He folds his arms on the railing and leans over the side. Beneath him, the water is black, but lights from the cabins illuminate the foam being tossed up in the ferry’s wake. In the distance, England is a constellation of golden lights underlined by the ghostly white of Dover’s cliffs.

It’s cold enough that his breath mists, but Sirius is a long line of heat pressed up against his back and Harry’s half hard in response, but he’s too tired to do anything about it and too transfixed on the shrinking horizon. It’s not a long journey to France, and once they’re on the continent, they can truly get lost.

He doesn’t know exactly where they’re going, but he knows two things for sure – they’ll get there together, and the only direction they won’t go is back.