The Broken Man
The greasy haired man apparated onto the top step of 12 Grimmauld Place. He opened the oak front door, strode inside and felt his tongue roll back in his mouth. Stepping further into the dank and dark hallway, a silver, bearded figure loomed ahead in the darkness. The apparition was cast away by a few well chosen words; 'It was not I who killed you Albus Dumbledore.'
With his jet black cloak billowing around him, the potion's master marched upstairs to find the room belonging to Sirius Black.
The wizard tore through every room - upturning the upholstery, opening wardrobes, draining drawers of their contents, all in hope of finding a trace of the woman he had been in love with since he had first laid eyes on at the age of eleven, the woman who he had watched slip away from him into the arms of his worst enemy, the woman who he would never forget as long as he lived.
Walking into what felt like the hundredth room, he realised this was it. The heavy wooden door swung back to reveal a sea of scarlet and gold; Gryffindor banners blazed gloriously at him from every direction, no surface left untouched by their gleam. Quietly entering, he peered at the unusual decor, which was a stark contrast to the rest of the dingy house, and took in pictures of motorcycles, an ornate four-poster bed and even a poster of a bikini-clad muggle girl, her glassy eyes staring dispassionately into space.
The man tore open the cupboard only to find clothes pouring out of it, flipped over the mattress only to choke on the massive cloud of dust that appeared, and opened drawers until he finally found something. It was a letter addressed to Sirius with handwriting he could never forget. Attached to the letter was a picture of a small, smiling boy with jet black hair and podgy cheeks riding a broomstick, the boy's father, and a certain red haired witch in the background smiling at the boy zooming in and out of the photo.
The letter was read first - it was just mindless babble, but it was written by her, and that made it the post precious thing in the world.
The half-blood prince felt the tears dripping down his face onto his lap before he even realised he'd started crying, but once the floodgates opened, it was impossible to close them again.
He took the second page bearing her love, ripped her laughing face out of the photograph and stared at them hungrily for several minutes – all the while thinking of what could have been. He tucked them safely inside his robes to avoid further damage, and stood up slowly taking one last glance at the now dishevelled room.
The broken man then walked out of the room with his head hung low, sniffing every now and then, and procured a tissue from the depths of his robes. In what felt like no time at, he all had reached the top step outside the black, heavy front door.
Severus Snape then apperated away from Grimmauld Place, and felt like he had on 31st October 1981 when he found out Lily Evans had died; he felt like a piece of his heart had died also.