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traintracksTitle: Daylight – Part Two of Six
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traintracks777 / traintracks
Part One: On DW | On LJ
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The bar was nearly empty, just the usual assortment of the dregs of magical society. And Sirius. Sirius sat on a stool at the bar sipping a whiskey, his booted foot hooked on the lowest rung, the silver chain of his pocket watch showing.
He’d dressed in a beautiful black suit with a purple silk shirt. He looked dressed for a dinner date. Harry gulped. He was absolutely gorgeous. He’d made himself gorgeous…for Harry.
Or for the voluptuous barmaid wiping down empty tables with a rag, Harry thought.
Sirius looked up, mid-sip, and saw him. He put his glass down and smiled. He signaled the bartender. “Butterbeer. In a clean mug.”
Harry sat on the stool next to Sirius, and though there was plenty of room at the bar, he didn’t scoot the stool back but left it close to Sirius’. Harry planted his own foot next to his godfather’s on the bar stool and sipped his butterbeer when it came. It suffused him with warmth. Sirius was smiling at him.
“What?”
“You’ve got a…” And Sirius waggled his finger at Harry’s upper lip.
“Oh.” Harry went to grab a napkin, but Sirius reached out and swiped it away with his thumb. The pad of it was rough, callused. It left Harry’s tender lip tingling. It left him barely able to breathe. Then Sirius sucked the bit of froth off of the tip of his thumb quickly, nonchalant. Harry stared at him. The light seemed to dance in his godfather’s eyes. Harry shivered.
“You look cold.”
“I’m okay,” Harry said.
“Do you call that a coat?” Sirius asked, pointing at Harry’s jacket. Then he took his own coat off the barstool on his other side and draped it around Harry’s shoulders. It smelled like warm bedrooms. Harry wanted to shake himself – what a stupid thing to think something smelled like. But Sirius was now smiling at him again. “Drink up,” he said.
Harry gulped his butterbeer down. It warmed him from the inside out.
“Now c’mon,” Sirius said, standing. “Follow me.”
Harry got up, Sirius’ coat slung around him, and followed his godfather into the men’s room. Not for the first or fifth or tenth time since Sirius had said it, Harry wondered what on earth could be in here of any interest. Harry did know what two men could do in a men’s bathroom, of course, and that was wicked interesting, but since the odds of that actually happening to him were somewhere around a million to one, Harry gave up the idea and resigned himself to the mystery.
Sirius had said it had something to do with his father, though.
He led him over to the last stall and gestured him inside. Harry blushed like mad but followed, crowding in beside his godfather.
“There,” Sirius said, pointing.
Harry squinted, pushing his glasses up on his nose. Carved in the wood of the stall wall, was this pronouncement:
Prongs and Padfoot were here and up to no good. Here is now consumed a fifth of stolen Firewhiskey in the name of all that is wrong and wonderful in the world. Drink and be merry, for tomorrow ye may be cursed with genital warts. Long live the Marauders!
Harry nearly choked on his own spit laughing. He looked at Sirius. “You carved all that?”
“And your father did, yes. We took turns. Too drunk to use our wands.”
“And you really stole a bottle of Firewhiskey and drank it in here?”
“From this very bar, yes. While Moony, er, Professor Lupin kept watch.”
Harry stared at the jagged lettering. He felt it under his fingertips. This was something his father had made. This was something Sirius had shared with James Potter and was now sharing with Harry. Harry looked at Sirius again. “Where was my mum?”
“Oh, probably off being good somewhere,” Sirius winked. “Certainly not in the boy’s bathroom, now was she?”
Harry looked back at the lettering, his father’s decree to the world, to a not-yet-existent son: drink and be merry. He remembered Hermione’s warning. He looked at Sirius. “Thank you for showing me this.”
Sirius reached out and stroked Harry’s hair off his forehead. He said, “Anytime.”
Harry blinked at the gentle touch. But then Sirius was exiting the stall, and Harry followed, and they went back out into the bar and Sirius bought him another drink. The two of them sat and talked and laughed for what seemed like minutes, but when Harry checked the clock over the bar finally, it turned out to have been three hours!
“Sirius, we’re going to be late back,” Harry said, standing.
“No, we’re not,” Sirius told him. He drained his whiskey and then led Harry outside. If anything the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. The sun was going down. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Take my arm,” Sirius said.
Harry hesitated. “Why?”
Sirius smirked. “Because I’m going to Apparate us to the front gates. You don’t want to walk back in this cold, do you?”
Harry didn’t know which sounded better actually – having an excuse to touch and be close to Sirius if only briefly or getting to spend more time not touching him while they walked back.
Sirius was apparently tired of waiting. He took Harry’s hand and wrapped their arms up together. Then he said, “Aw hell,” and grabbed Harry in a fierce hug. And then suddenly, they weren’t at the Hog’s Head – they were outside Hogwarts, and Sirius’ body against his own was the best thing Harry had ever felt.
Too soon, it was gone. Sirius pulled back. He stroked a snowflake off of Harry’s cheek with his thumb – that rough and gentle thumb – and it was only then that Harry realized it had started to snow again.
“Let’s get you inside,” Sirius said, and perhaps Harry imagined the change, the deep timbre of his voice. But perhaps he didn’t.
They walked through the gates, up the steps, and there they separated as Sirius climbed the stairs to his room and Harry climbed a different set to his own. But their gazes lingered. Sirius’ stayed, watching Harry’s steps, and Harry watched his godfather, and it was silent, this agreement, this slight giving in, until they could maintain it no more and the thick walls came to separate them for the night.
But Harry had Sirius’ coat. He wore it into the dorm room. He held it to his nose. Warm bedrooms…. He took it off and laid it on his bed, covering it with his blankets, hiding it, keeping it warm for later. And then he went down to join the others at dinner.
…
Sirius couldn’t believe it – after all the battles he’d fought, after the torture of Azkaban, the loss of his best friends, after nearly falling through the veil of death and damning Harry’s soul – here he was…nervous about a Quidditch match.
He sat close to the field, a crowd of cheering and jeering students behind him. It was the kind of stark bright cold that bled into your gloves and made breathing difficult. But when Harry came out onto the field, he looked nothing but confident. Not arrogant, though, and about that Sirius was especially proud.
Harry was the man James would have been if Sirius had had the strength and maturity to temper him. Like Lily finally did. In all kinds of ways that Sirius couldn’t.
Sirius was wakened from his ruminations by a frightfully realistic lion’s roar, and he turned, only to jump slightly back from the serene blond girl, for she did, indeed, have a lion on her head.
“Mr. Black,” she said in a dreamy voice. “I’m Harry’s friend, Luna. He was hoping you would come today. It is quite good to see you. Would you like a chocolate frog?”
“No. Thank you,” Sirius said.
Luna, under her again-roaring head, stared back at the field pleasantly.
Sirius turned back to see the two teams meet in the middle of the field. Harry and Draco were the captains, and they stepped forward to shake hands. Their grip was strong, maybe a bit too much so, but instead of hatred burning from the young men’s eyes, all Sirius saw was determination.
To his utter delight, he saw the both of them take deep breaths, hold it for a couple seconds, and then release it through their pale lips just like he had taught them.
Sirius couldn’t help cupping his hands around his mouth, watching his godson approach his team once more, and yelling, “Go, Harry!”
He must have heard, because he turned toward the sound. Sirius nodded at him once and winked. Harry shot him a crooked smile.
Then he was on his broom, and the whistle was blown, and he was kicking off.
“Jesus,” Sirius muttered as he watched Harry soar into the sky faster than anything he’d ever seen. He watched him shout to his teammates, pointing for this Beater to stay on that Chaser, and then he watched Harry scour the area for the Snitch.
Somehow he managed to keep an eye on all his teammates even as he did on Draco and the possibility of the Snitch as well. Harry had a keen eye for the game, and when he shouted commands to Ginny, “You’re freed up – take the second ring!” and she scored, or he praised Ron, “Bloody great save, stay sharp, Ron!” Sirius realized how very accomplished he was. And that this was not just a game. This would help determine what kind of wizard he was meant to be. It was clear to Sirius that his godson would make a remarkable leader.
He would lead them all.
Sirius could have blamed the cold, but he knew that it wasn’t the reason for the thin, freezing tears in his eyes.
It was a moment full of pride and deafening fear. To know that Harry was destined to be integral to defeating Voldemort. And there was nothing Sirius could do to stop it.
Despite Harry’s prowess, the game was tied at eighty points each. Both teams were highly skilled, and Harry and Draco both were poised to find the Snitch. “Go, Harry,” Sirius found himself whispering. His stomach was knotted up, and the fear was palpable, like a battle. Sirius suffered watching a Bludger smack into Harry’s side at forty feet up, forced to watch him plummet twenty of those feet, only to breathe a sigh of relief at how fast he recovered.
And then Sirius saw him spot the Snitch. Harry shot off to the far side of the field, and Draco, smart to do so, had been watching Harry and so took off in that direction, too.
Slytherin scored two fast goals on Ron, and the score was no longer tied. Sirius lost sight of Harry, turning his head this way and that, when all of a sudden an audible streak of red flashed by right in front of the stands, followed closely by a green one. Sirius actually gasped, and then he had to laugh at himself. He whistled after Harry’s retreating broom, and he called out, knowing he’d never be heard over the roar of the crowd (and Luna’s lion head right behind him), “I believe in you!” He felt giddy with the feeling – that he could shout as loud as he wanted here – that he could love Harry unabashedly, because everyone else who wasn’t a Slytherin loved him right now, too. He could shout his heart from the stands – his heart which was pounding so hard and so fast.
But he whispered it. He whispered it under his breath instead: “I love you. I love you, Harry.”
And in the very next moment, Harry’s hand shot into the air holding the glittering Snitch.
“YES!!” Sirius yelled, standing with everyone else in the most sudden ovation he’d ever witnessed.
His godson circled the stadium, pumping his fist and smiling, and the crowd exalted with him.
Sirius watched him float back down to earth, his hair wild, his teammates storming him. And he felt within himself the horrible click, the definitive proof of his feelings – there, watching Harry. Sirius swallowed, his throat tight. And he couldn’t be out of the stadium fast enough.
