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Orion Black's Guide to Resurrection

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Harry sits back in his chair and sighs. Nothing. He’s scoured the Black library and there’s nothing. Not a book, not so much as a pamphlet on Occlumency. Sirius had assured him that there would be something – that he’d be able to get a head start before he was stuck with Snape and ‘remedial potions’ – but either his godfather was wrong or he was lying, because there is nothing.

He rubs a hand over his face, fingertips lingering over his still-tender scar. Fucking Voldemort. He’s glad he managed to see what happened to Mr Weasley; he’s relieved beyond measure that he managed to warn the Headmaster in time for him to be saved. But beyond that he’s as hurt and angry and jumbled up as he’s been since Cedric died. Worse, perhaps, because now he has the Order tip-toeing around him and talking in hushed whispers that cut off as soon as he enters a room. Ron and Hermione aren’t much better, but Ginny is the worst. She keeps trying to tell him that she knows exactly how he feels, but all it does is make him feel uncomfortable because her attempts at hugging him linger for too long and make Sirius and Remus talk about how his father loved red-heads with misty eyes.

Besides, she was possessed, yes. She didn’t possess anyone, though, not like he did – she can’t remember the taste of her father’s blood and the way it feels to inject venom into soft flesh.

He shakes his head and goes to stand up only to find that one of the portraits is watching him. It’s one he’s seen before, during the summer, but never interacted with. Usually, he seemed to be flitting between frames or watching their attempts at cleaning with an expression of deep scepticism on his handsome face. He doesn’t seem hostile, though, which is unusual for a portrait in Grimmauld Place. Instead, he’s watching Harry with a curious, almost thoughtful expression.

Harry bites his lip, thinking hard, before deciding that he has nothing to lose. He stands and approaches cautiously, wary of being shouted at and his frantic searching of the library being uncovered. He found some fascinating books, after all – ones he fully intends to steal away for himself – even though the subject he currently needs is horribly lacking.

The portrait, though, remains silent as he approaches, although Harry does notice those watchful eyes flicker over him as he gets closer. The look is appreciative, almost hungry, and it makes Harry’s stomach tighten.

“Hello, sir,” he says quietly.

For a moment, the portrait doesn’t reply. Then, the man smiles: a slow, wicked smile that reminds Harry of his godfather in his more mischievous moments. “Hello, young man,” the portrait replies. His voice is soft, almost effeminate, but with the same upper-class drawl as Sirius.

Come to think of it, now that he’s looking at the portrait up close, he looks very much like Sirius in general. They have the same long, curly hair; the same silver eyes and high cheekbones; the same straight, pointed nose; the same cupid’s bow. The portrait shows a man who looks like Sirius should have looked if Azkaban hadn’t happened – maybe a bit older. There’s silver streaked through his curls, and fine lines at the corners of his eyes that become more pronounced with his smile.

He’s really very handsome.

“A son of the House of Potter, I presume?” the portrait asks.

“Er, yes, sir,” Harry replies. “My father was James Potter.”

“Heir Potter, then,” the portrait says. “I am Orion, Heir Black. Is there something you required from the library?”

Orion Black, according to the Black family tapestry, was Sirius’ father. Certainly, they look enough alike. Harry bites his lip again. Sirius doesn’t talk much about his father: his mother is the main target of his rage and bitterness. Her portrait downstairs is enough to prove that she was an awful, bigoted woman; Orion seems, so far, to be her polar opposite. He hasn’t screamed once, nor has he called Harry a Mudblood or a Blood-Traitor despite his Muggle clothing.

“Um, I was looking for books on Occlumency, sir,” he says. “Sirius said that there should be some? But, uh. I couldn’t find any.”

“Ah, Occlumency,” Orion drawls. “A useful skill. Such a pity that those books were amongst the first to be removed.”

“Removed?” Harry asks.

