(Note from the author: These are not my characters, my world, or my situations. They all belong to J. K. Rowling, and are protected by copyrights.)

Sirius's eyes shot open, and sweat rolled down his face. His breathing was hard, and his heart was pounding.
It was late at night, maybe midnight. Something had woken him up. A thousand screams. He remembered a horrible nightmare.
His stomach churned, and he sat up. Something was wrong. Something had happened.
"You're being stupid, Sirius," he said to himself, "You're being stupid. Just go back to sleep . . ."
But he couldn't. The night was quiet as he stood up, and crossed over to his chair to retrieve his pants.
There was the wrinkled piece of parchment, now lodged in the right pocket. Sirius took it with shaking hands, and quickly unfolded it.
It would just be a bunch of old jumbled letters, like the hundreds of other times he had checked it.
But it wasn't.
He felt the room spin, and his hand let go of the parchment. It floated to the ground, like a ghost flying through the air. It read:
James Potter and Harry Potter and Lily Potter can be found at number 5 Godric's Hollow.
The words were clear.

"PETER!"
He banged on the door again.
"PETER! PETER, THIS ISN'T WHAT YOU CALL A JOKE, PETER!"
Nothing. No one was answering. All of the lights were on inside. Sirius looked in the window. Nothing was moved. No sign of a brawl. Nothing had happened.
No one had been here.
He took his foot to the door, and kicked it in. It fell in, collapsing on the floor. Sirius ran in, and flew to the living room.
"PETER! ANSWER ME, YOU DAMNED RAT! ANSWER ME!"
No answer.
Peter wasn't here.
He had to check upstairs.
"PETER!"
He flew up the stairs, and pushed every door open. No one was inside. No one.
He jumped off the staircase and into the kitchen. No one.
"PETTIGREW!" Sirius shouted.
God, he should have been watching the house more carefully. Someone had come and kidnapped him.
But wait. He had been the only person who knew where he was hidden. He had been his Secret Keeper. And there was no furniture astray. No blood. No sign of an argument.
"My God," he said, feeling his legs collapse from underneath him, "Oh my God. Oh my God."
He reached for the kitchen counter for support, but he couldn't breathe anymore. He had been wrong all along. He had been dead wrong.
"I'll kill him," Sirius said, his eyes hollowing, "I'll kill him. I'll kill him."
And then it hit him.
James. Lily. Harry.
Number five Godric's Hollow.
"I'll kill him," Sirius said. He had to stop Peter before Voldemort got there. He had to stop them. He'd take him down. He'd die before seeing James dead.
He had to save them.

His motorbike landed on the street of Godric's Hollow. It was a windy night, with the autumn leaves blowing every which way. They made tiny cyclones, and danced across the street. Sirius parked his bike, and felt himself running, his wand ready to attack.
He'd kill him.
He'd kill him.
He'd . . .
He came to a halt at the end of the street as he looked at the corner house. Number five. That was number five.
The problem was, there wasn't a house there anymore. Just a smoldering pile of glowing rubble.
Rubble.
He had already been here.
"No," Sirius said, rushing forward, "JAMES! LILY!"
Down the hill he went, into the splinters of wood and concrete. They had to be here somewhere. They were alive. There were no Dark Marks above the house. Nothing was there. They were alive.
It was so dark, and only the streetlight's orange light shone down on the remnants of a house he had never seen before. They had to be somewhere.

He fell down into a valley of crates and boxes. He recognized some of the clothes, even though it was hard to. They were all burnt and singed by a fire of some sort. And all of it glowed green.
They were alive.
Sirius began tearing away at the crates, throwing them over his shoulder. He came to a staircase. Or at least, that's what he thought it was. It had to be.
He threw one more box over his shoulder, and then turned back to pick up another. But he stopped, and felt his heart pound inside his chest.
No, it was a trick of the light. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.
He bent down, shaking, trembling. He couldn't think anymore. He raised a hand slowly to brush away the dust from the white skin protruding from the debris. He felt the iciness of the body, and he tore his hand away.
The body was dead.
He stared at it, mortified. Black hair. Eyes wide open.
