A/N: So, here's another collection for you! This will contain all of my unrelated, random Harry Potter drabbles.

In this drabble, I have tried to keep the facts true to canon, but there might be some points that are varied from the actual stuff (that I realised after I wrote this). Hope you don't mind. Oh, and please, please review!

Disclaimer : I don't own Harry Potter.

If there was any non-living object which Sirius loved almost as much as his own life, if not more, it was his motorbike. It was his freedom, his image of rebellion; it was the portrait of all that he enjoyed — freedom, muggle culture, flying, rule-breaking, recklessness, and speed to name a few. He was twenty when he bought himself that muggle contraption. It was one of the few things that had him spending money on himself just for the sake of indulgence, another one being his leather biking jacket.

Bikes had held his fascination ever since he was very young; the view of the young men zooming around the London roads in those powerful devices enchanted him to no end. He had once, at the age of five, quite foolishly, he later felt, asked why wizards never used motorbikes or anything like that. The question had elicited various response from his relatives — two hours of yelling from his mother, a day of being locked up in the basement by his father, a derisive laugh and a stinging hex from Bella, a scornful look from Cissy, and such. Only Uncle Alphard had been kind enough to explain that between apparition, floo network, portkeys and flying, any other mode of transport wasn't necessary for wizards. Sirius still did not understand, though; if there was a bus for wizards too as there were for muggles, then why not bikes?

His love for motorbikes only grew as he grew older, as the vehicle became a symbol of his sense of rebellion. The posters of the latest brands of motorcycles which he laboriously acquired and stuck on his bedroom walls with permanent sticking charms served the dual purpose of stoking the flames of his passion and annoying his mother to hell.

He finally achieved his dream in the year 1979. The bike was a true beauty; it was a Triumph Bonneville, largely black with bits of blue and silver here and there. He never got tired to cleaning it and oiling it and doing whatever possible to keep it in the finest possible shape. With its OHV vertical twin engine, 10" disk, 2-piston hydraulic caliper brakes and its massive frame, the bike was truly, as he called it, his 'baby'. The joy of roaming around London on it was quite incomparable.

The idea of making it fly was given by James. His best friend was delighted with the bike, although Lily wasn't quite charmed by 'that monster', which was the name she preferred to address it by. Once, while examining the vehicle, James happened to say, in passing:

"Imagine what would have happened if this thing flew, Padfoot! A motorbike, flying high above England! Won't everyone be stunned?"

That was the birth of the idea. Soon both were immersed in giving form to the dream. It wasn't easy, and took a good many night's work (the constant tinkering outside their door annoyed Lily to no end), but finally, it was done. They installed an invisibility booster to avoid detection; after all, a flying motorcycle isn't something even the half-blind can overlook. When it was all done, Sirius was speechless with awe and satisfaction.

If driving on the London streets was great; flying over the entirety of England was exquisite. The bike gave flying a new definition; Sirius had never felt so comfortable on a broom. He installed a sidecar after a while for James' benefit; the young man seemed to take offense at being offered the back seat.

In the tough and grim conditions of war, flying on his bike was his only release, his freedom, his means of letting go of his worries for the time being. He never tired of feeling the wind on his face and his hair in his eyes.

While the bike had been the companion of his joys all this time, it became the herald of sorrow on the thirty first of October, 1981. So broken was he by the loss of his best friends that he did not hesitate even for a second in giving away his beloved bike to Hagrid; he had failed his friends, he had failed them all; offering the bike so that Hagrid may reach his destination quicker along with Harry was the least he could do. And anyway, what more use was there of the thing when there was no one left alive to ride in the sidecar (he could still see James' laughing face as they zoomed away from the flabbergasted muggle police), when there was no joy left in his life to be relished in the open air and the high skies?

His life hardly took a better turn after that: and in the constant bitterness that engulfed him throughout, Sirius never asked anyone what became of his bike. Perhaps he had even forgotten about it. But he would have been glad to know that his beloved machine had made it through all this time, thanks to one Arthur Weasley, and helped his godson escape his death mere years after his own. Both he and his bike had lost themselves in trying to save Harry Potter.

So how was it? Reviewers get virtual love! ;)