James Potter.
He couldn't feel hurt that Peter had betrayed him. His friend. He couldn't feel regret and think he should have listened to Dumbledore, and made the wise old man his secret keeper. He certainly couldn't feel disappointed that the cake in the oven he was making as a surprise to his wife and son would surely burn.
He couldn't even feel the fear, rising with every second, for there was no room.
He could only feel worry. He could think one thought:
Don't take Lily; don't take Harry. Please, not my family. Please.
He may have voiced it, perhaps. But it ran in his mind over and over: a broken record lamenting his worry, his love.
He didn't have to fear about what he would do, for no option existed. He would surely die, and he would hope that maybe in the time it took for that to happen, Lily and Harry would escape. For they were all he had to live for, they were his life. If they lived, if they went on in this world, than so would he, no matter what this—could he still be a man? No matter what this cruel being in front of him did. Even if he were to raise his wand and utter with almost boredom in his voice: "Avada Kedavra"
Just so long as his family survived.
Sirius Black.
He knew what had happened before the silver phoenix glided into the flat. His thoughts stopped. Everything went cold. Surely, there were no dementors near? But he knew the reason the cold had over taken him. It couldn't be. But when the silver phoenix flew into the window and quite angrily confirmed his suspicions in the voice he knew as Albus Dumbledore's: "Sirius Black! Your betrayal was successful, James and Lily Potter are dead." He felt many things that night. He felt confusion at the word betrayal; he had done nothing wrong. More strongly, he felt pain sweep through his body. It was stronger than the pain he felt when he heard that Regulus, his blood brother, had died, stronger than the pain he felt when he heard that Marlene McKinnon, the one girl he might've loved, the one he had never told, had died. It was pain stronger than he had ever felt, for James was his only family, and by extension, so were Lily and Harry. Harry. He then felt a wave of hope. The phoenix patronus didn't say that Harry was dead, could the baby be alive? Without thinking that no one but himself knew that Peter had actually been the secret keeper, he got on his bike and flew to Godric's Hollow.
At first, he saw only death. He could only see the blackened remains of the small house. The two bedroom, one bath cottage that Lily had fallen in love with. The rooms of which she had Sirius and James spend two days removing the hideous wallpaper the previous Muggle owners had on it, and painting them the color she had spent the last week choosing. He could only see the piles of ashes that might've contained what was left of his best friends, of his family. Or they may have been the ashes of the couch that James loved so much, and Lily only kept because of his insistence that he loved it. But they were ashes, and Sirius would never know.
Then, he saw life. He saw the giant of a man, Hagrid, holding a bundle of blankets, under which a faint crying could be heard. Hope.
He tried to convince Hagrid to give him Harry. He needed to hold him. He needed to feel the baby that was all that was left of his two best friends. He was his Godfather. Please. But Hagrid told him Dumbledore had instructed him to bring the child to his aunt and uncle. Aunt and uncle? James was an only child, and Lily—then it hit him like a kick to the stomach shortly following a shot to the heart. Lily had a sister. The wizard hating, pretentious, Petunia, she'd complain about her every year. Her husband, Vernon, whale of a muggle who was just as much of a bitch. Lily cried when she wasn't invited to the wedding, James told her "Who needs an invitation?" and so they went anyway. Surely Harry couldn't grow up with such people; people that had hated his parents, and would surely hate him? Surely Dumbledore wasn't so cruel.
Dumbledore.
Sirius then remembered that Dumbledore and Remus still thought that he had been the secret keeper who had betrayed his best friends. He felt worry. They must know he'd die before doing such a thing. They must've figured out what the plan had been. Peter was the secret keeper. Peter had betrayed James and Lily; betrayed them all.
Then another emotion over took him. This one was stronger even than his pain, stronger than his hope at Harry's survival, which must've meant Voldemort's downfall. It was rage. It pulsated and coursed through his body and took over his mind, put out any flame of reason suggesting to first assure his innocence. It took over his body, and apparated to Peter's house. He hated apparating, but that didn't matter, he could only feel the rage, he couldn't feel the tightening sensation. Peter was walking down an opposite street, and as soon as Sirius saw him, he had every intention of murder.
How could this man who called himself their friend have taken everything away from him, have killed James and Lily, who served as hope for them? The same James that protected him so many times from a rat-hungry Remus; the same Lily that had stayed up until four to help him study for his NEWTS. Murdered. And it was his fault. So he, too, deserved to die.
But Sirius failed. And then, a final emotion coursed through him. It was the only feeling that would stay with him until twelve years later, when the rage would return. Guilt. He convinced the Potters to change their secret keeper. How could he not see that weak Peter, loyal only to the powerful, would betray them? And now, he laughed in disbelief as he saw the bloody rat scamper away, he knew he had failed them again. He had failed to kill their killer, and it was him, Sirius, that gave Peter the ability to kill them in the first place.
So he let them arrest him.
Peter Pettigrew.
He tried to concentrate on the nine talons furiously hitting the concrete, and tried to ignore the pain of the one lacking. He ran until it was safe, and there, disguised as a rat, entered a pub. He sat in the corner and ate crumbs while he listened to the wizards and witches celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord.
He had killed two of his best friends. He had framed another. He had caused the fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He knew that all of the Dark Lord's followers would want his head. He was sure that as soon as Sirius had told Dumbledore what had actually happened, that all of Dumbledore's followers would want his head.
So he ran.
He ran from his fear, and from his guilt, and from his sorrow, but they were quick. They were at every corner he stopped at; they were close on his tail at all times. Peter could not out run them. He ran for two weeks. He ran out of London, and eventually he came to a field. There was a house in the distance, but Peter didn't want to go in. They'd be celebrating. So he stopped running. He fell asleep under the cold blanket of fear, resting on a pillow of guilt, in a bed of sorrow. Maybe he'd die. Maybe death would be better.
He was awoken by voices.
"Now, Percy, promise me if I take you to work, you'll behave?" said the stern voice of a man who couldn't be much older than Peter.
"I promise! I wanna see the Ministry! How long?" Demanded the voice of a young boy of about four. "Look! Dead rat!"
Peter normally did not like being addressed in such a disgusted tone, but he had no pride left. Still, even the lowest of sewer rats have a sense of survival. He let out a squeal to let the young boy and his father know he was still alive.
They had rescued him from death, but not much else. So he lived for twelve years as the rat he knew he was.
Remus Lupin.
He had lost all feeling. James and Lily, dead. Peter, dead. Sirius, the cause of the death, in Azkaban. That was all he'd heard. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him.
When they were younger, the trouble-making youths at Hogwarts, they had always joked the Remus would be the last to die. He would return with "Yeah, if you keep coming with me at full moons," and they would laugh, and know that he would die if they stopped. He had never considered what would happen if they had actually died.
There would be no one to control him when the moon came out. There would be no one to convince him to kiss that girl sitting by herself; you'll never see her again anyway. No one to go to Quidditch games with. No one to be his friend.
All of his friends, his family, gone in a night.
So why were people celebrating? Why were there firecrackers sounding, and songs being sung? What happy thing had happened? Yes, Voldemort was conquered, gone. But he hadn't gone anywhere before taking everything from Remus Lupin.
He had nothing left. Not even his feelings.