…
He took the stairs up into the tower two at a time. He shoved into his rooms, slamming the door behind himself. He ran a hand through his hair and cursed. He threw his coat across the room, and then he stripped his shirt off and threw that, too. He ran cold water into the basin by the vanity, and then he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
A used up dirty old man stared back at him.
Who are you? he asked himself. The answer disgusted him: You’re who you’ve always been but worse. You’re nothing, Black. You’re scum.
You don’t deserve him.
You bloody well don’t deserve his love.
He dunked his head into the water in the basin and came up gasping. The cold water ran down his hair, his neck, his chest and back – all the tattoos that reminded him of where he’d been, what he’d become. Sirius scrubbed at his face, pushed back his hair; he began to pace.
Why did he have to feel this way? Why??
Not Harry. Dear God, not Harry!
Not this boy he was sworn to protect. This boy with the striking green eyes and the smile that could decimate him so completely and this young body that responded to him, that sang to him, that felt perfect against his own, whose vitality he craved and whose breath shuddered through them both.
Not Harry, his student, his pupil, the Chosen One he needed to prepare for battle.
Not Harry, his godson who should trust him not to, never to feel the way he was feeling right bloody now, which was like he wanted to take himself roughly in hand and give in to the horrible temptation, to hurt himself with it, to stroke himself raw and coming and then cut the goddamned thing OFF.
Sirius paced his room, sweating, dripping water, cursing under his breath.
He stopped in front of the mirror again. He blinked at himself once, this wild, uncouth, wretched self. And then he took the glass on the lip of the sink and he threw it at his own face, breaking the mirror and his reflection into distorted shards.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and he sat like that for a few minutes. Then he got up and poured himself a large drink. He drank half of it, grimacing. He was about to drink down the other half when a knock came at the door.
And then, of course, because who else would it be, Harry, not waiting, barged in, breathless, smiling, exuberant.
“We won!” he declared. “I looked for you, but you’d gone. I won!”
And then he came at Sirius as though to hug him, and Sirius braced himself. He braced and was ready to push Harry away after just a moment of contact. Because he was weak. He was so fucking weak.
But Harry didn’t hug him. Harry walked up to him, cupped his face, and kissed him hard and just the once. Sirius was stunned. And maybe that’s why Harry thought he could do it again. Softer. Staying for half a breath before pulling back. But Sirius caught him around the waist, dropping his glass and spilling the whiskey, and he yanked him back in, and he opened Harry’s mouth with his own, and he delved inside with his hard tongue, and he gripped the slight body to his own and plunged his tongue into Harry’s mouth. And then he walked him backward and slammed his back against the door, and he kissed him hard and deep, and Harry tasted like sweat, and Sirius devoured him.
He ground his body tight against Harry’s, his pelvis pinning him to the door, and he could feel Harry’s hands on his bare chest almost distantly. Sirius pulled him in hard and close only to slam him back against the door again, his tongue deeper, hot in Harry’s mouth, and Harry groaned high and weak, and his tongue was in Sirius’ mouth, tentatively, for that held breath of a moment – bliss and beauty and everything good in the world – and then everything crashed back down, and Sirius shoved himself away.
“Get out!” he roared.
Harry blinked, confused and aroused. His sweet cock was so hard against his shaking thigh, and Sirius was hard, and he wanted to fuck this boy, he would fuck his Harry, so he shouted it again, “Get out! Now!”
And he didn’t wait. He just took Harry by the arms and opened his door and shoved the boy out into the hall and locked the door behind him and put both his hands to his head and started to shake with the fury and the tears as they came silently, hidden from the boy who remained, frozen in his hall, frozen in his life, and Sirius sank down onto the bed and cried, and he didn’t stop, even as he heard the shuffling footsteps get further and further away.
…
He should feel awful – just awful. That’s what Harry kept telling himself. He was worried, mostly for Sirius, for the obvious pain it had caused him. But for himself, though he’d been thoroughly rejected, Harry just…couldn’t.
Sirius had kissed him.
Sirius wanted him.
Sirius wanted him.
The moment when Sirius had grabbed him and pulled him in and kissed him so hard it hurt had been one of the best moments of Harry’s life. He could still feel the burn of his beard, the taste of his tongue like ginger and smoke, the way it moved in his mouth, desperate and demanding.
It was hard not to smile through breakfast. Hermione looked at him as though he might be coming down with the flu. Ron was oblivious, but when was that not the case?
Sirius wasn’t at the teachers’ table. He often ate elsewhere, probably in his room or he rose early and had a bite down in Hogsmeade – Harry wasn’t sure. He did wonder if he should be more worried. Sirius had shoved him away so hard. He had been fighting tears when he’d shouted at Harry to get out.
Some of the magic drained off of Harry in the light of a new day, remembering the stricken expression on his godfather’s face. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t care how guilty Sirius felt about it; it was more that he was determined to convince him that he shouldn’t feel guilty about it – to show him that he had single-handedly made Harry’s most secret and beautiful dreams come true last night. That he was loved.
Hermione had warned him about getting Sirius in trouble. But right now, what seemed to be the worst thing for Sirius was how torn he was about the whole thing. And Harry wasn’t torn. He’d known that day in Saint Mungo’s exactly what he was saying. He’d never felt a moment’s pause since. He’d wondered if it meant there was something wrong with him, sure. Who falls in love with a man twice his age? Who falls in love with his own godfather? But he had never once had to wonder if it was real.
And now he knew that, while Sirius would prefer it be otherwise, he had feelings for Harry, too. Sexual feelings. Harry hid his ecstatic blush behind a particularly large cinnamon bun. He tried out all the different ways he could think to say it:
Sirius wanted him.
Sirius wanted to have sex with him.
Sirius wanted to make love to him.
Sirius loved him, like he loved Sirius.
Sirius had kissed him like a man who wanted something so badly it hurt. He had kissed Harry like a man who needed more than a kiss.
Harry’s cock, impossible to keep down for long recently, sprang up again at the realization. Harry was glad to be sitting at the table without too many people around just yet. He made a show of eating his cinnamon bun slowly, relishing it, when what he truly relished was the memory of Sirius’ body colliding against his own, the over-warm skin of the man’s naked chest, the press of tongue opening Harry’s mouth – how deep he went, how strong he was. When Sirius kissed him, Harry felt like his brain had turned to champagne, the bubbles of it rising up out of the top of his head, leaving only the ache between his legs and the joy in his heart.
“Harry, are you all right? Do you need Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione asked with a bit of alarm. “You’re bright red!”
“I’m fine,” Harry managed, taking another bite of bun. He couldn’t help still smiling.
Hermione seemed to spy some twinkle in his eye. “We need to talk, Harry.”
“’Bout what?” Ron asked.
Harry ignored him. “No, we don’t.”
“Harry…”
“No time,” Harry reminded her. “Defense against the Dark Arts. Don’t want to be late.”
He thought the look she would give him then would be angry, frustrated, but instead it was vaguely sad. Harry felt bad for blowing her off, but they really did need to get to class. And he longed to see how Sirius was doing. Harry wanted nothing more than to somehow convey that he didn’t care what anyone else thought; he loved Sirius and didn’t regret what Sirius had done, and he didn’t want Sirius to regret it either.
They reached the classroom, and it was empty. Neville and Ron started horsing around. Harry was afraid Hermione would corner him, but Cho had already sought her out for homework help. Harry saw Draco and Pansy across the room, and they appeared to be fighting as quietly as possible. Harry dug around in his book bag surreptitiously and watched out of the corner of his eye. Pansy looked quite angry, and Draco just looked tired and guilty.
Harry didn’t have time to wonder about it much, because Sirius came through the door then, and whatever Harry had been expecting – moroseness, the haggard face of lost sleep, guilt? – it was not this. Sirius was…the same.
“Morning, all,” he said, clapping his hands. “How are your stomach ache hexes coming? Am I to be dazzled with your brilliance today? Neville!” And he waved the boy over. “Why don’t you give yours a try on Ron since the two of you are so eager as to have conjured a layer of fog over the Astronomy tower already this morning? Class isn’t going to be cancelled, you know. Sinistra knows how to dispel fog, for Merlin’s sake.” Neville looked scared and sheepish, and his wand trembled in his fist.
Harry stared at Sirius. He looked for signs from last night but couldn’t find any. Disappointment sat in his gut, undigested. Did he want Sirius to be miserable? Had he wanted his godfather to show signs of his suffering?
Harry watched Sirius correct Ron’s wand hand, watched him instruct Neville on how to stabilize his stance. He looked focused and nearly cheerful. “The rest of you watch and take note,” Sirius said, casting his gaze around the room. His eyes touched on Harry and moved on, nothing of particular note registering there.
Harry swallowed. He couldn’t care less about Neville giving Ron a stomach ache. His thoughts were all inward, all disturbing. Had he wanted to see Sirius break down and weep in front of his friends? Did he expect his godfather to take him in his arms and declare his love in front of all of Hogwarts? Perhaps a repeat performance right there in front of the class?
Did he want to see Sirius vulnerable after last night? Changed because of what he’d done with Harry? Did he want to see evidence of himself in Sirius’ eyes?
Yes. Yes, he bloody well did.
And it wasn’t there. It just plain wasn’t there.
“Harry,” Sirius’ voice rang out.
Harry jumped. He looked wide-eyed at his godfather, his teacher. There stood the man who had kissed him, whose body he had touched, who had been rock hard against Harry’s belly, who had made him instantly hard with one touch of his tongue inside Harry’s mouth. Who he loved. Who loved him.
“Let’s see if you can withstand Pansy’s hex, yes?” Sirius continued.
Harry nodded, mute. He came to stand in the middle of the room. He turned his wand in his fingers, finding the right fit to deflect the stomach ache hex. He could feel Sirius behind him, not too close, but he could hear his breathing. Even breaths. In for four, hold for two, out through the lips.
He was doing the breathing exercise.
He needed to do the breathing exercise.
Harry felt something in his chest bloom and light up. It felt as though someone had lumosed him. His lungs felt vast and open. His blinked, and his blood moved easily through his body.
