Harry is fortunate he is downstairs when the dog scrabbles at the door. Uncle Vernon blinks stupidly at the hall, where the whines and barks are emanating from.
"A dog! A dog is trying to get in!" Uncle Vernon says, because someone must state the patently obvious.
"Hit it, Vernon," Aunt Petunia says, but by then Harry is flying to the door. Over Vernon's protest he wrenches it open, and there is Sirius Black in all his Animagus-ical glory.
Harry bends down to touch Padfoot. He has no experience with dogs, but he can do pats on the head. Padfoot is sitting on his haunches and then standing up again, almost trembling with energy. He gives Harry's face a mighty lick by way of hello, and before Harry can straighten up he has bounded into the kitchen.
Shriek by Petunia.
Well, Harry thinks, it is a rather big dog.
There's now a fully grown wizard in his room, and another shriek by Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley.
Now that the deliriously giddy feeling of seeing his godfather is slowly passing, the horror of seeing his escaped, on-the-run godfather decides to find some outlet.
"What-are-doing?" he asks weakly.
"WHO ARE YOU," an accompanying bellow from Uncle Vernon.
Sirius Black stands casually in the middle of the hall of 4 Privet Drive as though he belongs there, and grins at the Dursleys. He has, at the least, taken some care in getting new clothes, which Harry is grateful for—his former outfit would be very politely described as a beggar's castoffs—and although they are Muggle and do not fit well on his thin frame, hanging off at the oddest places and giving him a scarecrow-y look, it does not diminish whatever natural Black elegance he has. "I'm Harry's godfather."
There is a profound silence in which Harry takes a great deal of pleasure in the expressions on the Dursleys' faces.
Sirius turns to him, still standing by the door. "You told them about me?"
Harry grins. "Yeah."
Sirius does not know that he's told them the truth, or the reason for it, but somehow, he seems to understand anyway. His head rolls back to the Dursleys. "Hey Tuney." Brightly, like he's greeting an old friend. "I've been wanting to meet you, but Lily always said no. She'd some weird idea I'd hex you or something... Can't imagine why. Anyway, I'm taking Harry for a few days. Or weeks. I haven't really planned it out."
"You are?" Harry asks, at the same moment that Uncle Vernon asks the same thing, in a completely different tone of voice.
"Yep." Sirius pops his lips at the end, rather loudly. "I don't think you need to pack an awful lot, though, just some bare essentials."
"But—but you're—"
"I'm fleeing the country," Sirius says, in a conspiratorial whisper, the impact of the words rather belayed by the twinkle in his eyes. "I'm just taking you with me. Vacation for you, fleeing for me. Two birds and one stone, that sort of thing."
Dumbledore is going to take care of everything, he says. Harry does not know what things there are to take care of, but he imagines fleeing the country isn't all that easy, especially for a wizard. He runs up to pack, just some stuff, no homework—he knows he will regret it later but he's not going to do Potions essays with his missing godfather in some unknown country in some unknown continent somewhere.
He packs stuff into his bag. This time is very different from all the other times he's packed; there's a distinct surreal feeling to it. He can't keep Hedwig; he sends her off to Ron, Ron will ask questions but he is too delirious with joy to think about that now, about any of it, except the fact that Sirius—his godfather Sirius Black—is with him and he's going to have so much fun...
The jaunt is Dumbledore-approved and Remus-aided, he finds out. Remus has given Sirius a bucketful of De-aging potion—and do please cut your hair, a note says—for Harry and Sirius.
They scuttle into a men's bathroom in the station, and take the potion. Sirius says this is the best form of disguise—the Ministry is looking for a thirty-five-year-old emaciated wizard, not a twenty-five-year-old handsome man and his little—
Sirius breaks off here, and there's a slight reddening to his cheeks.
Son. Well, there are worse things to pretend to be. Harry looks at his 5-year-old face, complete with baby fat and big eyes and perfect vision, he doesn't need the glasses anymore, and too-small hands and too-small nose.
