The roar of the motorbike matched the roar in his ears as the spray hit his face. He'd heard someone say, in a hushed tone, that James and Lily Potter were dead.
He wasn't inclined to believe them, as they were a notorious gossip, but the recently changed secret keeper meant that he was more likely to believe it than he would otherwise.
He'd known he would be targeted when he agreed to be James and Lily's secret keeper. He would gladly have given his life for the cause, for his friends, except that would have left them unprotected. So he had to hide, stay moving, keep away from the fights. While part of him chafed at having to run away, the rest of him knew that this would save lives. James, Lily, little Harry. They could live peacefully while he ran.
But then the Death Eaters started to target him. They started seeing him, knowing where his was staying, and he barely escaped each time.
They didn't want to kill him, because that wouldn't leave the Potters defenceless. Reduced defenses, sure, but they could move or make a new secret keeper.
Sirius knew that someone was a traitor, someone had told the Death Eaters that he was the secret keeper. It wasn't a big jump to make for anyone who had known them at Hogwarts. James and Sirius had been inseparable. That traitor could have been anyone.
But then someone knew exactly where he was at any moment.
So he'd switched the secret keeper. Nobody would think that little, quiet Peter Pettigrew was the one that held James and Lily's lives in his hands. Nobody would think that James and Lily would trust him enough. But they did. They knew he was loyal, that he would never betray them.
Only now was Sirius doubting that.
Peter might've been captured, tortured. He would have withstood as long as he could, but eventually would have told. Maybe the Death Eaters found him and threatened to kill his family. They were muggles, barely knowing about the war.
Or maybe Peter went to them, offered a deal. Maybe Peter was the one who had been informing them of where Sirius was. Maybe he'd been a traitor this whole time. This whole time that Sirius had thought it had been Moony.
His heart ached. James and Sirius had discussed it. They knew Voldemort was offering a cure for werewolves. They knew Moony hated being a werewolf, hated the exclusion, the danger to himself and, worse, others. He would give almost anything for a cure.
Except, would he give his friends? Before today, before the terrifying rumours that beat up his heart, he would have said yes. And Sirius wouldn't have blamed him. Remus had a terrible life, and if Sirius could have died to help that, he would have. But not if that killed James and Lily too.
But thinking back on all the days, Sirius remembers. He remembers that Remus would have given his life for his friends. That they were the most important people in his life. That he hated himself and would never prioritise himself over his friends.
So Sirius doesn't think Moony's the traitor now. Which leaves one option.
He speeds up the motorbike.
…
The house is on fire. Smoke pours out of the windows and billows out of the chimney, and flames lick the walls.
Sirius' heart is pounding. James and Lily are powerful. They could put out the fire with a simple aguamenti. Unless something had happened to them.
He takes out his wand and enters the front door. Rounds the staircase quietly, resisting the urge to shout their names, to scream until his throat is sore.
James is lying on the ground so quietly, so still, that Sirius collapses. He doesn't care about the fire snaking towards him, trying to eat him too.
He only cares about James' glazed eyes and limp, wandless hands, and unmoving heart.
He wants to break into a million pieces. This is his fault. He can do nothing to help him, nothing to save him.
They always said they would save each other. But now Sirius has failed. Has broken his vow, broken his heart, broken James.
He stands. He's numb. He has to find Lily, doesn't want to find her, because what if she's like James? But he owes it to his best friend to find her. Owes it to himself because what if she could be saved and he ran?
But he already knows what he's going to find.
He steps up the stairs, smoke choking him and strangling his voice.
Lily is there. Just as limp and numb and cold as James was.
Sirius is cold too, despite the heat of the flames all around him. He doesn't cast a spell, doesn't put out the flames, although he could.
He wants to burn the house, burn the bodies, burn himself.
He wants to burn Pettigrew.
He screams as loudly as he can, tearing through the thick smoke around him. He shoots a spell at a vase, shooting it into the wall. It's not enough.
Then he hears a noise, a noise he forgot to check for. A noise that starts his heart beating again.
A baby's cry.
Sirius rushes to Lily, moving her body as he numbs his fingers, his heart, to the fact that he's touching her dead body. But Lily would want him to. Would want him to save Harry, baby Harry, who's miraculously alive and screaming in the cot behind her.
He lifts Harry up, walks down the stairs. He doesn't look at James' body, doesn't let Harry look.
Someone is outside, and he tenses, drawing his wand.
It's Hagrid. He relaxes.
'Give me Harry,' Hagrid says gently. 'Dumbledore sent me.'
Sirius can't feel, feels nothing as the baby is lifted from his arms. Dumbledore knows best, of course he does. Dumbledore will make sure Harry has a good home, a nice home, a safe home. Better than one Sirius could provide.
'Take my motorbike,' Sirius says, swallows, steps away. 'Tell Dumbledore to look after him.'
Years after, he laughs. He laughs despite the cold pressing around him, because he will always be able to feel the heat of the fire. The smoke choking him, long after fresh air replaced it. He laughs because Pettigrew is dead, and he killed him. James wouldn't have wanted him to, but he did anyway, because nothing can get the image of James and Lily's dead bodies out of his head and what's one more?
He laughs because Voldemort failed, because Harry is safe and happy and looked after, and hates him. And that's all for the best because he hates himself too. He hates that he could have saved them but didn't. And so he laughs as hard as he can because nothing worse that what he's already endured, what he's done, could happen.
And then one day he catches a glimpse of a rat on a red-headed boy's shoulder, and he stops laughing abruptly.