Sirius counted to three, and Harry raised his wand with confidence, but Pansy shouted fiercely, “Gastronimous!” And then once Harry was writhing on the floor, she stood over him and fairly screamed another, “Aquamenti!” and proceeded to soak Harry to the bone with a powerful jet of cold water. She shot the water into his face, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“Enough!” Sirius called. “Twenty points from Slytherin, and I’ll have your wand for the rest of the day Miss Parkinson.”
Harry watched, his stomach seized into a fist inside his body, rolling on the floor, as Pansy handed over her wand, and then, with what appeared to be a furious look in Draco’s direction, she stormed out of the room.
Sirius stood over him, then. He waved his wand and the pain evaporated. “I believe I’ll let you dry yourself,” he said. Harry looked for some recognition there, some message, anything, but again saw none.
The remainder of the class passed learning a new invisibility spell which no one could yet hope to master in the least. But when they’d finished unsuccessfully trying and it was time for class to be out, Sirius just said, “Good work,” and then he walked out of the room too quickly for Harry to catch him.
Harry shrugged off Hermione’s questing hand and followed. He knew Sirius had a two hour break now before double DADA with the Hufflepuffs after lunch, and he very much hoped to get Sirius alone for part of that time, if not to feel his arms wound tight around him then to at least talk about what had happened.
But when Harry reached the entrance hall, he stopped short. Sirius was there, but so was Remus Lupin. They shook hands heartily, and then Sirius pulled him in and hugged him. Harry swallowed against the fear and the jealousy. They were friends. There was plenty of good reason for Lupin to visit Sirius here, for them to hug. Harry watched Sirius bang Lupin on the back and then pull away smiling. Harry might have imagined the touch of sadness in that smile, but perhaps he hadn’t. He felt ashamed that any part of him wanted to see Sirius upset. He stood, holding the stairway banister as students from all years and houses shuffled past him trying to get to their next classes, and Harry watched as Lupin draped his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and, together, they walked out the front doors, out of Hogwarts, away from Harry.
…
Transfiguration seemed to last forever and a day. Harry couldn’t concentrate on getting his teapot to turn into a dictionary, although he managed to conjure the definition of “besotted” on its side.
“Fuck…” he sighed under his breath.
“Tell us how you really feel, mate,” Ron whispered.
Hermione said, “Read his teapot.”
But the lettering was already fading. Harry gave Hermione a withering look.
All Harry could think about was Sirius leaving with Lupin. It was one thing for Sirius to suffer alone. It was another thing all together to suffer with someone his own age who Harry half-suspected had previous knowledge of Sirius’ lips as well.
“I don’t guess you’re ready to talk about it,” Hermione said.
“Your dictionary’s got a whistle,” Harry informed her, his chin in his hand.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
If there had been a clock, Harry would have watched it. When McGonagall dismissed them, he had already made up his mind what he would do. He had an empty hour; he knew Sirius still had one left as well. Harry found a bathroom, hid out in a stall, and got out the Marauder’s Map.
It took some squinting and some patience, but finally, Harry saw both Sirius and Lupin’s names. They were in the stadium bleachers. Harry folded his map and went to get his coat.
…
Remus slumped over his tea. The steam rose into his gaunt face, and Sirius once again asked, “You’re sure you’re warm enough? My room is just—”
“I like the fresh air,” Remus told him again. “I was…confined…for the last three days. I’ll take the cold if it’s paired with the sun any day.”
“Was it bad this time?”
“Oh, yes, be a good friend now. Anything to deflect the conversation off of yourself, yeah?” Remus sipped at his tea, and Sirius sighed. He could never get anything past this man. “Come on. Out with it. You owled me here for a reason. Let’s have it.”
Sirius looked out on the blank field, the stillness of it. “It’s not that simple.”
“Never is.” Remus smiled at him. Yes, he would know. He would remember Sirius’ heart breaking over James, nights spent talking until they couldn’t help but finally sleep. “I’m your friend. Exactly who was it that became a dog just so I wouldn’t have to be alone and scared and dangerous three days out of the month?” He put his gentle hand on Sirius’ forearm. “You can tell me anything.”
The leaves rustled in the bushes behind them, and Sirius craned around to look, but there was nothing, just an empty tunnel. They were alone with this. Sirius prayed Remus would know what to say to help him.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“For Merlin’s sake, how bad can it be, man?”
“I’m in—” Sirius began, too loudly. He lowered his voice. “I’m in love with him.”
Remus’ eyes widened. “With… With Harry?”
“Be quiet, will you, yes.”
“Merlin’s beard,” Remus whispered. “I mean, I suspected, but—”
“You suspected?”
“Well, yes, to be frank.”
“Bugger, Remus!”
“Um, have you…?”
“No!” Sirius balked. “No, of course not.” Then he looked at his friend cautiously. “Almost.”
To his surprise, Remus didn’t blow up at him. He just nodded and sighed, “Well, that’s good at least, now isn’t it?”
And then they couldn’t help it; they both laughed. Because of the horrid cold, because of the utter seriousness of the problem, because of helplessness or too many years reading one another’s minds.
Because what was worse than losing James and Lily? What was worse than years in Azkaban? This was just…love.
This was just possible scandal. Getting sacked. Becoming an outcast, black-listed, losing Harry.
Losing Harry. He might as well lose his life.
“Does he love you? He does, doesn’t he?” Remus said. He offered Sirius a sip of his tea and Sirius took it.
“Thanks. Yeah. He told me before school started. After I almost—”
“Kicked the bucket?”
“Yes, you prick.” Sirius knew his friend was only trying to keep some levity around. He knew he had to joke about it or face it himself. “He told me then. And before you go on about teenagers falling in love with everything from professors to stairway banisters – and it wasn’t love for me that summer; it was oak-lust, pure and simple—”
Remus was already laughing at him, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Shut it, Moony.”
“Yes, all right.” He sobered.
Sirius took a deep breath. “Harry’s nearly a man. And I can tell you, he knows what he wants, and he’s bloody brilliant – brilliant. You should see him, Remus. Patroneses are nothing for him now, nothing. He’s extraordinary. And this isn’t a school boy crush. It’s real, Remus. And,” he stopped. He felt choked by it, but he had to say it. He simply had to. “I love him, too. Christ,” he groaned, feeling, now that he’d said it aloud to his best friend, overcome with the horror of it, “Christ, I love him, too. Shit!” He kicked the seat in front of him, and once again the bushes rustled, but when he turned, there was nothing there. He turned back to his friend.
“You could lose your job,” Remus said, not unkindly.
“Yeah, I know,” Sirius admitted.
“You could finally be ruined, Sirius. Half of England already thinks you’re a killer still.”
“I know.”
Remus sighed. “You could quit.”
“Dumbledore won’t let me.”
“What do you mean? It’s your life. If you want to take Harry away to the country and raise chickens and shag night and day, he can’t stop you.”
“Chickens?” Sirius repeated incredulously.
“Or whatever.” Remus sipped his tea. It was easy to forget he was a werewolf.
It was Sirius’ turn to sigh. “I can’t quit, Remus. What I’m doing… It’s important. It’s for Harry.”
“It’s for all of us.”
So Remus did get it. That he was training the one wizard who could defeat Voldemort. Of course he got it. He’d done it, too. And it was all that mattered. “Yeah. For all of us,” Sirius agreed.
“Well, at least I think I have a solution for you.”
“You do?” Sirius asked hopefully.
“Bloody cold showers, mate. Two years of waiting.”
Sirius dropped his head into his hands. “Has anyone told you lately that you’re a prick?”
“No, that’s actually why I’m here – I’m due.”
Sirius lifted his head out of his hands and wrapped one around the back of his friend’s neck. “I’ve missed you. You prick.”
Remus laughed. He finished his tea. Then he said, all mirth dissolved, “I’m sorry. I really am sorry, Sirius. After all you’ve been through…all you’ve both been through…you deserve to get to have each other.”
“Well, I do have him. I get to see him everyday. I get to teach him. I get to watch out for him. Maybe I can make up for all the time I couldn’t be there.” He sighed and then pulled out his pocket watch. “Do you want to come back for a drink tonight?”
“Well, uh, I would but…”
“But what?”
“But it’s Tonks and my six month anniversary, and if I’m late she’ll cut it off.”
Sirius clapped his friend on the back. “Well, bugger off then – who needs you?” He winked, and Remus grabbed him up in a hug. He held his friend’s frail body and knew the impossible strength lurking in his very bones. He smelled like wheatgrass. He’d always smelled like wheatgrass. It felt good to be able to count on something. Sirius let him go reluctantly.
They got up and they stretched and they said their farewells. “I’ll take a rain check on that drink, yeah?” Remus called from the gate.
“Right!” Sirius called back.
He felt only marginally better. But at least he no longer felt so alone.
…
Harry waited until Remus was out of sight and Sirius had gone back inside, and then he whipped the invisibility cloak off and sat shivering on the ground. Shivering and happy and torn apart.
He’d gotten to hear Sirius say he was in love with him. And just a few breaths later, he’d realized what an arse he’d been, how selfish, and that he was going to have to leave Sirius alone.
He hadn’t thought that he could get Sirius sacked. He hadn’t thought that he could ruin what was left of Sirius’ new life. Hermione had been right all along, and he’d blown her off and gone after Sirius, his thoughts only on what he could have, not on what could be lost. And Sirius had everything to lose.
But he loved him. He did love him. He wanted to…shag him. Harry blushed even under the onslaught of the cold. Sirius was in love with him. And there was nothing they could do about it until Sirius quit teaching at Hogwarts or Harry graduated, which if Sirius defied the odds against a Defense against the Dark Arts teacher lasting only the one year, could very well be two years into the future.
Two years before Harry would feel that kiss again. Those whiskey lips opening his own and that stronger body pressing his against the door. Never mind the shagging – he didn’t exactly know what he was missing anyway; but he now knew Sirius’ kiss. He’d know, for all that time, what he couldn’t have.
He’d also know what he could and did: Sirius’ heart, his time, his energy, his wisdom, his laugh, his mentoring, his protection.
He could do this. He’d bloody well have to.
