You stretch, yawn. Having just returned to your flat, you realise that you still have to check on Peter. You would have done so earlier had you not been helping the Order out with the Death Eater attack in London. The attack was just good fun for them, torturing Muggles on Hallowe'en, but yet another nightmare for anyone who didn't support Voldemort. Fortunately, you all got them to clear off, and modified the memories of the few Muggles present before anything got really out of hand. You wish you could sleep, but a check on Peter will only take a few minutes. You go outside, hop on your motorbike, and fly to Pete's.

* * * * * * *

This isn't right. Something's off. It's empty, why is it empty? You know he's not taken, not tortured. There's no sign of struggle, no evidence of a fight. Where is he? Why would he leave? He couldn't have . . . not James and Lily. But despite this persistent denial you're telling yourself, you somehow know what he's done. You know why the man you've last talked to seems so vastly different from the boy who slept in your dormitory. You know where his loyalties now lie, where they've been for a while, and you know whom he's turned against. You're shaking, staring at his empty house and, without thinking about it, you fly to James'. To Lily's, to Harry's. . .

* * * * * * *

The flight seems to take no time at all. You stop at the end of the street, not really sure why you don't just stop in front of the house. Perhaps the dread of what may await you. You walk towards the house, at first slowly and then more and more quickly until you're in a full out sprint, running as fast as you can. You come to a dead stop in front of the house.

* * * * * * *

Maybe they escaped, maybe they fought him off, maybe someone arrived to help, maybe they're hiding in the house, maybe they got away in time, maybe it's Voldemort's body that's in there, maybe they fled before he even arrived, maybe it's a ruse to make Voldemort think they're not there. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Maybe that big hole in the house isn't there, and maybe your best friend and his family are not dead inside.

* * * * * * *

You vaguely hear crying, and turn in surprise to find Hagrid holding Harry. Harry's forehead is bright red, a gash in the shape of a lightning bolt upon it. You walk to Harry as if in a dream and put your hand on his head. Harry is now sniffling, and you keep stroking his head and whispering, "It's all right, it's all right," even though it's so evidently not. Hagrid is talking to you, saying he needs to take Harry somewhere, even though James specifically made you Harry's godfather in case anything should happen. You're not really registering what is going on. You're aware of telling Hagrid that James had made you Harry's godfather, to let you take him, and then, when Hagrid denies you, you tell him to take your motorbike to get Harry to safety faster. You don't really need the bike anymore, anyway. Hagrid thanks you and, before taking off, informs you that people will be there soon to collect the bodies, so you may want to leave soon. And then he's gone. Gone with Harry.

To collect the bodies. . .

You're standing there, rooted to the spot, and violently shaking even more than you had in front of Peter's. Your breath is coming out quick, shuddering. You don't know if you're just not hearing anything, or if there's really a heavy oppressive silence all over, a heavy thudding nothing in your ears. You pick up one foot and put it forward. Then the next. One foot in front of the other, that's the only way to get inside. To check. Right, left, right, left, you repeat to yourself; whispering the words in the dark as you walk through the house is the only way to keep yourself going.

* * * * * * *

This isn't real, this isn't happening. This must be a nightmare, but no matter how hard you pinch yourself, no matter how you yell, you don’t wake up. You feel as if the room is moving. As if the earth's rotation got knocked out of control.

You throw up, and manage to turn away just in time before you get your vomit all over Lily's dead body.

You give the room one last sweeping look to see if James is there, but thank God he's not. You bend down and kiss Lily on the forehead before walking out, your hands trembling by your sides.

* * * * * * *

It's a dangerous hope in your heart, yet it's still there. Maybe he's alive, maybe he's escaped. But even as you're walking you're thinking that James would never leave knowing Harry was alive, never leave him alone, and that's when you see it.

* * * * * * *

No.

No.

James Potter is not dead. James Potter is not dead. James Potter is not dead. He'snotdeadnotdeadnotdeadnotdeadnotdead.

Your best friend in the world is not lying on the floor in front of you, his eyes open and blank, his glasses askew. His hair is just as fucking messy as always, but no Quaffle trained hand reaches up to muss it up even more.

You retch again, but your stomach is hollow. You kneel before him.

"James," you whisper in some sort of croak. "James, get up, James. C'mon, Prongs. Prongs it's me, it's Sirius, it's Padfoot. Get up, James. James, get up." Your voice is cracking like you've never heard before, and you're shaking him violently and his body is limp and flopping around. You put your face in your hands and begin to howl because you hate that Prongs is doing this, you hate that he's not answering you when you desperately need him to. You hate that he's putting you through this situation.

* * * * * * *

You take a deep breath, sit up straight. You straighten James's glasses, and attempt to flatten down his hair a bit too, not that it does anything. You straighten out his shirt and take the wand from the couch, placing it in his hand. You swallow, hating to look into your friend's vacant eyes but unable to tear yourself away from them. You kiss James' forehead as you did Lily's, and then you gently shut his eyes.

You stand up, feeling hollow, feeling nothing. And then the only thing you feel is fury, a rage that you haven't felt since you lived with your parents. You hold it inside your heart, your anger redressing your grief. You cling to it. You push up your sleeves as you forge out of the house, your heart pulsing with its new mantra.

Find Peter.