"Ha!" he says. It's meant to be a soft cry but instead it comes out a very dramatic, loud, high-pitched squeak. He clasps his hand over his mouth and glances at Sirius.
Sirius blinks his eyes as he raises his eyebrows. He is standing with his nose nearly smushed against the mirror and very passionately involved in chopping down his hair—he's not very good at it, but he's trying very hard. His eyes crinkle as he chuckles down at Harry. They exchange no words. They simply look at each other, and then Sirius bends and pats Harry's stomach playfully.
Harry loops his arms around Sirius' neck; this wasn't meant to be a moment, but his five-year-old self is very keen on making it one. Sirius seems quite willing to reciprocate, because he bends down still further, and puts his other hand on Harry's back.
Slam of a door and they jump and move apart. A potbellied man has entered the stall, and obviously guesses what they were up to, because he grins and says, "Fun being a parent, isn't it?"
They exchange Looks. "Indeed," Sirius says gravely.
#
"Tell me about my parents."
It sounds in every way like a demand, but Sirius lays down on the duvet and Harry sits next to him and Sirius is carding his hands through his hair as he recounts every single prank they've ever done. Harry knows by the look on his face and the occasional pauses that he's censoring his pranks, but he can't find it in himself to care. When those stories run out, days later, he shifts to James-Lily interactions. Two whole weeks of being soaked in the past and Harry still hasn't had enough.
They take the de-aging potion with increasing fervour; it is far easier to sit close when you think you have only five years of being apart to catch up on and not twelve. They sit in various positions—on the duvet, with Harry sitting and Sirius lying down; on the bed, cuddled up with Harry's elbow on Sirius' stomach; on the sofa with Harry in Sirius' lap.
When Sirius tires—which is very rare, but he has been in Azkaban for a long time—Harry expounds on his life. He talks about the Dursleys and about his Hogwarts years. He talks about Snape and being a Parselmouth, about meeting Voldemort and defeating him. And through it all Sirius' eyes shift and change and the muscle on his jaw twitches but he doesn't say anything, only the hand on Harry's shoulder goes tight and loose by turns.
#
Harry is woken up in the night, the first week they are together, by a sound he doesn't recognise. It is the very soft sound of weeping, he realises after a moment of sleepy disorientation and where-am-I-oh-right.
Sirius is huddled up, his back to Harry, and his shoulders are shivering.
Harry sits up and crawls over the expanse of their bed and touches Sirius' back, very lightly, and Sirius rolls around so quickly he has to scoot back. He is blinking, but his eyes widen on seeing Harry, like saucers, and his breath seems caught in his throat because he makes a weird choking sound.
They stare at each other for a moment.
"Prongs?" he breathes, for a moment his eyes filled with wonder and daring-to-hope. Harry doesn't speak, he can't even if he had something to say, but then Sirius blinks and is himself again. "Harry. Sorry."
What for, Harry thinks. He looks like his father; everyone has told him that already. "I thought I was my father too," he says.
And they sit—or lie—in silence, the shadow of the antlered stag somewhere in the room, perhaps between them. Black hair, brown eyes, Prongs.
"You should go back to sleep."
The next time it happens, Harry asks, "Was it a nightmare?"
"It's fine, Harry."
"I have nightmares too. Of my parents."
"We should compare them." There is a dead smile on Sirius' face.
They do not compare them. Harry's dreams are of one thing only, the memory that the Dementor has kindly seen fit to bestow upon him, the one memory that Sirius would not want to have, and that his dreams would have colourfully imagined anyway.
#
They listen to music. Sirius enjoys music. Harry doesn't particularly, or maybe their tastes don't match, but he forces himself to like every single one and eventually he does begin to not hate them as much. He is not a good singer; tapping on the wood table and humming is the closest he can come to physical expression of his enjoyment. Sirius is much better at it and he makes up for his overlooking of the nuances and higher pitches by pure fervour. Harry wonders what the neighbours think.