“Oh, yes,” Orion confirms. “At the start of the summer, when Sirius let all of those vigilantes in, Professor Dumbledore gave himself a tour of the library. Took a few things for himself, of course. He does have a habit of that… Then he commanded – sorry, requested - that Auror Moody and that Doge fellow go through the books and remove all the ones on certain subjects. Some of the more, ah, dangerous books remained, of course, and I do believe that Kreacher preserved a few, but they were awfully thorough.”

Anger and betrayal curdle in Harry’s gut. He looks away from Orion’s pretty, sympathetic face, and tries to breathe through it. Dumbledore ordered the Occlumency books removed! In summer! He knew about Harry’s dreams, of course – Harry knows that Sirius told him about the one he had before Fourth Year, where Voldemort killed that old Muggle man. Does he want Harry to fail? Surely – surely he knows that Snape hates him too much to teach him properly.

He swallows roughly. “Do you know where I can buy any?” he asks, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

“Obscurus Books in Knockturn Alley,” Orion Black replies. “If it’s still open. They’re important to you?”

Harry nods. “The Headmaster wants Snape to teach me,” he says. “But he hates me. He really hates me. He won’t teach me properly – he definitely hasn’t taught Potions properly. I don’t want to learn from him, but he’s the only one who can teach me, apparently, and without Occlumency, Voldemort can see straight into my head.”

Orion wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Walburga’s insufferable Mudblood,” he mutters. “And Snape. That Half-blood that Sirius was always going on about?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, wincing at the slur. “I know that he and Sirius hate each other. That Snape hated my father too.”

“That’s the one. Something about his abysmal hygiene,” Orion says. He leans against his frame and eyes Harry thoughtfully. “You know… This isn’t the only library in Grimmauld Place.”

Harry, having grinned at the comment about Snape, feels his smile slip from his features. “It isn’t?” he asks, hope budding in his chest.

Orion hums. “My old study counts, I suppose,” he says. “There are enough books in it, certainly. I might be convinced to allow you entry.”

Harry swallows. He’s suddenly very aware of the hungry look on Orion’s face; the deviousness of his smile. He licks his lips. Painted silver eyes follow the movement closely. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickles, and he weighs up his options.

He needs to learn Occlumency. If Orion Black had books on the subject in his library, and will agree to let him use them, then… So what if he’s camp and flirty and wants something off Harry? He’s the portrait of a dead man – it’s not like he can do anything to hurt Harry at all. Not like Snape can, and while Harry’s not sure what learning Occlumency will entail exactly, he’s completely sure that Snape is going to use it as an excuse to make him suffer as much as possible.

“Well,” he says slowly. “That would be very generous of you, Lord Black, if books on Occlumency were amongst your secret collection.”

That wicked smile widens. Whoever painted Sirius’ father apparently wanted to make a point about just how sharp his teeth were.

“Occlumency books are amongst them,” Orion says. “Amongst other things you’ll find a lot more useful than the slim pickings left behind in here. Although you’re more than welcome to take those books you set aside for yourself and bring them with you. It’s a cosy little place to study. Very private, I can promise you that; perfect for studying Occlumency.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat. He swallows again, more nervously this time. His belly feels tight and fluttery. “And what, Heir Black, would I have to do to gain access to such a place?” he asks.

Orion hums. “Just a little favour or two,” he says. “Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with, darling. I’m hardly interested in that.”

The tight, fluttery sensation in Harry’s belly grows stronger. Still, he finds himself nodding. “Okay,” he says.

He needs to learn Occlumency, but honestly, the promise of privacy is even more of a temptation.

Orion chuckles softly. It’s a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Oh, darling,” he sighs. “There’s a bookshelf at the back, next to the sconce shaped like an augury. Third shelf down from the top, third book from the left. Septima Goodswitch’s Guide to Grinding: Potions Preparation for the Complete Novice. Pull it forward and take a step back. The password to the door behind is ‘Ozymandias.’”

“Thank you, Heir Black,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“No, darling,” Orion Black says. “Thank you.”

Harry feels himself reddening, but he goes back and grabs the books he’d been planning to steal before following the painting’s instructions. He’s a little wary of what he might find in the office. Dead doxies, a boggart, some sort of hideous torture chamber… Grimmauld Place is a house of horrors and if he wasn’t so desperate for a place to study, a place to lick his wounds, then he wouldn’t even dream of it.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried.

