The house is already in ruins when Sirius explodes out of thin air, still sitting on his motorbike. He doesn't even land it, just leaps off in midair and hopes, briefly, that it doesn't drive itself into a tree.

The smoke billowing out of the windows smells sour and acrid, even from here. How long has it been? An hour? Less? Too long anyway, because the garden, the pretty little flower garden that Lily worked on with near-obsessive devotion during her days of captivity, is just a blackened ruin of charred leaves and plant stalks thrusting up through the earth and the house looks as though a giant got a hold of the roof and just twisted.

The door is unlocked and gives way under his shoulder--Sirius isn't a big man, but he's stronger than he looks and he hits it at a dead sprint. The sprint abruptly turns into a tumble when he sees what lies inside and the joints of his legs turn into jelly.

James' eyes are wide open, and he's still holding his wand out. Fighting to the end. Sirius collapses bonelessly before him, touches his cold cheek with trembling fingers and is suddenly glad that he didn't light his wand. He doesn't think he could bear to see all of this in the stark, unforgiving light of the lumos charm.

"Prongs," he whispers. "James. Wake up."

But James doesn't wake up, and Sirius can't go on any further, because then he'll have to see Lily laying on the floor with her beautiful eyes wide and blank, see Harry in the nursery, asleep--God, let him have been asleep--if he stays here, he can pretend that James' sacrifice--and it had to be a sacrifice, even James wouldn't try to duel Voldemort unless he thought it would give Lily and Harry a chance--had worked. That Lily and Harry, at least, were alive.

Sirius doesn't know how long he sits there, cradling James' head in his lap, stroking James' thick, spiky hair back from his forehead. There's blood in it. Avada Kedavra kills without blood, instantly, so that means that they had to duel for a while. Maybe long enough for Lily to get herself and Harry out through the upstairs fireplace. Maybe. He still doesn't get up.

Dumbledore will be here soon, with half the Order in tow, like there's something they can do now. The sudden savage rage cuts through his horror like a knife and Sirius stands, knees cracking painfully. There's still something he can do. He can finish up what he planned to do tonight. He can find Peter.

He bends down to close James' staring eyes and as he straightens up this time, there is a sound, an unmistakeable sound of pain and confusion and fear that echoes through the eerie silence. At first Sirius thinks it's him, coming back to check on his handiwork--who else would it be--but then it comes again and he recognizes it from many, many nights of babysitting at the Potter household.

Harry.