Harry got up off the ground, folded his cloak away, blew on his hands, and jogged back to the front doors of his school, his prison, his haven, his life.
He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall. Lunch had just appeared, and Harry took his spot across from the two of them.
“Where have you been?” Hermione hissed, leaning over the table at him.
“I’ve been…realizing you were right,” he told her.
She blinked, sighing, her expression compassionate in a flash.
“I swear, if the two of you are planning a prank on me, I’ll—” Ron began.
“You’ll what?” Hermione said.
And then she said some more things, but Harry didn’t hear them. His gaze had found Sirius at the teachers’ table, shaking out his napkin, preparing to eat. As Harry watched him, Sirius looked up and found Harry’s eyes with his own. Harry blinked, his throat suddenly tight under that soulful look that tried to hide so much. Harry smiled sadly. He nodded. He watched Sirius take a deep breath. He nodded, too, returning the unhappy smile. He dropped his gaze. He took a long drink. Harry turned back to his friends and his food. He had to force himself to eat anything.
…
It wasn’t easy, but they made it through to Christmas break.
If anything, maybe the tension between them made them work harder. Every other student in Sirius’ class, including Hermione, came out every day moaning and complaining even though half the time they were laughing and feeling rather proud of themselves, too. They were like a cadre of companions: Sirius’ sixth years. He was tougher on no other class. Even the seventh years weren’t learning these spells.
Harry never complained. He knew what he was being given: the tools to defeat Voldemort and stay alive doing it. He knew what Sirius was sacrificing to give him that. And he knew how important their work together was. He came out of Sirius’ classes energized when the others were exhausted. He came out resolved when all they could do was joke at what a task-master his godfather was.
Harry had seen Sirius nearly fall through that veil to save him. He felt grateful for everything he had now. Even though he ached sometimes. He positively ached for him.
Every time their eyes met, Harry felt it. Every time. And he saw that Sirius felt it, too; he saw him fight it back with everything he had and go on like everything was fine – like they weren’t in love.
Sometimes, at night, when all was quiet and he could no longer distract himself with school work or friends or Quidditch, Harry wished. He wished that, just once, he would have gotten to say it to Sirius – “I love you” – and then hear it back.
At times like those, he’d take the coat out, Sirius’ coat, and he’d curl up with it beneath his blankets, and he might whisper everything he couldn’t say to his godfather into the wool on his way to sleep.
Harry had coped with it, and now they were a day away from Christmas break, and Dumbledore had arranged a winter dance. It was the last thing Harry wanted to go to. The notices had gone up a month before, but Harry had studiously ignored them. He hadn’t asked anyone, and when three girls asked him in turn, he told them he wasn’t sure if he was going to go.
Hermione gently wheedled him into it. She said the three of them could go stag together, and she actually managed to make it sound sort of fun. She said McGonagall, of all people, had secured a new punk band, “Dripping Hex”, to play, and the Weasley twins were supplying the pyrotechnics. She said it would be the last time he and Ron would see her until after Christmas break since she was going home to be with her family. Harry had reluctantly agreed to go, so long as she didn’t pressure him to dance with anyone besides them.
She’d taken his hand. “Harry. I know you don’t want to dance with anyone else.”
She didn’t have to explain what she meant.
So Harry dusted off his dress robes. They only had a half-day of classes leading up to the night of the dance, and most of the students couldn’t care less about their subjects that day. Harry was one of them. He fidgeted and daydreamed through History of Magic, Herbology, and Charms. He hadn’t seen Sirius in two days, and he had no idea how he planned to spend Christmas. For all Harry knew, he was already back at Grimmauld Place. Harry had to wonder what it would be like to get to be there with him – if they could have ignored all the rules they had to obey so stringently at Hogwarts – if, in the privacy of his own home, Sirius would have broken down and made love to him.
“Harry!” Hermione yelled near his ear.
“What are you on about?”
“That tie isn’t going to knot itself. Stand up and stand still.”
He’d been staring into the fire in the common room hearth, regretting his decision to go to this blasted dance. But Hermione’s optimistic face brought him around. She looked – he actually looked at her while she fussed with his tie – “You look bloody fantastic,” Harry told her.
She beamed and blushed. “Really?”
“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry told her. “If he doesn’t get his head out of his arse tonight, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for the git.”
She blushed more as Ron came bounding down the stairs. When he saw Hermione, his eyes went round, his mouth hung open, and he actually missed the last step, wiping out spectacularly at her feet. Harry couldn’t help but laugh as he offered Ron a hand up.
Ron still stared at Hermione. All he said was, “Slippery…” Then he gulped.
“You look,” Hermione began, and her voice actually trembled with what Harry had to guess were nerves. “You look very handsome.”
Ron’s smile was crooked and rather dopey. Then he cleared his throat. “You look… Well… Great.” He turned to Harry quickly. “We ready to go or what?”
…
The Great Hall was decked out with white trees and a dark blue evening winter sky. The constellations were all very clear, and it was snowing a light, non-cold magical snow. Dripping Hex was playing a mix of their newest hits interspersed with several religions’ worth of holiday tunes. It was beyond odd, but sort of cool, to hear a magical band consisting of two Wiccans, one Buddhist, and an atheist playing The Dreidel Song on electric Muggle guitars (amplified by magic) next to a big Christmas tree.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went straight for the punch and then watched the people who were already dancing. There was Hagrid, the easiest to spot, spinning Professor McGonagall around the floor. There was Seamus at arm’s length from Lavender Brown. There was Dean and Ginny, Luna and Neville, and maybe weirdest of all, Professors Trelawney and Flitwick. Harry noticed that Draco and Pansy were standing against the wall opposite them and looking fresh out of a new fight. Pansy had her arms crossed over her ruffled green dress. Draco just stared at the floor with his hands thrust into his pockets.
Just then, Ravenclaw’s seventh year chaser, Drew Davis, came swaying by them with the fourth year, Ricky Simons, in his arms.
“Oh, brilliant!” Hermione couldn’t seem to help but squeal near Harry’s ear.
“Weird, though,” Ron said.
Harry didn’t breathe for a moment, and Hermione gave Ron a sour look.
“I mean, who slow dances to The Dreidel Song?” Ron wore a look of complete incomprehension.
“Who, indeed,” Harry answered, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face.
The band began playing their biggest hit, “Saturday Night Curse”, and Hermione jumped up and down. She shouted, “Come on!” and then practically dragged him and Ron stumbling behind her out into the middle of the dance floor.
They danced through a bizarre concoction of magic rock, upbeat Christmas music, and Muggle hits. The closing notes of “You Spin Me Round” were being drowned out by whooping applause when Harry saw him.
He was leaned in a doorway up near the front of the room. He was wearing an indigo blue suit with a cream-colored tie, looking ridiculously beautiful. And he was watching Harry, who, now out of breath, could do nothing but stare back at him, transfixed and dismayed…yearning.
The band started up some slowish Muggle song he’d never heard of, and Hermione followed where Harry’s gaze had stopped.
“C’mon, Harry,” she said gently. “Dance with me, all right?”
He nodded and let her pull him into the dance. His hands went to her lower back like they were supposed to, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. It felt comfortable and nice. And he couldn’t help but see Sirius on every damned turn – standing there, his hands in his pockets, watching them.
I stood in this sun-sheltered place
‘Til I could see the face behind the face
All that had gone before had left no trace
Harry moved Hermione around in circles, breathing in her spicy perfume and wishing it was Sirius’ body heat, his sweat.
Down by the railway siding
In our secret world, we were colliding
All the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
Someone cleared his throat at Harry’s back, and he looked around to see Ron. But Ron wasn’t looking at him. He was gazing at Hermione. “May I—” he began and then had to gulp a swallow. “May I cut in?”
Hermione looked torn then – between needing to be Harry’s friend and wanting to be Ron’s more than a friend. Harry let her off the hook – he wasn’t really having much fun now anyway – and stepped back from her, bowing a little to Ron.
He walked off the dance floor and went to stand near the punch again. He watched Hermione move closer into Ron’s arms, watched Ron’s nervous face as he seemed to count his steps. And then Harry’s gaze rose again to Sirius – still there, still watching him, too.
So I watch you wash your hair
Underwater, unaware
And the plane flies through the air
Did you think you didn't have to choose it
That I alone could win or lose it
In all the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
Harry watched Sirius push with his shoulder, coming out of the doorway slightly. He watched Sirius reach into his vest and surreptitiously pull out his wand. Harry watched him, enraptured, as he flicked the tip of it three times, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, and then both of them were swaying slightly, just slightly, but together, and it was involuntary.
Harry gasped, but then he had to smile, his breathing short. Sirius was dancing with him. Across the room, yes. Not near touching. But he was dancing with him just the same.
In this house of make believe
Divided in two, like Adam and Eve
You put out and I receive.
Sirius swayed across the room, a midnight blue vision, the magic moving them both. Harry tried to feel Sirius’ arms, to conjure them, but there was just so much space – so much left empty between them.
With no guilt and no shame, no sorrow or blame
Whatever it is, we are all the same
Making it up in our secret world
Making it up in our secret world
Making it up in our secret world
Shaking it up
Breaking it up
Making it up in our secret world.
The words repeated, the music washing over him, and then the last note seemed to waiver in the air; the song was over.
To Harry’s dismay, they began another slow one – something he didn’t recognize and didn’t want to – something about the innocence not lasting and wishing September would end. Sirius had ended the spell – they were no longer swaying. Harry stared at him across the space, hurting, his eyes filling with tears, and then he turned and walked quickly to the doors at the front of the room. He shoved past Neville and Luna and then Dean and Ginny. Harry hurried, though he wasn’t sure where he was going – just away.
He burst through the doors into the entrance hall. It was quiet and cold, only a few candles lit for ambiance. He turned to take the stairs up to the Gryffindor common room. He had made it to the second floor when he heard the steps behind him and then felt the warm hand grasp his elbow.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” came Sirius’ pained voice.
Harry wanted to wrench away. He told himself he wanted to wrench away. It was a lie. He wanted nothing of the sort. He turned to Sirius, and the longing must have been etched on his face.
Sirius took a breath, caught in that scant moment, and then he held out his hand.
