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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related belongs first, and foremost, to JK Rowling, and then to her partnerships with Bloomsbury, Scholastics, Warner Bros., etc.

Summary: After one final row with his mother, sixteen year old Sirius Black runs away from home. One-shot.

Posted: 09/13/14

Author's Note: Short one-shot inspired by prompt I received on my tumblr. I grew pretty fond of and wanted to post here. Always accepting prompts/asks at mppmaraudergirl . tumblr . com

Sirius Black was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid.

When thinking about his future epitaph, he never considered that word, or any of its synonyms, filling the inch column that would be devoted to him – and he thought about his epitaph a lot more than a sixteen year old should. No, he thought of other words: brave, loyal, clever, daring, fierce, disobedient, courageous, intelligent – but never, never, stupid.

Now he had doubts.

It was far too late to turn back, the air of finality hung around him, them, and he felt suffocated by it. His lungs seethed and quivered, and though it all turned foggy then, he somehow managed to break free. The only thing grounding him to reality was the throbbing ache of his left eye – the last lash he'd receive from his mother – as he tore around his room, lobbing the rest of his belongings into his crammed trunk. He'd at least not been stupid enough to unpack, though he'd been home for the summer holidays for a week.

Her petulant and withering screams could be heard reverberating around the hall outside his bedroom door, which he had recently slammed with such ferocity that its bottom-most hinge was cracked. His mind was made up the second she advanced on him, and though he had dodged the first few blows he got too cocky at the end and she found her mark. Little did that matter now, when time was of the essence. In his haste, he slammed his trunk closed, underage magic be damned, and levitated it to his broomstick. Without even one last glance behind him, he tore out the window and into the cool evening air.

He exhaled instinctively, as if to prepare his mind and body for the extended trip ahead of him. It was his only option, and he flew there faithfully, ascending over the city lights of London, through bundles of low-lying clouds. Half-way through, he wished he'd thought to throw his cloak over-top his t-shirt, but he didn't allow himself to dwell on the thoughts. He was finally free.

When he arrived at the gate leading to his best friend's house, he hesitated. Justified, though he felt, in the underage magic he performed to escape Grimmauld place, he knew not to strain his luck and quickly stowed his wand in his back pocket, a place where he would now always keep it, he vowed.

The gate creaked happily under the weight of his hand, as he pressed himself through their bulging shrubbery and up to their front door. He wavered for only a moment before rasping his knuckles along the oak front door. Moving back slightly, he caught a glimpse of his bruised face in the Potters' front sitting room window, wincing despite himself. He backed away from the over-head lantern that threw the bruise sharply into view, and pivoted on his feet to turn his face so that whomever answered the door wouldn't immediately see the contusion. As he stood there, he heard faint murmurs coming through the doorway, and his mind imagined Mrs. Potter, now standing in the kitchen, calling to James, "Now who could that be at this hour?" The image tugged at his lips, even as he heard the doorknob begin to rattle.

The door only opened a sliver, but it was wide enough to reveal the bespectacled hazel eyes that Sirius was accustomed to. He was undoubtedly fond of James, they were the best of mates after all, and though Sirius was always glad to see James, he had no memory of ever being more pleased, and he wasn't sure he ever would.

The hazel eye that Sirius could see narrowed slightly in confusion, before the door swung open more, revealing a mop of tangled hair and the rest of his best friend.

"Padfoot?" James questioned, visibly startled. His eyes traveled from Sirius' face to the trunk and broom he was holding in either hand. "What are you doing here?" His voice was a mixture of confusion and tiredness, but there was also unmistakable happiness in seeing his best friend.

Before Sirius could answer, he heard the faint call of Mrs. Potter travel out to them. "Who is it, James?"

"It's Sirius," James called over his shoulder, before turning to Sirius with a look on his face that clearly prompted, "well?"

"I'd had enough," Sirius said, his voice croaking from its recent lack of use. "I'm never going back to that place again." He made an earnest step toward James, turning to face him under the lantern light. James' own face immediately darkened when his eyes found the bruise.

