A/N: Alright, so it's been awhile since I've written anything for this website, not to mention this is my first Harry Potter story. It feels odd to be writing fanfics again. So please, bear with me here. I'm not really sure yet if this story has any major point to it, other than satisfying my desire for a Sirius/Harry story (and no, not a slash story, a godfather/godson interaction story). I'm on a marauder streak lately and for some reason I really want to write something. So this is my attempt. Who knows? Maybe it'll turn out better than I expect. Oh, and clearly I'm not making money off this stuff. It all belongs to J. K. Rowling and what not. But you already knew that *wink*.
It was a gorgeous summer day, the kind that makes adults envious of children and wishing they too had summer holidays. The clouds in the sky were few and so far apart, they hardly posed any threat to the sunlight streaming down to the earth. A soft breeze kept the air from growing too hot, too stifling and not enjoyable. It was, over all, the sort of day that made one want to throw his work upon his desk, yell out, "bugger it all," then heard over to the park for a stroll and an ice cream cone.
The magnificent weather managed to make even Grimmauld Place look decent. It was hard to see the peeling paint of the doors in the sunlight and it even illuminated the dingiest looking windows. There was a fair bit of trash sitting out in the yards; strangely it did not smell horrid though. Not as if it mattered much to the boy surveying the street. He doubted he would spend much time out here.
As he continued down the street towards his destination, he noticed the houses seemed to sag less as well. It was as though the sun had energized them and they were eager to appear less bleak. As the boy walked, he realized something was off. There was an eleven but no number twelve sat beside it, only a shabby number thirteen. It was as through number thirteen were so excited to present to itself to the world, that it just skipped right past twelve. The boy, however, was not impressed. His dark brows furrowed as he glanced at the scrap of parchment in his hand. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, it says. Then why isn't it here?
Suddenly the boy felt like he was eleven again, standing at King's Cross Station between platforms nine and ten. Do I have to lean against the fence or something? The boy stood confused, wishing for something, anything to happen. "Could've gotten me at the station," he muttered unhappily. He could not really fault his godfather for not wanting to show his face in public though. After all, it was only recently that the world had learned of the man's innocence. Most people probably couldn't get it out of their heads the man had been imprisoned for murders. Whether or not he was innocent did not much matter, just the fact that he had been locked up made him guilty in their eyes. After all, only dangerous people had to be locked up.
The boy sighed and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He then carefully wiped them on his shirt before replacing them on his face. He lifted the parchment to his eyes, hoping it might be clearer this time. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was still there. The letters seemed to be taunting him. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. It has to be there, it just has to. He could not imagine what he might do if it was not there. The thought of returning to Privet Drive and the Dursleys entered the back of his mind. He shuddered. There was no way he would ever return willingly. Not now that he had a godfather to stay with. Although it seemed the man did not feel the same. Why else would he make the house so hard to find? A frown etched itself on the boy's face. No, he's the one who offered me to live with him. He wouldn't back out now. It has to be it. I know it.
With one last shake of his head, the boy opened his eyes and to his great surprise, saw a house squeezing itself between numbers eleven and thirteen. This house looked no better than the ones surrounding it, but it was the number on it that was important. A tarnished number twelve gleamed from underneath the muck, glittering as though it was winking at him. The boy shook his head once more to make sure the house really was there. He opened his eyes once more and the house continued to sit where it had sprung up. Feeling the excitement course through him, the boy bent to grab his trunk. My new home…
He had a bit of trouble opening the gate, and then it slapped shut on his trunk, causing him to struggle with it for several minutes. Once he freed the trunk, he eagerly ran up the worn out stone steps to the front door. He eyed the serpent shaped knocker curiously, then shrugged and grabbed it. The clank it made was shockingly loud in the summer silence. He glanced nervously about, waiting for heads to peek out doors, and demand to know what all the ruckus was. For a moment nothing happened. The boy frowned. Is this a joke? Perhaps a second knock… and just as he was raising his hand to the knocker, the door swung open. It revealed a man with long black tied in a ponytail, and soft grey eyes. His face, which was full and healthy looking, split into a wide grin. Pulling the boy into a hug he cried, "Welcome home Harry!"
A/N: So that's all for now. I'm just getting into the swing of story writing here. Can't over do it the first time or else I know I'll never update. Clearly we can all tell who the boy is, but for some reason I felt like keeping his identity secret until the end. I hope you didn't get too confused with all the 'hes' flying around. I promise it won't be that way in the future. I'm planning on introducing an OC next chapter. But don't worry; she's not going to be Sirius' love interest or anything. She's just a side character who's there to help out. It's a pretty big house for the two of them to manage on their own. I hope you liked it, or are at least a bit interested. Like I said, I haven't done this in awhile, so I'm a bit rusty. Review and let me know!