1973 Norton

Sirius Black gained his freedom the day he gained his motorbike. The motorbike was sleek and black and shiny. It was, if you want to get specific about it, a 1973 Norton Commando Roadster. It had a horse power of 60, and could reach 115 miles per hour. He had purchased it from a shop on the Caledonian road on the afternoon of Saturday the 3rd of July. James came with him, shifting uncomfortably in his rugby shirt and light blue jeans and glasses. The shop staff sneered at James, asked Sirius why he was hanging out with such a toff. Sirius lit a cigarette, and answered calmly, 'Because he's madder than all of you put together'. The shop staff raised incredulous eyebrows and looked Sirius up and down, seemingly assessing him beneath his beat-up leather jacket, Doc Martens, and half smoked fag. They shrugged and sold him the bike. His money was as good as anyone else's.

He'd fallen in love with it instantly. Power and escape beckoning to him from every chrome inch. It was slightly battered, being second hand, but Sirius thought it all the better for that, and he admired every nick in the paintwork with pride. He drove it back, James sitting behind him, his breathing harsh, his arms almost too tight round Sirius's waist. Sirius thought this might be it... might be bliss. The road stretched out before him, ready to take him anywhere, anywhere at all. James there with him, close and intimate, voice in his ear. And shiny, black, to the horse power of 60, between his legs.

He parked it on the left hand side of the Potters' red brick drive, and charmed it Impervius. He stuck a photo of it on the wall next to the bed Mrs Potter had made up for him when he'd arrived sodden and shaking a 7:30 that morning, with bloody red hex marks down half his face.

Sirius Black lost his freedom the day he gave up his motorbike. Green light was glinting off the scuffed chrome; the wheels slid and skidded on the debris strewn ground. James was gone. The road was dark and charred with the ash of the house. The bike fell sideways where he'd failed to kick the stand out.

As Sirius watched Hagrid pick it up from the ground and stand it straight, straddle it, ignite it... fly it and his baby godson away, he thought it was just as well Hagrid had taken it, Sirius couldn't have flown it himself. He was blinded by the hot sting of tears.

Sirius Black regained his freedom the day he regained his motorbike. It leant on its kickstand, looking somehow cleaner and healthier than it had last time he had seen it. He let a rare smile break across his features. He swung a leg over the bike, kicked up the stand... started the ignition... and with a bark like laugh, he shot into the air, soaring away from the Ministry of Magic. Up and up and up...