The office behind the bookcase is warded with something that makes Harry’s skin prickle like he’s just walked through a cloud of needles. Beyond that, though, it’s shockingly cosy and surprisingly clean given the state of the rest of the building. Maybe Kreacher has kept something tidy after all? Or one of the wards on the place is some sort of preservation charm. Harry has no idea. Whichever way it was kept clean, there’s no denying the fact that the place is perfect. There are walls covered by towering bookcases, stuffed full of hundreds, maybe thousands, of tomes. A heavy wooden desk sits in the centre of the room. Behind it: a comfortable looking chair, upholstered with black leather. Directly in front of the desk isn’t a fireplace, which Harry might have expected. Instead, there’s a full-length portrait of Orion Black himself. The portrait looks at him with that same hunger, that same wicked smile.

“You were right,” Harry tells him. “This place is perfect.”

“I’m glad you agree, darling,” Orion says. “The Occlumency section is on that bookcase there. Up near the top.”

Harry follows where his painted finger points and, reaching up, pulls down a copy of The Mind’s Veil: A Comprehensive Guide to Occlumency and The Mind Arts: Occlumency and Legillimency. There are others, of course. Quite a few others. But the two he’s picked seem to be as good a place as any to start – not that he knows what Legillimency is anyway.

“So, what were those favours?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Conversation, for one,” Orion says simply. Harry looks up at him in surprise, and Orion smiles down at him ruefully. “I’ve been cooped up in here for years, with no one except a mad elf and portraits of my equally mad relatives. Detestable lot, really. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been able to speak to a handsome young man like yourself.”

Harry feels himself blushing. “Okay,” he says. “I mean, that’s not much of a favour.”

Orion’s smile is positively disturbing – sharp teeth and hunger and an awful, impish sort of humour. “It’s a start, darling,” he says. “Just a start.”

“Where were you today?”

“The library. Thought I’d check if there were any books on that thing Dumbledore wants me to learn.”

“Any luck?”

“No. I guess it’s up to Snape to teach me after all.”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

It is just a start. Harry returns to Orion Black’s office day after day and studies like a madman, spending hours amongst the shelves. He hasn’t been this dedicated to reading since Uncle Vernon broke his arm for doing better than Dudley, and he finds himself unexpectedly enjoying it. He talks idly with the painting as he reads books first on Occlumency and Legillimency, discussing the theories behind them, then on Warding and Runes – Orion’s speciality when he was alive – and, eventually, some books on the theory behind the Dark Arts. He practices too – not Dark Arts, of course, but Occlumency. Orion is a surprisingly good instructor.

“I taught the boys how to read, you know,” he says, when Harry mentions it. “My wife could barely stand them, so the Three R’s were up to me.”

“Sirius never told me that,” Harry says softly.

Orion shrugs. “He wouldn’t,” he says. “He was quite fed up with the lot of us, in the end, not that I can blame him. The real miracle is that he’s managed to stay in the house this long.”

Harry privately agrees. Still, he does have one more question. “Why did you marry her?” he asks. “It’s just. You seem to have really disliked each other and, well. Uh. No offense, but you don’t seem like the type to want to marry a woman.”

Orion smiles at him. “Walburga and I detested each other,” he says. “We were married off because, well. To be blunt about it: her parents weren’t overly keen on the way she was fawning over that Mudblood Riddle, so they begged my father to arrange a marriage for us. He, I suppose, was rather despairing of me ever having a nice Pureblood heir, so the idea tidied up a few loose ends. Not that it quite turned out the way they wanted. The boys were conceived with potions, of course, and once we had an heir and a spare, Walburga was back in her Mudblood’s bed and I, well darling. It’s not like I ever hid my preferences. And, in the end, poor Regulus died and Sirius ran off to the Potters’.”

Harry stares at him, mouth open. “Sirius’ Mum was having a fling with Voldemort?” he asks. It comes out as a squeak.

