Chapter Text
His feet thundered up the stone walkway, breath coming out in short puffs of air as he stopped, breathless and shaking, in front of the house. He stared up at the second floor, frozen in place by the state of it all as the wind howled angrily in his ears. Half of the house was blown to bits, the explosion so fresh that the house was still in the process of falling apart, loose boards and bricks clattering down to the grass below. His hands shook as he neared the front door, emotions muddled by shock and terror as he pushed past the remnants of the old wood—it was practically destroyed anyway, hinges clinging onto the walls holding up a single piece of stubborn wood that had refused to break under the power of whatever spell had blown the rest of it away. Mouth gaping, mind uncomprehending, he stared inside the home, disbelief crowding every thought as his eyes skated across the demolished interior of a house that he had grown so familiar with for the past two years.
There was debris everywhere, scattered across the floor and up along the stairs. It looked like a part of the ceiling had caved, the night sky above revealing that the second floor had come down with it. He couldn’t make sense of the mess at first, standing stock-stiff in that blasted doorway with the door blasted off its hinges and everything blown to bits. It looked like a war zone, everything gray from ash or dust or, hell, it was probably a bit of both. He stepped half a foot in, looking around for anything that might clue him in to what the hell had happened there.
It was then that he saw it—just barely—from beneath a pile of downed planks of wood and ash and dust piled up on the staircase.
The barest hints of a shoe, poking out a fallen piece of the ceiling.
“James!”
Spurred on by terror, he scrambled over to the shoe, heaving large pieces of lumber away as he blinked tears from his eyes, the dust in the air forcing his eyes to water as he disturbed the settled debris. He worked through the pain regardless, slowly revealing the still form of James Potter from beneath the wreckage. He sucked in a sharp breath. James was bleeding heavily from a long, deep gash in his throat, blood soaking into the collar of his shirt as his face grew paler and paler by the second.
“Is he alive?”
The calm voice behind him spurred him into action. Sucking in another, deeper breath, nearly choking on the dust and ash flowing into his lungs, he ripped off his jacket, scrambling to elevate James into a sitting position as he pressed desperately to the wound—trying to stop the bleeding. Hell, trying to do anything.
“I-I don’t know. Headmaster what-”
His companion rushed past him without another word, robes twirling through the dust-filled air as he ascended the stairs at a shocking pace. Sirius almost yelled after him, urging him to stop, to come back, to help, but didn’t manage to bring his attention farther than the man in his arms, mind too scrambled to focus on more than one thing as he fought to remember any healing spells he could. James gurgled suddenly, a pained, wet whimper. He cursed, pressing tighter to the wound as suddenly, the man’s eyes flew open and he lurched up, grabbing at his throat as if he were choking.
“Bloody-shite shite shite.” Scrambling to keep James from making the wound worse as he also scrambled for his wand, he feverishly sorted through his muddled mind, pulling healing spells from the depths of his subconscious through some sort of adrenalin-addled fervor.
“Uh, anapeneo? Anapeneo! Fuck-right, yes, anapeneo! James, mate, relax. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He whispered, waving his wand furiously as James gasped for breath, throat slowly clearing as he spit up the blood in thick, half-congealed chunks. “I can help, just stay calm, okay mate? Deep breaths. Episkey… shite, episkey! Shite... shite… damn it! It isn’t working. Okay, uh, shite. R-reparifors! Reparifors damnit!”
Through some miracle, or perhaps his own dumb luck, James’ neck started to stitch back together again, the man’s pained gasps losing the wet edge to them as the blood stopped blocking his airway, clearing the passage and allowing him to breath fully again. Sirius sat back on his haunches with a breathless sigh, wiping a no doubt bloodied hand down his face as James’ breathing started to even and his pulse steadied. He couldn’t even bring himself to care at the sticky wetness of his best friend’s blood clinging to his cheek, incapable of registering anything but pain and relief and the onset of shock as James sputtered, breathing down deep gulps of air as he rolled over to his side and vomited up bile, a mess of stomach acid and clumps of blood.
“Li-Lily. Lily and the boys, where are-” the man dissolved into a hacking fit, coughing up more clumps of blood and bile as he wheezed out the desperate pleas. “Are the-they okay-?”
Sirius cursed, realization breathing the panic back into him. Scrambling up from his knees, he glanced between his friend and the upper floor landing, breathing a bit easier as the color in James’ cheeks slowly returned. He would go see what was happening up stairs then rush right back down to check on James. It would take a minute at the most, he was certain.
“The headmaster just—I'll go check. Don’t move, okay mate? I’ll be right back.” He breathed, heart rate speeding up again as he turned and scrambled up the rest of the stairs. Sprinting down the hall, he felt his panic spike back up again at the sounds of a baby crying. Something was wrong—very wrong—he could feel it just below his breastbone, an uneasy ache in the core of his being. What had happened—how had death eaters breached the fidelius? Had they gotten to Peter somehow? Were they still here?
Why was it so quiet?
“Headmast-” screeching to a halt, Sirius stopped short in the doorframe, heart skipping a beat as he gazed out into the nursery. It was carnage—complete and utter wreckage. Half of the nursery was intact—though only barely—and the other was gone, blown to bits and opening up the room to the harsh October air. Sirius sucked in a breath, trying to make sense of it all as his eyes fell on Dumbledore, the man slowly standing from where he had been crouched on the floor, observing the prone form of-
“Lily!”
