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Padfoot
All-encompassing rage fueled Sirius forward when his body begged him to sit down and weep. Images of James, eyes open and lifeless, of Lily, crumpled in front of her son's crib—they flashed through his mind on a constant loop and Sirius felt that his soul had been clawed out through his chest and throat, but he had to move forward because if he stopped he would never stand up again.
Peter.
Blood all over his grubby little fingers so that he could live another pathetic hour. How the sod didn't think he would be killed for this betrayal, Sirius had no clue.
And it had been at his suggestion.
No one will suspect Peter. It will be safer.
Safer for me, he thought in disgust. And then, No. For them. It should have been safer for them. Peter—Peter—should have been stronger, should have been more brave, loyal. The Marauders were supposed to be those things for each other.
Hagrid wouldn't let him take Harry. "Dumbledore's orders," he had said and who was Sirius to argue with Dumbledore? Sirius had been the one to suggest Peter, the traitor. Harry was better off with Dumbledore. And anyway, the best thing that he could do for his godson now was to avenge his parents. Peter would pay and Harry would grow up knowing that their traitorous friend had gotten what he deserved. Sirius would kill Peter and if he also could escape with his own life then he would convince Dumbledore to let him take Harry, and the boy would grow up sad but knowing that he had a family of James and Lily's true friends.
He would know that James and Lily had true friends who would do whatever it took to protect and care for them, even in death.