Written for Round 11 of QLFC:

Position: Keeper

Team: Chudley Cannons

Prompt: AU where Sirius is declared innocent and Harry goes to live with him in his fourth year

It was another hot and dusty summer day, where even the flies were too lazy to bump against the window, and the air was thick and claustrophobic.

Harry was lying on the grass in the garden, shielded from view by a small hedge, his head stuck in the shade, the rest of his body burning slowly in the sun. He was bored, exhausted, lonely and hungry. Not that there was much change. The summer holidays always dragged past, each day simply a passing of twelve hours before he could sleep. Of course, the chores he was set took up most of his time. But he had a short reprise from Aunt Petunia's squawking voice, and he used it to relax in the garden.

It was another restless night, far too humid to sleep, the bed sheets tangling around him. Hot tears sprang to his eyes as he thought about the long six weeks that stretched ahead of him. All he wanted was to be back at Hogwarts, with his friends, safe and happy. Harry swung out of bed and looked up at the moon out of the window. A lone bird was just distinguishable from the inky night. Harry wished he could swoop out there, free and careless, the wind in his hair. The closest he could get to this was his broomstick, but it was locked up downstairs, along with his spellbooks, wand and trunk. Harry turned over, grimacing in pain as he put pressure on his ribs. After spilling some gravy, Vernon had smashed a book hard against his chest, leaving Harry winded. His twisted wrist was Dudley, the egg-shaped bruise on his head Petunia.

Harry woke groggy and tired. Pulling himself out of bed was exhausting, every muscle aching. He cooked breakfast quickly, expertly frying bacon whilst simultaneously making toast and tea and coffee. He set it out and the Dursley's ate it quickly and piggishly. He washed up, picking up scraps of bacon. Although thirteen (and very nearly fourteen), Harry was scrawny and pale. The lack of proper food at the Dursley's caused his ribs and hipbones to protrude, sallow skin to be stretched across his face, his wrists to be twiglike and snappable. He tried not to catch sight of himself in the mirror. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, youngest Seeker in a century, now covered in bruises inflicted by his Muggle family, his muscles wasted away.

Harry fainted whilst washing the car, but it didn't take long for Aunt Petunia to whisk him inside, in case he was seen by a neighbour. He fainted quite often in the heat, with his lack of sleep and food, but he usually managed to pull himself up before it was noticed. This time, Aunt Petunia cuffed him hard over the head before giving him some bread and making him lie down. Harry was surprised by this action of kindness, but it wasn't long before he was back out in the baking sun, wiping off the last smears of soap from the shiny Mercedes.

Harry lay in bed that night, a wet flannel over his boiling forehead. The room was spinning desperately, and he felt nauseous. Vomit spilled up from his gut, but there wasn't time to get to the bathroom so he just lay there in his own mess. They would kill him in the morning, but he didn't have the strength to move.

In the distance there was a crack. Sounded like apparition, Harry thought, before dismissing it. He could see a Quaffle ball dancing in his peripheral vision, but whenever he looked it bobbed further out of reach.

"Harry?"

He looked over dizzily. Sirius was standing in his doorway, his image multiplying and dividing as he tried to focus.

"What the hell."

Was he imagining it? Harry couldn't tell.

"You're coming with me. You're alright. We're getting you out of this place."

Strong hands lifted him, and he couldn't help but wonder if he was dead.

"This may be unpleasant."

He was turned, and then suddenly there was a great force on him, pushing his lungs down, stopping him from breathing-

Just before it got too much he was out in the cool air, the grass underneath him.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

He closed his eyes. He needed sleep.

"Can you just talk to me?" Sirius sounded desperate, so Harry moved his head incrementally, sending his waves of pain through his skull.

Then he fell asleep.

He faded in and out, bright light burning his eyes, before drifting back into the deep abyss.

He finally woke properly, in a dark room, covers tucked up to his chin, Sirius' intense gaze fixed on his.

"Harry?"

He tried to reply, but it came out as a groan.

"Just keep still. You've been badly injured. You'll feel better soon."

Harry looked round the room, careful to keep his head still. The room was small, furnished sparsely. Was this Grimmauld Place? The house Sirius had spoken so bitterly about last year? Harry couldn't see what he was complaining about. To him it was perfect.

Sirius jumped up and stuck his head out of the door.

"He's awake!"

Harry's head shook with the loud noise. He wondered who Sirius was talking to. On the other hand, it didn't really matter. Harry closed his eyes comfortably and slipped back to sleep.

Days with Sirius blurred into one, but not in a bad way, like Privet Drive. He was kind and caring, always with a funny story when Harry was restless and bored. He hovered behind the Healer as they prescribed Harry medicine, and helped feed Harry the soups and broths when he was too weak to do it himself.

He slowly progressed to a chair in the living room, where Sirius' friends came and visited him to chat. Sirius told Harry how he had found him near dead, in a pool of his own vomit. Harry had been hallucinating, and Sirius had feared that apparating him anywhere would kill him.

Already Harry was fattening up, his skin no longer sallow and gaunt, his complexion no longer marbled with bruises. And most importantly there was no shouting, not chores and no beating. Sitting by the fire, Sirius telling him about his parents and the teachers when he was at Hogwarts, this was when Harry was happiest. Finally living the childhood he should have had.