Harry looked down at it, the smooth palm, open, beckoning him.
He took it.
END PART TWO
Continue to Part Three: On DW | On LJ
Author:
traintracks777 / traintracks Part One: On DW | On LJ
The bar was nearly empty, just the usual assortment of the dregs of magical society. And Sirius. Sirius sat on a stool at the bar sipping a whiskey, his booted foot hooked on the lowest rung, the silver chain of his pocket watch showing.
He’d dressed in a beautiful black suit with a purple silk shirt. He looked dressed for a dinner date. Harry gulped. He was absolutely gorgeous. He’d made himself gorgeous…for Harry.
Or for the voluptuous barmaid wiping down empty tables with a rag, Harry thought.
Sirius looked up, mid-sip, and saw him. He put his glass down and smiled. He signaled the bartender. “Butterbeer. In a clean mug.”
Harry sat on the stool next to Sirius, and though there was plenty of room at the bar, he didn’t scoot the stool back but left it close to Sirius’. Harry planted his own foot next to his godfather’s on the bar stool and sipped his butterbeer when it came. It suffused him with warmth. Sirius was smiling at him.
“What?”
“You’ve got a…” And Sirius waggled his finger at Harry’s upper lip.
“Oh.” Harry went to grab a napkin, but Sirius reached out and swiped it away with his thumb. The pad of it was rough, callused. It left Harry’s tender lip tingling. It left him barely able to breathe. Then Sirius sucked the bit of froth off of the tip of his thumb quickly, nonchalant. Harry stared at him. The light seemed to dance in his godfather’s eyes. Harry shivered.
“You look cold.”
“I’m okay,” Harry said.
“Do you call that a coat?” Sirius asked, pointing at Harry’s jacket. Then he took his own coat off the barstool on his other side and draped it around Harry’s shoulders. It smelled like warm bedrooms. Harry wanted to shake himself – what a stupid thing to think something smelled like. But Sirius was now smiling at him again. “Drink up,” he said.
Harry gulped his butterbeer down. It warmed him from the inside out.
“Now c’mon,” Sirius said, standing. “Follow me.”
Harry got up, Sirius’ coat slung around him, and followed his godfather into the men’s room. Not for the first or fifth or tenth time since Sirius had said it, Harry wondered what on earth could be in here of any interest. Harry did know what two men could do in a men’s bathroom, of course, and that was wicked interesting, but since the odds of that actually happening to him were somewhere around a million to one, Harry gave up the idea and resigned himself to the mystery.
Sirius had said it had something to do with his father, though.
He led him over to the last stall and gestured him inside. Harry blushed like mad but followed, crowding in beside his godfather.
“There,” Sirius said, pointing.
Harry squinted, pushing his glasses up on his nose. Carved in the wood of the stall wall, was this pronouncement:
Harry nearly choked on his own spit laughing. He looked at Sirius. “You carved all that?”
“And your father did, yes. We took turns. Too drunk to use our wands.”
“And you really stole a bottle of Firewhiskey and drank it in here?”
“From this very bar, yes. While Moony, er, Professor Lupin kept watch.”
Harry stared at the jagged lettering. He felt it under his fingertips. This was something his father had made. This was something Sirius had shared with James Potter and was now sharing with Harry. Harry looked at Sirius again. “Where was my mum?”
“Oh, probably off being good somewhere,” Sirius winked. “Certainly not in the boy’s bathroom, now was she?”
Harry looked back at the lettering, his father’s decree to the world, to a not-yet-existent son: drink and be merry. He remembered Hermione’s warning. He looked at Sirius. “Thank you for showing me this.”
Sirius reached out and stroked Harry’s hair off his forehead. He said, “Anytime.”
Harry blinked at the gentle touch. But then Sirius was exiting the stall, and Harry followed, and they went back out into the bar and Sirius bought him another drink. The two of them sat and talked and laughed for what seemed like minutes, but when Harry checked the clock over the bar finally, it turned out to have been three hours!
“Sirius, we’re going to be late back,” Harry said, standing.
“No, we’re not,” Sirius told him. He drained his whiskey and then led Harry outside. If anything the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. The sun was going down. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Take my arm,” Sirius said.
Harry hesitated. “Why?”
Sirius smirked. “Because I’m going to Apparate us to the front gates. You don’t want to walk back in this cold, do you?”
Harry didn’t know which sounded better actually – having an excuse to touch and be close to Sirius if only briefly or getting to spend more time not touching him while they walked back.
Sirius was apparently tired of waiting. He took Harry’s hand and wrapped their arms up together. Then he said, “Aw hell,” and grabbed Harry in a fierce hug. And then suddenly, they weren’t at the Hog’s Head – they were outside Hogwarts, and Sirius’ body against his own was the best thing Harry had ever felt.
Too soon, it was gone. Sirius pulled back. He stroked a snowflake off of Harry’s cheek with his thumb – that rough and gentle thumb – and it was only then that Harry realized it had started to snow again.
“Let’s get you inside,” Sirius said, and perhaps Harry imagined the change, the deep timbre of his voice. But perhaps he didn’t.
They walked through the gates, up the steps, and there they separated as Sirius climbed the stairs to his room and Harry climbed a different set to his own. But their gazes lingered. Sirius’ stayed, watching Harry’s steps, and Harry watched his godfather, and it was silent, this agreement, this slight giving in, until they could maintain it no more and the thick walls came to separate them for the night.
But Harry had Sirius’ coat. He wore it into the dorm room. He held it to his nose. Warm bedrooms…. He took it off and laid it on his bed, covering it with his blankets, hiding it, keeping it warm for later. And then he went down to join the others at dinner.
…
Sirius couldn’t believe it – after all the battles he’d fought, after the torture of Azkaban, the loss of his best friends, after nearly falling through the veil of death and damning Harry’s soul – here he was…nervous about a Quidditch match.
He sat close to the field, a crowd of cheering and jeering students behind him. It was the kind of stark bright cold that bled into your gloves and made breathing difficult. But when Harry came out onto the field, he looked nothing but confident. Not arrogant, though, and about that Sirius was especially proud.
Harry was the man James would have been if Sirius had had the strength and maturity to temper him. Like Lily finally did. In all kinds of ways that Sirius couldn’t.
Sirius was wakened from his ruminations by a frightfully realistic lion’s roar, and he turned, only to jump slightly back from the serene blond girl, for she did, indeed, have a lion on her head.
“Mr. Black,” she said in a dreamy voice. “I’m Harry’s friend, Luna. He was hoping you would come today. It is quite good to see you. Would you like a chocolate frog?”
“No. Thank you,” Sirius said.
Luna, under her again-roaring head, stared back at the field pleasantly.
Sirius turned back to see the two teams meet in the middle of the field. Harry and Draco were the captains, and they stepped forward to shake hands. Their grip was strong, maybe a bit too much so, but instead of hatred burning from the young men’s eyes, all Sirius saw was determination.
To his utter delight, he saw the both of them take deep breaths, hold it for a couple seconds, and then release it through their pale lips just like he had taught them.
Sirius couldn’t help cupping his hands around his mouth, watching his godson approach his team once more, and yelling, “Go, Harry!”
He must have heard, because he turned toward the sound. Sirius nodded at him once and winked. Harry shot him a crooked smile.
Then he was on his broom, and the whistle was blown, and he was kicking off.
“Jesus,” Sirius muttered as he watched Harry soar into the sky faster than anything he’d ever seen. He watched him shout to his teammates, pointing for this Beater to stay on that Chaser, and then he watched Harry scour the area for the Snitch.
Somehow he managed to keep an eye on all his teammates even as he did on Draco and the possibility of the Snitch as well. Harry had a keen eye for the game, and when he shouted commands to Ginny, “You’re freed up – take the second ring!” and she scored, or he praised Ron, “Bloody great save, stay sharp, Ron!” Sirius realized how very accomplished he was. And that this was not just a game. This would help determine what kind of wizard he was meant to be. It was clear to Sirius that his godson would make a remarkable leader.
He would lead them all.
Sirius could have blamed the cold, but he knew that it wasn’t the reason for the thin, freezing tears in his eyes.
It was a moment full of pride and deafening fear. To know that Harry was destined to be integral to defeating Voldemort. And there was nothing Sirius could do to stop it.
Despite Harry’s prowess, the game was tied at eighty points each. Both teams were highly skilled, and Harry and Draco both were poised to find the Snitch. “Go, Harry,” Sirius found himself whispering. His stomach was knotted up, and the fear was palpable, like a battle. Sirius suffered watching a Bludger smack into Harry’s side at forty feet up, forced to watch him plummet twenty of those feet, only to breathe a sigh of relief at how fast he recovered.
And then Sirius saw him spot the Snitch. Harry shot off to the far side of the field, and Draco, smart to do so, had been watching Harry and so took off in that direction, too.
Slytherin scored two fast goals on Ron, and the score was no longer tied. Sirius lost sight of Harry, turning his head this way and that, when all of a sudden an audible streak of red flashed by right in front of the stands, followed closely by a green one. Sirius actually gasped, and then he had to laugh at himself. He whistled after Harry’s retreating broom, and he called out, knowing he’d never be heard over the roar of the crowd (and Luna’s lion head right behind him), “I believe in you!” He felt giddy with the feeling – that he could shout as loud as he wanted here – that he could love Harry unabashedly, because everyone else who wasn’t a Slytherin loved him right now, too. He could shout his heart from the stands – his heart which was pounding so hard and so fast.
But he whispered it. He whispered it under his breath instead: “I love you. I love you, Harry.”
And in the very next moment, Harry’s hand shot into the air holding the glittering Snitch.
“YES!!” Sirius yelled, standing with everyone else in the most sudden ovation he’d ever witnessed.
His godson circled the stadium, pumping his fist and smiling, and the crowd exalted with him.
Sirius watched him float back down to earth, his hair wild, his teammates storming him. And he felt within himself the horrible click, the definitive proof of his feelings – there, watching Harry. Sirius swallowed, his throat tight. And he couldn’t be out of the stadium fast enough.
