#gingerlilyevans

He was falling. He was falling and the impact looked painful, but panic and shock numbed his nerves and the motorbike’s skid over potholes in the road was the only reason Sirius’s feet ever touched ground. Stumbling, he lurched forward for a few steps and started running to the door. No, no, that couldn't be it; the Dark Mark was not hanging over the Potters’ house, that was not smoke rising from the rubble. There were other houses in Godric’s Hollow; not James’s, not Lily’s. No. Merlin. Sirius moved as if he were underwater, a deliberate push of the unlocked door, a deliberate step over the threshhold. Every second burned like clocks hidden away. His hands shook. Rubble lay strewn everywhere, an acrid smell filling the air. But Sirius noticed none of it, because there was a boy lying on the floor. There was a boy, barely a man, with messy black hair that would never stay down and spectacles for stupid vision and a stupid smile that would never quit.

Sirius cracked. A fierce heat melted the shock coating his bones, rearing up in his chest with a violent rush, because how fucking dare they take Prongs away from him? How fucking sick did Peter have to be, that slimy rat, to spy on the people who cared. How fucking stupid was he, to switch Secret Keepers, the glorious, infallible Plan? Sirius sank to his knees beside him, hands fisting James’s jet-black hair, shaking James’s shoulders. “Wake up, you great big idiot. Wake up.” Wake up. His face so close their noses almost touched, Sirius bent over him and removed the glasses, fumbling to tuck them in his pocket. And he, Sirius Black, was not crying. These were not tears dripping onto his friend’s face, these were not tears searing a bitter, bitter anguish on his tongue.

A cry echoed through the ruined house.

Harry.

Gently, fingertips sticky with longing, Sirius drew his hands away from James and balled them into fists. He swallowed. The stairs didn't creak, no cobwebs lurked in the corners. Everything looked the same, as if nothing had happened and James was just lying there, about to wake. Any second now. It looked like six months ago, when he last came to Godric’s Hollow to give up the Secret, a smile on his face and a hopeful, stupid, naive “see you on the other side.” Everything looked the same, but it would never be. The framed picture of the five of them hung still on the wall, glass now shattered.

Another cry beckoned Sirius to Harry’s room, walking slowly with shock sunken deep in his bones and entangling his limbs. Lily. Flame red hair as bright as life shielded her face. He didn't need the assurance of touch to know that she was dead, that they'd call her another casualty, just another name without a story. People would know her only by the colour of Harry’s bright green eyes. Slowly, he reached behind her and lifted Harry out of the crib. Harry cried.

“Mummy?”

Sirius held him closer, cradling Harry in the crook of his neck, suddenly painfully aware of this miracle, how special Harry was to still live.