James stood at the door, evidently having just woken up. His hair was all spiked up on one side where he had lain on his pillow, in pajamas with snitches dancing across the front, squinting at me uncomprehendingly.
"Hey, Prongs," I laughed, watching him rub his eyes disbelievingly.
"Pa-Padfoot?" James broke out grinning, and he stumbled forward, wrapping me in a big hug.
After a minute, he pulled back, confused. "What're---what're you doing here? Weren't you supposed to get here in a couple weeks?"
"Er---yeah, but that's a really long story," I sighed. "I---I can't go back to my house anymore."
"What---why not?" James looked around at my trunks and frowned. "What is all this?"
"I----," I swallowed. "I ran away."
"What?" James's eyes widened, and he took a step back, shocked. "You ran away?"
"Can we---er----talk about this inside?" I swallowed again, trying hard to compose myself.
"Right, okay," James said slowly. He picked up my owl's cage and held the door open for me. I dragged my trunk into his house and shut the door behind me. I was standing in a tall room, with stairs leading up either side of me, a delicious smell hanging in the air.
"Who was at the door?" called a woman's voice from another room.
"Um... I'm coming," James called. "Here, leave your stuff, come meet my mum."
I followed him through a hall with framed pictures hanging on the cream-colored walls---pictures of baby James laughing and throwing food, young James riding his first broomstick, family pictures, happy pictures. Everyone was smiling and laughing in all of them, in stark contrast to our family pictures, which were comprised of cold and emotionless staring. It was strange.
We entered a warm, aromatic kitchen full of hustle and bustle, where a bowl full of dough stirred itself and honey poured itself into a saucer and the teakettle shrieked from the stove. Standing next to the stove, mixing batter, was James's mother. I could see some likelinesses between them, like the straight nose, hazel eyes, and the mouth.
"Hey, Mum," James said, "this is my mate I've been telling you about, he's come for the summer."
Mrs. Potter looked up from her bowl of batter and smiled warmly at me. "Oh, hello there," she said warmly, to my surprise. "We weren't expecting you this early, I'm sorry we haven't had time to get things ready. You must be Sirius. Goodness knows, I've heard enough about you to write a book, you're all James ever talks about. " She wiped her hands on her apron and beamed. She was of medium height, with chestnut hair, and very slightly plump. I smiled hesitantly at her, still shocked at such a warm welcome.
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Potter," I said, trying to act normal and unfazed like James.
Mrs. Potter came around the counter and wrapped me in a hug. I froze. Why-----? It took me a few seconds to respond, and I awkwardly patted her back. Did---did all mothers do this?
She let me go, still smiling. "Mr. Potter just left for work, I'm afraid, but he's been wanting to meet you too. You'll meet him this afternoon, anyway. Now, I suppose you must be hungry, do sit down, I'm making pancakes and cinnamon buns with syrup for breakfast," she said, hurrying back to the counter and pulling on oven mitts. Ducking into the oven to retrieve cinnamon buns, she called, "Now what did you say your surname was?"
"Er...," I bit my lip. "Black."
"Black?" She emerged, putting the tray on the table, closing the oven and removing the mitts. "Huh. What're your parents' names, dear?"
