Stray

by Molly Raesly

Chapter One

June 28th, 1976

"Ahh, fuck."

A boy of little over sixteen years of age looked heavenward, as though pleading to some unknown supernatural to seek pity on his rather wretched state of existence. When nothing happened, except for the heavy rain continuing to pelt his face in almost a malicious manner, he started murmuring darkly before redirecting his focus to the sputtering engine of the motorbike whining beneath him.

"Not now," he beseeched as he attempted to rev the engine by gripping the handlebars tightly. "C'mon, girl. Don't die on me now. Just a bit longer."

As though it had heard him, the engine gave a triumphant roar before it crackled and let out a last puff of defeat.

The boy groaned loudly and swung his body off the large motorbike so that he could better inspect the smoking engine. The bike, ostentatious, oversized, and dangerous-everything a sixteen-year-old male would want from a vehicle-was useless until he could find a dry place to examine it and perhaps obtain a new engine coil. "Ahh, fuck," he muttered again.

Furiously, he straightened up his back and grabbed the handlebars once more before pushing the heavy motorcycle through the puddles forming on the slippery black road. His thick boots, made of some material that seemed like leather but was a little bit too scaly to be so, were putting up a tremendous effort to try to keep the persistent water out. Nevertheless, his socks were drenched and were starting to chaff.

Once he had reached the side of the road, he propped the bike up onto its stand and sank down beside it. He ran his fingers haplessly through his long, soaked black hair and then pulled his knees up to his chest as he leaned against the bike for support.

"395 bloody galleons, my ass," he grumbled as his shoulder slumped pathetically.

Feeling the rain as it continued to pound against him coldly, the boy reached into his worn leather jacket and fumbled around in his breast pocket. He ignored the long, spindly feel of wood because he was not in the mood for any bloody owls telling him to be a good boy and behave. Besides, he had no patience for Ministry Officials. Mostly, however, he just did not want any notices being sent home-or what had been home.

His fingers hesitated over a box of cigarettes, but he doubted smoking would be very enjoyable if he would have to keep relighting his fag over and over.

Finally, he pulled out a sleek, silver flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig of its contents. He grimaced and hissed as the fiery substance struggled down his throat, but the scorching liquid made him feel slightly less cold, even if it did also make his head start to feel a bit dizzier. He pulled the collar up on his jacket to help warm his frozen ears and then took another guzzle.

When he had emptied the contents of the flask, his throat was burning, but his fingertips were still numb. With a groan, he realized that water had seeped through his dark jean trousers.

The screeching of tires sounded, and the boy raised his eyes to see the dark figure of a car zooming by quickly down the highway. Part of him wanted to leap to his feet and yell himself hoarse in an attempt to get the driver's attention, but he knew he was too damn stubborn ever to ask anyone for help. Resolutely, he stayed put and passively watched the car speed by.

It forced a wave of dirty rainwater into his face as it passed.

Sputtering, the boy scrambled to his feet and yelled a few choice words at the fading taillights of the car, which he could barely see anymore through the thick pour of rain. He turned his attention abruptly back to his enormous black motorbike and with a staunch jutting outwards of his jaw, he yanked the bike back onto the roadway by the handlebars and began dragging the gigantic beast of a machine forward as quickly as he could-which meant that butterflies would have probably outstripped him if any had been around in this weather.

It was very late, and the boy desperately wanted to find shelter. His legs were stiff from all the walking, and his arms felt like rubber against the rough metal of the bike.

He continued trudging along the dark roadway for nearly five kilometers. A few cars passed, but none noticed the dark haired, shivering boy; he was invisible.

When it came to the point when he felt as though his legs were about to sway beneath him, the horizon gleamed with distant lights. Steadying the bike with just one hand, the boy used his other to wipe the rain and dripping hair from his eyes. Off in the distance, he could make out a blurry figure of a building. His haplessness subsided almost immediately, and he hastened his pace forward in sheer desperation.

As he grew closer to the building, he managed to read the sign hanging above the dingy, pink-walled building. It was a diner; "Marty's" to be in fact.

He plodded on as quickly as his listless feet could carry him before finally reaching the entrance. The boy examined his bike for a moment. Half-wanting to find a way to lock it to something and half-wanting to give it a good kick, he stowed his busted motorbike around the corner by the curb of the building before going inside himself.

As soon as the door closed behind him, a bell ringing to alert everyone of his entrance, the boy felt as though he had just sank next to a roaring fire. The relief at finally finding a place with heat and dry air was miraculous.

He looked over his left shoulder to watch the rain pelting down outside in thick, heavy droplets. He had never before felt so grateful to be indoors.

The boy shook the water out of his leather jacket before he did the same to his hair. He was trying to remove the water from his shoes by scuffing them against a mat when a pleasantly plump woman interrupted him with a motherly look of concern on her face.

"My, boy!" she exclaimed. "How'd you managed to get so wet?"

"It's raining," he answered gruffly.

"You haven't been walking out there by yourself, have you?"

The boy shook his head, knowing from experience that it was easier sometimes not to explain things.

"Oh, heaven on earth, let's get you into a booth before you die of hyperthermia."

