It took me FOREVER to write this chapter. I don't know if I got the emotion across as planned, but it made me cry, so I'm happy about that, ironically (lol)...anyway, I hope you enjoy this--it's part of a chapter from my story Winterstar--and please review!

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All Hallows’ Eve, 1981.

He went straight to where he kept his flying motorcycle. The machine itself was Muggle-made and Sirius had always suspected that the flying bit wasn’t of entirely legal creation. He allowed himself a small smile before beginning his standard pre-flight check-over. Peter was expecting him in two hours, he knew, but he decided to work on the bike anyway, if only to calm himself.

His stomach was still clenching as he kicked the motorcycle’s engine to life and roared down the street before lifting into the air. He knew that Peter would be fine, and told himself that it was simply worry about that clunky Muggle bus he’d sent his wife off on. Rising high into the air, he got his bearings for a moment before speeding off in the direction of Peter’s new safe-house.

Sirius made a mental note never to fly on an October night again. The wind whipped at his face, biting into his cheeks and turning them a shade Godric Gryffindor would have been proud of; he breathed icy vapor into the air, cursing his stupidity at not wearing a hat. His “wonderful hair” was threaded with ice by the time he landed, and half-formed thoughts of a Halloween prank he could play on Peter vanished when he saw the house.

The lights were off. Peter, little scared-of-the-dark Wormtail, never turned off all the lights, especially not on All Hallows’ Eve, the older—and, in Sirius’s opinion, more powerful—name for Halloween. Knowing that ghosts and the like existed had never helped Wormtail’s nerves on the Night of Mischief, something the other Marauders had used to great advantage.

But this was no joke. Sirius’s eyes narrowed. Something was very wrong.

He moved to the door and was somewhat reassured when the password charm went into effect. Muttering the password, he watched apprehensively as the door opened, revealing the blackness of the small living room and the complete absence of light—not even a candle—from the doorways beyond.

“Lumos,” Sirius whispered, stepping inside. He was never afraid of the dark, but this dark terrified him because of its implications. He refused to think about anything but finding Peter. “Wormtail?” It echoed, and he tried again, even louder.

No answer.

Sirius sprinted for the door.

-

He could see the ruins from the air, but his mind refused to believe what he saw before him. Sirius quite calmly landed his motorbike and paused to reflect on where he had taken a wrong turn—had it been while following that road from the air? He knew he should have taken that second branch, James had explained that—

“No.” The word involuntarily burst out as a familiar figure came out of the ruins, searching the sky for the source of the motor’s noise.

The other gave a start and strode quickly toward him. There was a bundle in the half-giant’s arms. Sirius stared, then pushed past Hagrid and raced toward what was left of the house.

He pushed through a half-shattered window—the back door was still locked—and clambered over a pile of clothing. He was in a bedroom with—a crib? Picking his way over the junk on the floor, he thought, I saw Harry—if I can see them, the Fidelius charm really is broken, and James and Lily are—

Sirius nearly choked. Lily lay facedown on the ground in front of the crib, red hair flowing around her head like a crown of blood. He ran over to her and dropped to the ground, turning her over and frantically looking for any sign of life. Her green eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, holding a look of such terror—not for herself, he realized—that he recoiled. Accusation, too. It was as if Lily were saying, You did this, Black, you told James to swi—

James.

Sirius carefully shut Lily Evans-Potter’s eyes and kissed her cold forehead before forcing himself to his feet. He stumbled past what might have been Voldemort or simply a pile of clothes flung from the wardrobe—he could not comprehend why Voldemort would be there, dead, and could not bring himself to care.

He walked through the bedroom door and out into the main room.

And then Sirius’s world stopped, because James Potter lay dead at his feet.

Regulus, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth and looking like a ghost with his white pajamas and huge dark eyes, hovered nearby as Sirius poked at the dog. “Snuffles? Snuffles, wake up.” The big beast’s “real” name was Baskerville, no doubt his mother’s idea of a properly-sophisticated pun, but Sirius had always called him after the funny sound he made. “Snuffles?” Even at the age of five, Sirius had learned not to show weakness. He forced the lump in his throat back, expecting a big doggy kiss any moment. “C’mon, boy.”

