7
'No, no, no, no!'
Reaching Godric's Hollow.
Pulling up in front of their home.
Seeing the ruin that was now there. Walking through where the door had been.
'NO!'
He tried to run forward, but his legs felt like they had tuned to jelly. They wobbled their way over to where HE lay and then gave in and he fell to the floor with a thump.
James was lying dead. Right there. Next to where he sat crumpled on the floor. His eyes wide with shock, mouth slightly open in horror and surprise, his hands and legs splayed on the floor, unnaturally and ungracefully.
He would have cried, but crying seemed like such a weak, ineffective thing to do right now. So he screamed, releasing all his anguish till his voice was gone, but the pain wasn't.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Sirius wanted to shake James, wake him up, then slap him silly for playing dead and scaring him. But he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't touch him. How could he, knowing what he had done, dare touch him?
'You killed him', he told himself. 'You killed Prongs, and Lily and Harry. You made him switch Secret Keeper to Wormt- Pettigrew.' He growled at the thought of the traitor. He was going to hunt that rat down and kill it, even if it was the last thing he'd ever do.
Then he heard Hagrid. When he heard Harry was alive, he bounded up the stairs. His breath caught at the scene in front of him. Lily was dead; lying on the floor and behind her was Harry. Little Harry.
He tried taking Harry but Hagrid said he was acting on Dumbledore's orders so he backed off. Only a fool would try and stop Hagrid from doing something Dumbledore wanted him to do. He gave him his bike, assured that at least Harry would get to Dumbledore safely. And Hagrid, after trying to comfort him, left, flying on his motorcycle.
For what seemed like an eternity, he just stood there. The ruin of the house reflecting how he felt on the inside. Anger and guilt was coursing through him. He had to leave but he knew that there was one thing he needed to, he must do.
He walked over to James. Slowly, hand shaking uncontrollably, he straightened his cold, limp body out. Then, with the greatest effort possible, he did it - an action that would haunt him every night he would soon spend in Azkaban.
Gently, he closed James' eyes. A single tear ran down his cheek as he muttered, 'Mischief Managed, Prongs, Good night' – the best goodbye he could manage.
His heart, his mind, he himself was broken permanently then. He knew that things would never, ever be the same again. How could he have let this happen?
Suddenly he stood up, nothing but revenge on his mind as he walked out determinedly and disappeared with a crack.
