The rain comes down hard, the ground slick with water. It hasn't let up all night, lashing against the windowpanes and flooding the gutters. That's when you spot it, a black blur through the sheets of rain. A dog, shaggy and soaked, black coat matted and breath clouding ragged pants.

Padfoot has run a long way.

The moment your door opens, his body shudders, then the magic ripples through him, violent and unceremonious as the dog gives way. Sirius collapses to one knee, gasping, black hair hanging wet and wild around his face. Water drips from his sleeves, from the hem of his trousers, from the sharp line of his jaw.

“I didn’t have anywhere else,” he says hoarsely, voice scraped raw by rain and rage and something far more fragile underneath. “They-” He stops, swallows, tries again, lip curling in a sneer. “She burned my name off that damn tree.” Spat like a curse.

He drags a shaking hand through his hair, laughing once—short, broken, humourless. “Like I was a stain they finally scrubbed out.” His eyes lift then, grey and bright and far too close to breaking. “I told them I’d rather be disowned than be like them.”

The bravado falters. His mouth presses into a thin line, jaw tightening as the full weight of it hits him now. “I didn’t think it would hurt,” he admits quietly.