Author's Note:

Tequila: hehehe… still obsessed with the family Black…

Justin: and still writing depressing oneshots about them:D

Tequila: yeah, well… at least their good depressing oneshots? --shameless egotism--

Justin: mmph. Just post the darn thing.

Tequila: REVIEW, PLEASE… so I don't cry!!

Disclaimer: we ain't british. we ain't brilliant. we ain't JKR. we don't own.

Perfect Timing

It was 7.37 pm when Sirius, bored and irritable and twitchy, walked away from a report he was writing—trying to write. He had never had any real precognitive gift, passing Divination with an E only because he made up the best stories, but something felt… wrong. Off. It was the feeling of having a crucial word on the tip of your tongue, and it made Sirius… snappish.

It was 7.41 when he decided to check on Wormy. He had been supposed to go on Tuesday, but a few days earlier couldn't hurt, right? No one should be alone on Halloween. But if anything was wrong—as soon as the thought about his quiet friend, the feeling intensified, becoming an almost prickle in his fingertips—if anything was wrong. But it couldn't be, it was fine… Dumbledore himself had suggested Fidelius.

It was 7.56 when Sirius jumped off his bike and shut the motor down with a careless wave of his wand. He muttered a spell and had the odd feeling for an instant that someone had spilled water down his back. He picked up his hand and peered at the paving through it. Sirius liked this spell. He slipped into the Muggle house and into their library. He pulled on a hidden lever and stepped into Wormtail's new home: an old Muggle priest-hole. The couple who owned this house (a Muggle-born wizard's parents) had agreed to house Peter, and had then been temporarily Obliviated.

It was 7.59 when Sirius realized the tiny room was empty. His eyes searched desperately for a sign—had Wormy slipped out for, for a smoke? Had be been found by—but the room was completely tidy, completely arranged, the only thing out of place was… a picture that lay in a frame, face down on the dresser.

It was still 7.59 when Sirius turned over the picture and looked down onto his own face—laughing as he hauled a protesting Remus into the photograph while Peter and Prongs watched, James' arm thrown casually over Wormy's shoulder. Sirius blinked. What—oh—no—not—not—not—not.

It was 8.43 when he smelled the smoke, still furlongs away in the sky over Exmoor.

It was 8.44 when he landed in the ruins of a house.

It was 8.45 when he saw the arm.

It was 8.47 by the time he had freed enough rubble to uncover the body of his best friend, apparently unharmed, eyes open and staring.

It was 8.51 by the time he was able to stand again, to stumble uncomprehending to where he now saw Hagrid (how had he missed Hagrid?) kneeling and heaving great sobs in the heaps of what had once been a house.

It was 8.52 when he saw a tangle of red hair and wondered absently, as he struggled to breathe, why he was so fucking surprised.

It was still 8.52 when Sirius heard a baby's whimper and his heart nearly stopped. "Hagrid."

The huge man looked up, his eyes red with crying. "Black."

"What—what—"

"It was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He, he… Dumbledore tol' me to take Harry to his Muggle relations."

Sirius shook himself. Harry was alive? He swallowed. 'Pads, you'll be god-father?' "I, I'm his godfather, Hagrid, I sh-should take him."

The giant man shook his head. "I 'ave specific instruction to take 'im to Dumbledore, Black."

Sirius shook his own head. "But now that, that James and Lily," and then the words stopped. Just plain stopped.

Hagrid lifted a hand and placed it on Sirius' shoulder. "Don', don'… there's nothin' anyone could'a done."

It was 8.55 when Sirius realized that that wasn't true. There was something he could have done. He could have realized that it was Peter, not Remus. He should have realized. He should have known.

It was still 8.55 when Sirius realized that he had killed Lily and James, as sure as if he'd held a wand to their heads.

It was 8.56 when he decided what to do.

It was still 8.56 when he went over to Hagrid and gave Harry one last look. He was awake now, and crying fitfully at the sight of an unfamiliar face. "Shh, Uncle Pads is here," Sirius reached down and held his godson, one last time, waiting until the tiny boy slept, and then turned to Hagrid. "Take the bike. I won't need her anymore." The enormous man nodded, and Sirius hoped like hell that the very strong protective Charms on his motorbike would be enough to keep Harry safe.

It was 8.59 when Sirius said a final, silent good-bye to his godson and the two silent forms that still lay in the rubble and Apparated away to find the son-of-a-bitch who'd just ended the world.

It wasn't until 3.37 in the morning that Sirius realized that his best bet would be to find something of Pettigrew's, to use that to track the scum.

It was 3.52 when Sirius found a letter Pettigrew had written him, a recent letter with all of the magical traces one could ever hope for still embedded in it.

It was 4.13 when the little rat eluded him in Surrey.

It was 4.58 when he almost had him in Devon.

It was 5.23 when the bastard got away by the skin of his teeth in Dublin, and Sirius grinned because he had the flavor of it now, he had the trace and the world humming underneath his skin and he didn't need the letter anymore.

It was 5.51 when he got overconfident in Glasgow and Pettigrew slipped away again.

It was 6.26 when Sirius punched a wall in Brighton so hard he broke several fingers on his left hand.

It was 6.27 when Sirius realized he hadn't felt it, not in the least, and wondered absently if he should be worried.

It was still 6.27 when he decided that it didn't matter, anyway.

It was 6.39 when Sirius narrowly missed the little rat in Hampstead.

It was 7.03 when Sirius realized he could feel where Pettigrew was going to end up a split second before he got there.

It was 7.12 when Sirius almost had him in Manchester, but the sodding bastard slithered away at the last moment.

It was 7.23 when Sirius finally cornered the son of a bitch on a little street somewhere in Norwich, and stood there, both of them knowing neither could get away—the wards Sirius had put up would hold Pettigrew long enough to take him out, please god, just long enough because after that nothing really mattered anymore.

It was 7.25 when Pettigrew screamed, "Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?" and it took Sirius a moment, but he figured out what the hell that meant.

It was 7.26 when he saw, as if in a dream or a nightmare, Pettigrew's wand behind his back, and the flash as the spell arced through the air, and the roar as it hit the gas main in the street.

It was 7.27 when Pettigrew whipped his wand around, and suddenly was gone, and there were his robes, and there was his wand, and there was a tiny finger, lying there forlorn. And there was the stream of rats running down into the sewer.

It was 7.29 when, confronted with the heap of robes and the dead bodies and the stench, Sirius started to laugh. Ironic, isn't it? Little Peter, who can't do anything right, little Pettigrew who always needed help—he'd got the best of them, hadn't he? He'd won, and James was—James was—James was—James was—and Sirius choked but he could stop laughing, because it was all so fucking funny, wasn't it? When you—James—James—James—and so fucking funny… especially that it was all his fault, because everyone always knew he'd screw it up somehow, didn't they? And wasn't this just what James—James—James—James—James had always said would happen?

It was 7.37 am when the Ministry arrived to take him away, still laughing because he couldn't believe it, still laughing because the world was over and there wasn't anything else to do, still laughing because he couldn't quite figure out how to cry.