Orion nods. “She even went so far as to name him Sirius’ godfather,” he said. “Not that that influenced Sirius to his politics any. Bull-headed and belligerent my son may be, but he’s always had a good nose for sniffing out other people’s hypocrisy.”

Harry, utterly pole-axed, takes a moment to adjust to this new reality where Voldemort is his godfather’s godfather.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Well. Fuck me.”

Orion bursts out laughing. “Trust me, darling, if I wasn’t just a portrait…”

Harry feels himself turn scarlet and he ducks his head, his heart pounding. He’s been thinking a lot over the last few days: about Orion and his hungry looks, about the way Ginny’s hugs and lingering touches make him want to run, about Cedric and Bill and even Tom Riddle, and how distractingly handsome they are. He bites his lip, glancing at the portrait curiously. Orion is paint on canvas: he can’t do him any harm. He certainly can’t run to Rita Skeeter for a tell-all exclusive.

“What was your second favour?” he asks.

Orion’s eyes seem to gleam. He leans casually against his frame. “Nothing more than you’re willing to give me, darling,” he says.

“You – do you want me to…” Harry can’t quite get the words out.

Orion just looks back steadily. Harry sucks in a breath, his belly fluttering madly. He steps back from the portrait and sees a flash of disappointment in silver-painted eyes. His hands shake. His fingers curl around the hem of his T-shirt and he’s still trying to figure out what he’s doing when he pulls it up and over his head.

He looks up at Orion, at the surprise and pleasure and hunger on his face, and he lets the worn fabric slip to the floor. He raises a hand and presses it flat to his belly, letting the tips of his fingers graze the waistband of his jeans. They’re definitely not very flattering: an old pair of Dudley’s, they’re ripped and stained and being held up by one of Vernon’s old belts that he had to put extra holes in. But still, Orion is looking at him like he wants to reach out of the canvas and touch him, like he’s something beautiful.

He slips his fingers down under his waistband and unties the piece of string that holds his underwear up.

He can’t believe he’s doing this.

He undoes his belt. With nothing holding them in place, his jeans and his underwear fall straight to the floor. He doesn’t take his eyes off Orion even as he steps out of them, and he resists the urge to cover himself with his hands and flee. It’s too late for that.

“Oh, darling,” Orion breathes. “You’re beautiful.”

Harry’s not too sure about that. He knows that he’s short and scrawny and underweight. He knows he has visible ribs and hips that jut out too much and knobbly knees. Still, it’s nice to hear it. It’s nice to be looked at like he’s something pretty and precious.

He drifts closer to the painting. He lifts a hand and presses his palm to the surface of the canvas.

Orion does the same.

“Back again, are you? Where do you keep sneaking off to?”

“Just studying.”

“You’re spending an awful lot of time studying, then. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“It’s OWL year. I need the distraction. Shouldn’t you be pleased I’m taking it seriously?”

“Of course! I am pleased! It’s just. We barely see you.”

“I’m fine, I promise.”

Orion’s study is warm and cosy, and Harry takes easily to studying naked. He sprawls across the huge, wooden desk, letting Orion see him from every angle as they talk. He likes it, being watched. He likes the soft, admiring noises that Orion makes when he reveals himself; likes the way his voice softens to a breathy purr as he talks about all the things he’d do to Harry if only he was still alive.

Harry wants those things too.

He closes the last Occlumency book and rolls slowly onto his back. The desk is big enough that he won’t fall off unless he actively tries to, but he’s still a little paranoid about it. The last thing he wants is to go arse-over-tit over the edge and make a fool of himself.

He turns his head to look at the portrait. Orion is sitting in his painted chair, watching him longingly. Harry smiles, biting at his lower lip. Orion’s desire for him has become a familiar thing – something secret and wonderful. He makes Harry feel special. Cherished. Like he matters as something other than the Boy-Who-Lived.

He keeps his eyes locked on Orion as he brushes his hand over his chest. The tips of his fingers ghost over his nipples, peaking them. He shivers, chewing on his lip to try and remain quiet as long as possible. He wants Orion to – he hears Orion’s soft gasp when he notices what Harry’s doing.

