Toujours Pur. That was what it said on the tapestry.
Always Pure. That's what he was supposed to live up to.
One o'clock in the morning. That's what time it is.
Creaky stairs. They aren't an option
An open window. That's the escape plan.
Taking one last look at the hell that was his home for sixteen years, he threw both of his bags out of the second story window, then followed after them, leaping with such agility that you might mistake him for a dog.
The boy shook his head as he watched Number 12 dissolve into the walls between Number 11 and Number 13, then took of towards the Potter mansion.
"PADFOOT? What are you doing here? At—THREE IN THE MORNING?" a sleepy James asked
"I ran away, simple really. I just—couldn't—" Sirius cringed. The bruises and cuts that his, dear, mother had placed on him the previous day were stinging as if there were millions of pins being stuck into his skin.
James sighed, "Come on in. You know you can always come here—"
"Would it be alright if I were to live here? I can't go back, not now, not ever."
James nodded, "I'll talk to mum and dad in the morning, but for now, lets go put your stuff into the guest bedroom, and—" Sirius was cringing again, "On the other hand, I could always wake up mum right now, she can heal your bumps and bruises in a jiffy."
"Thanks, Prongs."