Tragedy

For the first time in his life, Sirius Black wanted to die.

He was often scolded for being reckless. McGonagall once asked him if he had a death wish after one particular dare involving the Astronomy Tower and a broomstick. Joining the Order of the Phoenix sometimes felt like a death wish, and he often said as much.

But no matter how much he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that accompanied acts of great stupidity, Sirius Black had never actually wanted to die.

Until now.

Until he saw the house in Godric's Hollow, its entire left side blown out, as if a bomb had been detonated inside of it. Until he saw his best friend—his brother—lying dead on the floor. Until he saw Lily, sprawled in front of Harry's cot.

Until he saw his motorcycle disappearing into the swirling clouds and he heard the wailing cry of James and Lily's son fading into the night.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Sirius stared at the sky. He sniggered a little to himself at the irony. Rain, thunder, lightening—the perfect metaphor for sorrow, despair, and loss. James was dead, Lily was dead, and now Harry was gone, too. He couldn't wrap his head around the pain he was feeling, the absolute crushing sense of failure and despair. Now he understood the term "broken heart."

It was my fault.

And I have to make it right.

Suddenly, he had something left to live for. He let the anger fill him up, ice over his pain, and propel him forward.

He had to find Peter.