*Disclaimer: I don't own these characters - they belong to the lovely J.K. Rowling.*
Author's note: I've never written a fanfiction before and don't really have a clue what I'm doing, but I have way too much free time on my hands these days, so I figured I'd give it a shot.
"Good bloody riddance."
Sirius had fantasized about leaving 12 Grimmauld Place many times, but he had always imagined it would be a more joyful and exultant departure, with whooping and gleeful peals of laughter and one last wonderful act of defiance (this varied depending on Sirius's mood, but frequently included the theft and/or destruction of some treasured Black heirloom) to ensure his parents would not soon forget the day their eldest son left home. Yet now that the daydream had become a reality, the only emotion Sirius could summon was anger. No, anger was an understatement. He was in a blind fucking fury. He supposed the elation might come later, once he was far away from his childhood home, rather than standing at the bottom of the front steps. With that thought, he stuck out his arm to summon the Knight Bus, then turned and held his middle finger in the air in one last illustration of his feelings towards the Blacks and all they stood for.
With a bang and a flash of light, a purple double decker bus appeared out of nowhere, and a bored-looking young man wearing a conductor's uniform stepped out.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded -" he began, but Sirius cut him off. "No offense, mate, but can you skip the spiel and just get me the hell out of here?"
The conductor looked slightly taken aback, but as his gaze took in the prospective passenger's split lip, bleeding forehead, and general air of surliness and rage, he simply held out his hand for the fare, listened as Sirius gave him the Potter's address, and then heaved the luggage onto the bus. Sirius followed the conductor without so much as a glance back at 12 Grimmauld Place.
As the bus resumed its journey, hurtling down narrow streets and causing the beds and passengers to slide around every time the driver braked, Sirius tried in vain to block out the jumbled memories of the last hour. He did not have a cohesive, sequential memory of the events that led to his first ever trip on the Knight Bus (he thought idly that he had always imagined taking the Knight Bus would be a real laugh, an adventure that would become a funny story to tell his friends, and then he thought that this was yet another way reality did not live up to his expectations). Rather, his mind was assaulted with random but vivid fragments: the monotonous sound of his parents droning on about their pure-blood ideology, the satisfying crunch of his fist making contact with his bedroom wall, the desperate look on his brother's face as he begged Sirius not to go. Sirius reached up to wipe the blood slowly dripping from the cut above his left eyebrow, and experienced another flash of memory: his mother, eyes bulging with rage, vowing that if he walked out the door he would no longer be her son, and throwing an ashtray at his head when he continued to walk toward the door. She's probably blasting my name off the family tree at this very moment, Sirius thought darkly.
Sirius was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize he had reached his destination until the conductor approached him and said, "Sorry to bother you, mate, but this is your stop." He said this rather timidly and stood a good distance back, in case the angry young man decided to take a swing at him.
"Right. Thanks." Sirius stood quickly and grabbed his trunk, then made his way off the bus and into the balmy summer night. The Potter's manor loomed, enormous and grand but also familiar and welcoming, and Sirius felt himself relax slightly. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, wincing slightly as he did so because the knuckles on his right hand were bruised and bloody. He took a drag on his cigarette and thought with satisfaction of the fist-sized hole in his bedroom wall. His parents could repair it quite easily, of course, but its location would draw their attention to his many posters and decorations chosen not just because Sirius liked them, but because his parents were sure to hate them. He imagined their furious expressions when they realized he had used a Permanent Sticking Charm on all of his posters that so effectively showcased his difference from the rest of the family. He wondered which would be most offensive to them: the bikini-clad muggle girls, the sleek motorcycles, the red and gold Gryffindor banner. Idly, he realized that perhaps he was enjoying this a bit after all.
Finishing his cigarette, he opened his trunk and began searching through his hastily-packed belongings. He cursed under his breath, about to dump the entire contents on the ground, when he finally found the object he wanted - a small handheld mirror. Hoping his friend was not asleep, he held up the mirror and said clearly, "James Potter."
Lily Evans sat on James Potter's lap, her hair falling into his face and filling his nostrils with the scent of her flowery shampoo. She had on that excellent sweater, the one that was slightly too small and strained a bit at the buttons, but it also brought out the color of her eyes, and this fact made him feel less like a pervert for rejoicing every time she wore it. She giggled breathily and ran a hand through his hair (he had just achieved the perfect wind-swept look and would have to redo it, but this was Lily Evans for Merlin's sake, and he was quite sure she could shave his head completely or dye it pink if she wanted to and he wouldn't utter a word of complaint).
