Sirius Black Fest 2013: Fic: Right Now and So Strong
Title: Right Now and So Strong
Author: traintracks
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Sirius/Harry, (Hermione/Ron, Kreacher)
Rating: NC-17
Prompt #: 20 AU Sirius lives. After the war Harry moves in with Sirius and they both have nightmares and comfort each other. One thing leads to another…
Word count: 4,540
Summary: Please see the awesome, awesome prompt.
Warnings: Highlight to read: *godfather/godson, cross-gen (39/18), mentions of major canon character deaths*
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Thank you to my brilliant betas _ and _. You are just lovely, and I'm sorry that because of prolonged computer problems I could not use your valuable insights. Thank you for your cheerleading and support!
Before his eyes adjust, it's like he's back there. He's inside. The dark sits so dense, he can't make out his hand, his breath, the four walls that have choked out all light, all noise, any chance of escape. He lies in a coffin made of cement and dark magicks.
Sirius sits bolt upright in his bed. His chest hurts from how hard he's breathing. He still can't see, and he almost transforms into his dog self from fear, but then there's the voice.
That voice.
"I'm here, Sirius."
There are soft footfalls on his floor, bare feet on wood and then rug as he nears.
Sirius blinks rapidly. His hands have made quick destructive work of his bedding, tearing the sheet in his sleep.
Harry's hand touches the back of his where it grips the ruined covers. Sirius twitches, involuntarily ready to bolt away. But then his eyes adjust, and the dark isn't so dark after all. He's in his room. It's cleaner than it has ever been in his life - the cobwebs swept, the curses broken, the veins of old hatred drained away. Harry turns on a lamp by the bed, and as soon as Sirius sees his face, he pulls him down - onto the bed, into his arms - and holds him tight.
There is a whole war between Sirius and Azkaban. There had been whole new atrocities since his escape, but somehow he always ends up back there in his dreams. It was his most prolonged hell. He knows it more intimately. The scars from battle will never ache like the invisible ones from that place.
He's told Harry all this. In the evenings when they're alone in the house and they've done all the cleaning they can do, they've eaten and had a couple firewhiskeys and have the telly on in the study on mute… Then they sit and they talk about what they know, what they don't know, what they remember, and what they've tried to forget.
Sirius can't speak now. He holds Harry so hard he knows it must hurt a little. But Harry always endures this part stoically. He lets Sirius manhandle him, stroke his back, whisper pathetic reassurances in his ear as though it is Harry who needs this.
"It's okay. I'm okay. I'm okay," Sirius pants, his breath not yet calm.
Harry has told him what it was like, thinking Sirius was dead, that Bellatrix had killed him. He has described his effort to torture her, his failure.
Maybe he does need these words, too.
Harry's heartbeat against Sirius' chest relaxes him. He takes a deep breath - and then another. His arms loosen around his godson. He draws back. Harry smiles at him, warm in the lamplight.
"Blast," Sirius sighs. Harry probably has handprints on his back now, Sirius' fingerprints wrapped around his sides.
But Harry takes Sirius' hand in his own gently. "Make you some tea?" he asks.
Sirius nods. They get up off of the bed and trudge downstairs, creaking the old house with every quiet step.
*
"Please tell Kreacher his pudding was lovely," Hermione says as she dons her coat.
Ron helps her on with it and then wraps his arm around her shoulders. Sirius can't quite believe how big he's gotten. He was just a squeaking little gnome yesterday it seems. Hermione was a girl in a bad sweater with frizzy hair and two tons of courage. And Harry had him pinned to a dirty floor with a wand to his throat.
Now, Hermione and Ron are eighteen and living in "sin" together at the Burrow and coming to dinners and being new adults in a post-war world. Sirius is used to Harry's adulthood. It's seeing his friends that reminds Sirius of how young they all are still.
He leans in and kisses Hermione on the cheek; he shakes Ron's hand. "We're so glad you could come. Our love to your family, Ron."
Harry kisses Hermione quickly on the lips then shoves Ron in the shoulder good-naturedly. He doesn't object to the 'we' or the 'our'. He smiles and bids his friends safe Apparating.
It's Harry who closes the door when they leave.
It's Harry's door now, too.
Harry turns with a raise of his eyebrows and leans against the door for a moment just breathing. Then he pushes away, wraps his arms around Sirius' neck, and presses close. Sirius hesitates only a moment before holding him, too, but almost as soon as it starts to feel wonderful, Harry moves away again. "I could use a stiff drink," he says with a smirk, his hand trailing over Sirius' chest, his shoulder, before falling away as he retreats. "You?"
Harry is almost all the way down the hall before Sirius fairly whispers, "Yes."
*
It's not that night but the next that Sirius wakes to the sounds. There is a crashing noise next door, and Sirius isn't even quite awake when he bolts out of his bed, through his doorway, around the corner, and into Harry's room.
A mirror is shattered on the floor, and Harry is sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.
"Are you all right?" Sirius falls to his knees in front of him.
"I'm fine," Harry murmurs.
"You're not hurt? The glass…"
"No, I'm fine." Harry looks up. His eyes are red from crying, his jaw rough with whiskers. He's not wearing a shirt, and his skin is pale and cold.
"Come here," Sirius says, rising up on his knees and holding him.
Sirius' chest is bare, too, and together, their skins warm. Sirius can feel Harry's pulse beating in his neck.
"Bad one," Sirius says, not a question.
Harry nods. His hands slide onto Sirius' hips. "Snape," is all he says.
Sirius knows what it means. The guilt still eats at Harry - that he hated the man erroneously. He has dreams that he's the snake again, but this time biting into Severus' flesh even as Severus begs Harry to stop. He dreams that Severus slips into the black water and drags him down, too. Severus becomes an Inferius before Harry's eyes, and Harry experiences the panic of drowning but never dies.
That one is the same every time. Sirius feels inadequate to comfort him.
