The room was eerily silent, and just as it was quiet, it was also empty, devoid of all personal effects that make a room a living space. The pictures were stripped from the stark walls, nothing but peeling paint adorned them now. The dresser drawers were empty, the top bare, everything swept away. Even the bed was stripped of its linens, sheets and blankets tucked into a box, now sitting on the top shelf of the otherwise empty closet.
All that remained in this hushed darkness was him, a slumped form on the end of a naked mattress, bare feet flat on the floor, head in hands as dark hair spilled down like a veil, shielding his face from the thin sliver of moonlight that permeated the heavy drapes.
The man was in a state of extreme disarray, this much was certain upon first sight. His clothes were worn, a pair of dirty jeans under tattered, grimy, robes, dark eyes red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep. There was an air about him, that was unsettling, something not quite right.
Perhaps it was the choked sobs, muffled by his shaking hands, or the way he was so young, yet sat so stooped and doubled over, like someone who's lived an entire lifetime that's left them bent and broken. Or maybe it was just the cold hard fact that he was bent and broken, and now that he had snapped, there was nothing in this world that could ever put him together again.
Even here, in this dusty and hollow rented room above the pub, which was bustling with celebration, he could still smell it, still see it, vivid even hours later. The scent of burning wood, so strong, mingled with the lighter undertones of a freshly falling autumn rain. The sight of the house, in ruins, a mere shamble of the home it had once been, had caused his stomach to churn, and he'd felt sure that he would throw up, but he hadn't. He'd held it in, forced it down, and swallowed it along with the bitter pill of reality.
He'd arrived far too late. And really, did he honestly believe that if he had gotten there sooner, that the outcome may have been different?
That was just a foolish notion.
But when you're twenty-one, and have just lost the best friend you've ever had, isn't the world in and of itself one giant foolish notion?
Trying in vain to clear his mind, to stop the wavy breaths and hot stream of tears, he began to rock back and forth, the sound of squeaking bedsprings breaking the thick silence at last. It didn't really help at all, as his mind refused to accept his command to yield, the floodgates still open, the horribly vivid memories still rushing out. He'd arrived too late, to find the house in ruins, the smoke clearing, the woods surrounding the shattered remains of a life ominously quiet. The rain had begun to fall.
So he had left, back to his 'hiding place', this shady little one room flat, above a seedy little bar. He had packed all of his things, and tossed them out into the dumpsters behind the pub, as he had the distinct feeling that he wouldn't be needing them anymore. And then the tears had come, hot and fast and steady. Tears of anger, really, more then tears of loss.
A foolhardy decision had been made, and it was his fault. It was something he could never take back, no matter how hard he might try. Something he couldn't take back, true, but it was something he could avenge. Something he would avenge. As soon as the world showed the first sign of the light of another day, he would go, he would hunt the bastard down, and he would make him pay.
If they both had to die, to lament the loss of what had happened on this night, then so be it. Some things were worth dying for.
"I never should have switched," he said breathily, fingernails clawing at his raw cheeks as he raised his head at last. "It's my fault. It's my entire goddamn fault, for telling them that I wasn't the one, to use him over me. No, they'll never suspect him, but me, they'll come for first. So stupid! So damn stupid! Why the hell did I do it? Was I afraid? Scared for my own selfish existence? Or did I really believe that for once, the little rat would prove useful? Huh? Why ? Why did I fucking do it?"
The shouting didn't help, didn't make him feel any better about the situation. When it came down to it, they had trusted the boy, all of them, had never suspected him of being the one capable of destroying their lives. No one was truly to blame, but he would always carry the burden himself.
One simple switch, a harried moment of indecision and doubt, and now here he was. Alone in a dank hotel room, waiting for the sun to rise.
No, he wouldn't wait after all.
Rising from the bed, which groaned in relief from the release of the weight, he moved languidly across the room, grabbing at the few items that lay scattered on the table by the door. His wand, which he tucked into an inner pocket of his robes, a set of keys, which he didn't need, but had gotten used to the comforting feel of their weight in his jeans pocket. What little money he had, he merely left, figuring someone else could use it, as it wasn't something that was necessary anymore.
The last thing he picked up was a torn and spell-o-taped old photograph that he always kept on him, one of the last pieces of his childhood that he still had down on paper. It was a picture of him, seven years old, arm around another boy, also seven. He was grinning, his toothy and loveable grin, waving madly up at his older self, the other boy pushing up his glasses, rolling his eyes.
He tucked it away into the breast pocket of his shirt, clearing his throat as he made his way out the door, giving the dark room one last look, the tears drying on his cheeks at last.
With a heavy sigh, and an even heavier heart, he stepped into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. "Don't worry James, Lily," Sirius whispered, pulling up the hood of his cloak as he started down the stairs. "I'm going to find him, and when I do, little Peter Pettigrew is going to suffer. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of a quick and easy death. Not for what he did to you. Don't worry. I'll get him."
A sinister smile crossed his lips as he breezed through the crowd downstairs, bypassing offers for celebratory drinks, ignoring those who were celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord. For him, there would be no celebration. There wouldn't even be anymore tears. Now, there was just grim satisfaction, and it was waiting, somewhere out on the streets