Sirius trotted through the perfectly manicured lawn, hiding in the shadows cast by a large oak tree. The light of the street lamp was yellowed and bright, far too bright for his liking. It was a risk, coming here. But he had to do it, he needed to see…

Just then, he heard the pounding of footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged along the pavement. Sirius, his senses far stronger as a dog than as a human, could detect the faint scent of lemon in the air. He retreated behind a garage, his canine heart hammering in his chest.

He knew, logically, that a Muggle spotting a mangy old dog in the night wouldn't expose him, but he couldn't quite suppress the feeling of dread and panic that had overtaken him for the last decade. It was always there, like a cold blanket dousing him and muting his senses. Even now that he had escaped from those damn wretched creatures, he still felt as though his bones were made of ice. He imagined a younger version of himself laughing carelessly at the thin dog cowering in the shadows; he would have called himself a cowardly muppet. That version of himself felt like a long forgotten brother with whom he hadn't spoken in years. But every day that he wasn't in that hellhole of a prison was a day in which that brother felt a little more like himself and not like a ghost of a time and a place that no longer existed.

His heart slowly calmed as the scraping sound stopped and the footsteps quieted. The Muggle had apparently taken a seat on the low wall along the street. Sirius supposed he ought to get on with it, get on with what he had come here to do. He just wanted to see the house where Harry lived, to make sure that Harry was happy and safe before he continued his travels north. He needed to know that much. He needed something to go on.

He crept from behind the shadows of the garage and glanced at the back of the boy whose footsteps had so alarmed him moments ago, intending to scamper in the direction he was sure Harry's house was when he stopped, his heart in his throat.

James.

He would recognize that untidy mop of hair anywhere, the slant of the thin shoulders. James was alive, somehow and here he was sitting on a wall as though he was waiting for Sirius to go check on Harry together.

Joy, a joy he had not felt in years flooded through him. Even in his muted canine senses he was overwhelmed by a happiness that felt so foreign it was almost painful. He hadn't been allowed to feel joy in twelve long years and he didn't know if he remembered what it felt like but this must be it, surely.

However, soon his logic caught up with his heart and he realized that the boy was far too young to be James. James would be thirty-two now, like him. And this boy was hardly a teenager.

This must be Harry. It had to be Harry. It couldn't be anybody else that looked so eerily like James that even now that Sirius knew it couldn't be, he was having a hard time really believing it wasn't.

Harry was sitting on the wall, breathing heavily as though he had just sprinted from somewhere. Sirius crept closer, as though in some sort of trance.

It was as though he were an exact replica of James. The pointed elbows, the thin shoulders. Hell, his hair even stood up in the back exactly as James' always had. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the boy's face; surely the resemblance didn't carry to his face as well?

So Lily didn't run away with the milk man after all. Sirius had always joked that Harry wasn't really James' son, because who would procreate with a stupid git like that? Surely not Lily. But here was the proof, breathing more slowly now, sitting on the wall. He had a fleeting moment where he imagined James' triumphant smirk and arrogant gloating that of course this was his son, you useless idiot, but then the rest of reality caught up with him.

This couldn't be James, not just because this boy was too young, but because James was dead. James was murdered, murdered because of that traitorous useless lump who'd had him thrown in prison for twelve long years. Harry was here living with Muggles instead of with James and Lily because of fucking Peter Pettigrew, and Pettigrew was still alive and at Hogwarts. He'd been living with Harry for two fucking years as the rat he was.

Ah, joy felt foreign, but pain? The pain, he was used to. He had been reliving this ugly and excruciating truth relentlessly for twelve long years. The death of his best friend in the world, the one who had been a brother to him, the betrayal of Peter Pettigrew… The pain washed over him like an old friend, only this time it was more complex than it had been in prison… more nuanced. Because it was mixed with happy memories of both James and Peter now. Memories of the four of them laughing together, pulling pranks… of him convincing James to use Pettigrew as Secret Keeper.

Padfoot, are you sure? You really think he's… up to it?

Prongs, it's brilliant. They'd never suspect it would be him. I can go on the run, and you can keep hiding with Lily and Harry.

I know they won't, but you know Wormy. He'll wet himself at the prospect.

Yes, but then he'll dry himself off and I'll be a perfect decoy.

All right. I trust you, Padfoot. Just don't get yourself killed, all right?

Who's going to kill me, Snivellus?

He wasn't entirely sure that this pain wasn't actually worse.

Sirius was distracted from his pain by Harry's movement. He was looking up and down the street now, his body language tense. He appeared to be thinking about something. He was gripping his wand in his hand.

Sirius realized suddenly that he had been so distracted by Harry's uncanny resemblance to James that he hadn't quite taken in the entirety of the picture. The thing Harry had been dragging was his school trunk, which Harry was now rifling through with haste. He had his wand carelessly in his hand in a street full of Muggles.

What was going on? Why was Harry out alone on the street with his school trunk in the night? Where were his aunt and uncle?

Harry stood suddenly and looked around, as though he had heard someone coming. Sirius glanced around and saw no one. Harry bent to his trunk once more, but then straightened again almost immediately and turned to face the alleyway in which Sirius crouched.

Before he could do anything, Harry illuminated his wand, casting light into the alleyway and over Sirius. Sirius knew he should move but he couldn't, because he could finally see Harry's face in the light.

The thin face, the long thin nose… it was as though he were staring into the face of his best friend again. A terrible aching happiness flooded through him, even though this time his mind knew what his heart did not: that this boy would not smirk and shout "Padfoot!" as he so wanted him to, because this boy did not know who he was. For a brief moment he let himself imagine that Harry was James, that James was about to shoot a hex at him and laugh, that James had been waiting all this time for Sirius so they could face the world together, as they always had.

The moment was broken when Harry, apparently alarmed, stepped back and tripped over his school trunk, falling into the street. A loud BANG echoed through the quiet Muggle street, and Sirius saw the large purple vehicle he recognized as the Knight Bus materialized from the shadows.

Sirius retreated back behind the garage, feeling a strange sort of joyous grief. He watched as Harry peered back into the alley that Sirius had vacated, conversed with the pimply conductor, and boarded the bus.

He had no idea where Harry was going, no idea why he was leaving the Muggles so early in the summer, no idea if Harry had got a good look at him. All he knew was that he felt more alive than he had in over twelve years.

He would see Harry again at Hogwarts. And maybe by that point he would be more accustomed to a world without James Potter, and the tear in his heart wouldn't threaten to rip open at the sight of his godson.