waking up to ash and dust | Siriline [ ft. James. ]
This hell was to become their new brand of life now. The moment James stepped out of Hogwarts months ago, this fact was the first to be drilled onto his mind, but it wasnât until tonight that he realized just how true it was. Yes, they had been on missions before that endangered their lives, but those times didnât even come close to how heavy the danger of tonight truly was. In the past, it was only the adults who were targeted. This time, it was children, young witches and wizards just about to learn how to defend themselves, that became target dummies for the disciples of the demon himself. At the thought, James couldnât help the anger that took hold of him. It sunk its claws on him, causing his muscles to tense, his jaw to lock tight, his breathing to come shorter and more laboured, and his fist to close even tighter, which, in turn, only made the pain in his forearm to worsen.
There was no care that was spared to himself, however, as bodies upon bodies were brought in. Some lay motionlessly atop white stretchers stained with the red essence of their lives, while the others were hunched, clutching at certain parts of their bodies, sounds of agony imprisoning their tongues and throats. James did not care about his own pain for this was a life he chose, this was an expectation that he had awaited with open arms. But these children, these other people? They were all innocent, just harmless souls caught in the crossfire. They did not choose this, yet here they were, suffering. The thought of that coupled with the visual proof made the pain in his arm feel like a shallow wound acquired after tripping over a stone. He wouldnât even have paid any attention to it, had the healers running around not forced him to stay put. He had just come back to Hogwarts to make sure none of the Death Eaters, whose identities were still hidden to some, could get past the noses of the others under the pretense that they were here to help. And so, for minutes now, that was all he was doing. That and look around the faces of the harmed, praying again and again that he wouldnât recognize any of his friendsâ faces. With his arm in a sling, he took perhaps the hundredth look around, another string of a prayer swimming in his mind. Although, as he looked to his right, it seemed that the hundred prayers heâd released still werenât enough. Just as he was about to let his eyes move past, he recognized a face. In a flash, or at least as fast as his limp would allow him, he was beside her bed, face crumpled in worry.
"Emme, what happened?" was the first words that fell out of his mouth. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" the questions came like a storm in his worry. And as he did so, he couldnât help but look around, his eyes scanning the place once more to see if there were any other familiar faces, especially one certain familiar face. "Who got to you?"
                                                            âEmme, what happened?â
   Was that her? Was that her name?
   Emmeline had not really been paying attention to her immediate surroundings. There were too many things going on around her. Too many bodies being transported back and forth. Like clockwork, groans of pain and discomfort could be heard echoing throughout the tower, mingling with the whispers of those important looking people.
   Her attention was brought back to her bedside, to the boy that stood next to it; at least, as best it could be. Instinctively, her body moved away, closer to the barred headboard. Her eyes searched the area behind him, searching for some indication that he was okay.
             âAre you alright? Are you hurt?â
   The words were spoken so quickly, she could barely register them. And the ringing in her ears, the pounding in her head, certainly wasnât helping her case any.
                                                                        âWho got to you?â
    Her mind began racing, trying to recall what could have done this to everyone. All she got, however, was a great big pile of nothing. She couldnât remember where she had been, what she had been doing there, or even who the person now sat before her was, let alone how he knew her.
                            âI⊠donât know.â
   There was that sentence again. I donât know. It sounded so pathetic the her own ears; she couldnât fathom how pathetic it must sound to those having to hear it. How many times could she say that in one night? How many different people could she offer it to, in the hopes that someone might accept it? If she had to guess⊠well, she couldnât even imagine the amount.
                                                           âWhoâ                                                                    who are you, exactly?â
   As she sat, feeling so utterly helpless, she began to feel even worse. Compared to the others around, she had escaped relatively unscathed. Granted, her memories were fuzzy, to the point she couldnât recall her own name, and her head ached with every beat of her heart. But she was alive, she wasnât missing any limbs, and there was at least someone who cared about her, to some extent.
Unexpected c h a o s at equally unexpected turns was becoming an unappreciated theme in Sirius' life. But he understood that it was a life he had chosen -- it was what he had won in his successful escape from the life he would otherwise have been confined to -- and that made him f i g h t. That made Sirius fight his damnedest because he was nothing like his so called blood-family, and he fought for justice rather than bias that had no right to exist. And he fought without giving a d a m n about the casualties that were the result of the madness swirling the world, and life as he knew it, into a tornado that wasn't afraid to ruthlessly rip everything apart.
Sirius didn't pay mind to who he hurt when he was fighting, so long as they were on the other side; he fought with equal fearlessness and recklessness, and he was damn good at it, too. He didn't lose focus so long as the Marauders were okay -- this was one time where his one-track mind definitely worked for the better. The war and winning it was all he could thing about as he dueled, having been raised as an aristocratic Black who, no matter how much Sirius didn't want to, knew how to play just as d i r t y as the side he was fighting. It was only when he got out of it -- and got out of it alive, by some miracle -- that his mind flew to something that did make him care about the casualties. He cared about the casualties when it was someone he loved. And because Sirius Black didn't love all that easily, the people who he did meant e v e r y t h i n g.Â
             [ Namely, Emmeline Vance meant everything. ]Â
She was what was on Sirius' mind as anxiety tightened an iron fist around his windpipe, his panicked grey eyes darting around as he moved at a possibly too-fast pace in search of the girl who was... Well, who was everything to him. She was enough for his lungs to allow breath only at the moment when his eyes landed on h e r. She looked confused, disoriented, really. But she was okay.Â
              [ All that mattered was that she was OKAY ]
His feet rushed to her, stopping briefly to clamp a hand on James' shoulder whose presence he noticed the moment he drew nearer to Emmeline's bed. "You aged me several fucking years, Vance," he barked out a laugh, one that sounded tired, but he wasn't tired enough to restrain from wrapping his arms around his girlfriend and pull her tightly against him; holding her so he could f e e l that there was life in that body- so that he knew that she was okay. Frankly, Sirius wasn't at all interested in humouring the possibility of her being less than so.
He was about to tell her as much, too, but then he caught sight of the expression on James' face and his brows knit together in a confused frown. "Oi, Prongs, what's with the face?" he asked, pulling away from Emmeline to look at his best friend.
          ----They were all okay... So, why did James look like that?
