, he could not place it; it had a sad edge to a mischievous tone that sounded right whenever the voice used it.

Slowly, he turned around, away from that voice that called out for Sirius and towards the voice that addressed him. Standing behind him was another man; this man was about average height, with messy black hair and hazel eyes behind round glasses, eyes that looked more alive than anything else in this place.

"Prongs?" he asked deliberately, as if fearing that the man he was now facing was only a trick of the place he was in.

"Figuring it out then, are you?" Prongs asked with a sense of Marauder-ish humor that only the foursome – Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs – had ever managed to pull off.

He was figuring it out… This man, Prongs… he knew Prongs. But Prongs was gone; he died a long time ago. He couldn't be talking to Prongs, looking him in the face, now. Could he?

He heard more shouts from the direction he guessed he came from; they were cries for someone called Harry.

Harry… Merlin! How could he not have remembered Harry! That voice he heard, the one screaming for Sirius, it was Harry's voice! Harry was calling for Sirius… And he was Sirius… But that would mean… No!

Sirius whipped around, facing where the voices were coming from, where the veil was. Ignoring the smoothed in features of the dead faces around him, ideas raced through his mind of the best way to make it back through the veil; back to his godson.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts.

"Padfoot," James said, "you can't go back. Not now."

Sirius looked at his best mate in horror. Prongs looked just like Sirius remembered him, only his face was currently etched with a slight sadness that worried Padfoot in a way he never thought would be possible. Sirius couldn't count all the times he wished he could speak with James again, see him again, but now… he couldn't leave Harry, not like this.

"I have to go back," he said, trying to fill his voice with the determination he knew fear had pushed out of his eyes. Harry had said "I'll kill her" and Sirius knew 'her' to be Bellatrix Lestrange. He couldn't let Harry go after Bellatrix, no matter what his cousin had done to him. The thought of what that madwoman could, and would, do to his godson filled him with a fear that he couldn't easily push back, no matter how hard he tried.

"Sirius, please," Prongs started. He sighed, "It's not as simple as just going back."

He listened with more intent to hear James out when he was called by his given name; he knew James wouldn't call him 'Sirius' unless he had to be completely, well, serious.

"Look, mate," James said, glancing around as though expecting to see someone trying to listen to their conversation or watch them, "this is not where either of us are suppose to be."

"What do you mean?" If, in death, they weren't meant to be there, why would they be?

"Padfoot… we're in Hell."

A/N: I can't promise that I'm going to update this story quickly or that I'll even finish it; it just seemed like a good idea to get enough of it down so I wouldn't forget the story line in case I decided I did want to continue with it.