"You know, I've reconsidered. I don't think I'd rather date the Giant Squid after all," she murmured into his ear.
"Oh yeah? Who do you want to date, then?" he choked out, hardly daring to breathe.
"James Potter!" Her mouth moved, but it wasn't Lily's voice coming out. It was a bloke's voice. A very familiar bloke's voice…
James opened his eyes and looked around, hoping to find Lily Evans still there, ready to confess her love for him. Instead, he found himself alone in his bedroom. James cursed, wondering why he had to wake up right when things were getting good.
"James Potter! James! Prongs! Wake up, you prat!"
James tried to locate the source of the voice that was increasing in both volume and rudeness. He groped in the darkness for a light, then sifted through several pieces of parchment, a book, and an old chocolate bar wrapper before he unearthed his two way mirror. Running a hand through his hair crossly, he held up the mirror and said, "Okay, okay, I'm here. And I don't see how I'm the prat, when you're the one who interrupted the best dream I've ever had. Evans was sitting on my lap!" He grinned slightly at the memory of the dream.
"Yeah, well-" Sirius began.
"On my lap, Padfoot!" James interrupted. "And she was wearing that sweater - you know the one."
"How many times do I have to tell you that no, I don't know the one, because I don't have Evans's entire wardrobe memorized. Anyway, sorry to wake you up, but I didn't think you'd be asleep. It's only a little past eleven." Sirius sounded irritated and distracted.
"I started doing some of the summer homework and must have fallen asleep, can't imagine why," James replied, shrugging. "Anyway, what's up?"
Sirius hesitated. "I'm, uh, well, I'm outside your house. Do you s'pose you could let me in?" He grinned, but his expression appeared pained, and only then did James notice the injuries on his friend's face.
"I'm coming down now."
James slipped quietly out of his room, taking care to avoid the creaky spot on the landing, and tiptoed down the stairs, into the entryway, and out the front door. There stood Sirius, in his leather jacket and torn jeans, leaning against his Hogwarts trunk and wearing the expression of mingled fury and dejection that could only be caused by a row with his family. James said nothing, as he knew Sirius would prefer it that way, but only clapped his friend on the back, then grabbed one side of the trunk and started for the door.
The two made their way through the house silently, with only one mishap when Sirius's trunk nearly knocked over a side table. When they reached James's room, Sirius stretched out on the floor with his back against the bed, but James headed for the door again.
"I'll be right back," he whispered, but Sirius didn't seem to be listening. James hurried back downstairs, heading first for the medicine cabinet where he found a small vial of potion for Sirius's cuts, then making his way to the liquor cabinet from which he selected an almost full bottle of his father's Ogden's Old Firewhisky. They would have to replace it, but James wouldn't worry about that now. He had been sneaking liquor from the liquor cabinet since third year, and if his parents were really that concerned about it, he figured they would implement more stringent security measures.
Reentering his room, James shut the door carefully, then flopped down on his bed. He handed Sirius the smaller of the two bottles in his hand.
"Potion. For your face," he said, gesturing at Sirius' cuts. Sirius nodded and began applying potion to his injuries, wincing slightly as his bruised fingers gripped the potion bottle.
"Bloody hell, Padfoot," James exclaimed, almost admiringly. "Did you punch a wall?"
Sirius nodded, examining his damaged knuckles with a detached curiosity. "Sure did. It felt fucking great at the time, to be honest, although it doesn't feel so great now." He applied some potion to his hand, cursing under his breath as the liquid made contact with his broken skin.
James eyed his friend for a moment before speaking. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sirius finished applying the potion to his injuries and set the vial down beside him. "I dunno, let me drink a bit first. I don't think I can talk about it right now without getting angry again, and I don't want to punch your wall, too. I don't think my hand can take it."
"Plus, I don't know if we can get away with hiding another hole behind a poster again," James added, gesturing at a large Quidditch poster that, Sirius remembered with a slight pang of guilt, covered a hole that the latter had caused last summer when he had received a particularly nasty letter from his mother.
"Shit, sorry, I'd forgotten about that. I really need to stop punching walls."