"Padfoot—"

"What do you mean, it's—oh Sirius, what are you doing here?" Mrs. Potter asked, coming into view behind James. "James, where are your manners? Come in, Sirius."

Sirius stepped forward, his mind racing with pleasure at the welcoming mother who stood before him, full of smiles and encouragement and love – about the exact opposite of the one he had just left, who simply provided him a uterus from which to grow and a life-time of expectations in which he would undoubtedly disappoint her. As he entered the Potters' house, being led by a dutiful James, he found Mr. Potter hastening toward them, a smile on his face, which, just like his son's, disappeared instantly when he drew near.

"Sirius, what's happened?" he said, without preamble. At this Mrs. Potter turned unblinkingly back around to gaze at him, and let out a faint gasp.

"He's had it out with his mum," came James' explanation before Sirius even considered opening his mouth.

He had spent enough time with the Potters to know them. They were older, and though they might have looked it, they didn't always act it. Mr. Potter had regaled many stories about his misdoings over dinner much to the mock-chagrin of Mrs. Potter, and he listened with rapt attention to their own stories. Sometime after third year he stopped even pretending to be cross with them, often suggesting future adventures and even a prank here-or-there. Mrs. Potter was a mother, a real loving go-to-the-ends-of-the-world-for-you mother. She made Sirius take a third helping of every meal he ate with them, insisted upon sending him a card and cake on his birthday, and even, often teasingly, offered to cut his hair because "—even though it's not stuck up all over like James', it's an entirely different kind of messy, Sirius, honestly, I'll trim it up a bit."

Coming to the Potters was like visiting a world he had never known, and they offered it to him as if it were nothing. But they—a family like the Potters, and the unconditional closeness and love they shared—were not nothing. They were everything.

He hadn't noticed the movement around him as the thoughts and images reeled in his head, but suddenly he found himself propped up at the table with a cup of tea in front of him, and the three Potters around him. James sat to his left, perched up straight, alert in his chair, while Mrs. Potter fussed about with the teapot, wringing her hands anxiously as she watched him. Mr. Potter sat directly in front of him, his eyes focused on Sirius' bruised face, evidently thoughtful.

"I'm sorry to burst into here like this," Sirius said finally, clearing his throat as he split a look between the three of them. "I just didn't know where else to go, and she was—she was… I had had enough."

There was a long pause between the four of them, and Sirius didn't fail to notice the three Potters exchange looks between each other, as if in silent conversation. And then, at once, they all moved. Sirius' head reeled around to watch.

"I'll just go make sure the second bedroom is tidy," Mr. Potter declared, walking around the table toward Sirius. His hand briefly clasped Sirius' shoulder as he walked past.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs. Potter followed, coming around to look at him. "Because I've got some stew from dinner left over that I can heat up if you are."

Before Sirius could answer, James cut in, "I'll just go get your trunk to your room, then." He rose from his chair, sweeping past Sirius also. Mrs. Potter, who hadn't bothered waiting for Sirius' reply, started clanking around the kitchen.

Sirius sat there in a stupor, momentarily unable to move his limbs in the confusion. When James came back into view, Sirius all but gaped at him.

"You coming?" his voice was earnest, and his eyes alight. "Come see your room. Since you were last here, it's been redecorated by mum twice. It's a bit smaller than mine, but then, you are the younger brother."

James' guffaw dragged Sirius out of his stupor, and he swiftly rose out of his seat in his haste to follow James. "But I'm older than you!" he insisted, his lips twitching upward at James' growing laughter.

"You two wash up if you're going to come eat afterward," Mrs. Potter called to their quickly retreating backs. "And don't you boys dare think about blowing anything up until you've properly unpacked, Sirius."

Sirius paused at the threshold of the hallway which led to James—and his—bedroom. Mrs. Potter's gaze warmed him to his bones. "Thanks, Mrs. Potter."

"I usually answer to 'Mum'," she told him, her smile growing even warmer.

"Or Mary if you catch her in a good mood," James put in, thumping Sirius on the shoulder roughly. "Come on you dolt!"

And with that he dragged Sirius through the hall and into the second bedroom where they found Mr. Potter already opening the wardrobe and hanging his Hogwarts robes.