He knew that face in Hell itself.
"No," he said, loosing all feeling in his body. It had happened. It had finally happened.
"No, please," he said, breathing faster, and grabbing the body. He took the still figure and lay its head in his lap. He clenched it so hard to his chest, and he rocked back and forth, "No. Come on, Prongs. Wake up. Come on."
But James didn't respond.
James was dead.
"James, don't do this to me," he cried, feeling the tears falling down his face, "No, James. This isn't funny. Don't bully me, James. Don't you joke around. This isn't funny. JAMES! WAKE UP! JAMES!" he screamed, "LOOK AT ME, JAMES! I'M SORRY FOR SCARING YOU IN THE HOSPITAL! I'M SORRY! JUST WAKE UP!"
It was just a prank. A prank to set all of his aside. Wasn't a very nice prank, but at least it was just that. Just a prank.
But James was so cold. And he wasn't moving. His chest wasn't rising and falling, and his heart wasn't beating.
James was dead.
"You're not dead," Sirius said, "You're not . . . you're James, you can't die. You . . . you and I were gonna get old, remember? You're just . . . you're just a kid . . ."
James didn't respond. Sirius half expected him to sit up and start laughing in his face. But no. Not this time.
James wouldn't come back this time. James was gone. Forever.
"No," Sirius said, grabbing a fistfull of James's black hair, "No, James! Peter was supposed to be safe! It was Remus! It was always Remus!"
A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned around, expecting to see Lily standing above him, ready to share his sympathy.
But it wasn't.
A large man standing at twelve feet held a bundle in his hand, his beady and teary eyes blinking from behind his large bushy beard. It was a giant.
"Sirius," Hagrid said, his voice strained, "Ah'm . . . Ah don' know exactly what ter say."
"He's dead," Sirius whispered, looking back at James, "He's . . . he's dead."
"Yah," Hagrid said, holding the bundle tighter, "An' I foun' this little tyke next to his mother. Over there."
Sirius followed Hagrid's gaze to another pile, higher along the side of his little ditch. The side of James's grave.
A streak of red hair stuck out from under a wooden board. He felt sick to his stomach, and swallowed to stop his dinner from rising up his throat. The acid stung, and he choked.
"No," he cried, and held James closer, "No."
"He's dead, Sirius."
"NO!" Sirius howled, and took James's hand.
"No, no' James," Hagrid said, "You-Know-Who. He's dead."
Sirius stopped, and looked back to Hagrid, "What? What do you mean he's dead?"
"He killed him."
"What?"
"Harry," Hagrid said, exposing the bundle to show Sirius, "Li'le 'Arry killed 'im."
Sirius now saw Harry, unscathed, sleeping quietly in Hagrid's arms. He looked perfectly content, and unaware of the destruction around him. He looked exactly like he had before he and his parents had left.
His parents were now dead.
"I . . . how . . ."
And then he remembered. Two of the boys would be the end of the war. The prophecy. The prophecy had been completed.
Voldemort was dead.
The war was over.
But at the cost of his friend's life. James's life.
Then he saw it. A zig zagged scar on Harry's head, forever carved into his skin. It looked almost like lightning.
"Yup, tha's where the spell ha' hit him, Ah imagine," Hagrid said, covering Harry's face once more with the blanket.
"He killed him," Sirius said quietly. He couldn't think anymore. Everything was gone. His family. His life.
He wanted to end it now.
"He did," Hagrid said, setting a gigantic hand on Sirius's shoulder.
Harry cooed.
A memory came back to him. A memory of James. Alive. In the Leaky Cauldron.
He had promised him to take care of Harry. He had promised him he would make sure he was safe.
James still lived in Harry. Harry was alive.
"Give him to me, Hagrid," Sirius said, his dead eyes set on the bundle in the giant's arms. Hagrid held Harry closer to his overcoat.
"Ah, now, Sirius," Hagrid said, "Ah can't do that."
"I'm his godfather, Hagrid," Sirius explained, rising to his feet, "James told me that if anything happened to him, I had to take care of Harry. Now give him to me."