"That seems unlikely," James replied with a shrug, handing his friend the bottle of Firewhisky.
"Thanks, mate," Sirius said, accepting the bottle and taking a large swallow. As the liquor filled him with that familiar warmth, he felt some of the tension in his body ease. He uncurled his uninjured hand, which he hadn't realized he had balled into a tight fist, and took a few deep breaths. He then took a few more sips from the bottle before passing it to James. The two friends drank in silence for a few minutes, listening to the soft ticking of a clock and the quiet creaking sounds of an old house at night. James understood that it was best not to talk right now, and Sirius was grateful for this. Silences between them were companionable and natural rather than strained or expectant after nearly five years of being inseparable, and Sirius did not feel the need to discuss the events that had brought him here until he was well and truly ready.
Finally, Sirius took one more sip out of the bottle of Firewhisky, which was now significantly less full, and stood. He began pacing James's spacious room, surprisingly steady on his feet despite the copious amount of liquor he had consumed. After a few minutes of restless pacing, he began to speak.
"I'd just had enough, you know? It wasn't any different from other rows we've had: my parents going on about their usual bullshit, my brother just sitting there like he's trying to be invisible, me shouting at them and generally causing a scene at the dinner table. But this time I thought, why put up with it? Why not just leave?" He stopped pacing and looked at James."Is it alright if I smoke in here if I blow the smoke out the window?"
James nodded his assent, and Sirius pulled the rather crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lit one. He took a long drag and then blew the smoke out of the window, watching it dissipate into the night. He sank onto the ground and leaned back against the wall, holding the cigarette near the window and bringing it to his lips every so often as he resumed his story.
"So I said I'd had it and I was leaving, and I packed my shit, which wasn't easy to do one handed after I punched a hole in my bedroom wall." Sirius smiled wryly, but then his face fell. "Regulus tried to stop me from leaving. He begged me not to go. I tried to get him to come with me, because he's all right, Reg, when he's not around all that, so I thought if I could just get him away from there…" His voice broke off, and his hand was trembling so badly that he nearly dropped the cigarette he was holding.
"But he wouldn't come. He told me he couldn't break our parents' hearts like that, and I shouldn't either, and I said that's funny, because I didn't think either of them had hearts to break. So then when he realized the guilt trip wasn't going to convince me, he tried to physically stop me from leaving." He touched his split lip gingerly. "But I had my mind made up, and I think he finally realized that, so he just sort of gave up and stood aside. And the last thing he said - I'll never fucking forget the look on his face as he said it - he said, 'If you leave, you're no longer my brother.' It broke my heart, it really did, but I had to get out of there, Prongs, I had to, so I just kept walking, and he just stood there looking at me. And then he started to cry, and Blacks never cry - I haven't seen him cry since we were little kids."
Sirius broke off again, and it seemed as if sharing that part of the story had cost him a visible effort. He dropped his cigarette butt into the empty Butterbeer bottle he'd been using as an ashtray and stood, walking over to retrieve the Firewhisky from James. He took a large sip, then resumed his pacing. The liquor seemed to give him strength, and he began speaking again.
"So I left my brother standing outside my room and dragged my trunk to the top of the stairs and just let it slide all the way down. It was brilliant - it scratched up the floor and knocked over a horrible umbrella stand of my mother's, but now that I think about it, I'm lucky the two-way mirror didn't break." Sirius smiled sheepishly. "Anyway, my mother proceeded to tell me what a shit son I am, and said if I walked out the door I wouldn't be a Black anymore, she'd even blast me off the stupid bloody family tree tapestry." Sirius gasped in mock horror. "So I told her to take the tapestry and shove it up her arse, and if being a Black means being a bigoted elitist and thinking you're better than everone else, then I'm all set with it, thanks. And as I headed for the door she chucked an ashtray at my head, isn't she a lovely woman? My dad said nothing through all of this, of course. He gave up on me years ago, so he just sat and sipped his drink like it was any normal evening."
Sirius sat down on the floor across from James's bed and reached again for the Firewhisky. The many long swallows were starting to catch up to him and he felt pleasantly buzzed, as well as relieved to have gotten through the majority of his story. Now that he had spoken the tumultuous events of the evening aloud, voiced what had previously been jagged shards of memory that overwhelmed his mind and threatened to break down his fragile self-control, he felt like the whole situation was more manageable.