Sirius laughs loud and often, and it sometimes feels like he's forcing the sound past his throat. Harry is almost tempted to wonder if he's faking it. For a moment. But then the moment passes and he's laughing too.
#
They have to start rationing the de-aging potion, which is not a big deal because Sirius has another disguise he can count on and no one is looking for Harry anyway. He buys a leash for Padfoot, if only because Padfoot is very much a dog with a mind of its own and can definitely run. A big dog, too.
Harry doesn't like putting the leash on his godfather, but Padfoot doesn't mind. He bounds around, and runs laps around Harry, who laughs and laughs. This is how they spend their day.
They don't do much sightseeing. They travel from city to city, usually with the de-aging potion, in crowded buses and trains, staying no more than a few days in each city. Once a pickpocket tries to slip her hand into Sirius' jacket pocket, and is caught and sent off with a flick of his wrist.
One week per city. They keep switching between their de-aged selves and their present ones; Sirius looks so different now, with increased colour in his cheeks and trimmed hair, it is almost a third disguise. Harry is fairly certain the other occupants of the hotel are bewildered at the number of people that seem to inhabit a single room. They try to stick to one persona per hotel per city.
Sirius jokingly suggests a gender-switching potion once. Harry shoots it down.
#
There are other moments, quieter ones. Harry wakes up all of a sudden in the night and sees Sirius standing quietly at the open window (the cold draught washing over Harry was what had awoken him). His head is lowered. Harry sits upright, mouth agape, watching his godfather, bathed in the moonlight.
Then Sirius throws his head back and lets out a rattling sigh that shakes Harry's heart. He thinks Sirius is about to turn; he quickly lies down and closes his eyes. He doesn't want Sirius to know, he feels like he's intruded on a private moment.
#
They go to the beach, young Sirius and child Harry. They strip down and wade into the water, and a middle-aged man with three kids of his own tells Sirius off for not taking better care of his son. Sirius laughs, but his hold on Harry's arm tightens after that.
Curiously, it is not Harry who stumbles and pitches into the water but Sirius himself. Harry has no idea how he managed it, but there is a wave coming toward them and the next moment Sirius is flat on the sand, with the water washing over him, and his eyes are closed. Harry, still finding his footing from the wave, takes a while to notice, and when he does, he is suddenly reminded of the dementors. Sirius opens his eyes and gets up grinning almost immediately, but it is a long time before Harry's heartbeat goes back to normal.
On a stupid impulse, he slips his sandals off his feet. Before he knows it, they've gone into the water with the next wave. Sirius is highly amused, and not angry like Harry feared he would be. He stands at a safe distance, per very strict instructions from his godfather, who stands a little way out and waits for the slippers to come back with the next wave.
He holds them triumphantly over his head as he walks back, feet sinking with each step over the sand. "Got them!"
It was, Harry thinks as he slips them back on, a very silly thing to do. But Sirius laughs it off.
#
Azkaban follows them everywhere. Harry tries to ignore it, but the signs are hard to miss. Sirius eats all his food slowly, relishing every bite. He does not like big crowds, and they avoid many places for this reason. He does not like loud sounds, and Harry suspects he does not like darkness much, either. They keep the lamp on at night. Harry doesn't mind, but Sirius often comments that Harry sleeps with his blanket over his eyes. Harry says it's a habit of his.
They do not speak of it. Harry remembers what Hagrid said about that place, and anyway, the dark cloud in Sirius's eyes is knowledge enough. He tries to make it go away. They go to cities with no clouds, no rain, all sunshine. Sirius turns his face up, and his hair is brown in the light, and Harry hides his eyes from the glare, and they pretend that he is not bathing Azkaban away.
