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It had become a frequent fantasy, insisting that Sirius take him away. Forgetting Hogwarts and the Dursleys and magic altogether, and living on the run, just him and his godfather. He liked to imagine them hiding out in a remote part of the world. Caves and waterfalls and plants of bright, strange colors. They'd bathe together in a shallow pool at the mouth of cave where they’d slept. Sirius would rise up, thin, and still pale with weathered scars and faded black tattoos marking his skin. He'd wet his hair beneath the waterfall and the water would run like rivets down the plane of his chest, over his stomach, following the vee of his hip bones and down his legs.
That was Harry’s favourite part.
When he saw Sirius again, trapped in his gloomy house full of dead things and dormant curses and the taste of dust in the air, Harry hugged him tight and thought about the waterfall. Maybe one day, he’d take Sirius' hand, and then he’d be the one to spirit them both away.