Stumbling into the partially destroyed room, he collapsed beside the woman, unfeeling and uncomprehending as he stared down at her, her eyes wide with terror and a look of determined fear painted across her face. She was pale, unmoving, almost like a doll. He would have thought she was asleep if it weren’t for those cold, unblinking eyes, staring out the nursery door at her attacker. He reached out, stunned, brushing the tips of his fingers across her cheek. She was warm, still. But…
He felt bile slowly rising up his throat.
Sirius stumbled up and away from the slowly cooling corpse of his friend, turning and vomiting into the corner. Dead. She was dead.
Lily was dead.
He coughed, forcing back tears and bile as the baby’s cries finally registered to him again. Breathing deeply, trying to keep the nausea away, he turned around from the corner again, forcing himself to keep his eyes away from the corpse and pinned instead onto the crib. The headmaster stood in front of it now, looking over both the infants curled up inside. The babies were clutching each other, one sobbing loudly and the other appearing half-asleep.
“Are-are they okay? Where is you-know-who? The death eaters?” He questioned softly, breathlessly, the panic dulling slightly around the edges as a dim feeling of shock slowly settled into his bones. Distanced, he watched as one of the identical boys—the sleeping one, with what Sirius realized was a bloodied gash racing across his forehead—was examined by the headmaster.
“It is hard to say, mister Black. Though, that does appear to be his corpse on the ground next to Mrs. Potter, I believe.” Came the quiet reply. Sirius froze, urging himself not to look down as he watched, distanced and still in shock, as the headmaster delicately cleaned the baby’s forehead, revealing a zig-zagging gash across the middle of the child’s head, starting at the tip of his hairline and carving a thin, jagged line down to the opposite eyebrow. Sirius felt an ache in his chest as he watched, unsure what to feel or do or think and Merlin, the headmaster was right.
There were two corpses on the ground.
He didn’t look—couldn’t look or think or comprehend anything but the headmaster and the infants as the injured boy was placed back in the crib, and the old man turned gently to the other. Immediately, there seemed to be something off, as the old man froze stiff and gasped. Sirius froze as well, eyes widening as the infant was lifted from the crib with shaking hands and his face was revealed.
“What…?”
“A curse scar.” The headmaster whispered, almost disbelieving. Sirius couldn’t even nod in agreement, too struck by the terror unfolding in front of him as the child whimpered, appearing pained. He could easily understand why. All along the right side of the infant’s face was blackened, charred skin; an insidious, tar-like appearance taking over the skin and slowly branching out along the curve of his jaw and up to his hairline. Could it even be called a scar? Sirius didn’t know. He couldn’t think much of anything, with his heart in his ears and sawdust in his eyes and his best friend’s blood slapped across his cheek like war paint. All he knew was that the look of that-that thing across the boy’s face made his stomach churn.
“Did… did you-know-who do that?” He whispered, horror rising up from his stomach as another thought came to him. “Is it deadly?”
He wouldn’t be able to handle another death. Not now. Not as he stood over Lily’s corpse. Lily’s cooling corpse, lying on the hard ground of her children’s nursery. He couldn’t watch another death of someone he loved happen right in front of him. Not like this.
The headmaster turned to look at him, eyes glazed over and contemplative. They stared at each other, the baby’s cries slowly diminishing as the silence dragged on. Sirius was going to speak—maybe ask a second time just what that curse scar was doing on the boy’s face—but was cut off as an agonizing sob rang out from the doorway.
“Lily!”
Sirius stumbled back, eyes wide and lungs in his throat as James, neck still bloodied and voice hoarse, fell into the room and collapsed besides his wife’s body. Sirius couldn’t think—couldn’t comprehend the agony unfolding in front of him as he watched his best friend fall apart, screaming with horror and grief and terror as he cradled his wife’s body to his chest, sobbing and begging the gods and demons above to do something -
“Lily-Lily wake up! Merlin—I’ll do anything please—please just-just wake up!”
His best friend’s sobs rang out through the room as the headmaster and him met eyes once again, the old man’s face ashen and eyes shadowed. Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it, uncomprehending of anything beyond a flimsy acknowledgment of the tragedy before and around him as the headmaster turned away again, placing the scarred baby back into the crib next to his identical brother. Sirius could do nothing but watch as the old man grasped the child’s hand and, delicately, turned the boy’s wrist over to read the name scrawled along the bracelet sitting there. The baby’s name. He was looking to see which one of the boys it was that had such a horrible curse scar maring his cheek.
“Charles A. Potter.” The old man whispered, turning once again to look at Sirius, the weight behind his gaze nearly bowling the younger man over. If it were not for James’ pained sobs ringing out in his ears, it was all too likely that he might have collapsed to the floor with him—the losses weighing on his shoulders more heavily than he could bear. But, somehow, that incomprehensible agony kept him standing, rooted in place as the headmaster’s mournful gaze bore into him, wise and terribly, horribly knowing.
“Mister Black, your godson has done something extraordinary.”
Sirius knew that there was nothing he could do besides nod, his fear of the war and fear of the second corpse lying dead on the floor beside him refusing to let him disagree.