As the sound of heavy, running footsteps hitting hard concrete ground echoed around me, I was powerless to move. It was as if I was paralyzed, glued to the ground, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"Padfoot," the mysterious voice gasped, relief evident in his voice. Judging by the gentle nudge of knees at my side, and the newly added pressure of a hand on my shoulder, the voice's owner was kneeling down beside me, the moment I saw the owner's face, the world became a blur.
It was in-cognitive, in-cohesive, and in-conclusive, or maybe, conclusive was exactly what it was, I had believed myself to be dead, and the owner certainly was. But, no matter how many times I tried convincing myself that I, too was dead, I did not believe it, the whole idea was inconceivable. For I didn't feel dead, though I had no foundation on which to build my perception of what that was to feel like. In fact I felt about nineteen again, which was the apparent age of the owner, of whom it seems it is time to revile his identity of that of James Potter.
I was hoisted off the ground, unable to support any of my own weight. James pulled one of my arms over his shoulder, and looped one of his own around my middle, and with that we began working our way out of the department of mysteries.
YOU ARE READING
A Second Chance
Fanfiction"Sirius Black: warrior, godfather, and friend. 1959-1996." Is probably what Sirius Black's grave stone would have read--if he had one. But low and behold, as if it was a poetic representation of the man's dreadful, and painfully short life, there wa...