“Oh, Harry love,” he whispers.

Harry lets his touches grow firmer, plucking and twisting at his nipples until they’re hard and red and it’s impossible to keep his pleasure to himself. His cock is filling rapidly against his thigh.

“Beautiful,” Orion breathes.

Harry lets his hand slide down his belly. He brushes his fingers gently against the head of his cock, gathering the first drops of clear fluid. He raises his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, staring at Orion as the portrait stares back.

Orion groans. “How do you taste, darling?”

“Salty,” Harry tells him. “Musky.” He licks his lips. “Good.”

“So good for me, aren’t you, Harry,” Orion coos.

Harry nods. Fuck, but he wants to be. Wants so much for Orion to be sitting at his desk chair and watching Harry touch himself. Want to feel his breath on his skin and his lips and his tongue and his hands and –

He curls his wet fingers around his cock, stroking himself to full hardness. He twists his hand over the head, pulling back his foreskin. He hears someone moan, but he’s not sure if it’s Orion or himself. He takes his time, prompted by the filth spilling from Orion’s lips. Goes slower. Stops. Touches his balls and opens his legs wider to brush against his hole – all on command. It’s incredible.

“Good boy,” Orion says. “So good for me, Harry. Do you want to come, sweetheart?”

Harry nods. It occurs to him through the haze of his pleasure that he started out as the one in control. He started out teasing Orion, letting him look. Letting him watch. Now, though. It’s like he has no control over his actions at all.

“Come here, darling,” Orion says. “Come to me, Harry love.”

Harry does. He slips off the desk and crosses the room, his cock bobbing as he walks.

“Look at you, darling,” Orion says. “You’re so perfect. So good, so needy. I wish I could taste you, Harry. Wish I could suck your pretty cock until you’re begging for me.”

Harry shivers. “Yes,” he whispers. “Please.”

He wants that.

“Come close, darling. Touch yourself again. That’s it. Come on the canvas, sweetheart. Mark me up with your come.”

Harry pants as his hand works at his cock, stroking hard and fast until the heat in his belly spreads, filling his limbs and weighing them down even as his come splatters onto Orion’s portrait, streaking the canvas with white. Harry groans at the sight. Orion is in the foreground, kneeling on the painted floor. Harry’s come is striping his waistcoat and trousers and the heavy pool of his dark robes.

Silver eyes are nearly black with lust. With that soul-shaking hunger.

Harry leans closer. He touches his lips to the canvas, kissing it softly. He rubs the head of his slowly softening cock against the rough paint, smearing fluid over the surface. He shudders. A soft whine escapes him.

“Oh, Harry. Darling Harry,” Orion whispers. “Thank you, my dearest. You’ve done so well.”

Harry leans back, smiling at the praise and the mess he’s made. “Can we do this again?” he asks.

“Of course, love.”

“So, you and Ginny, eh?”

“What? No!”

“What do you mean, ‘no?’”

“I, er, I’m pretty sure I’m gay.”

“Huh. Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“Oh.”

Sex becomes a regular thing for them. It’s not masturbation, no matter that they never actually touch. Harry makes himself come again and again, multiple times a day, to Orion’s command. The portrait coos over him, teases him to hardness with his words and praises him as he comes down from his high.

It’s not masturbation. It’s sex. Love-making, even. At least, Harry’s pretty sure he’s in love.

Orion is witty and clever and oh so helpful. He’s passionate and tender and encourages Harry to explore magic in a way he’s never thought himself capable of. It’s like he’s reached back in time and dragged the eager scholar out of Harry’s soul – the one that existed before the Dursleys and their violence, and before Ron and Hermione and their competitiveness.

Orion always asks him to come on his canvas. Harry always does. It’s the closest they’ll get to touching, after all, and he is so desperate for Orion to touch him.

He’d be gentle, he thinks. Teasing. He’d tug Harry’s hair and call him his darling and he’d worship Harry’s body the way that he always talks about: with hands and mouth and tongue.

