AN: This is currently a one-shot, depicting a 15-year-old Sirius leaving home for Hogwarts one September morning. I haven't decided if I want to continue it yet (I'm not sure what my Sirius' relationship with Moony or James is in this universe), but what do you think?

September Air….

It's early morning in the small square, and the sun is just starting to warm the car roofs on the far side of the street. The September air is cold, but has a welcome, fresh feel to it for the boy sitting on the ground by one of the benches.

He is wearing a crisp white shirt, which sticks to his slender torso almost like a straightjacket.

The three or four top buttons are undone though, and he has replaced the tight, black tie with an unlaced red and gold one. One of the sleeves are rolled up, even though the skin on his arms is prickling with cold.

The jeans are tight, dark blue and bootcut, so as to make room for the heavy black boots he's just finishing lacing up. You can't see jeans under robes anyway, so he could wear whatever he wanted when he left this morning, at least on his legs.

Anyway, he had gotten up and out early enough for none of them to see him go.

He's sitting on his haunches, leaning against the large black leather suitcase. The suitcase is open, with his recently discarded black robes hanging halfway in, halfway out.

The shoes, which had arrived newly polished and shined at his door sometime this morning (or last night, more like it), are lying under the park bench. When he leaves, they'll probably live out the rest of their lives as toys for passing dogs, or inhabited by mice.

Sirius enjoys that thought for a minute, imagining a family of mice inhabiting his footwear, the little mouse-children playing with the laces and taking naps in the heels.

When he gets up, he looks at himself in the closest window front's reflection. It looks better, even the shirt isn't half bad once the rest of him has stopped looking like he's attending a funeral. The hair is probably a right mess, he can see it's uneven and choppy even in the vague glass reflection.

No matter.

He had forgotten to grow out his hair before he came back in June, and he'd had to go visit Father's study. He'd refused to change the blood-soaked shirt for days afterwards, but Mother and Father didn't seem to notice. In the end, he had thrown it in the trash before Regulus came home.

It's hard to cut your own hair with only a hand mirror to see, but Sirius thinks it's an improvement. He rubs the scarred skin on his back. Moony is going to have a fit when he sees those scars, Sirius knows. It will be a quiet fit, though. Sirius has taught him long ago not to make scenes about things like these.

When the suitcase is closed and the scissors are back in his pocket, Sirius isn't alone in the square anymore. There's a man in a grey suit getting into his car across the street, and another man is jogging past the bench where Sirius' suitcase has been sitting for the past hour.

It must be nearing 8 o'clock.

Sirius fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, and starts slowly walking towards Kings Cross, dragging his black suitcase behind him.