"Cold…" Harry shivers. He turns his face into Sirius' neck, his lips breathing warm air there, and then Sirius feels his chilly fingers descending, just the tips of them slipping under the waistband of Sirius' pajama trousers, just resting and warming against a place that could be his back or could be the start of his arse and is probably best left undefined anyway.
Sirius' cock comes immediately alive. He holds very still and prays for strength, for the fortitude to keep withstanding this boy.
Finally, Harry withdraws - warm, sneaky fingers and all. Sirius sits back on his heels as Harry runs his hands through his hair and yawns.
"Fetch you anything?" Sirius asks.
Harry shakes his head. He looks awful. The dimmed light of a much older man shines out of his young eyes.
"You sure, love?" The endearment is a slip-up, but Harry doesn't seem to notice.
"I'm sure."
Sirius stands with a grunt, his bones popping. Harry smirks up at him briefly. Sirius frowns. He can't help himself and reaches out, cupping Harry's angular jaw in his hand. He feels the boy swallow. Harry's lips part.
Sirius drops his hand and turns to the door. When he's at the threshold, Harry calls to him.
"Sirius?"
"Yeah?" Sirius turns.
"Would you…stay here?"
Sirius waits a moment. "Sure." He starts to wander over to the armchair in the corner, wishing he had some tea or coffee (or amphetamines) if he's going to stay up keeping Harry company the rest of the night.
"No," Harry says, stopping him. He swallows and drops his eyes. "I meant sleep here. I meant sleep with me." He clears his throat. "Never mind."
Sirius takes a step toward the bed. "Sleep in the bed with you," he says, comprehension dawning too slow.
Harry sounds angry now. "I said never mind." He lies down, turning away and pulling the covers up to his ear.
Sirius stands there for a moment. Then he slowly walks over to the other side of the bed. Harry's open eyes watch him as Sirius peels back the heavy covers and climbs inside. He faces Harry, snuggling down under the blankets. Harry blinks, and Sirius scoots in closer, so that their knees touch - so that he can reach out and lay his hand over Harry's arm on his pillow.
Harry sighs. Sirius feels his body relax, watches as Harry shuts his eyes. Sirius does, too.
He's almost all the way asleep when he hears the small voice say, "Thank you."
*
He wakes pressed up against Harry's backside. Sirius is rock hard, and Harry's bum provides a delicious cradle for his erection. It feels so bloody good, Sirius almost can't make himself move away. His arms are around the boy from behind, and Harry's hair smells like spiced plums.
Sirius hasn't fucked in a really, really long damned time. Harry's body feels too good like this. Like they'd fit.
Harry shifts, his arse bumping back and unknowingly massaging Sirius' ready prick.
Sirius swallows a grunt and backs out of the bed. He's almost to the door when Harry's sleepy voice murmurs from the bed, "Morning."
Sirius answers back perfunctorily. He certainly can't turn around. He hears Harry stretching his taut body, throwing covers back. Sirius strides back to his own room and wards the door and walls for privacy. But he doesn't bring himself off.
He fills a basin with very cold water.
*
"Help me with these?" Harry says, kicking his boots free of the first snow, three grocery bags tottering in his arms as though he doesn't know enough magic to keep them upright, much less decrease their weight.
Sirius hurries to Harry's side, grabbing a bag that's about to spill its…well, some sort of vegetation Sirius doesn't recognize. But before he can take its weight himself, Kreacher cracks in on the scene.
"Kreacher shall help Mr. Potter, sir. Kreacher can carry all these bags and then some, thank you, sir."
"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry smiles down on him. "I appreciate it."
Sirius isn't sure he likes being ousted as grocery bag hero so easily. "I can carry this one," he tries, but he gets a withering look from Kreacher that communicates quite clearly that he's there to help Harry, not share this honorable task with his former master.
Harry hasn't told him the entire story yet of how he and Kreacher have come to such good terms. Sirius just knows he doesn't share in it. The elf can still be found muttering about him under his breath, and it's Harry who gently chides him for it.
Sirius isn't sure when he ceased being man of the house - and when Harry claimed the role. He knows that after he nearly went through the Veil and subsequently spent months in St. Mungo's it was Harry who saw to the house in his absence over the summer. It was Harry who risked his life to stay at Grimmauld Place, to get Sirius' house in order for his return, and who spent a great deal of time with Kreacher in Sirius' absence. Still, how this strange simpatico occurred is a mystery. Sirius wonders if it involved the Black Family stores of finely-aged brandy.
With a smug smile, Harry watches Sirius hand over his bag to the snarling elf.
"Does Mr. Potter require anything else?" Kreacher asks, ignoring Sirius' presence as much as possible.
"No. Thank you," Harry says to him, and then Kreacher Disapparates with the bags. Harry looks back at Sirius and laughs, giving him a little shove. "What are you, jealous?"
Sirius frowns. "Of course not."
"Are you sure?" Harry needles. He strips his coat off. "Merlin, isn't there a fire going somewhere or do you enjoy this kind of artic weather indoors, Sirius?"
"I'll go stoke the one in the study. Are you going to join me for a drink or would you rather chop…whatever the bloody hell…with the damned house elf?" Almost unthinkingly as he speaks, Sirius strips off Harry's gloves and scarf and throws them into the corner of the foyer rather than hanging them up.
"Anise," Harry tells him. "And no, I don't know the first thing about whatever he's doing with it." He sidles up close to Sirius, placing his hands on Sirius' hips.
Sirius stands stock still, not touching him back.
"I'll gladly join you in the study. I can't wait to get off my feet. The lines at the co-op were miles long. And I need to warm up," he finishes. Then he slides his hands up under Sirius' jumper with an evil little grin.
Sirius gasps as Harry's cold fingers, his palms, caress up Sirius' belly, over his ribs. For one instant, his fingers tease over Sirius' nipples under the clothes. Then Harry withdraws his hands entirely and makes off down the hall.
Sirius takes a deep breath and then follows him, intending to make his drink a double. And then have three of those.
