Sirius crashed into the road, his bike throwing him off onto the street. The night air fogged his goggles; he ripped them from his face, sprinting toward where he knew the house was.
Where was the house? It should have been right there, he'd been inside so many times. It had to be here! The cold ground pounded into his shins and scrapped his palms; he hadn't even noticed his knees had given out. "Lily? Prongs?" he called quietly into the still air. There was no answer from the wreckage. "Lily? Prongs?" he tried again, dragging himself to his feet. "Lily?" he yelled desperately, swimming in the sea of timber and shingles. "Prongs? James?" His breath was a cloud of steam, "JAMES!" Silence. No, they had to be here. They had to be okay! He blasted things out of his way to get through. "James!" he called again. A cold, thin cry echoed back to him.
"Harry!" he stumbled over a slab of dry wall and shattered the kitchen sink. The crib was in shambles, but there, clutching a blanket and crying was Harry. Upon seeing him, the child held out his arms, wailing even louder.
"Harry it's okay," it certainly wasn't, "It's okay, Uncle Padfoot's here." There was a horrible cut on his head and despite his efforts, it would not heal.
Sirius wasn't sure how long he sat there, rocking his godson. It wasn't until a deep voice called his name that he realized they weren't alone. "Sirius? Tha' you?"
"Hagrid?" The massive man was staring, shocked at the scene in front of him. It was a moment before he stepped gently into the path the younger man had created.
"Lily and James?" he croaked, knowing the answer.
"Dead." The word hung on the air like a stench. There was another pause before Hagrid began shifting debris. "What are you doing?"
"I can' leave 'em in here. We need to bury 'em proper." The great man gave an equally great snuff before digging again.
Though he knew he should help, Sirius couldn't move. All he could do was continue to rock Harry, who was still sobbing into his chest. The little boy was probably still in pain. He watched as Hagrid stooped down, only a few feet from them, and with surprising gentleness, scooped something up. A sheet of red hair fell over his arm. Sirius turned away, feeling sick. It took several minutes to find James, several more to find a sheet to lay over them. It was like the death of his friends had erased him. How could this have happened? The charm was supposed to protect them! Peter had promised—
Peter. The emptiness inside him was quickly being filled with white hot rage. This was Peter's fault, he had betrayed them.
Tear s were pouring from Hagrid's eyes as he walked back to them, the first of his grim tasks complete. Sirius stood, afraid steam would start rushing from his ears for all the anger he felt. Harry had finally stopped crying and was leaning heavily on his godfather. "What a horrible cut!" Hagrid said, peering down at him.
"I tried to fix it, but nothing worked," the young wizard offered.
"Well, we'll have to see if Dumbledore can do anythin' abou' it."
"Dumbledore?" he repeated.
"Thas why I'm here. Sent me to collect him and take him to his aunt and uncle."
"Aunt and Uncle?" he echoed confused, "James has no family."
"Lily had a sister; I'm to take him to her." The past tense threw fuel on his anger's flames. Peter would pay. James and Lily wouldn't be the only ones with a past tense when he was done. Though he hated to do it, he handed Harry over.
"You can take my bike," he said, pulling it out of the bushes where it had crashed.
"Ya sure?" Hagrid asked, surprised. Sirius loved his bike, everyone knew it.
"It'll get you there quickly and safely. Harry needs both."
"What're you gonna do?" he asked, taking the engorgioed helmet and goggles.
"I've got some business to take care of, something I promised James." Sirius had promised he'd take care of Peter when they underwent the fidelius charm. That was exactly what he planned to do.
Peter was down the drain, the rat. The ministry was looking for him. Remus? Could he trust Remus? Mooney had always been loyal before, but so had Peter, he thought. Who said there was only a single traitor?
What had Voldemort promised any of them? No one would believe that he hadn't killed Peter, nor could he tell them what really happened. Their secret would be blown, and it was likely that he'd end up right back in Azkaban. No help at all.
Sirius pressed his hands to his temples, trying to think. Who would have nothing to gain from Voldemort? Would could he trust?
Arabella Figg cocked the shotgun she kept by the bed. These were dangerous times, and she couldn't be sure of who was at her door. Voldemort might be gone, but his followers weren't, and they had always been her biggest threat. "Who's there?" she asked, leveling the gun at the door.
"Sirius Black. From the Order."
"Prove you're with the Order. What's the shape of my patronus?" she said sharply.
"Mrs. Figg…you can't…well you're…" the man outside seemed flustered, "Dumbledore's patronus is a phoenix. I thought that was your security question."
"And what brings you here, Mr. Black?" A cat hissed at the door and ducked behind a chair.
"Something terrible has happened, and you're the only person I can trust because…you're a squib."
Arabella took the gun off her makeshift chair rest and laid it aside before opening the door. "Come in Mr. Black."