Sometimes, he thinks he can feel it: the gentle brush of long fingers through his hair as he leans against Orion’s frame in a post-orgasm daze.

He’s going to miss Orion when he’s back at Hogwarts. It’s pretty awful that he’s spent more time here, in the hidden study, than he has with any of the living members of the Order of the Phoenix or with his friends, but he does feel better for it. Mostly. He’s tired. He’s been having weird dreams that leave his scar itching even though his Occlumency shields are pretty decent for a novice. At least, he thinks they are, since he can’t feel Voldemort’s emotions anymore and he’s stopped having dreams about that dark corridor. Instead, his dreams are about the Chamber of Secrets; about Voldemort lying cold and still on the damp stone while Orion Black slips an arm around Harry’s shoulder and whispers “soon, darling, he’ll never wake again.”

He wakes up hard, each morning, feeling like he hasn’t slept. Phineas Nigellus has taken to watching him closely, and when he tells Orion about it, his lover just snorts.

“The Headmasters of Hogwarts pledge themselves to the school over their own kin. That’s why we shoved him in a back bedroom. He’s spying on you for the current Headmaster, no doubt.”

Phineas Nigellus isn’t the only one watching him, though. The Order, when he sees them, and his friends all seem to be giving him funny looks. Ginny is growing clingier for some reason. Sirius looks worried. Kreacher keeps making unhelpful comments – “another foolish Mudblood, yes, playing with magic he doesn’t understand” – which just makes the staring worse.

It’s exhausting.

On his last morning in Grimmauld Place, he skips breakfast in favour of heading straight to the study. He doesn’t think he can bear another meal with everyone looking at him from the corners of their eyes, especially not when he knows he has to say goodbye soon. He doesn’t bother getting dressed first, not when he’s just going to get naked anyway. As soon as the study door is shut behind him, he strips off his pyjamas and drops to his knees, crawling towards Orion’s frame. He leans against it, kissing the rough paint in greeting. He’s still hard from his dream and when Orion gives him permission, he wraps his hand around his cock and starts to stroke.

None of the marks he leaves ever stay. Part of him wishes that they would – that he could leave a permanent mark on Orion the way that Orion has so indelibly changed him.

He comes quickly, shuddering against the canvas as he paints it with thick stripes of semen. He curls as close as he can to the frame, fantasising about ghostly fingers carding through his hair.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Orion murmurs. “Harry, darling. Such a sweet good morning.”

Harry smiles. He looks up. Orion is in the foreground, as close as he can be. His dark robes pooling around him as he leans against his frame close to where Harry sits.

He’s going to miss this so much.

“I have to go back to school tomorrow,” he says quietly, his smile fading. “I don’t want to. For the first time, I don’t want to go to Hogwarts.”

“Oh, darling,” Orion says.

“I love Hogwarts,” Harry says. “It’s the only home I’ve ever had. But. But I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you behind.”

Orion sighs. Harry wishes he could feel it; he wishes so much that he thinks he almost can feel it.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” he admits. “It will be terribly lonely in your absence, my dearest. But, if you wish, we can make the most of the time we have left.”

Harry looks up into that handsome face, those beautiful silver eyes with their hungry expression. A shiver runs down his spine. “Yes,” he breathes, touching his lips to the canvas again. “Please, Orion.”

Orion guides him through it. Running his hands through his hair, stroking down his neck, plucking and twisting at his nipples until they’re peaked and swollen and sensitive. He presses his chest to the canvas, rubbing against the paint as he slides his hands down over his sides. He traces his fingertips over the flat of his belly, over the jut of his hipbones. He leans back so that Orion can see as he skirts around his still sensitive cock to cup and tug at his balls, rolling their weight in his palm. His skin is prickling; his blush spreading down his neck and across his chest. He pants desperately, wanting more – needing more. He wishes Orion could touch him. Orion, who is watching him with gleaming eyes.

“Please,” Harry whispers.

“Oh, poor darling,” Orion says. “Do you need to come, sweetheart?”

