but it's another to hear the details


Sirius stepped outside of the Potter’s house, his arms hanging limply by his sides, the lump in his throat was aching and he wasn’t sure how he was still standing. Everything was broken; he didn’t know where to turn. He tilted his heavy head towards the sky and he felt grief drown him and fill his lungs when his eyes laid on the Dark mark looming over the house. It was mocking, it was cruel, and Sirius couldn’t take it anymore.

He screamed up at the mark, his hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white and his nails drew blood from his palms. He bellowed and cried until his distraught sounds were echoing off all of the houses in the street, until his voice was cracking and breaking. But he didn’t care; he’d had the only real family he’d ever known ripped from him. He was allowed to feel this pain; he was allowed to hurt, he was allowed to mourn. Sirius’ knees gave way suddenly and he dropped limply into the snow as he began to sob. Hands yanking at his hair as he begged, to no one in particular, for it all to have been some horrible nightmare. He was trembling and his youthful face was distorted to a horrific measure of pain, screaming out once more as he tried to force himself further into the thin layer of snow – to hide from the truth. Sirius punched at the ground in resignation, hitting the paved pathway beneath the snow sharply - barking in pain as he felt a few of his fingers crack and break under the pressure.

He’d lost his best friend, his brother – the only person in the whole world to care for him when no one else did. Sirius felt like he’d had his heart ripped from his chest, doused in gasoline and set on fire. James had been there for him when no one else was, through his darkest days and through his brightest. James was always there for him; he was the only family Sirius had. Now that he was gone, Sirius was alone. More alone than he had ever been before.

Sirius weakly rolled his arm against the ground, so his palm was facing the black sky. He pushed the sleeve of his leather jacket up to his elbow to look down at the tattoo on his wrist, the one that read 'MWPP'.  He broke into another fit of pained sobs as a line began to draw itself across the final ‘P’.

James Potter was no more. Prongs was no more. And Sirius Black felt broken beyond repair.