*
"You're ready," Sirius tells him. Dinner is a distant memory, and they've slowed their whiskey drinking to a late night crawl. The conversation has turned, again, to Harry's life. Not Harry's life up to the end of the war but whatever comes next.
Harry isn't too fond of this topic, Sirius has found.
Sirius tries to be a good godfather about it and steer him back toward his dreams - the ones Harry had before he had to fight Voldemort. Before he had to die.
Sirius knows he's full of shit. He's not exactly leading by example. You spend twelve years in Azkaban and then several more trapped in your own house, and that's sort of a hard habit to break.
He remembers that life is supposed to taste like wind in your face, a purring motor between your legs. Like laughing until your sides hurt and a hot wand in your hand and sex.
Like sex and sex and sex.
"I'm not," Harry corrects him, breaking Sirius out of his wandering thoughts. Harry swirls his glass and sighs, staring at the floor somewhere between the sofa where he sits and the chair where Sirius slumps. After a few moments, he lifts his gaze to meet Sirius' eyes. He looks ten years older than he is. He looks secretly, quietly wise. "What if it doesn't measure up?"
Sirius watches him, lets the thought come around to what Harry really wants to say.
"What if I don't measure up?"
"The wizard who defeated Voldemort and saved the world," Sirius says dryly.
"Well, yes, actually," Harry says, his voice rising. "Not a lot of room for improvement there." Then he scoffs at himself. "That's not what I mean."
"I know," Sirius tells him. He kicks at the rug where it's begun to fray. "But what's the alternative?"
Harry blinks at him. "Be normal," he says.
"You? Normal? What does that look like exactly?"
Harry doesn't hesitate in his answer. "Shopping for anise and fresh garlic and heavy cream. Walking home in the snow until my toes go numb. Getting up late on a Sunday and fighting over who gets which section of the Prophet first."
Sirius licks his lips. "With me," he adds.
Harry stares at him. "With you."
"You don't want to be an Auror?"
Harry sets his drink down and leans back into the cushions, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, growling tiredly. "Oh you know I do, dammit. I just-"
"You just what?" Sirius downs his drink. The fire pops. Snow creeps up the window on the ledge outside. It's going to be a very cold night. His bed is going to be very, very cold.
Maybe these questions are useless. Or worse than useless, destructive. Maybe this isn't at all what Harry needs. Maybe he needs to get 'normal' out of his system. This is not the first time Sirius has felt like a crap godfather. He never seems to know the right thing to say.
"I'm just being a morose brat," Harry sighs. "I'll get over it."
"You don't think you have a right to some rest?" Sirius asks him. "Some privacy? Something normal for a while?"
"Aren't you sick of me in your house, Sirius?"
Sirius frowns. "Are you kidding?" he asks. "Harry, are you fucking kidding?"
"What?"
"I've wanted you to live with me for five years. More than that. This is your house, too. We're bloody family."
Harry looks at him a long time, foreign, subtle emotions clouding his eyes. "Are we?" he says softly.
Sirius just blinks at him.
Then Harry rubs his hands over his eyes again, stands, and stretches. "Never mind. I'm slightly drunk." Even before the words are out, he weaves a little, stumbling.
Sirius jumps up, grasping his arms and steadying him.
Harry grasps back, looking up at him searchingly.
"What?" Sirius asks. It comes out a whisper.
Harry just looks at him, his hands sliding up Sirius' arms to his shoulders. He says nothing. He just waits. He just stands there and seems to read Sirius. Waiting expectantly for something.
For the first time, Sirius realizes what he might be waiting for.
The frequent, full-body-press hugs; the prolonged looks; the inappropriateness that Sirius had always explained away as scarring from Harry's deficient upbringing, his heightened need for the physical affection he was never given. With Harry's hands on him now, his gaze so penetrating it's almost Legilimency, Sirius realizes that maybe Harry hasn't been touching him inappropriately as a godson, but rather appropriately as a lover.
"It's late," Sirius says stupidly. He feels like a supreme git before he's even finished saying it.
Harry nods. His look turns almost pitying, and his hand moves to cup Sirius' jaw. "Goodnight, Sirius," he says, and Sirius wants to hold him there, wants to find out.
But Harry walks away, and Sirius listens to him climb the stairs, staring into a dying fire and wondering what the hell he should do.
And what the hell he shouldn't.
*
Sirius stands in the courtyard with the others. Limp against Hagrid's chest, Harry's body looks so small, so fragile. Easy to kill.
Sirius starts toward Voldemort mindlessly. The monster blurs in Sirius' tears. The roar that comes out of Sirius has no words; it has no language; it precedes it. He has nothing left but rage and grief and rage again.
Hands reach out to stop him. So many hands it takes to hold him back from avenging his godson. His Harry.
Sirius crumples to the stone ground under the weight of all those hands. The hands press him down, down, down, until he's suffocating from them, from the tears that won't stop. A pale claw of a hand covers his nose and mouth, and Sirius realizes he can die this way. He can leave now. It's over. There's nothing left for him here.
Sirius gives up. He welcomes the emptiness in his lungs, the burn that means it's almost over.
He closes his eyes and tries to see Harry there waiting for him in the dark.
"Sirius! Wake up!"
He can't open his eyes. He doesn't want to see a lie. He doesn't want to face the truth.
Sirius can't take any more hard truths.
Moody and Dumbledore. Remus and Tonks. Lily and James.
James…
And Harry.
His Harry.
"Sirius, goddamnit," Harry says, shaking him awake.
And the roar that Sirius thought he no longer had in him erupts from his throat. He surges up, wrestling his demons as though they are still outside of him, as though they have form beyond thought.
The arms in his hands are thin but strong. They are human. This is not the Dementor's Kiss. This is not death and destruction. But he's got this body under him; he's pinning it down; he's seething over it.
Finally, his eyes are open, and it's Harry beneath him. Sirius feels mad. He knows he must appear mad, his hair hanging down, eyes wild. But Harry, below him, doesn't flinch.
