Hollow by thirty2flavors

It is fourteen years before Sirius returns to Godric's Hollow.

The return to England had been inevitable with a godson in perpetual peril, thousand-galleon head price on his head or not. The return to Godric's Hollow was something he had intentionally avoided the year before, but without the preoccupation of revenge he finds he can't fight off the masochistic desire any longer.

It's January 30th, 1995 when he nears the area, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that ought to be important. He leaves Buckbeak tethered in the nearest forest. He's not entirely certain that it is the best spot to hide what is probably the world's only wanted Hippogriff but he's willing, as usual, to take the risk.

Sirius isn't sure what it is that makes him want to visit the place where his life splintered into a dozen pieces, but he does want to, desperately. It seems necessary, somehow, like one of the many duties his stint in Azkaban forced him to shirk. He may spend the rest of his life hiding from Dementors in the side-streets of foreign countries, he may never be much more to Harry than a pen-pal, but Sirius will not avoid his best friends' graves merely because the phrase alone makes him nauseous. He owes them more bravery than that.

Exploring the town as Padfoot means the experience is both less intense and more convoluted than it otherwise might have been; his eyes do not burn at the sight of the cottage, the statue elicits only a high-pitched whine that might be mistaken for hunger, but the emotions themselves come in a collage of memories and mixed senses that is nearly overwhelming.

He hears the pitch of Lily's voice when she crooned about how quaint the whole village was; he feels the sting of snow against the back of his neck, released with a Chaser's accuracy and a laugh; he smells the deep aroma wafting from the kitchen during his last dinner with the Potters; he sees James' body by the stairs, head lolled to the side, glasses askew; he tastes bitter copper as he bites through his lip, handing Harry back to Hagrid and restraining a sob.

Padfoot spends the night curled against their headstone. It disturbs him more than he can articulate to think of them alone down there in the cold ground, so he lays down at their grave instinctively. There is very little he can do to make up for all the ways he's let them down, but he can keep them company, at least, if only for a night. (He knows how hard it is to be alone.)