One day they are walking along an alleyway when Sirius stops and freezes, so completely Harry wonders if he's been hit with a Petrificus. He peers around his still frame to see what he's staring at, so transfixed. It's a youngish man and a younger woman, both dressed rather oddly and looking out of place, both looking around with interest.
They could just be two tourists. But now, standing next to Sirius' frozen frame, Harry can imagine what he thinks he must be looking at: two Aurors, hunting the mass murderer Sirius Black.
"Let's go," he says abruptly, and turns on his heel and begins walking off so quickly Harry is startled into movement. They walk back down the alleyway, quick-quick, footsteps hard and fast, trying not to make it look like they're running away from something and yet running away. They slam the door to their room and sit on the bed, still, quiet, watching, waiting for the door to open and the pair to come through, wands at the ready.
Harry hasn't looked at the time, but he is sure it's over half an hour before he speaks. "I think we're okay."
He braves a glance over at his godfather. He's still pale, but the colour is returning to his face, along with a bit of pink. "Bit of an overreaction, huh?" he says, and laughs.
But Harry notices him looking more carefully around corners and at strangers from then on.
#
Mountains. Snow and more snow and mountains. There's this thing called acclimatization, that Sirius doesn't take too seriously and then has to stay in bed for a whole day to recuperate, and Harry sits with him in their hotel made of wood for the cold, and they have hot chocolate and bananas delivered to their room and they lie under the covers and just…sit. Sirius dozes off occasionally, and wakes up with a jump every time.
The mountains are huge, and large, and driving up them takes ages. The roads are narrow, the driver seems far too careless, and Harry isn't at all sure its worth it, but Sirius smacks a snowball in his face and he throws one back and they run up and down the snow-filled slopes of the mountain just off the road and it is glorious.
A red-faced photographer offers to click a picture of them, as a souvenir. Harry thinks he looks a mess, and he knows Sirius looks a mess—though somehow he still looks good, inspite of the mussed hair and the snow dotting his frame. But Sirius shakes his head, with a meaningful glance at Harry.
No souvenirs. No proof that Harry was with an escaped criminal. But that's fine with him. He doesn't think he will ever forget.
#
He is not sure how long it lasted. They'd lost track of time. An owl finds them, Remus reminding them that Harry has to be back in time for the new term. It has been just over a month. Sirius reads the letter first, passes it over to Harry, and disappears into the bathroom for half an hour. They eat in their room, plain and simple fare, and they are quiet. Harry tries to think of something comforting to say. Nothing springs to mind. He wishes, again, with an ache so deep it is almost physical, that they had caught Pettigrew and done it right, so that they did not have to be like this now.
The next day, they go to the airport with a ticket for one. Harry doesn't have much luggage; his backpack hangs loosely over his shoulder. Sirius has a wide smile on his face, and a strong-armed hug that lasts for many seconds, but as Harry turns away, he sees the smile fading, and the look of pain that replaces it.
He almost changes his mind about leaving—as he knew he would. It is almost without thinking that his feet keep moving, one step after another, Sirius' eyes upon his back.
As the plane takes off—he has rarely travelled by plane before, all the accompanying sensations are still new to him—he watches the land fall lower and lower, the tilt as the plane inclines to gain altitude, and imagines Sirius Black standing on the ground, where Harry had left him, watching the sky perhaps, or making his way back. It is not a happy thought, but one he can't get rid of. He looks away from the window, but this does not help. There is a man reading a magazine and what might be his daughter in the seats next to him; a baby is squalling a few rows down; a group of travellers are laughing raucously; an old couple have already inclined their seats and are sleeping. He is enveloped by loneliness, and he does not know what to do for it.
AN: don't own a dog, have no personal dog experience. But very keen. Watched lot of dog videos, hope that suffices as enough dog-ducation. Imagine very very excited and affectionate dog.
I know, it's not very fair to have a fluffy beginning and an emotional angsty end. To be honest though, I had no clue how to end it. *le shrug*