Sirius wants to say his name. Harry is alive and breathing. They won the war, and they did it together. Those other losses were real, but Harry is alive. Harry is here.
Sirius says nothing. He leans down and kisses Harry once, quick and hard. He draws back and looks at the boy. Harry doesn't look shocked. He looks ready. Sirius leans down and kisses him again, just as briefly. But then Harry pulls Sirius down, and they kiss a third time, Harry's mouth opening under his own.
Harry's hands roam hungrily down Sirius' naked torso, down his back and into his pajama trousers. His legs part to let Sirius settle there. Sirius groans into the boy's mouth. Mindlessly, he starts to thrust. One of Harry's hands sifts into his hair while the other grabs his arse, and Harry is moving against him, too, rubbing his hard prick against Sirius'.
Sirius breaks the kiss to lay his head next to Harry's while he shoves at his trousers until they're around his thighs. Harry does the same to his own. And then they're kissing again, and they're wild on each other, bare cocks touching, sliding, their breaths hot and frantic. Sirius claws at Harry's trousers with one impatient hand until they're down around his ankles. Harry's knees open back up and frame Sirius' hips.
They buck against one another, alternately kissing and looking into each other's eyes for permission, kissing again, until Harry gasps, "C-coming…" and then he is. Sirius undulates through the warm spunk on the boy's stomach and then comes, too, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, Harry, fuck."
Harry holds Sirius' hair back from his face and kisses him again. Their hips slow. Harry keens into Sirius' mouth. Sirius pulls back to place soft kisses down Harry's jaw, to his earlobe, down the side of his neck, and while he kisses, he apologizes in a rough whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Sirius, shut it," Harry breathes.
Sirius tastes the sweat at the base of Harry's throat. He kisses the taste into Harry's willing mouth. Sirius runs his hand down Harry's muscular body and back up. He breaks the kiss. "I didn't know what I was doing," he tries.
"Yes, you did," Harry whispers, unwilling to let him lie to save them both. Then he cups Sirius' face. "You okay? The dream…" His knees still hug Sirius' body. They shouldn't have done this. They shouldn't still be doing this. Sirius doesn't answer. He just kisses Harry again, deep and hard. Harry moans into his mouth, his hands going into Sirius' hair and making tight fists.
When Sirius finally pulls back a little, Harry hums, smiling, and looks up into Sirius' eyes. "Quit frowning," he says. Then, "Is your wand nearby? Because we're going to get glued together."
Sirius leans over and, with a grunt, grabs the wand off his nightstand and cleans them up. He rolls onto his back and pulls his trousers up. Harry kicks his off his ankles instead.
"What are you doing?"
"What, I can be naked while you rub one off on me but not after?" Harry's wry smile is crooked.
"Where did you get that vulgar mouth?" Sirius asks, turning his gaze to stare at the ceiling as though he can find the right answers written on it.
"Hermione," Harry answers readily. "But if you think that's vulgar, you've lost your touch."
Sirius turns his head sharply. "Have I?"
Harry blushes. "No."
It's the blushing that makes Sirius feel like a dirty old man. He huffs a sigh. "So is this the new way we deal with nightmares now?"
Harry turns on his side, trailing a hand over Sirius' chest until he finds and pinches a nipple. Sirius inhales, and Harry leans in to lick it. "How about this is the new way we handle everything?"
"You're my godson," Sirius reminds him, although his timing really could not be worse with Harry's teeth scraping deliciously along his skin.
"Don't pull that shit," Harry takes the time to say. Then he licks across a tattoo and takes Sirius' other nipple into his mouth.
"Wait." Sirius touches Harry's head. "Wait, stop." Even though it feels bloody fantastic and his cock is already twitching for it.
Harry does as he asks, lifting his head and looking at him. He waits for Sirius to speak, and Sirius knows he should. He should say no to this. He should be the adult. He should put things right.
"Bugger it," he says. He strips his pajamas off and then grabs Harry and pulls him on top of his body. He holds the boy's smiling face and kisses the smile away.
Sirius is not a saint. He's no do-gooder, and he never aimed to win any awards for his virtue.
He's not good with temptation, and Harry is the most tempting thing he's ever known.
It's been a long time since he's felt alive, and Sirius decides that alive feels good again.
Harry sits up, straddling him. Sirius' cock likes this very much.
"You know I love you," Harry tells him.
Sirius nods.
"Is it wrong to want this, too?"
"Too?"
"I'm not ready to be an Auror yet," Harry says. "I don’t want any new nightmares."
Sirius lays a finger on the scar on Harry's chest. He can feel his heart beating fast. "Maybe we can make some memories that don't have to turn into nightmares," Sirius says softly. Already, he's getting his bike out of storage in his mind. He's shaking off the dusty tarp. He's wrapping Harry's arms around him from behind and gunning the engine.
They're making magic together. Making magic again.
Harry leans down and whispers in his ear, "Fuck me, Sirius."
Sirius' cock rises up and touches Harry's arsehole. Harry whispers something else and the way goes slick. Sirius aims and Harry moves back onto it, gasping and closing his eyes as the head breaches him. He braces his hands on Sirius' chest and starts to take it inside slowly, an inch in, an inch out, an inch and a half in, an inch and a half out.
Sirius just watches him, feeling it happen, unhurried. He just runs the backs of his fingers along the boy's jaw, the beginnings of beard. He lets Harry set the pace and only takes his hips and thrusts when that pace quickens, when Harry closes his eyes and starts to pant.
"Touch yourself," Sirius tells him, because he's not ready to not be holding Harry's rolling hips. Because he wants to see how Harry does it. Because this is what life should feel like. Like discovery rather than distance.
Harry sits back, lets Sirius fuck up into him, and fists his cock fast. He breathes Sirius' name when he comes this time, and even if it's not true, Sirius believes - right now and so strong - that everything's going to be all right after all.
