Smoke silently rose from the rubble, its remains the only reminder that, once upon a time, a house lay in the ruins. A beautiful cottage that always had a fire in the hearth and the sound of laughter ringing through the hallways.
Now the only sound is crackling stone and wood that still crumbles in some places; the only fire that lights up the memory of this house is the burning begonia bushes crushed by splinters from the mantelpiece.
Sirius, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, his wand unsteady in his trembling hand, carefully steps over smouldering fires and bits of foundation.
His heartbeat slows to an impossible rhythm, his breathing nearly stops. He feels paralysed as he stands in what was once the entryway. All he can see, all he can feel, is a deep numbness through the haze of dust.
'James… James… James!' his voice cracks, his whispers growing louder and more desperate.
Spectacled eyes that were once filled with life and that wicked glint are wide open and cold. Sirius kneels next to the body of his best friend in the world, his brother, and gathers him close. He can't even bring himself to cry; the grief squeezes his heart so tightly that he might burst with it instead. He wants to explode with it. Then he'll be able to join his friend; then they'll be reunited forever, wreaking havoc on the afterlife like the Marauders they are.
The chill from James's lifeless body creeps into Sirius. Without thinking, he cups his hands over one of James's and blows his warm breath over it. As though he could infuse it with life again, even if only for a minute. He grips onto the hand firmly, one last time. The first and only tear he can shed drops hotly on the still-cold skin. As he watches it trail down onto the broken floor, something in Sirius breaks.
He can't — he won't bring himself to see the rest of it.
Somehow, he's outside again, staring unseeing at the rubble. In the faint distance, he hears his name called out, questioningly, in that familiar West Country accent.
Steel builds around his bleeding heart and he turns away from the house. Wordlessly, he hands over the bike's key before his fist can clench too tightly and crush the metal in his palm. When Hagrid asks him about the bike, he doesn't turn, only grates out in a low monotone:
'I won't be needing it where I'm going.'
That rat will pay, is his only thought before the deafening crack of Apparition shakes the quiet lane in Godric's Hollow.
The only thing he can do as he's dragged away from the scene of their explosive encounter is to laugh; it's either laugh in maniacal sorrow or sob in eternal grief. The laughter is the only thing that will keep him sane for the next dozen years, because the Dementors won't rob him of his twisted, broken cackles.
They will only steal the fondest memories of Harry bouncing on his lap, giggling like the sweet, innocent little sprog that he is. The memories of riding his gleaming new motorbike with James holding his waist tightly for dear life as they fly over the heads of befuddled Muggle policemen, Sirius's laughter trailing them into the clouds. The pleasant tingle of arousal when he first opens his eyes in the morning and sees the depth of want in Remus's smouldering gaze, the gentle twist of his mouth as he leans in for a heady kiss. His lecherous grin as he's teasing Evans about becoming his secret mistress now that James has finally made an honest woman out of her.
All he's left with are the broken and bleeding remnants of mere ghosts. The only thing he feels is misery and despair. And the final, utterly fantastic twist to it all: he's left with the knowledge that the rat — the one he trusted over Remus, the one who managed to fool them all with his innocent questions and inconspicuous concerns about Moony's secret trips in the middle of the night — has trumped them all.
He'd been dealt the most chilling hand of cards, and now all he can do is wallow in the deranged laughter or spill his heart out in torrential tears.