"So I hopped on the Knight Bus, woke your ass up, and now I'm getting drunk on your dad's booze like the delinquent runaway that I am," Sirius finished, taking another sip to illustrate his point.
James didn't reply for a minute. He ran his hand through his hair, then reached for the bottle and took a sip. Finally he said, "I'm sorry, mate. It's bloody awful that you had to go through that. But you're well shot of them. You've been miserable there for years. I'm glad you've left, and my parents will be thrilled to have you here. You're like a second son to them - in fact, I'd say you're the favorite. And as far as Regulus is concerned, well, you did what you had to do, and there's still a chance he'll come around when you're back at school." James glanced at Sirius, who was pointedly staring at the floor. "But if not, you still have me, and Moony and Wormtail. We're your brothers. We're your family."
Sirius glanced up at James, who was grinning in that open, unselfconscious way of his. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Thanks, Prongs. I just, I mean… well, thanks." He couldn't find the words to adequately express his gratitude for the comfort his friend's words had brought him, but James seemed to understand anyway.
They stayed up for a while longer, talking of much lighter topics and enjoying more of the Firewhisky and several of Sirius's cigarettes. Around 2:00 AM, when Sirius failed to respond to a particularly witty comment, James set down the Quaffle he'd been tossing up in the air and glanced over at his friend.
"Padfoot?" James realized, when there was again no reply, that his friend had fallen asleep, boots still on and cigarette still dangling from his hand. He lay sprawled across a sofa that, combined with a chair and a scuffed coffee table, constituted what Mr. and Mrs. Potter called a "sitting area," a term far too polite for a collection of furniture that was most often used for drinking, card games, sleeping, or a combination of the three.
"You idiot, you know we have to stand by the window to smoke, and you've almost burned the house down," James muttered under his breath, but it was with affection that he plucked the cigarette from his friend's grasp and dropped into the empty Butterbeer bottle, then draped a blanket over his friend's sleeping form.
"Night, Padfoot," James murmured sleepily, before turning out the light and getting into bed. He smiled contentedly, then fell immediately asleep.
Sirius opened his eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight streaming through the window that was doing nothing to help the pounding in his head. For a few confused moments he looked around, uncertain where he was, until the events of the previous night came crashing back. He glanced at the Quaffle-shaped clock on James's dresser (Really, Prongs?) and saw that it was nearly noon. Glancing at James's bed, he noted that it was empty, but this was hardly a surprise. James always woke up freakishly early, bright-eyed and cheerful and ready to tackle the day when the other Marauders were still fast asleep, and he almost never got hangovers. Lucky bastard, Sirius thought. He rose slowly, as every movement sent a throb of pain through his head, and began to search for his cigarettes. They were located most conveniently on the coffee table in front of him, along with his lighter, the empty Butterbeer bottle, and a folded piece of parchment with his name written across the front in James's familiar handwriting. Sirius extracted a cigarette from the pack, grabbed the lighter and the parchment, and made his way over to the window. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out the window before he began to read the note.
Good morning, Padfoot.
I spoke to Mum and Dad, and they're really pleased that you're here. They can't wait to see their second, better-looking son (their words, not mine). So when you've finished cursing your hungover existence, go on down to the kitchen and say hello and have some lunch, as I expect it will be well past breakfast time by the time you deign to grace us with your presence. Once you've eaten, meet me in the backyard and bring your A game. We're running Quidditch plays all day - I've been coming up with some great new stuff but haven't had anyone to practice it with, so this is going to be excellent.
See you later,
Prongs
P.S. Dad says we'll have to replace his Firewhisky, but he doesn't want to know how we go about doing it, as it will likely be illegal and/or morally questionable. He's not wrong.
Sirius took another drag on the cigarette and smiled, despite his colossal hangover and the memories of his flight from 12 Grimmauld Place that were still painful to think about. Despite the prospect of going downstairs to be fussed over by Mr. and Mrs. Potter, and then having to practice James's damn Quidditch plays for hours, because James never said "all day" and "Quidditch" in the same sentence without being 100% serious. Despite his desire to do nothing more than shut the curtains and sprawl back out on that squashy couch and sleep the day away. Sirius smiled despite all of this, because for the first time since leaving Hogwarts at the end of the last school term, Sirius felt like he was home.