Sirius closes his eyes. And he dreams awake.
END
Author: traintracks
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Sirius/Harry, (Hermione/Ron, Kreacher)
Rating: NC-17
Prompt #: 20 AU Sirius lives. After the war Harry moves in with Sirius and they both have nightmares and comfort each other. One thing leads to another…
Word count: 4,540
Summary: Please see the awesome, awesome prompt.
Warnings: Highlight to read: *godfather/godson, cross-gen (39/18), mentions of major canon character deaths*
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Thank you to my brilliant betas _ and _. You are just lovely, and I'm sorry that because of prolonged computer problems I could not use your valuable insights. Thank you for your cheerleading and support!
Before his eyes adjust, it's like he's back there. He's inside. The dark sits so dense, he can't make out his hand, his breath, the four walls that have choked out all light, all noise, any chance of escape. He lies in a coffin made of cement and dark magicks.
Sirius sits bolt upright in his bed. His chest hurts from how hard he's breathing. He still can't see, and he almost transforms into his dog self from fear, but then there's the voice.
That voice.
"I'm here, Sirius."
There are soft footfalls on his floor, bare feet on wood and then rug as he nears.
Sirius blinks rapidly. His hands have made quick destructive work of his bedding, tearing the sheet in his sleep.
Harry's hand touches the back of his where it grips the ruined covers. Sirius twitches, involuntarily ready to bolt away. But then his eyes adjust, and the dark isn't so dark after all. He's in his room. It's cleaner than it has ever been in his life - the cobwebs swept, the curses broken, the veins of old hatred drained away. Harry turns on a lamp by the bed, and as soon as Sirius sees his face, he pulls him down - onto the bed, into his arms - and holds him tight.
There is a whole war between Sirius and Azkaban. There had been whole new atrocities since his escape, but somehow he always ends up back there in his dreams. It was his most prolonged hell. He knows it more intimately. The scars from battle will never ache like the invisible ones from that place.
He's told Harry all this. In the evenings when they're alone in the house and they've done all the cleaning they can do, they've eaten and had a couple firewhiskeys and have the telly on in the study on mute… Then they sit and they talk about what they know, what they don't know, what they remember, and what they've tried to forget.
Sirius can't speak now. He holds Harry so hard he knows it must hurt a little. But Harry always endures this part stoically. He lets Sirius manhandle him, stroke his back, whisper pathetic reassurances in his ear as though it is Harry who needs this.
"It's okay. I'm okay. I'm okay," Sirius pants, his breath not yet calm.
Harry has told him what it was like, thinking Sirius was dead, that Bellatrix had killed him. He has described his effort to torture her, his failure.
Maybe he does need these words, too.
Harry's heartbeat against Sirius' chest relaxes him. He takes a deep breath - and then another. His arms loosen around his godson. He draws back. Harry smiles at him, warm in the lamplight.
"Blast," Sirius sighs. Harry probably has handprints on his back now, Sirius' fingerprints wrapped around his sides.
But Harry takes Sirius' hand in his own gently. "Make you some tea?" he asks.
Sirius nods. They get up off of the bed and trudge downstairs, creaking the old house with every quiet step.
*
"Please tell Kreacher his pudding was lovely," Hermione says as she dons her coat.
Ron helps her on with it and then wraps his arm around her shoulders. Sirius can't quite believe how big he's gotten. He was just a squeaking little gnome yesterday it seems. Hermione was a girl in a bad sweater with frizzy hair and two tons of courage. And Harry had him pinned to a dirty floor with a wand to his throat.
Now, Hermione and Ron are eighteen and living in "sin" together at the Burrow and coming to dinners and being new adults in a post-war world. Sirius is used to Harry's adulthood. It's seeing his friends that reminds Sirius of how young they all are still.
He leans in and kisses Hermione on the cheek; he shakes Ron's hand. "We're so glad you could come. Our love to your family, Ron."
Harry kisses Hermione quickly on the lips then shoves Ron in the shoulder good-naturedly. He doesn't object to the 'we' or the 'our'. He smiles and bids his friends safe Apparating.
It's Harry who closes the door when they leave.
It's Harry's door now, too.
Harry turns with a raise of his eyebrows and leans against the door for a moment just breathing. Then he pushes away, wraps his arms around Sirius' neck, and presses close. Sirius hesitates only a moment before holding him, too, but almost as soon as it starts to feel wonderful, Harry moves away again. "I could use a stiff drink," he says with a smirk, his hand trailing over Sirius' chest, his shoulder, before falling away as he retreats. "You?"
Harry is almost all the way down the hall before Sirius fairly whispers, "Yes."
*
It's not that night but the next that Sirius wakes to the sounds. There is a crashing noise next door, and Sirius isn't even quite awake when he bolts out of his bed, through his doorway, around the corner, and into Harry's room.
A mirror is shattered on the floor, and Harry is sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.
"Are you all right?" Sirius falls to his knees in front of him.
"I'm fine," Harry murmurs.
"You're not hurt? The glass…"
"No, I'm fine." Harry looks up. His eyes are red from crying, his jaw rough with whiskers. He's not wearing a shirt, and his skin is pale and cold.
"Come here," Sirius says, rising up on his knees and holding him.
Sirius' chest is bare, too, and together, their skins warm. Sirius can feel Harry's pulse beating in his neck.
"Bad one," Sirius says, not a question.
Harry nods. His hands slide onto Sirius' hips. "Snape," is all he says.
Sirius knows what it means. The guilt still eats at Harry - that he hated the man erroneously. He has dreams that he's the snake again, but this time biting into Severus' flesh even as Severus begs Harry to stop. He dreams that Severus slips into the black water and drags him down, too. Severus becomes an Inferius before Harry's eyes, and Harry experiences the panic of drowning but never dies.
That one is the same every time. Sirius feels inadequate to comfort him.