…
He took the stairs up into the tower two at a time. He shoved into his rooms, slamming the door behind himself. He ran a hand through his hair and cursed. He threw his coat across the room, and then he stripped his shirt off and threw that, too. He ran cold water into the basin by the vanity, and then he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
A used up dirty old man stared back at him.
Who are you? he asked himself. The answer disgusted him: You’re who you’ve always been but worse. You’re nothing, Black. You’re scum.
You don’t deserve him.
You bloody well don’t deserve his love.
He dunked his head into the water in the basin and came up gasping. The cold water ran down his hair, his neck, his chest and back – all the tattoos that reminded him of where he’d been, what he’d become. Sirius scrubbed at his face, pushed back his hair; he began to pace.
Why did he have to feel this way? Why??
Not Harry. Dear God, not Harry!
Not this boy he was sworn to protect. This boy with the striking green eyes and the smile that could decimate him so completely and this young body that responded to him, that sang to him, that felt perfect against his own, whose vitality he craved and whose breath shuddered through them both.
Not Harry, his student, his pupil, the Chosen One he needed to prepare for battle.
Not Harry, his godson who should trust him not to, never to feel the way he was feeling right bloody now, which was like he wanted to take himself roughly in hand and give in to the horrible temptation, to hurt himself with it, to stroke himself raw and coming and then cut the goddamned thing OFF.
Sirius paced his room, sweating, dripping water, cursing under his breath.
He stopped in front of the mirror again. He blinked at himself once, this wild, uncouth, wretched self. And then he took the glass on the lip of the sink and he threw it at his own face, breaking the mirror and his reflection into distorted shards.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and he sat like that for a few minutes. Then he got up and poured himself a large drink. He drank half of it, grimacing. He was about to drink down the other half when a knock came at the door.
And then, of course, because who else would it be, Harry, not waiting, barged in, breathless, smiling, exuberant.
“We won!” he declared. “I looked for you, but you’d gone. I won!”
And then he came at Sirius as though to hug him, and Sirius braced himself. He braced and was ready to push Harry away after just a moment of contact. Because he was weak. He was so fucking weak.
But Harry didn’t hug him. Harry walked up to him, cupped his face, and kissed him hard and just the once. Sirius was stunned. And maybe that’s why Harry thought he could do it again. Softer. Staying for half a breath before pulling back. But Sirius caught him around the waist, dropping his glass and spilling the whiskey, and he yanked him back in, and he opened Harry’s mouth with his own, and he delved inside with his hard tongue, and he gripped the slight body to his own and plunged his tongue into Harry’s mouth. And then he walked him backward and slammed his back against the door, and he kissed him hard and deep, and Harry tasted like sweat, and Sirius devoured him.
He ground his body tight against Harry’s, his pelvis pinning him to the door, and he could feel Harry’s hands on his bare chest almost distantly. Sirius pulled him in hard and close only to slam him back against the door again, his tongue deeper, hot in Harry’s mouth, and Harry groaned high and weak, and his tongue was in Sirius’ mouth, tentatively, for that held breath of a moment – bliss and beauty and everything good in the world – and then everything crashed back down, and Sirius shoved himself away.
“Get out!” he roared.
Harry blinked, confused and aroused. His sweet cock was so hard against his shaking thigh, and Sirius was hard, and he wanted to fuck this boy, he would fuck his Harry, so he shouted it again, “Get out! Now!”
And he didn’t wait. He just took Harry by the arms and opened his door and shoved the boy out into the hall and locked the door behind him and put both his hands to his head and started to shake with the fury and the tears as they came silently, hidden from the boy who remained, frozen in his hall, frozen in his life, and Sirius sank down onto the bed and cried, and he didn’t stop, even as he heard the shuffling footsteps get further and further away.
…
He should feel awful – just awful. That’s what Harry kept telling himself. He was worried, mostly for Sirius, for the obvious pain it had caused him. But for himself, though he’d been thoroughly rejected, Harry just…couldn’t.
Sirius had kissed him.
Sirius wanted him.
Sirius wanted him.
The moment when Sirius had grabbed him and pulled him in and kissed him so hard it hurt had been one of the best moments of Harry’s life. He could still feel the burn of his beard, the taste of his tongue like ginger and smoke, the way it moved in his mouth, desperate and demanding.
It was hard not to smile through breakfast. Hermione looked at him as though he might be coming down with the flu. Ron was oblivious, but when was that not the case?
Sirius wasn’t at the teachers’ table. He often ate elsewhere, probably in his room or he rose early and had a bite down in Hogsmeade – Harry wasn’t sure. He did wonder if he should be more worried. Sirius had shoved him away so hard. He had been fighting tears when he’d shouted at Harry to get out.
Some of the magic drained off of Harry in the light of a new day, remembering the stricken expression on his godfather’s face. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t care how guilty Sirius felt about it; it was more that he was determined to convince him that he shouldn’t feel guilty about it – to show him that he had single-handedly made Harry’s most secret and beautiful dreams come true last night. That he was loved.
Hermione had warned him about getting Sirius in trouble. But right now, what seemed to be the worst thing for Sirius was how torn he was about the whole thing. And Harry wasn’t torn. He’d known that day in Saint Mungo’s exactly what he was saying. He’d never felt a moment’s pause since. He’d wondered if it meant there was something wrong with him, sure. Who falls in love with a man twice his age? Who falls in love with his own godfather? But he had never once had to wonder if it was real.
And now he knew that, while Sirius would prefer it be otherwise, he had feelings for Harry, too. Sexual feelings. Harry hid his ecstatic blush behind a particularly large cinnamon bun. He tried out all the different ways he could think to say it:
Sirius wanted him.
Sirius wanted to have sex with him.
Sirius wanted to make love to him.
Sirius loved him, like he loved Sirius.
Sirius had kissed him like a man who wanted something so badly it hurt. He had kissed Harry like a man who needed more than a kiss.
Harry’s cock, impossible to keep down for long recently, sprang up again at the realization. Harry was glad to be sitting at the table without too many people around just yet. He made a show of eating his cinnamon bun slowly, relishing it, when what he truly relished was the memory of Sirius’ body colliding against his own, the over-warm skin of the man’s naked chest, the press of tongue opening Harry’s mouth – how deep he went, how strong he was. When Sirius kissed him, Harry felt like his brain had turned to champagne, the bubbles of it rising up out of the top of his head, leaving only the ache between his legs and the joy in his heart.
“Harry, are you all right? Do you need Madam Pomfrey?” Hermione asked with a bit of alarm. “You’re bright red!”
“I’m fine,” Harry managed, taking another bite of bun. He couldn’t help still smiling.
Hermione seemed to spy some twinkle in his eye. “We need to talk, Harry.”
“’Bout what?” Ron asked.
Harry ignored him. “No, we don’t.”
“Harry…”
“No time,” Harry reminded her. “Defense against the Dark Arts. Don’t want to be late.”
He thought the look she would give him then would be angry, frustrated, but instead it was vaguely sad. Harry felt bad for blowing her off, but they really did need to get to class. And he longed to see how Sirius was doing. Harry wanted nothing more than to somehow convey that he didn’t care what anyone else thought; he loved Sirius and didn’t regret what Sirius had done, and he didn’t want Sirius to regret it either.
They reached the classroom, and it was empty. Neville and Ron started horsing around. Harry was afraid Hermione would corner him, but Cho had already sought her out for homework help. Harry saw Draco and Pansy across the room, and they appeared to be fighting as quietly as possible. Harry dug around in his book bag surreptitiously and watched out of the corner of his eye. Pansy looked quite angry, and Draco just looked tired and guilty.
Harry didn’t have time to wonder about it much, because Sirius came through the door then, and whatever Harry had been expecting – moroseness, the haggard face of lost sleep, guilt? – it was not this. Sirius was…the same.
“Morning, all,” he said, clapping his hands. “How are your stomach ache hexes coming? Am I to be dazzled with your brilliance today? Neville!” And he waved the boy over. “Why don’t you give yours a try on Ron since the two of you are so eager as to have conjured a layer of fog over the Astronomy tower already this morning? Class isn’t going to be cancelled, you know. Sinistra knows how to dispel fog, for Merlin’s sake.” Neville looked scared and sheepish, and his wand trembled in his fist.
Harry stared at Sirius. He looked for signs from last night but couldn’t find any. Disappointment sat in his gut, undigested. Did he want Sirius to be miserable? Had he wanted his godfather to show signs of his suffering?
Harry watched Sirius correct Ron’s wand hand, watched him instruct Neville on how to stabilize his stance. He looked focused and nearly cheerful. “The rest of you watch and take note,” Sirius said, casting his gaze around the room. His eyes touched on Harry and moved on, nothing of particular note registering there.
Harry swallowed. He couldn’t care less about Neville giving Ron a stomach ache. His thoughts were all inward, all disturbing. Had he wanted to see Sirius break down and weep in front of his friends? Did he expect his godfather to take him in his arms and declare his love in front of all of Hogwarts? Perhaps a repeat performance right there in front of the class?
Did he want to see Sirius vulnerable after last night? Changed because of what he’d done with Harry? Did he want to see evidence of himself in Sirius’ eyes?
Yes. Yes, he bloody well did.
And it wasn’t there. It just plain wasn’t there.
“Harry,” Sirius’ voice rang out.
Harry jumped. He looked wide-eyed at his godfather, his teacher. There stood the man who had kissed him, whose body he had touched, who had been rock hard against Harry’s belly, who had made him instantly hard with one touch of his tongue inside Harry’s mouth. Who he loved. Who loved him.
“Let’s see if you can withstand Pansy’s hex, yes?” Sirius continued.
Harry nodded, mute. He came to stand in the middle of the room. He turned his wand in his fingers, finding the right fit to deflect the stomach ache hex. He could feel Sirius behind him, not too close, but he could hear his breathing. Even breaths. In for four, hold for two, out through the lips.
He was doing the breathing exercise.
He needed to do the breathing exercise.
Harry felt something in his chest bloom and light up. It felt as though someone had lumosed him. His lungs felt vast and open. His blinked, and his blood moved easily through his body.