Not feeling strong enough to resist her persisting arms or the illustrious appeal of a chair, he let the short woman guide him towards a booth on the right side of the restaurant opposite the counter, where he, bending greatly to avoid the low, hanging light, sat down.

The light teal cushion was a bit frayed, but he felt lucky to have it supporting across his throbbing back.

"That's right, you sit down and relax. I'll get someone to get you something to warm you up." She leaned forward and then backed away with a wrinkled nose. "And to sober you up, too."

As appealing as that sounded and as much as the boy's stomach gurgled as he looked up to see the pies and torts on display in the corner, he shook his head.

"You've got to eat something, boy," she told him sharply. "You've gone way past peaky."

His face flushed slightly. "I haven't got any money on me," he admitted with embarrassment in a small voice.

"Well, then it's on the house." With that, she scurried off towards the kitchen. "Someone!" she yelled loudly. "I need a cuppa' and some pie for the bloke out front who looks like he might've drowned himself down a toilet!"

The boy pulled at his leather jacket to try to warm himself up, but the rainwater only made him feel more like a miserable, wet prune than ever.

His head dropped languidly onto the tan table in front of him, and his eyelids closed sluggishly in exhaustion, only to flutter open when he heard a clunk sound a few centimeters away from his face.

His nostrils immediately recognized the aroma of coffee, and he perked right back up into sitting position, his body nearly collapsing into a pile of gratitude at the sight of a large, steaming mug of coffee next to a mouthwatering slice of chocolate crème pie. Immediately, he reached for the mug and brought it up to his nose to smell.

He was about to take a sip when the sound of laughter distracted him. Maintaining his firm grasp around the warm mug, he turned to see a pretty girl about his age struggling, and failing, not to laugh.

"Do I amuse you?" he asked her.

She covered her mouth with her hand as she forced herself to calm. "No, well, yes, I mean," she stuttered as laughter still gleamed in her warm brown eyes. "It's just that Mum's right. You really do look like you've been down a toilet."

The boy stared at her dumbly.

"Sorry," she added before pulling a piece of her long, mahogany hair behind her ear. "You should drink that," she recommended, gesturing to the cup of coffee still in his hands. "I reckon you need some warming up. Do you want some cream or sugar?"

He shook his head and then did as he was told; the scalding hot liquid burned wonderfully as it went down his throat. As he swallowed, he shook his head, spraying water droplets from his soaked hair.

"Bloody hell, watch it," she scolded him. "You're like a wet dog."

The boy smiled hugely for the first time in what felt like ages.

The girl's own mouth formed a small grin as she put a napkin onto the table for him. "You'd probably dry off faster if you took that coat off."

The boy fished it off, which required a bit of a struggle, until he was sitting in just a soaked, white t-shirt.

The girl dropped her gaze to his chest before blushing furiously. She very tactfully chose not to say anything about else about his appearance. Despite the water, he was very attractive for a boy his age. "Say, what's your name?" she asked.

"Sirius," he answered.

"No, really," she pressed. "What's it really?"

He finished another sip of coffee. "My name's Sirius Black."

She opened her mouth to say something but was distracted when a slightly older boy passed by and put an arm on her shoulder. "Bird at section two wants her check," he said with his eyes trained on Sirius.

Sirius's eyes swept from the possessiveness of his hand to the gleaming look in the boy's eyes to the muscles flexing underneath his rolled up sleeves. He tried to force his face into an innocent expression, a sentiment his features were not used to displaying, and then watched as the sandy brown haired boy stalked away.

"Johnny," the girl huffed in annoyance as she watched the tall boy leave. "You could have at least said 'hello.' He's been put in the ringer, this one. Just look at the state of him!"

Sirius did not appreciate being spoken of as though he was not right there listening, but he said nothing.

"Sorry about that," she apologized to Sirius. "Now where-?"

The brunette stopped speaking again as a screech of "ELIZA!" came bellowing from the direction of the kitchen. "Coming, Mum!" she yelled back in annoyance to the voice. "Gotta go," she announced to him. "Enjoy the pie, Sirius Black."

Sirius watched as she shoved her hands into her yellow apron with red trimming and walked away.

Only when she was fully gone from his view did he turn his attention back to the untouched pie sitting in front of him.

He picked up his fork and took a sizeable bite of the rich chocolate filling as the rain continued to pound outside the window. With a contented sip of coffee, he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he had found someplace dry.

A/N: Hello.

I must say, I am quite annoyed with myself. You see, I have just finished a very long series and was looking forward to some much needed relaxation. Of course, if I had wanted to write, I have three stories already queued up in my brain to write next. Unfortunately, my brain hates me.

This story came into my mind at one o'clock last night (morning), and I stayed up till about four writing it (I just could not let the stupid thing go). Then I spent much of today sneaking up to my room to write more. I've got a fair bit of this story completed (I'd say I'm about 2/5 done). The format will be mostly similar to this: small snippets that go by chronologically. I'll update every Friday until it's over (most likely a bit over ten chapters).

Well, I had always wanted to do a Sirius story. I do quite like him.

Thanks for reading. Hope to see you next Friday.

yours,

Molly