Lightning Storm
When they get back to the camp, it’s dark, and it’s quiet, but unlike when Regulus climbed down from the tree and left, desperate to find his brother, Pandora is there, staring into the fire, devastated, muttering, “I told her, I told her and it wasn’t enough,”
Sirius ignores her and rushes to James’ tent, and Regulus tries to stop him, he does, he begs and pleads for Sirius not to go in there, but Sirius is a force that can not be stopped. Not until he sees the carnage inside.
A gut wrenching sob rips through the quiet of the night, and Regulus’ heart breaks for his brother. He’s trying not to think about the friends he’s likely lost, tonight.
Regulus comes up behind his brother, placing a gentle hand on his back to let him know he’s there, and Sirius turns and falls into his arms, sobbing heavily.
It’s like the earth is crying with him, when the rain begins to fall.
A large boom of thunder reverberates through the woods, light cracking in the distance. The storm was coming.
“Sirius,” Regulus tries, knowing that he needs to pull his brother from his grief if they’re going to survive this. “Sirius we need to find Peter before he finds us. We need to find him, and we need to kill him. Peter did this.”
Its a long moment before Sirius pulls back enough to whisper in his ear–
“Death is too quick, for what he did. We should try to capture him. Tear him apart.”
“We should turn him in to the authorities,” Pandora says resolutely, and the two brothers turn to glare at her.
“I only mean, if we are able to capture him, wouldn’t it be better he suffered in the American prison system?” Pandora clarifies. “I can’t imagine a worse torture.”
“No.” Sirius and Regulus say in unison. Peter is going to die, for what he’s done.
“How are we going to do this, Reggie?” Sirius asks.
***
When Peter returns to the camp, the storm is heavy, certainly masking his arrival for anyone who sought refuge from the storm in the camp. Maybe they hadn’t seen James’ corpse, and he could get the drop on them.
The rain was washing away the soot and the blood from him, and he was eager to get dirty with it again after the walk from his cottage to the camp.
It takes him a moment to realise that the light is not coming from his tent, anymore, it’s coming from Pandora’s.
Brows furrowed, Peter goes towards Pandora’s tent and rather than unzip the zipper, he pulls out his knife. The sounds of the storm are covering his movements, but anyone inside will hear and see the zipper being pulled down.
He tears through the tent and pounces on the body he can see under the sleeping bag, stabbing– nothing.
Before he knows it, the tent is collapsing in around him, and he’s being rolled in it, knife pressed against his own chest. “Hey, what are you doing! Hey!” Peter cries, but he’s choking on pillow, suffocating in no time.
“Should we stab the tent or something? Drown him in it?” He hears, muffled on the outside.
“No, come here.” Someone else says, closer, less muffled. “If you come close, you can hear him suffocating.”
***
When the bus didn’t come the next day, they weren’t surprised. Eventually, they found Peters cottage, and the truck he had kept there.
They buried their dead friends, and Peter, and they leave the mountainside, never to return.