"Cold…" Harry shivers. He turns his face into Sirius' neck, his lips breathing warm air there, and then Sirius feels his chilly fingers descending, just the tips of them slipping under the waistband of Sirius' pajama trousers, just resting and warming against a place that could be his back or could be the start of his arse and is probably best left undefined anyway.
Sirius' cock comes immediately alive. He holds very still and prays for strength, for the fortitude to keep withstanding this boy.
Finally, Harry withdraws - warm, sneaky fingers and all. Sirius sits back on his heels as Harry runs his hands through his hair and yawns.
"Fetch you anything?" Sirius asks.
Harry shakes his head. He looks awful. The dimmed light of a much older man shines out of his young eyes.
"You sure, love?" The endearment is a slip-up, but Harry doesn't seem to notice.
"I'm sure."
Sirius stands with a grunt, his bones popping. Harry smirks up at him briefly. Sirius frowns. He can't help himself and reaches out, cupping Harry's angular jaw in his hand. He feels the boy swallow. Harry's lips part.
Sirius drops his hand and turns to the door. When he's at the threshold, Harry calls to him.
"Sirius?"
"Yeah?" Sirius turns.
"Would you…stay here?"
Sirius waits a moment. "Sure." He starts to wander over to the armchair in the corner, wishing he had some tea or coffee (or amphetamines) if he's going to stay up keeping Harry company the rest of the night.
"No," Harry says, stopping him. He swallows and drops his eyes. "I meant sleep here. I meant sleep with me." He clears his throat. "Never mind."
Sirius takes a step toward the bed. "Sleep in the bed with you," he says, comprehension dawning too slow.
Harry sounds angry now. "I said never mind." He lies down, turning away and pulling the covers up to his ear.
Sirius stands there for a moment. Then he slowly walks over to the other side of the bed. Harry's open eyes watch him as Sirius peels back the heavy covers and climbs inside. He faces Harry, snuggling down under the blankets. Harry blinks, and Sirius scoots in closer, so that their knees touch - so that he can reach out and lay his hand over Harry's arm on his pillow.
Harry sighs. Sirius feels his body relax, watches as Harry shuts his eyes. Sirius does, too.
He's almost all the way asleep when he hears the small voice say, "Thank you."
*
He wakes pressed up against Harry's backside. Sirius is rock hard, and Harry's bum provides a delicious cradle for his erection. It feels so bloody good, Sirius almost can't make himself move away. His arms are around the boy from behind, and Harry's hair smells like spiced plums.
Sirius hasn't fucked in a really, really long damned time. Harry's body feels too good like this. Like they'd fit.
Harry shifts, his arse bumping back and unknowingly massaging Sirius' ready prick.
Sirius swallows a grunt and backs out of the bed. He's almost to the door when Harry's sleepy voice murmurs from the bed, "Morning."
Sirius answers back perfunctorily. He certainly can't turn around. He hears Harry stretching his taut body, throwing covers back. Sirius strides back to his own room and wards the door and walls for privacy. But he doesn't bring himself off.
He fills a basin with very cold water.
*
"Help me with these?" Harry says, kicking his boots free of the first snow, three grocery bags tottering in his arms as though he doesn't know enough magic to keep them upright, much less decrease their weight.
Sirius hurries to Harry's side, grabbing a bag that's about to spill its…well, some sort of vegetation Sirius doesn't recognize. But before he can take its weight himself, Kreacher cracks in on the scene.
"Kreacher shall help Mr. Potter, sir. Kreacher can carry all these bags and then some, thank you, sir."
"Thank you, Kreacher," Harry smiles down on him. "I appreciate it."
Sirius isn't sure he likes being ousted as grocery bag hero so easily. "I can carry this one," he tries, but he gets a withering look from Kreacher that communicates quite clearly that he's there to help Harry, not share this honorable task with his former master.
Harry hasn't told him the entire story yet of how he and Kreacher have come to such good terms. Sirius just knows he doesn't share in it. The elf can still be found muttering about him under his breath, and it's Harry who gently chides him for it.
Sirius isn't sure when he ceased being man of the house - and when Harry claimed the role. He knows that after he nearly went through the Veil and subsequently spent months in St. Mungo's it was Harry who saw to the house in his absence over the summer. It was Harry who risked his life to stay at Grimmauld Place, to get Sirius' house in order for his return, and who spent a great deal of time with Kreacher in Sirius' absence. Still, how this strange simpatico occurred is a mystery. Sirius wonders if it involved the Black Family stores of finely-aged brandy.
With a smug smile, Harry watches Sirius hand over his bag to the snarling elf.
"Does Mr. Potter require anything else?" Kreacher asks, ignoring Sirius' presence as much as possible.
"No. Thank you," Harry says to him, and then Kreacher Disapparates with the bags. Harry looks back at Sirius and laughs, giving him a little shove. "What are you, jealous?"
Sirius frowns. "Of course not."
"Are you sure?" Harry needles. He strips his coat off. "Merlin, isn't there a fire going somewhere or do you enjoy this kind of artic weather indoors, Sirius?"
"I'll go stoke the one in the study. Are you going to join me for a drink or would you rather chop…whatever the bloody hell…with the damned house elf?" Almost unthinkingly as he speaks, Sirius strips off Harry's gloves and scarf and throws them into the corner of the foyer rather than hanging them up.
"Anise," Harry tells him. "And no, I don't know the first thing about whatever he's doing with it." He sidles up close to Sirius, placing his hands on Sirius' hips.
Sirius stands stock still, not touching him back.
"I'll gladly join you in the study. I can't wait to get off my feet. The lines at the co-op were miles long. And I need to warm up," he finishes. Then he slides his hands up under Sirius' jumper with an evil little grin.
Sirius gasps as Harry's cold fingers, his palms, caress up Sirius' belly, over his ribs. For one instant, his fingers tease over Sirius' nipples under the clothes. Then Harry withdraws his hands entirely and makes off down the hall.
Sirius takes a deep breath and then follows him, intending to make his drink a double. And then have three of those.
