What If: The Black Prince

Chapter One

A green glow encompassed the little village of Godric's Hollow, not unlike the ghostly emerald of the killing curse.

But... it couldn't be, wouldn't be.

Peter was the secret keeper, they were safe.

They were.

They had to be.

It was someone else, anyone else.

He pushed the motorbike forward, leaning over the handlebars as though it would make the engine run faster. The wind whipped around his hair, slapping him across the face as he gritted his teeth. He looked down at the metre and buttons on the panel of the gas tank and slammed a fiery red toggle and the bike lurched forward in the air, a blazing trail of blue smoky flames spitting and sputtering out behind him and Sirius threw his arms around the tank, not wanting to fall off and into the darkness below. He retained his tight grip and retook hold of the handlebars, pushing the bike down, speed almost doubling immediately as he lost altitude.

This was no time for flight safety.

As he sped closer to the ground, wind whipping his hair, the blended blur of lights that had represented Godric's Hollow melted away into individual houses and delicate cottages. Eyes locked on the eery green glow that was making his stomach roll, Sirius pulled up at the bars and forced the bike to level out at speed as he reached the street. He easily spotted the McAllie's cottage, seeing the old couple in front of their fire through their window as his bike stormed past, but then, all he saw was the smoke.

Dark grey, soot-filled, the type that filled your lungs and cut off air within seconds of inhalation.

No chance of survival.

Sirius, keeping his right hand on the bars, used his left to pull his black t-shirt over his mouth and nose, eyes watering as he did so. Sweat began to pour off of him in waves. The smoke was hot, burning hot. Like fire. He squinted through the miasmic smog, desperately motivating his lungs to keep breathing as the smoke moved through his shirt and invaded his lungs.

His eyes darted left and right, looking for the tree stump that sat next to Potter Cottage, the way that the Marauders had known to find the secret house. It was hard to make out through the screen of dark grey, but finally he spotted a dark brown clump on his lower left, he quickly brought the motorbike in for a risky landing that had the wheels screeching in warning and the seat shuddering and tilting. Without waiting for a complete stop, Sirius swung his left leg over the seat and, covering his eyes with his arm, sprinted to the stump, repeating the destination in his mind.

The Potter Family Can Be Found At Potter Cottage In Godric's Hollow.

It turned out to be unnecessary.

A strangled scream was forced from somewhere below his navel and his hands reached out automatically and latched onto the front gate as his legs gave way from beneath him.

Burning.

The first floor of the house was scorching an angry fire, windows were smashed, glass and discarded bricks from the cracked and utterly destroyed walls covering the front garden. Tears burned in Sirius' eyes as he leant his arms over the gate, his knees finding the ground with a thud. His hands were shaking frantically, unable to do anything other than live through his unknowable trauma.

Lips trembling dramatically, glaring into the fire with streaming eyes, he brought shaking hands up to his dry mouth and cupped them around it.

"JAMES!" he screamed, ignoring the heavy rumble and cracks in his voice, "LILY! HAR- Oh God, Harry!" As though he had suddenly remembered the existence of his godson, the one-year-old baby in the burning house, Sirius climbed to his feet, hitting his legs fiercely to regain feeling once he was standing without aid from the gate.

He brought his tear, soot and sweat stained t-shirt up over his nose and mouth once again and ran as quickly as his trembling legs would carry him, tripping over the tangle of broken brick, splintered wood and sharp glass and then barged through the front-door, which had been hanging onto its hinges and swaying dangerously. He immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, wielding it madly to tame the fire.

After he had contained it to a smaller area, the back corner, he quickly cast a silent aguamenti to put it out for good.

His eyes darted around, his wand still up, a lumos lighting up the dark and smoky rooms. The living room was a mess; rubble and debris coating the floor. The ottoman sofa in the corner which he, Peter and James had sat on just two nights ago was burnt badly, with what looked like ricocheted spellfire singed into the navy fabric, now covered in soot. He looked up, noticing a sheen of light that had been resting on the floor next to the sofa and gasped at the sight of the gaping hole in the ceiling, going through what he recognised as Harry's room and led to a hole in the roof; he could see the stars and although it made him grateful because that meant that the smoke haze was disappearing quickly.

As he turned for the stairs, his eyes flickered over a black tuff of hair in the corner of the room and his heart jumped rapidly into his throat.

