His heart began to ache. A chill swept through the room, and he shivered. He shivered before raising himself from the chair in which he sat, completely numb. He took his wand from the coffee table and made his way slowly through the house, robes flying behind him, and whipping out of sight as he apparated to Godric's Hollow.
The air was cold and thick with event, mist swirling in patches around hedges and creaking shop signs. His footsteps sounded in his own head as he walked, slowly and deliberately. His stomach began to burn, his heart began to hammer as he knew things weren't right. Pain unlike anything he knew gripped his heart and stomach, an invisible searing knife striking his brain. The smoke was thick and black. And there, in the sky…
He ran. And Ran. Ran up the lane, smashing through the gate and pushing the charred, creaking door aside. His speed was suddenly met with a wall of slow-motion, his hands flew to his face as he sank to his knees at the broken form of his best friend. He could have been sleeping but the man knew better. His muffled sobs broke the solid silence that was over the house. Once broken, sound began again. There was a wailing, crying, screaming from upstairs. His face became lined with grief, face and neck dripping with salty tears. Swaying as he stood, the man made his way up the stairs, running his hand along the banister She would have dismissed perhaps even minutes before as she rushed upstairs, protecting her son.
He wasn't even one and a half years old, and yet little Harry Potter looked up at the man with tears and confusion in his green eyes. Sirius knew in his heart that the boy had no idea what had just happened, but ached to know that he had already spent a few more seconds with him than his father had. The boy looked up hopefully at the dark haired man standing before him, who reached out to pick him up. His black hair was longer than it had been when things were alright, and it flew back as though in a wind as he made his way down the stairs, Harry in arms. A bright light was shining at the front door and a wind whipped through the air briefly, and Sirius knew the ministry squads had arrived to clear up.
And there, futher from the house, the great man stood, calling to him. He wouldn't give the boy up, because now, right now, the green-eyed baby was all he had left of the one person who had always been there for him, and the woman who had loved him. The man pressed on, suggesting it was Dumbledore's orders. To hell with Dumbledore, he had said, anger clawing at his heart now as he realised that he had to let go. He had to. But he promised the little boy that night, he would see him again, in the not so near future maybe, but he would find a way. And then he handed him over. Take my bike, Hagrid, he had said, I won't be needing it anymore.
He turned on his heel and walked away, no longer shaking with grief but with anger. Three people he had lost that night, the closest to real family he had, and the fault lay in the small clawed feet of one more. He looked at the moon and knew where he should be, but was intent now. His tears were dry and his feet pounded the pavement as he stormed down street after street, all in search of Peter Pettigrew.
And he found him, not so far away, sneaking away into the dead of night. Did he feel remorse? Did he care that he had handed one of the only friends he had into the fates created by the most feared wizard of all time? Probably not, was his answer, but he realised that the Rat was never quite as stupid as he made out. His heart was hard now, and he had only one thought on his mind, only one action drove him towards this man. Murder.
He raised his wand, silently throwing curses at the man. They duelled in silence, lights flashing, hearts breaking as they realised it was to the death now.
"James and Lily, Sirius! How Could you!!"
Seven words would decide his fate now. An explosion, the death of about a dozen muggles not to mention witnesses and a finger later, it was over. He stood alone, surrounded by dust and destruction, a bloody finger on the ground where his friend had just stood. Instinct said he hadn't died. The coward had transformed and fled. He wouldn't flee. He wouldn't transform and run. He would take the other man's punishment as his own as one man locked up for their deaths was better than none. Even if it was the wrong one. Suddenly, right then, he tilted his head back and started to laugh. He laughed through his aching, stony heart, through the loss and despair he felt right at that moment, he laughed for all the times that he and James had hexed Snivellus, he laughed for the good and the bad, the times they felt weak and the times they were strong.
But most of all, he laughed for he knew his fate. For once, he knew something the ministry didn't, and in his own mind, he had won.
Many people said he had gone mad. Others said he simply found his actions humorous. But whatever they thought, nothing reflected the truth that still lived in the Black man's brain. He sat in patience day after day, his memories so powerful, so speaking of friendship and love that dementor presence could do nothing to harm him. The anger never really faded from him. And years later, when he fled the prison as the beloved Padfoot, his passion and humour returned, filling him with life, though he was disappointed to admit his appearance did nothing to support this.
And though Harry would never remember, twelve years after he made that promise, he returned. He had found a way.