Sirius counted to three, and Harry raised his wand with confidence, but Pansy shouted fiercely, “Gastronimous!” And then once Harry was writhing on the floor, she stood over him and fairly screamed another, “Aquamenti!” and proceeded to soak Harry to the bone with a powerful jet of cold water. She shot the water into his face, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“Enough!” Sirius called. “Twenty points from Slytherin, and I’ll have your wand for the rest of the day Miss Parkinson.”
Harry watched, his stomach seized into a fist inside his body, rolling on the floor, as Pansy handed over her wand, and then, with what appeared to be a furious look in Draco’s direction, she stormed out of the room.
Sirius stood over him, then. He waved his wand and the pain evaporated. “I believe I’ll let you dry yourself,” he said. Harry looked for some recognition there, some message, anything, but again saw none.
The remainder of the class passed learning a new invisibility spell which no one could yet hope to master in the least. But when they’d finished unsuccessfully trying and it was time for class to be out, Sirius just said, “Good work,” and then he walked out of the room too quickly for Harry to catch him.
Harry shrugged off Hermione’s questing hand and followed. He knew Sirius had a two hour break now before double DADA with the Hufflepuffs after lunch, and he very much hoped to get Sirius alone for part of that time, if not to feel his arms wound tight around him then to at least talk about what had happened.
But when Harry reached the entrance hall, he stopped short. Sirius was there, but so was Remus Lupin. They shook hands heartily, and then Sirius pulled him in and hugged him. Harry swallowed against the fear and the jealousy. They were friends. There was plenty of good reason for Lupin to visit Sirius here, for them to hug. Harry watched Sirius bang Lupin on the back and then pull away smiling. Harry might have imagined the touch of sadness in that smile, but perhaps he hadn’t. He felt ashamed that any part of him wanted to see Sirius upset. He stood, holding the stairway banister as students from all years and houses shuffled past him trying to get to their next classes, and Harry watched as Lupin draped his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and, together, they walked out the front doors, out of Hogwarts, away from Harry.
…
Transfiguration seemed to last forever and a day. Harry couldn’t concentrate on getting his teapot to turn into a dictionary, although he managed to conjure the definition of “besotted” on its side.
“Fuck…” he sighed under his breath.
“Tell us how you really feel, mate,” Ron whispered.
Hermione said, “Read his teapot.”
But the lettering was already fading. Harry gave Hermione a withering look.
All Harry could think about was Sirius leaving with Lupin. It was one thing for Sirius to suffer alone. It was another thing all together to suffer with someone his own age who Harry half-suspected had previous knowledge of Sirius’ lips as well.
“I don’t guess you’re ready to talk about it,” Hermione said.
“Your dictionary’s got a whistle,” Harry informed her, his chin in his hand.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
If there had been a clock, Harry would have watched it. When McGonagall dismissed them, he had already made up his mind what he would do. He had an empty hour; he knew Sirius still had one left as well. Harry found a bathroom, hid out in a stall, and got out the Marauder’s Map.
It took some squinting and some patience, but finally, Harry saw both Sirius and Lupin’s names. They were in the stadium bleachers. Harry folded his map and went to get his coat.
…
Remus slumped over his tea. The steam rose into his gaunt face, and Sirius once again asked, “You’re sure you’re warm enough? My room is just—”
“I like the fresh air,” Remus told him again. “I was…confined…for the last three days. I’ll take the cold if it’s paired with the sun any day.”
“Was it bad this time?”
“Oh, yes, be a good friend now. Anything to deflect the conversation off of yourself, yeah?” Remus sipped at his tea, and Sirius sighed. He could never get anything past this man. “Come on. Out with it. You owled me here for a reason. Let’s have it.”
Sirius looked out on the blank field, the stillness of it. “It’s not that simple.”
“Never is.” Remus smiled at him. Yes, he would know. He would remember Sirius’ heart breaking over James, nights spent talking until they couldn’t help but finally sleep. “I’m your friend. Exactly who was it that became a dog just so I wouldn’t have to be alone and scared and dangerous three days out of the month?” He put his gentle hand on Sirius’ forearm. “You can tell me anything.”
The leaves rustled in the bushes behind them, and Sirius craned around to look, but there was nothing, just an empty tunnel. They were alone with this. Sirius prayed Remus would know what to say to help him.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“For Merlin’s sake, how bad can it be, man?”
“I’m in—” Sirius began, too loudly. He lowered his voice. “I’m in love with him.”
Remus’ eyes widened. “With… With Harry?”
“Be quiet, will you, yes.”
“Merlin’s beard,” Remus whispered. “I mean, I suspected, but—”
“You suspected?”
“Well, yes, to be frank.”
“Bugger, Remus!”
“Um, have you…?”
“No!” Sirius balked. “No, of course not.” Then he looked at his friend cautiously. “Almost.”
To his surprise, Remus didn’t blow up at him. He just nodded and sighed, “Well, that’s good at least, now isn’t it?”
And then they couldn’t help it; they both laughed. Because of the horrid cold, because of the utter seriousness of the problem, because of helplessness or too many years reading one another’s minds.
Because what was worse than losing James and Lily? What was worse than years in Azkaban? This was just…love.
This was just possible scandal. Getting sacked. Becoming an outcast, black-listed, losing Harry.
Losing Harry. He might as well lose his life.
“Does he love you? He does, doesn’t he?” Remus said. He offered Sirius a sip of his tea and Sirius took it.
“Thanks. Yeah. He told me before school started. After I almost—”
“Kicked the bucket?”
“Yes, you prick.” Sirius knew his friend was only trying to keep some levity around. He knew he had to joke about it or face it himself. “He told me then. And before you go on about teenagers falling in love with everything from professors to stairway banisters – and it wasn’t love for me that summer; it was oak-lust, pure and simple—”
Remus was already laughing at him, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Shut it, Moony.”
“Yes, all right.” He sobered.
Sirius took a deep breath. “Harry’s nearly a man. And I can tell you, he knows what he wants, and he’s bloody brilliant – brilliant. You should see him, Remus. Patroneses are nothing for him now, nothing. He’s extraordinary. And this isn’t a school boy crush. It’s real, Remus. And,” he stopped. He felt choked by it, but he had to say it. He simply had to. “I love him, too. Christ,” he groaned, feeling, now that he’d said it aloud to his best friend, overcome with the horror of it, “Christ, I love him, too. Shit!” He kicked the seat in front of him, and once again the bushes rustled, but when he turned, there was nothing there. He turned back to his friend.
“You could lose your job,” Remus said, not unkindly.
“Yeah, I know,” Sirius admitted.
“You could finally be ruined, Sirius. Half of England already thinks you’re a killer still.”
“I know.”
Remus sighed. “You could quit.”
“Dumbledore won’t let me.”
“What do you mean? It’s your life. If you want to take Harry away to the country and raise chickens and shag night and day, he can’t stop you.”
“Chickens?” Sirius repeated incredulously.
“Or whatever.” Remus sipped his tea. It was easy to forget he was a werewolf.
It was Sirius’ turn to sigh. “I can’t quit, Remus. What I’m doing… It’s important. It’s for Harry.”
“It’s for all of us.”
So Remus did get it. That he was training the one wizard who could defeat Voldemort. Of course he got it. He’d done it, too. And it was all that mattered. “Yeah. For all of us,” Sirius agreed.
“Well, at least I think I have a solution for you.”
“You do?” Sirius asked hopefully.
“Bloody cold showers, mate. Two years of waiting.”
Sirius dropped his head into his hands. “Has anyone told you lately that you’re a prick?”
“No, that’s actually why I’m here – I’m due.”
Sirius lifted his head out of his hands and wrapped one around the back of his friend’s neck. “I’ve missed you. You prick.”
Remus laughed. He finished his tea. Then he said, all mirth dissolved, “I’m sorry. I really am sorry, Sirius. After all you’ve been through…all you’ve both been through…you deserve to get to have each other.”
“Well, I do have him. I get to see him everyday. I get to teach him. I get to watch out for him. Maybe I can make up for all the time I couldn’t be there.” He sighed and then pulled out his pocket watch. “Do you want to come back for a drink tonight?”
“Well, uh, I would but…”
“But what?”
“But it’s Tonks and my six month anniversary, and if I’m late she’ll cut it off.”
Sirius clapped his friend on the back. “Well, bugger off then – who needs you?” He winked, and Remus grabbed him up in a hug. He held his friend’s frail body and knew the impossible strength lurking in his very bones. He smelled like wheatgrass. He’d always smelled like wheatgrass. It felt good to be able to count on something. Sirius let him go reluctantly.
They got up and they stretched and they said their farewells. “I’ll take a rain check on that drink, yeah?” Remus called from the gate.
“Right!” Sirius called back.
He felt only marginally better. But at least he no longer felt so alone.
…
Harry waited until Remus was out of sight and Sirius had gone back inside, and then he whipped the invisibility cloak off and sat shivering on the ground. Shivering and happy and torn apart.
He’d gotten to hear Sirius say he was in love with him. And just a few breaths later, he’d realized what an arse he’d been, how selfish, and that he was going to have to leave Sirius alone.
He hadn’t thought that he could get Sirius sacked. He hadn’t thought that he could ruin what was left of Sirius’ new life. Hermione had been right all along, and he’d blown her off and gone after Sirius, his thoughts only on what he could have, not on what could be lost. And Sirius had everything to lose.
But he loved him. He did love him. He wanted to…shag him. Harry blushed even under the onslaught of the cold. Sirius was in love with him. And there was nothing they could do about it until Sirius quit teaching at Hogwarts or Harry graduated, which if Sirius defied the odds against a Defense against the Dark Arts teacher lasting only the one year, could very well be two years into the future.
Two years before Harry would feel that kiss again. Those whiskey lips opening his own and that stronger body pressing his against the door. Never mind the shagging – he didn’t exactly know what he was missing anyway; but he now knew Sirius’ kiss. He’d know, for all that time, what he couldn’t have.
He’d also know what he could and did: Sirius’ heart, his time, his energy, his wisdom, his laugh, his mentoring, his protection.
He could do this. He’d bloody well have to.
Harry got up off the ground, folded his cloak away, blew on his hands, and jogged back to the front doors of his school, his prison, his haven, his life.