"Dumbledore's got plans fah him," Hagrid said, covering the child's ears as if he could hear what they spoke of, "Great plans. Ye just need tah trust 'im."
"I don't give a damn what some crackpot old wizard says! He's my godson! I swore my blood for him! Now give him over!"
Hagrid let this insult pass, knowing that it was Sirius's broken spirit that made him say the things he did. On no other condition would he have let Sirius speak to him in that manner. Or speak of his Headmaster in that manner.
So he just shook his head, and tried to show his sympathies.
"Ahm sorry, Sirius."
Sirius looked to the body of James once again, and felt his world cave in. It had finally happened. Everything that he had feared. It had finally come into place. James was dead, and there was nothing he could do.
He felt the tears come. He couldn't think anymore. James. Lily. Harry. James . . .
He fell on James's body, overcome by his grief. He tried to hear James's heartbeat. Some sort of a sign that he was still alive. But no. James was truly dead.
He was detached from the world. He couldn't really fathom what it all meant. He had lost Harry. He had lost his best friend. He had lost Lily. He had wrongfully accussed Remus. He had led James and Lily to death.
They had protested against his wishes to call Peter. He had told them to trust him. They had.
And now they were dead. They were dead because they trusted him.
"He killed him," Sirius sobbed. James was dead. Voldemort had killed him. Hagrid nodded.
"He sure did," Hagrid said, somewhat proud. Harry had killed Voldemort. And now the Great War had ended. After ten years, it had finally ended.
James had trusted Sirius. They had both known that he himself was not the traitor. So why didn't they just use him? Or Remus! How could they have been so blind? Peter would have been the first to cross over! As soon as the war started picking up, Peter must have run to Voldemort with his tail between his legs, begging for mercy.
He'd kill him.
He'd kill him.
By God, he would kill that rat.
There was nothing left to do. What else could he do?
He had nothing left.
His family was dead. His godson was lost to him. Remus would never speak to him again. And Dumbledore would be coming for him any moment now. He thought that he had been the spy. They would all be after him.
He had nothing left. His life was in ruins. He would spend the rest of his life either running from the law, or in Azkaban. And he couldn't go to Azkaban. He had heard things from James about that place. He couldn't go there.
So what else to do?
Sirius collected himself long enough to look at Hagrid, and point to the street above them.
"My motorbike," he said through his tears, "Is up there. Take it. Get Harry where he needs to go."
"Sirius . . ."
"I won't be needing it anymore," he muttered, looking back at James.
He would kill that rat. He would leave him in cold blood. He wouldn't curse him, he would flat out kill him. The old fashioned way.
Hagrid saw Sirius's distress, and decided it was best if he left him alone. So without another word, he climbed up the debris, and out of sight. As Sirius stared into the pale cold eyes of James's corpse, he heard the bike's motor start, and then whizz into the night sky. It would only be minutes before the Muggles started poking around, calling their Muggle police and sifting through the rubble. James and Lily would be taken to a Muggle morgue, probably.
He wanted to puke, thinking about James and Lily in a morgue.
James looked at him in that blank expression that he had never worn before. His face had always been so full of life, with his black hair falling into his face and his eyes smiling with mischief. Now James was still. He would never smile again.
He continued to stare into the eyes of his brother, continued to think of what he would do to that traitor . . .
"Someone messes with one of us, he messes with all of us," Sirius whispered to himself, and to James. Then he took his hands and closed his friend's eyes out of respect. The horrified expression on the man's face remained. Sirius couldn't wipe that off.
And it was at that moment, looking at the frozen muscles of James's frozen expression, hearing the motor of his beloved bike riding off with his last hope, seeing the red streak of hair in the rubble out of the corner of his eye . . . that something inside Sirius Black snapped. His skin became pale, and his eyes glazed over. The hollow deadness set in, and his face became as dark as his hair. His muscles tensed, and his hands balled into fists.
And he did not laugh. And he did not cry.
He screamed, hollered, a shout to the world, telling them that he would avenge his losses. He would kill before tomorrow night.
James was dead. Sirius was alive.
And Peter would join James before the sun set again.