*
"You're ready," Sirius tells him. Dinner is a distant memory, and they've slowed their whiskey drinking to a late night crawl. The conversation has turned, again, to Harry's life. Not Harry's life up to the end of the war but whatever comes next.
Harry isn't too fond of this topic, Sirius has found.
Sirius tries to be a good godfather about it and steer him back toward his dreams - the ones Harry had before he had to fight Voldemort. Before he had to die.
Sirius knows he's full of shit. He's not exactly leading by example. You spend twelve years in Azkaban and then several more trapped in your own house, and that's sort of a hard habit to break.
He remembers that life is supposed to taste like wind in your face, a purring motor between your legs. Like laughing until your sides hurt and a hot wand in your hand and sex.
Like sex and sex and sex.
"I'm not," Harry corrects him, breaking Sirius out of his wandering thoughts. Harry swirls his glass and sighs, staring at the floor somewhere between the sofa where he sits and the chair where Sirius slumps. After a few moments, he lifts his gaze to meet Sirius' eyes. He looks ten years older than he is. He looks secretly, quietly wise. "What if it doesn't measure up?"
Sirius watches him, lets the thought come around to what Harry really wants to say.
"What if I don't measure up?"
"The wizard who defeated Voldemort and saved the world," Sirius says dryly.
"Well, yes, actually," Harry says, his voice rising. "Not a lot of room for improvement there." Then he scoffs at himself. "That's not what I mean."
"I know," Sirius tells him. He kicks at the rug where it's begun to fray. "But what's the alternative?"
Harry blinks at him. "Be normal," he says.
"You? Normal? What does that look like exactly?"
Harry doesn't hesitate in his answer. "Shopping for anise and fresh garlic and heavy cream. Walking home in the snow until my toes go numb. Getting up late on a Sunday and fighting over who gets which section of the Prophet first."
Sirius licks his lips. "With me," he adds.
Harry stares at him. "With you."
"You don't want to be an Auror?"
Harry sets his drink down and leans back into the cushions, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, growling tiredly. "Oh you know I do, dammit. I just-"
"You just what?" Sirius downs his drink. The fire pops. Snow creeps up the window on the ledge outside. It's going to be a very cold night. His bed is going to be very, very cold.
Maybe these questions are useless. Or worse than useless, destructive. Maybe this isn't at all what Harry needs. Maybe he needs to get 'normal' out of his system. This is not the first time Sirius has felt like a crap godfather. He never seems to know the right thing to say.
"I'm just being a morose brat," Harry sighs. "I'll get over it."
"You don't think you have a right to some rest?" Sirius asks him. "Some privacy? Something normal for a while?"
"Aren't you sick of me in your house, Sirius?"
Sirius frowns. "Are you kidding?" he asks. "Harry, are you fucking kidding?"
"What?"
"I've wanted you to live with me for five years. More than that. This is your house, too. We're bloody family."
Harry looks at him a long time, foreign, subtle emotions clouding his eyes. "Are we?" he says softly.
Sirius just blinks at him.
Then Harry rubs his hands over his eyes again, stands, and stretches. "Never mind. I'm slightly drunk." Even before the words are out, he weaves a little, stumbling.
Sirius jumps up, grasping his arms and steadying him.
Harry grasps back, looking up at him searchingly.
"What?" Sirius asks. It comes out a whisper.
Harry just looks at him, his hands sliding up Sirius' arms to his shoulders. He says nothing. He just waits. He just stands there and seems to read Sirius. Waiting expectantly for something.
For the first time, Sirius realizes what he might be waiting for.
The frequent, full-body-press hugs; the prolonged looks; the inappropriateness that Sirius had always explained away as scarring from Harry's deficient upbringing, his heightened need for the physical affection he was never given. With Harry's hands on him now, his gaze so penetrating it's almost Legilimency, Sirius realizes that maybe Harry hasn't been touching him inappropriately as a godson, but rather appropriately as a lover.
"It's late," Sirius says stupidly. He feels like a supreme git before he's even finished saying it.
Harry nods. His look turns almost pitying, and his hand moves to cup Sirius' jaw. "Goodnight, Sirius," he says, and Sirius wants to hold him there, wants to find out.
But Harry walks away, and Sirius listens to him climb the stairs, staring into a dying fire and wondering what the hell he should do.
And what the hell he shouldn't.
*
Sirius stands in the courtyard with the others. Limp against Hagrid's chest, Harry's body looks so small, so fragile. Easy to kill.
Sirius starts toward Voldemort mindlessly. The monster blurs in Sirius' tears. The roar that comes out of Sirius has no words; it has no language; it precedes it. He has nothing left but rage and grief and rage again.
Hands reach out to stop him. So many hands it takes to hold him back from avenging his godson. His Harry.
Sirius crumples to the stone ground under the weight of all those hands. The hands press him down, down, down, until he's suffocating from them, from the tears that won't stop. A pale claw of a hand covers his nose and mouth, and Sirius realizes he can die this way. He can leave now. It's over. There's nothing left for him here.
Sirius gives up. He welcomes the emptiness in his lungs, the burn that means it's almost over.
He closes his eyes and tries to see Harry there waiting for him in the dark.
"Sirius! Wake up!"
He can't open his eyes. He doesn't want to see a lie. He doesn't want to face the truth.
Sirius can't take any more hard truths.
Moody and Dumbledore. Remus and Tonks. Lily and James.
James…
And Harry.
His Harry.
"Sirius, goddamnit," Harry says, shaking him awake.
And the roar that Sirius thought he no longer had in him erupts from his throat. He surges up, wrestling his demons as though they are still outside of him, as though they have form beyond thought.
The arms in his hands are thin but strong. They are human. This is not the Dementor's Kiss. This is not death and destruction. But he's got this body under him; he's pinning it down; he's seething over it.
Finally, his eyes are open, and it's Harry beneath him. Sirius feels mad. He knows he must appear mad, his hair hanging down, eyes wild. But Harry, below him, doesn't flinch.