James.

He didn't walk closer, it seemed as though his legs had stopped working. He didn't break down and collapse as he had when he had arrived but instead tears ran down his face and a wretched throaty sob fell out of his mouth.

His best friend. His brother.

The normally tan skin, flushed with laughter and happiness was pale and lifeless. His brown eyes, usually filled to the brim with shining mischief and adoration for his friends and family were dull. His neck was at an odd angle and it was clear from the way his body was positioned, he had been thrown back into the wall. Had that been his death? Colliding with the stone cottage wall, breaking his neck? Or had it been an Avada Kedavra?

Sirius prayed for the second, it was over in seconds, or so he was told. Painless. Suffocating through a broken neck as he watched his attacker go after his wife and child was not a way out for James Charlus Potter, the brave Gryffindor.

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut and closed out the image of his brother on the floor, shutting out the pain as best he could and did the hardest thing he could have ever done; turned away and walked slowly to the staircase, rubbing his hand across his eyes and stopping the tears.

What would Prongs say, he thought to himself. He would tell him to buck up and stop being a stupid bastard. Harry was upstairs, and so was Lily. He would tell him to be the Gryffindor he knew him to be, the black sheep of the Black family, and get up off of his sad arse and go and get his family. Their family. His godson and his honorary sister-in-law. They needed him now, not James.

James didn't need him now.

There would be time to mourn later.

His hands came to rest on the banisters and he walked up the stairs, using his arms to make his legs move.

Fragments and rubble concealed the last few steps, so he took a leap of faith and jumped it, landing unbalanced and then falling onto his hands and knees with a loud thud. He took a deep breath, staring at the ground, ignoring the shock of pain through his knees and looked up straight into the pale face and glassy eyes of Lily Potter.

He yelped out in shock and reeled back, scuttling backwards away from her lifeless body that was half in and half out of Harry's room. As he was getting his breath back and he forced his rapidly beating heart under control, he wiped away the few tears that had escaped and looked on in grief.

Her body was at an odd angle, not unlike James'. Nothing was broken, at least, he didn't think so.

She had died by the killing curse, he assumed. But the angle looked as though someone had moved her, tried to drag her from where she had originally died.

At this thought Sirius stood, slowly as his legs were still weak, his left hand on the wall beside him helping him up and his right hand raised with his wand, ready to fight anyone came out of the room.

He sucked in a deep breath, and stepped over Lily's body, heart breaking as he did so. He would bury them, treat them with every care in the world, after he had found Harry, alive... alive or otherwise.

He needed to find his godson.

Sirius lit up the end of his wand and lifted it to release light into the room, praying to Merlin and Morgana that his little boy was okay. His knees buckled and he staggered over to the large white crib where Harry Potter was sat, sucking his little thumb and staring wide-eyed at the dead body of his mother.

"Harry!" Sirius breathed a heavy, rocking sigh of relief and a watery smile broke out on his face. More tears streamed down his face and he approached the little boy.

Harry looked up at his name, not that he knew it was his name, but he knew the voice and held up his arms with his toothless grin. Sirius sighed heavily as he picked him up and he latched on tightly to the child's snitch onesie, breathing in the scent of broomsticks and lavender. James and Lily's smell, combined onto their son.

Their son who was very much alive.

"My boy." He whispered, never having felt so grateful for anything in his life.

Sirius paused.

He looked around and at the foot of the crib there was a black robe and a white, almost boney wand. A wand that didn't belong to James or Lily, and certainly not to Harry. A wand that he had only seen once, and only ever in the hands of a monster.

Stumbling back, Sirius' back hit the closet behind him with a bang that startled Harry and he began to sniffle, and then cry. Sirius, too concerned with the fact that Voldemort's robes and wand were in the room but the man himself was no where to be seen, ignored the tears and raised his wand, ready to defend himself and Harry against the Dark Lord if it came to it. However, even as he did so, thoughts rushed like strong water rapids through his mind; a wizard was never without his wand. Especially not in recent years, especially during the War. A wand was a wizards weapon, his first and last defence, and a wizard like Voldemort, no matter how immersed in the forbidden Dark Arts, would never part with his wand.

Not willingly.

Sirius' eyes flickered around the room, searching for any sign of life or someone hiding, not that he even considered for a moment Voldemort would hide from him. Perhaps Dumbledore, if anyone.

