He walked quickly, head bent, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. The narrow road thronged with people, a multitude of ignorant, blissfully unaware individuals, all of which seemed to him to be one blurred mass. A few passers-by glanced warily at him, fear and anxiety the prevalent emotions displayed on their washed-out faces as their eyes fell upon him.
Grey storm-clouds broiled overhead, reflecting the tenor of his emotions. The wind, bitter and cold, played havoc with his long, un-kept hair. His face, normally pale, bore a distinct resemblance to the visage of a corpse. Only his eyes, darting restlessly from side to side, appeared alive, burning dark with passion.
He followed the crowds, his hand clenched on his wand, wary, watchful. His eyes swept the swarm in front of him, as if looking for someone in particular. His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, and his cracked, bloody lips were parted slightly, shuddering with each inhalation.
The face stood out from the multitude of drifting people. The crowd seemed to melt away as he focused on the bulging eyes, the shiny, slightly sagging face, the thinning, mousy hair.
"Pettigrew!"
His voice cracked as he shouted. Bile collected in his throat, and a strange half-smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he broke into a run, past the oblivious Muggles going on with their every-day lives …
"Pettigrew!"
He shouted again, and the man's eyes widened, apprehension bringing a fresh sheen to his forehead. The burning in his chest intensified; unbidden, his fingers tightened on the wand, twitching with anticipation. The half-smile on his lips stretched and a maniacal gleam appeared in his eyes.
The cavity in his chest where his heart had been swelled as he read the fear in Pettigrew's face. He closed the distance between them, seized a handful of Petigrew's shirt, opened his mouth to speak, and stopped, Pettigrew's wand-tip at his throat.
A glimmer of amusement appeared on his face as he looked from the trembling wand to Pettigrew's shiny face. "Ah," he breathed hoarsely. "So you learned from him … what we could never teach you, eh, Peter?"
He slowly became aware of the half-dozen passers-by who had stopped to stare. Others drifted by more slowly, eventually drawing to an abrupt halt, gazing in astonishment at the two men on the sidewalk. The sudden silence weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Pettigrew's pale, confused eyes swam with tears. "Lily and James, Sirius," he whispered. "How could you?"
Hate coursed in his veins; his knuckles tightened as he gripped the front of Pettigrew's shirt tighter. His breathing quickened. "How dare you," he snarled, madness – for it was madness, that drove him now, madness and pain, endless, bottomless pain – gleaming in his feverish eyes. "How dare you!" He slowly withdrew his right hand, raising his own wand, placing the tip beneath Pettigrew's chin. Realisation dawned on Pettigrew's face; his eyes widened fractionally, darting from the wand-tip to Sirius's face, and then, to the crowd that had gathered around them. His expression changed – no longer fearful. A tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows.
Through the haze of pain and anger, Sirius recognized the change, with a jolt of shock and surprise; he had never seen this particular expression on Pettigrew's face. It was … calculating. Sirius wondered, bitterly amused, what other things Peter had kept hidden. He raised his wand, pointing it between Pettigrew's eyes, blocking out the unwanted audience, the cold that was settling into the very marrow of his bones, the incessant wind that caressed his pinched face, the whisper of pain and death and sorrow, everything but the face of the man in front of him and then –
"Lily and James, Sirius!" Peter said again, much louder. His tone was distraught, strained. "How could you?"
Sirius trembled and his vision clouded. The wand-tip resting between Pettigrew's eyes shook uncontrollably.
The explosion shook the very ground underneath his feet; the road in front of him cracked, the sound like that of ice breaking. Screams erupted, shattering the silence, moving through the crowd like a shock wave traveling outwards from an epicenter.
And Peter was gone. His wand clattered to the ground with a sort of deadly finality, sounding strangely loud to Sirius's ears. His eyes raked the ground, catching sight of a gray, ringed tail disappearing between the rungs of a grate. His hand, still clutching the shirt, dropped, and the fabric slipped onto the tarmac. He gazed unseeingly at the grate; the pit in his chest yawned, and he felt himself plunging into a never-ending abyss, a trench from where there is no escape.
His eyes grew wide as he pondered the fall, and he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. They were dead. Lily and James were truly dead, and would not return. He had thought, fancifully , perhaps, that this small act, would, if not bring them back, bring them peace. He felt drained, as if his body no longer had the strength to dredge up and experience emotion. He, Sirius Black, Padfoot, had failed. Had failed in his attempt to give his dead loved ones a part of the justice they deserved. And he had been thwarted by a rat.
Something inside of him snapped; the last, fragile link binding him to his sanity unloosed itself and Sirius threw his head back. He laughed hollowly, with an edge to his laughter, a strange, demented sound, the anguish of a man who has lost all and has nothing left to lose.
Standing in the middle of a cracked street, the fissure in the road yawning like the hole in his breast, with broken bodies littering the tarmac and the smell of charred flesh in the air, incredulous, angry eyes fixed on him, his chest heaving, Sirius Black laughed.