A/N: Not sure how well this one went. I hope it's not too hard to figure out, and sorry if it's not following what the book says!
The man laughs, giving a one-armed hug to his friend and saying good-bye cheerfully to the woman with dark red hair and green eyes. He ruffles the hair of the baby boy she is holding, and closes the door behind him.
Alone in the night, with no one watching, his body sags with fatigue that he has had to hide. He brushes a trembling hand over his eyes, pushing his long dark hair back from his face.
He leans against an alley wall, fingering the wand in his pocket. He laughs, a weary, mirthless chuckle. The stick of wood, though magical, is such a fragile defense against his foe.
What can he do? Where can he go? Hiding from the Ministry is not an option, and besides, he has hidden too much, too many times. He is ready to shed the lies so that he can be himself once more.
The man sets off at a brisk walk down the alley. It is a dead end and when faced with the stone wall, he looks back as if to make sure he is alone, turns on the spot, and vanishes.
The man appears with a loud crack in the middle of a – well, a hovel. He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the stench of rotting food and mouse droppings.
"Come out, Peter!" he calls. There is no answer but the wind through the shattered windows. The man yells louder. "I know you can hear me! I know you're listening!"
When there is still no response, the man begins to search. He yanks chipped tables aside, overturns filthy armchairs, magically moves the moldy sofa, all the while calling "Peter!"
But eventually he straightens up and claps a hand to his left forearm, pulling back the sleeve of his sweater to reveal the skull-and-snake tattoo, which is moving.
He vanishes.
The man pops into sight once again, this time in a muggle street. The pedestrians give cries of alarm at his sudden appearance. He spins, staring around wildly, searching with wild eyes for him – there!
"Peter!" he roars, because he can feel the Mark burning and see the smoke in the distance from the house, their house.
"Sirius!" the tiny, rat-like man called Peter gasps, tears streaming down his face. He runs into the traffic that has all but stopped, clutching at the front of the searcher's clothing. "Please – you have to help me – we have to leave – he's coming!"
"What have you done?" The searcher demands, his face twisted into a livid scowl. Peter sinks back, cowering.
"S-Sirius," he stammers, "it wasn't m-me! I d-don't know what you're t-talking about!" His voice rises to a wail, and the searcher can hear the lie.
"You bastard! You know! You know and you did it!" Hatred courses through his veins and he whips out his wand. "Avad—"
A muttered spell, a fallen finger, and a deafening explosion, and then – "PETER!" he screams, even as the Ministry Aurors arrive and clap him in irons, their wands digging into his back. He sees the crater and the tiny rodent footprints, he hears their squeaking, and he understands. The laugh bubbles up from deep inside his hatred to emerge, deafening in the silence. The mutterings around him question his sanity and he'd really like to tell them that, yes, he is mad.
Because the plume of smoke is still rising.