He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall. Lunch had just appeared, and Harry took his spot across from the two of them.
“Where have you been?” Hermione hissed, leaning over the table at him.
“I’ve been…realizing you were right,” he told her.
She blinked, sighing, her expression compassionate in a flash.
“I swear, if the two of you are planning a prank on me, I’ll—” Ron began.
“You’ll what?” Hermione said.
And then she said some more things, but Harry didn’t hear them. His gaze had found Sirius at the teachers’ table, shaking out his napkin, preparing to eat. As Harry watched him, Sirius looked up and found Harry’s eyes with his own. Harry blinked, his throat suddenly tight under that soulful look that tried to hide so much. Harry smiled sadly. He nodded. He watched Sirius take a deep breath. He nodded, too, returning the unhappy smile. He dropped his gaze. He took a long drink. Harry turned back to his friends and his food. He had to force himself to eat anything.
…
It wasn’t easy, but they made it through to Christmas break.
If anything, maybe the tension between them made them work harder. Every other student in Sirius’ class, including Hermione, came out every day moaning and complaining even though half the time they were laughing and feeling rather proud of themselves, too. They were like a cadre of companions: Sirius’ sixth years. He was tougher on no other class. Even the seventh years weren’t learning these spells.
Harry never complained. He knew what he was being given: the tools to defeat Voldemort and stay alive doing it. He knew what Sirius was sacrificing to give him that. And he knew how important their work together was. He came out of Sirius’ classes energized when the others were exhausted. He came out resolved when all they could do was joke at what a task-master his godfather was.
Harry had seen Sirius nearly fall through that veil to save him. He felt grateful for everything he had now. Even though he ached sometimes. He positively ached for him.
Every time their eyes met, Harry felt it. Every time. And he saw that Sirius felt it, too; he saw him fight it back with everything he had and go on like everything was fine – like they weren’t in love.
Sometimes, at night, when all was quiet and he could no longer distract himself with school work or friends or Quidditch, Harry wished. He wished that, just once, he would have gotten to say it to Sirius – “I love you” – and then hear it back.
At times like those, he’d take the coat out, Sirius’ coat, and he’d curl up with it beneath his blankets, and he might whisper everything he couldn’t say to his godfather into the wool on his way to sleep.
Harry had coped with it, and now they were a day away from Christmas break, and Dumbledore had arranged a winter dance. It was the last thing Harry wanted to go to. The notices had gone up a month before, but Harry had studiously ignored them. He hadn’t asked anyone, and when three girls asked him in turn, he told them he wasn’t sure if he was going to go.
Hermione gently wheedled him into it. She said the three of them could go stag together, and she actually managed to make it sound sort of fun. She said McGonagall, of all people, had secured a new punk band, “Dripping Hex”, to play, and the Weasley twins were supplying the pyrotechnics. She said it would be the last time he and Ron would see her until after Christmas break since she was going home to be with her family. Harry had reluctantly agreed to go, so long as she didn’t pressure him to dance with anyone besides them.
She’d taken his hand. “Harry. I know you don’t want to dance with anyone else.”
She didn’t have to explain what she meant.
So Harry dusted off his dress robes. They only had a half-day of classes leading up to the night of the dance, and most of the students couldn’t care less about their subjects that day. Harry was one of them. He fidgeted and daydreamed through History of Magic, Herbology, and Charms. He hadn’t seen Sirius in two days, and he had no idea how he planned to spend Christmas. For all Harry knew, he was already back at Grimmauld Place. Harry had to wonder what it would be like to get to be there with him – if they could have ignored all the rules they had to obey so stringently at Hogwarts – if, in the privacy of his own home, Sirius would have broken down and made love to him.
“Harry!” Hermione yelled near his ear.
“What are you on about?”
“That tie isn’t going to knot itself. Stand up and stand still.”
He’d been staring into the fire in the common room hearth, regretting his decision to go to this blasted dance. But Hermione’s optimistic face brought him around. She looked – he actually looked at her while she fussed with his tie – “You look bloody fantastic,” Harry told her.
She beamed and blushed. “Really?”
“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry told her. “If he doesn’t get his head out of his arse tonight, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for the git.”
She blushed more as Ron came bounding down the stairs. When he saw Hermione, his eyes went round, his mouth hung open, and he actually missed the last step, wiping out spectacularly at her feet. Harry couldn’t help but laugh as he offered Ron a hand up.
Ron still stared at Hermione. All he said was, “Slippery…” Then he gulped.
“You look,” Hermione began, and her voice actually trembled with what Harry had to guess were nerves. “You look very handsome.”
Ron’s smile was crooked and rather dopey. Then he cleared his throat. “You look… Well… Great.” He turned to Harry quickly. “We ready to go or what?”
…
The Great Hall was decked out with white trees and a dark blue evening winter sky. The constellations were all very clear, and it was snowing a light, non-cold magical snow. Dripping Hex was playing a mix of their newest hits interspersed with several religions’ worth of holiday tunes. It was beyond odd, but sort of cool, to hear a magical band consisting of two Wiccans, one Buddhist, and an atheist playing The Dreidel Song on electric Muggle guitars (amplified by magic) next to a big Christmas tree.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went straight for the punch and then watched the people who were already dancing. There was Hagrid, the easiest to spot, spinning Professor McGonagall around the floor. There was Seamus at arm’s length from Lavender Brown. There was Dean and Ginny, Luna and Neville, and maybe weirdest of all, Professors Trelawney and Flitwick. Harry noticed that Draco and Pansy were standing against the wall opposite them and looking fresh out of a new fight. Pansy had her arms crossed over her ruffled green dress. Draco just stared at the floor with his hands thrust into his pockets.
Just then, Ravenclaw’s seventh year chaser, Drew Davis, came swaying by them with the fourth year, Ricky Simons, in his arms.
“Oh, brilliant!” Hermione couldn’t seem to help but squeal near Harry’s ear.
“Weird, though,” Ron said.
Harry didn’t breathe for a moment, and Hermione gave Ron a sour look.
“I mean, who slow dances to The Dreidel Song?” Ron wore a look of complete incomprehension.
“Who, indeed,” Harry answered, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face.
The band began playing their biggest hit, “Saturday Night Curse”, and Hermione jumped up and down. She shouted, “Come on!” and then practically dragged him and Ron stumbling behind her out into the middle of the dance floor.
They danced through a bizarre concoction of magic rock, upbeat Christmas music, and Muggle hits. The closing notes of “You Spin Me Round” were being drowned out by whooping applause when Harry saw him.
He was leaned in a doorway up near the front of the room. He was wearing an indigo blue suit with a cream-colored tie, looking ridiculously beautiful. And he was watching Harry, who, now out of breath, could do nothing but stare back at him, transfixed and dismayed…yearning.
The band started up some slowish Muggle song he’d never heard of, and Hermione followed where Harry’s gaze had stopped.
“C’mon, Harry,” she said gently. “Dance with me, all right?”
He nodded and let her pull him into the dance. His hands went to her lower back like they were supposed to, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. It felt comfortable and nice. And he couldn’t help but see Sirius on every damned turn – standing there, his hands in his pockets, watching them.
I stood in this sun-sheltered place
‘Til I could see the face behind the face
All that had gone before had left no trace
Harry moved Hermione around in circles, breathing in her spicy perfume and wishing it was Sirius’ body heat, his sweat.
Down by the railway siding
In our secret world, we were colliding
All the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
Someone cleared his throat at Harry’s back, and he looked around to see Ron. But Ron wasn’t looking at him. He was gazing at Hermione. “May I—” he began and then had to gulp a swallow. “May I cut in?”
Hermione looked torn then – between needing to be Harry’s friend and wanting to be Ron’s more than a friend. Harry let her off the hook – he wasn’t really having much fun now anyway – and stepped back from her, bowing a little to Ron.
He walked off the dance floor and went to stand near the punch again. He watched Hermione move closer into Ron’s arms, watched Ron’s nervous face as he seemed to count his steps. And then Harry’s gaze rose again to Sirius – still there, still watching him, too.
So I watch you wash your hair
Underwater, unaware
And the plane flies through the air
Did you think you didn't have to choose it
That I alone could win or lose it
In all the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
Harry watched Sirius push with his shoulder, coming out of the doorway slightly. He watched Sirius reach into his vest and surreptitiously pull out his wand. Harry watched him, enraptured, as he flicked the tip of it three times, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, and then both of them were swaying slightly, just slightly, but together, and it was involuntary.
Harry gasped, but then he had to smile, his breathing short. Sirius was dancing with him. Across the room, yes. Not near touching. But he was dancing with him just the same.
In this house of make believe
Divided in two, like Adam and Eve
You put out and I receive.
Sirius swayed across the room, a midnight blue vision, the magic moving them both. Harry tried to feel Sirius’ arms, to conjure them, but there was just so much space – so much left empty between them.
With no guilt and no shame, no sorrow or blame
Whatever it is, we are all the same
Making it up in our secret world
Making it up in our secret world
Making it up in our secret world
Shaking it up
Breaking it up
Making it up in our secret world.
The words repeated, the music washing over him, and then the last note seemed to waiver in the air; the song was over.
To Harry’s dismay, they began another slow one – something he didn’t recognize and didn’t want to – something about the innocence not lasting and wishing September would end. Sirius had ended the spell – they were no longer swaying. Harry stared at him across the space, hurting, his eyes filling with tears, and then he turned and walked quickly to the doors at the front of the room. He shoved past Neville and Luna and then Dean and Ginny. Harry hurried, though he wasn’t sure where he was going – just away.
He burst through the doors into the entrance hall. It was quiet and cold, only a few candles lit for ambiance. He turned to take the stairs up to the Gryffindor common room. He had made it to the second floor when he heard the steps behind him and then felt the warm hand grasp his elbow.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” came Sirius’ pained voice.
Harry wanted to wrench away. He told himself he wanted to wrench away. It was a lie. He wanted nothing of the sort. He turned to Sirius, and the longing must have been etched on his face.
Sirius took a breath, caught in that scant moment, and then he held out his hand.
Harry looked down at it, the smooth palm, open, beckoning him.
He took it.
Continue to Part Three: On DW | On LJ