There were no creaking floorboards, no heaving breathing, no shoes poking out from behind Harry's huge Hogwarts-esque play castle (a gift from one of the flirty witches in James' office, Lily had wanted to set it alight but Harry latched onto it extremely quickly and sobbed for hours when it was removed from his sight). But that wasn't enough for Sirius.

He knew the charm to cast, knew the exact wand movement and incantation. It was a staple spell of wartime.

But it would mean confirmation of the deaths of two of his family. If it revealed no life but his own and Harry's... the confirmation would be heart-wrenching.

Harry sniffled in his arms, cries slowly making way to snotty whimpers. Sirius firmed his resolve. If there was someone in the house, if Voldemort was still in the house, he would need to know sooner rather than later.

"Homenum revelio." Sirius muttered, raising his wand, thinking hard about Harry in his arms and cuddling him closer to his side. Nothing happened. He felt both a surge of relief and as though a heavy weight was pressed against his chest.

Pushing the thought of his dead friends as far out of his mind as he could, especially with Lily's feet still peeking through the cracked doorway, Sirius knelt with Harry on his hip and with his thumb and index finger, picked up the bone white wand. He held it as far as his arm would allow, as though he could catch a contagious disease from it and in all fairness, Sirius thought he was right to do so.

This was the wand that murdered his family, so many of his friends, mentors, allies, even strangers on the street. He knew that it was really Voldemort who had done it, who had cast the spell and who'd had the intention, but the wand chose the wizard.

And Sirius did not want to touch any wand that had chosen Lord Voldemort.

He grimaced as he pocketed the wand in his jeans and turned around on the spot, opening the closet that he had fallen back against moments ago.

People would be showing up soon, he knew. He also knew that James and Lily had told Albus that he was the secret keeper to protect Peter. Nobody was to suspect Peter, he thought as he reached into the closet and grabbed a duffle bag with the Falmouth Falcons logo imprinted on the front. James' team; Sirius' eyes sadly dropped from the bag and began to pack things as quickly as he could with Harry in his arms, who was now quite happily sucking on his thumb and playing with Sirius' shoulder-length hair.

A cuddly snitch toy, a few toddler books, some milk with a cooling charm on the bottles, Harry's beginners broom he'd been given him for his birthday, the rest of Harry's toys (Merlin and Morgana action figures, jigsaws that matched up to make Hogwarts castle and other famous magical places) later, and Sirius was piling them all in the bag, spelling it weightless and shrinking it down before putting it in his front pocket.

He sighed and then untangled Harry's chubby fingers from his hair before turning around again and looking at the room with dawning sadness and foreboding.

What now?

James and Lily were dead, Remus was in South Africa on a mission for the Order to try and get wolf packs on their side, and Pete, well, there was only one place he would be now. Worm food. Dead. Most likely.

But... now that Sirius thought about it, how had Voldemort found out? He couldn't have invaded Pete's mind, the fidelius charm worked around that by weaving the spell into the mind. Had Peter been tortured into it? Into revealing the whereabouts of his friends? But even as Sirius thought about it, he knew that even if he or Remus had been tortured, they would never reveal anything, he would rather die than betray his friends, his family.

Peter had.

Sirius thought back to the past few weeks when he had met up with him, he had gone round to his safe-house. There had been boxes piled on boxes, the apartment practically empty. He'd asked about it and Peter had played it off like he was just being lazy unpacking everything.

Sirius believed him. He had come over to the Cottage for tea a few nights ago and had been weirdly quiet, declining to hold Harry when offered. He had never done that before. He had said that he wasn't feeling well, and Sirius had believed him because he had been pale and shaky the past few weeks. Nervous. He'd given James and Lily a hug, however, despite the 'illness' at the end of the night.

Could he have..? No. Peter was a Marauder, one of the brothers. A member of their family since their first year at Hogwarts, since the time Sirius had punched the second year Slytherin who had ridiculed Remus' scars and James had backed him up all the way, and Peter with a short, fat arm around a sad and embarrassed Remus' shoulder. Since that day they had been a family.

Peter would never betray them, not to Voldemort.

A voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his father muttered, "remember the times he would sit and watch. You were the only one who noticed. You thought him creepy, strange. Looking at everyone, making no contribution to your friendship. When he would get beat up by Slytherin's and you would rush to help and he would never do the same for you. Cowardly." the voice echoed and Sirius was more convinced with every word, furious anger bubbling in his chest and he hugged Harry closer to his side. "Weak. Always the last to volunteer. Always making others go first. Latching himself onto the people who could get him places, get him protected. If not Dumbledore, then who?"

Then Voldemort.

Voldemort who had been gaining power, gaining strength, gaining allies left and right.

Voldemort who had somehow known when and where their attacks would take place, almost like there had been a spy, almost like Peter had gone to the Order meetings, played coy with them, and then scuttled off to Voldemort and bowed to him and kissed his disgusting robes, trading his life for theirs.

For Harry's.

Almost like Peter, Wormtail, had told Voldemort the secret, the hiding place of the Potter's the second he'd been able to. A rage which surpassed his grief, his hatred for Voldemort built up in his chest.

How dare he! Traitorous Rat! Betray them when they trusted him with THEIR LIVES! Furious anger burned in his stomach and a growl not unlike the one from his animagus form was ripped from his throat. Before he could fly off the handle completely, a soft cooing noise came from the baby on his hip and Sirius turned to face the child at his side, rage still simmering in his eyes.

He hadn't really looked at his Godson since he had got there. Sure, Sirius had seen him in one piece, seemingly not completely traumatised which had given him relief, but when he looked at him, his heart almost gave out.

There was the familiar mop of messy black hair, so like his father's, and his startlingly bright green eyes, like his mother's but seemingly even brighter. But when he really looked, he saw what his brain must have just passed over in his relief and grief mixed together.

A large cut that ran from his hairline down over his forehead, branching out into separate lines almost like lightning, before crossing through his left eyebrow and stopping. It was a dark red, almost like a scab but when Sirius ran his thumb over it gently, he couldn't feel any raise or slice, just Harry's smooth skin. It was like it had been inputted into his skin, like a tattoo. What was it from, he wondered. It didn't seem to give Harry any pain, he was happily grinning a baby smile up at him as he ran his hand over the scar. Was it from falling debris from the roof? No, that would hurt, he would surely see some sign of pain, even if he had survived that. If a brick had fallen on Harry he wouldn't be alive now, Sirius was certain of that.

Before Sirius could think of anything else, or even be reminded of Peter's betrayal, a loud, booming wail from downstairs shocked him and he almost dropped his wand and Harry, who giggled in surprise of the movement.

Someone was here, at Godric's Hollow, and by the sound of the loudness, it was someone big and wailing with grief. A friend then, if the sobbing was anything to go by.

"James! No, no..."

Sirius' eyes widened in realisation; it was Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts, and unofficial Order of the Phoenix member.

Why was Hagrid here? Then it came to him.

Hagrid was here for Harry.

Dumbledore must have suspected Sirius of being the secret keeper and therefore suspected Sirius of betraying James and Lily, not Peter. The Headmaster no doubt had heard of the smoke coming from Potter Cottage, or had one of his special devices tied to the charm of the Cottage that had notified him of the wards collapse, and had sent his most loyal man to see if everything was alright and to possibly check for survivors.

Sirius flinched as heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, Hagrid's massive feet not caring about the rubble and gaps, just stepping through or over. Sirius' mind was blank. What would he do? He could hand Harry to Hagrid, with the bag in his pocket and the wand to give to Dumbledore. He could go and look for Peter.

Revenge. Revenge for James and Lily. For himself and Harry.

Harry.

Where would Harry go? Dumbledore would want to protect him, Sirius was sure of that. Voldemort had wanted to kill Harry and had obviously not succeeded. Voldemort had maybe tried to kill Harry... and failed? Was that what the scar was from? An escape from death? Sirius wasn't sure, but what he was sure of was how close Hagrid was to the door of the nursery, he had stopped at the top of stairs to sob over Lily's body an Sirius felt the familiar prickle at the corner of his eyes as he listened to the man's grief. He knew what it felt like and was fighting breaking down himself with every breath, but he couldn't afford to, not with Harry next to him.

He had to be strong for Harry.

For Harry. That was when Sirius made up his mind and just as Hagrid passed the threshold of the nursery, Sirius apparated away with the Saviour of the Wizarding World on his hip, thinking of one destination that he wasn't sure where it would take him.

He wasn't sure he had one anymore.

Not after tonight.

Home.