Sirius wants to say his name. Harry is alive and breathing. They won the war, and they did it together. Those other losses were real, but Harry is alive. Harry is here.
Sirius says nothing. He leans down and kisses Harry once, quick and hard. He draws back and looks at the boy. Harry doesn't look shocked. He looks ready. Sirius leans down and kisses him again, just as briefly. But then Harry pulls Sirius down, and they kiss a third time, Harry's mouth opening under his own.
Harry's hands roam hungrily down Sirius' naked torso, down his back and into his pajama trousers. His legs part to let Sirius settle there. Sirius groans into the boy's mouth. Mindlessly, he starts to thrust. One of Harry's hands sifts into his hair while the other grabs his arse, and Harry is moving against him, too, rubbing his hard prick against Sirius'.
Sirius breaks the kiss to lay his head next to Harry's while he shoves at his trousers until they're around his thighs. Harry does the same to his own. And then they're kissing again, and they're wild on each other, bare cocks touching, sliding, their breaths hot and frantic. Sirius claws at Harry's trousers with one impatient hand until they're down around his ankles. Harry's knees open back up and frame Sirius' hips.
They buck against one another, alternately kissing and looking into each other's eyes for permission, kissing again, until Harry gasps, "C-coming…" and then he is. Sirius undulates through the warm spunk on the boy's stomach and then comes, too, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, Harry, fuck."
Harry holds Sirius' hair back from his face and kisses him again. Their hips slow. Harry keens into Sirius' mouth. Sirius pulls back to place soft kisses down Harry's jaw, to his earlobe, down the side of his neck, and while he kisses, he apologizes in a rough whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Sirius, shut it," Harry breathes.
Sirius tastes the sweat at the base of Harry's throat. He kisses the taste into Harry's willing mouth. Sirius runs his hand down Harry's muscular body and back up. He breaks the kiss. "I didn't know what I was doing," he tries.
"Yes, you did," Harry whispers, unwilling to let him lie to save them both. Then he cups Sirius' face. "You okay? The dream…" His knees still hug Sirius' body. They shouldn't have done this. They shouldn't still be doing this. Sirius doesn't answer. He just kisses Harry again, deep and hard. Harry moans into his mouth, his hands going into Sirius' hair and making tight fists.
When Sirius finally pulls back a little, Harry hums, smiling, and looks up into Sirius' eyes. "Quit frowning," he says. Then, "Is your wand nearby? Because we're going to get glued together."
Sirius leans over and, with a grunt, grabs the wand off his nightstand and cleans them up. He rolls onto his back and pulls his trousers up. Harry kicks his off his ankles instead.
"What are you doing?"
"What, I can be naked while you rub one off on me but not after?" Harry's wry smile is crooked.
"Where did you get that vulgar mouth?" Sirius asks, turning his gaze to stare at the ceiling as though he can find the right answers written on it.
"Hermione," Harry answers readily. "But if you think that's vulgar, you've lost your touch."
Sirius turns his head sharply. "Have I?"
Harry blushes. "No."
It's the blushing that makes Sirius feel like a dirty old man. He huffs a sigh. "So is this the new way we deal with nightmares now?"
Harry turns on his side, trailing a hand over Sirius' chest until he finds and pinches a nipple. Sirius inhales, and Harry leans in to lick it. "How about this is the new way we handle everything?"
"You're my godson," Sirius reminds him, although his timing really could not be worse with Harry's teeth scraping deliciously along his skin.
"Don't pull that shit," Harry takes the time to say. Then he licks across a tattoo and takes Sirius' other nipple into his mouth.
"Wait." Sirius touches Harry's head. "Wait, stop." Even though it feels bloody fantastic and his cock is already twitching for it.
Harry does as he asks, lifting his head and looking at him. He waits for Sirius to speak, and Sirius knows he should. He should say no to this. He should be the adult. He should put things right.
"Bugger it," he says. He strips his pajamas off and then grabs Harry and pulls him on top of his body. He holds the boy's smiling face and kisses the smile away.
Sirius is not a saint. He's no do-gooder, and he never aimed to win any awards for his virtue.
He's not good with temptation, and Harry is the most tempting thing he's ever known.
It's been a long time since he's felt alive, and Sirius decides that alive feels good again.
Harry sits up, straddling him. Sirius' cock likes this very much.
"You know I love you," Harry tells him.
Sirius nods.
"Is it wrong to want this, too?"
"Too?"
"I'm not ready to be an Auror yet," Harry says. "I don’t want any new nightmares."
Sirius lays a finger on the scar on Harry's chest. He can feel his heart beating fast. "Maybe we can make some memories that don't have to turn into nightmares," Sirius says softly. Already, he's getting his bike out of storage in his mind. He's shaking off the dusty tarp. He's wrapping Harry's arms around him from behind and gunning the engine.
They're making magic together. Making magic again.
Harry leans down and whispers in his ear, "Fuck me, Sirius."
Sirius' cock rises up and touches Harry's arsehole. Harry whispers something else and the way goes slick. Sirius aims and Harry moves back onto it, gasping and closing his eyes as the head breaches him. He braces his hands on Sirius' chest and starts to take it inside slowly, an inch in, an inch out, an inch and a half in, an inch and a half out.
Sirius just watches him, feeling it happen, unhurried. He just runs the backs of his fingers along the boy's jaw, the beginnings of beard. He lets Harry set the pace and only takes his hips and thrusts when that pace quickens, when Harry closes his eyes and starts to pant.
"Touch yourself," Sirius tells him, because he's not ready to not be holding Harry's rolling hips. Because he wants to see how Harry does it. Because this is what life should feel like. Like discovery rather than distance.
Harry sits back, lets Sirius fuck up into him, and fists his cock fast. He breathes Sirius' name when he comes this time, and even if it's not true, Sirius believes - right now and so strong - that everything's going to be all right after all.
Sirius closes his eyes. And he dreams awake.
END