A/N: This fic is dedicated to a wonderful, friendly, awesome person who's birthday is on June 17th. Her name is Leanne (dory_the_fishie) - an amazing author, witty genius, and not to mention, the best friend anyone could ever ask for!



Happy Sweet Sixteen, darling! Hope you enjoy! =)

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He crouched restlessly under the brush, trying to make himself comfortable for the night. He wasn't scared - he never really was, but the harsh reality of what would happen if he let himself get caught finally seized him, releasing pressing worries of reaching his destination without delay. A lengthy journey still awaited him; he hadn't even gotten halfway.



Hunger and thirst had settled to a dull ache around his belly. To dispel the torment, he transfered his thoughts to his godson, which always relieved him to a degree. The various clacks and whistles of the city droned into his ragged ears - he was unused to hearing anything else except iron bars closing, keys jingling and the reeking odor of them.



He was exhausted; worn out. Time seemed to stand still for him. It looked as if the longer he was on the run, the farther away his destination became, like the sun on the horizon - never getting closer. He had never been the patient type, so it irked him that it was taking longer than he had anticipated. But he had set his mind to it, and only resolved with a stronger fervor to continue.



Oblivious to the minor discomforts of his surroundings - the twigs pressing harshly into his fur, the various insects crawling about, the itches and aches here and there. He had spent so many years in a filthier place that these seemed too trivial compared to the irritation he had known.



Shutting his eyes, twisting about into a less cramped position, he concentrated on falling asleep.



From an outsider, he looked utterly wretched and thin. His ribs were poking through his stretched-out skin, and his ears appeared chewed and ripped. His eyes held a feral light that was almost suiting to one of his stature. He was conscious of his image. On a rainy afternoon, he had stopped by a stream to quench his raging thirst, and stopped swiftly, shocked. Seeing his reflection in the water, he thought, Twelve years couldn't have done that much damage, could they? How grim and impoverished he appeared; how pitiful. His life had changed so much since Harry's birth. Harry. The thought upset him and he shifted.



Suddenly, he was alert of harried footsteps approaching. They stopped and then continued, coming closer. He tensed, wary. It had been months since his last human encounter, and even that hadn't gone over smoothly. He scolded himself for choosing a dangerous spot to sleep in. Quietly, he stood up, wincing as his sore muscles stretched; his wounds making contact with the prickly bush.



The person was close now - breathing hard. He could hear the sound of something scraping on the paved road. Abruptly, it stopped. For a long time, nothing could be heard except crickets chirping in the background. The person heaved a great sigh, followed by a clattering racket. He decided to peek out.



And there he was.



Sitting on his trunk. Breathing. Alive.



Time seemed to stop still. Everything became motionless. He was only slightly alert of the blood rushing through his veins, his heart pumping wildly, the medley of emotions that captured him. He didn't even breathe. An odd shiver raced up his spine, enveloping him, freezing him. Seeing him brought back painful memories - ones he had vowed to forget. But they came rushing back with such strength, his legs wobbled under the emotional pressure they evoked.



All of a sudden, the boy turned to look straight at him.



"Lumos," he whispered, holding his wand high over his head, squinting at the dark underbrush.



He took in everything - the scar lacing up his forehead, his messy black hair and almond green eyes. He stared unflinchingly, unable to believe what he saw. Harry Potter - his godson, the person he was searching for - standing a mere five yards away from him.



Harry's eyes widened, he stepped back and suddenly tripped, his wand flying out of his grip to land on the ground. A roaring reverberation echoed through the street, and suddenly a bright purple triple decker bus appeared on the spot.



He left, then. He didn't want to be seen again. He heard the sound of voices talking, but they quickly faded away as he scampered through the allies and streets.



Turning his shaggy head over his shoulder, he stopped to breathe. He still couldn't believe it. He wondered if he ever would. After twelve grueling years, he had finally spotted Harry. He backed up, letting the shadow cover his dark form.



He had been so close! He could have transformed; spoken.



Now he would never know what would have happened if he had ventured out. It hurt - that knowledge that he could have done something, but hadn't.



He gazed at the calm atmosphere around him - no one would have guessed what had just taken place.



It would have seemed that seeing Harry would diminish his passion to get to Hogwarts. On the contrary, it only fueled it and he was more determined than ever to get there. The suffering that would come along with it was insignificant now.



Daringly, he closed his eyes, letting sleep take over and with it, a feeling of peculiar satisfaction.