The old creature did not move, did not even open an eye to glare at the brothers in mock annoyance. Sirius poked his nose. Nothing. He sat on Snuffles’s back as he had all his life and nearly flew up again at the horrible feeling of stiffness, like an ill-washed bristle carpet. Beside him, Regulus began to cry.

“James.”

James lay very still. The hands that had gesticulated wildly and illustrated by themselves entire legions of pranks, the hands that could catch the Snitch even when Sirius had tried to distract him by throwing bread crumbs, lay half-opened on the ground, one palm down, for James had fallen where he stood. He lay on his side, glasses askew, wand carelessly—it seemed—resting on the ground just out of reach of his fingertips. His eyes were half-open.

“Prongs—please—” Sirius’s voice broke, and he dropped to his knees beside his best friend, rolling him fully onto his back as he had done with Lily. “Please...d-don’t, I can’t—”

He cradled James in his arms, feeling the messy hair that James had never quite tamed tickling his chin. The feather-light touch hit Sirius like a physical blow, and he ruffled James’s hair fondly for a moment before he broke down and sobbed, burying his head in his dead friend’s shoulder. “No, Prongs, come back, I—I’ll do anything, give anything—oh God, I would have stayed Secr—”

His voice suddenly trailed off and he went cold. Anger rushed through him as one name went through his mind. Wormtail. If he could avenge James and Lily, he could bring them back, he could—

The incoherent thoughts swirled as Sirius looked down at James’s face and closed the hazel eyes forever, adjusting the glasses automatically. James had always let them fall down onto his nose when he fell asleep in the library. Now, thought Sirius with a bitter smile, he looked like he was sleeping once more.

“Goodbye, Prongs,” he whispered, though he knew James could not hear him. He got to his feet slowly and trudged back through the ruins to the hulking figure of Hagrid.

“Sirius? Yeh okay? Yer all white.” Hagrid’s black eyes, surprisingly kind in so fierce a face, were dark with concern.

Sirius’s answer was a look of such bleak pain that Hagrid moved to place a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I know, I—”

The Marauder shook his head. “No, Hagrid. You don’t—you can’t.”

Hagrid said nothing. Abruptly Sirius reached out for the bundle of blankets. “Is he—”

“Got a great ol’ cut, he has, nothin’ harmful though.” Hagrid looked down. “Look ’ere.”

The bundle tipped toward him, and Sirius found himself gazing at a half-awake Harry. There was a small lightning-bolt-shaped cut that Sirius knew would scar on Harry’s forehead. He closed his eyes, forcing the lump in his throat back, and his voice was raspy as he said, “Give Harry to me, Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him.”

“Can’t,” Hagrid said simply, looking quite sympathetic and on the whole extremely uncomfortable. “Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt’s and uncle’s should anythin’ happen ter...ter James and L-Lily...” He gave a great sniff, and Sirius willed himself to be calm.

“Hagrid, you don’t understand, I promised them I would—”

Hagrid shook his head. “Tol’ Dumbledore, gave me word. I’m ter get Harry there soon as possible.”

Sirius began pacing. “Fine, fine. Dumbledore knows best, I’ll talk to him, tell him I—wait, Hagrid. Take my motorbike, it’ll get you there faster.” He clenched his fists, thinking of Wormtail. “I won’t need it anymore.”

“Yeh sure?”

“Yes, yes, take it.” Sirius was on the verge of breaking down, and very much wished that Hagrid would just go away.

Hagrid looked doubtful. “All righ’, I’ll just bring it back t’you, then...” He went to the motorcycle, Harry secure in one gigantic arm.

Sirius looked up. “Hagrid—take care of Harry.” His voice did break then, and he viciously wiped away at a tear.

Hagrid nodded. “On me life.”

The motorcycle roared off into the night. Sirius watched it go, vaguely aware that Muggle police sirens were sounding in the distance—Muggles were usually cautious, and he doubted the neighbors had yet come to the scene. He had time yet; it was dark and the roads were bad. Sirius sat on the remains of his friends' doorstep and looked up at the calm night sky.

A shooting star appeared, followed by another and another. Sirius realized that the news of what he now knew to be Voldemort’s defeat had spread—and rather quickly—to the wizarding community. He watched the beautiful golden trails flood the sky.

And Sirius Black wept while the world celebrated.

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P.S. I cannot listen to (even semi-) sad music of any kind and read this...