Harry nods, not trusting his voice.

“Come, then,” Orion commands. “Come for me.”

Harry lurches forwards, wrapping his hand around his cock. He leans against the canvas, pressing desperate kisses to the paint as he jerks himself roughly, crying as his balls tighten and his release splashes against the paint.

“Good boy,” Orion says. “Such a good boy for me, Harry love. Can you come for me again?”

Harry does, thrusting himself against the wood of Orion’s frame. He comes again after that – almost dry. Again, wailing desperately, begging for Orion to fuck him, please, fuck him. He can’t come anymore, but he tries, whimpering and whining as he strokes himself. He drools against the portrait instead, panting heavily as he works himself again and again and again to the sound of Orion’s praise.

He aches. His cock, his balls, his arm, his knees – even his scar. His whole body feels like it’s throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

“One more, darling,” Orion tells him. “Let me see you just once more.”

Harry stares up at him through wet eyes. He’s so sensitive that it barely takes anything. He thrusts his hips weakly against Orion’s frame, hissing at the stimulation. “Want you,” he whispers. “Want you so much. Orion. Orion, please, I love, I – ah!”

He sobs. As his body shakes through another climax, his forehead burns. His scar splits open with a terrible scream, blood pouring down his face and onto the canvas. He sees Orion’s triumphant face through his tears; hears laughter as fingers run through his hair.

The world turns black.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Was that someone screaming?”

“Probably a portrait, or something. Have you seen Harry today?”.

He wakes slowly. The warm scent of amber and patchouli filling his nose. There’s an arm around his waist, holding him close in someone’s lap; warm robes wrapped around his naked, tender body. Fuck, his head hurts. His head and his cock, although the aftershocks of pleasure are still twinging in his belly and his thighs. He hums, curling into the person embracing him.

“Harry, love,” a familiar voice says.

“Orion?” he asks. It comes out slurred and mumbled. Fingers curl through his hair, making his skin prickle as his head is pulled back. He cracks open his eyes, squinting up at a familiar face.

It is Orion. An alive, solid, beautiful Orion, cradling him in his lap like he’s something precious.

Harry yelps, jerking in his grasp and almost falling off before Orion tucks him closer. The hand in his hair shifts, strokes soothingly at his arm instead. He gapes up at the man, his lover, before glancing around.

He’s in the office. Orion’s portrait, still on the opposite wall, has gone blank.

“What?” he asks.

“A failsafe, darling,” Orion says. “I wasn’t ready to die, you see, so I poured my soul into my portrait instead. To keep it safe. To keep it anchored until I could come back.”

Harry blinks muzzily. “Like the diary,” he says. “In the Chamber of Secrets. You – were you possessing me?”

“No,” Orion replies. “I told you, darling, that I didn’t want anything more from you than you would give willingly.”

He had said that. And, truthfully, Harry had been an eager participant in their lovemaking. From the first time he’d taken his clothes off for Orion, he’s been addicted to the man. To the sound of his voice. To the things he says – the way he praises Harry for being good and beautiful and perfect as he thrusts into his fist.

He breathes in deep and knows he can become addicted to the man’s scent as well, to the feel of his arms.

“Every time you came for me, you gave me life,” Orion says. “Magic. Strength. Every kiss, every touch. And more than that, you gave your heart to me, darling.”

His fingers ghost over Harry’s jaw. Harry so desperately wants to kiss him. But. He also needs to know –

“Why did my scar hurt?” he asks.

“An unexpected consequence,” Orion says, his tone dark. “It seems that there was a horcrux in your scar, my dear. A soul fragment, torn off through the act of murder and sealed in you as a vessel. A wicked thing.”

“You put your soul in a portrait,” Harry points out.

“The whole thing, yes,” Orion replies patiently. He’s slipped into the same tone that he used to teach Harry Occlumency. It’s oddly comforting. “I didn’t go hacking pieces of it off. I won’t pretend that what I did was Light Magic. On the contrary, it was incredibly Dark. But what I did didn’t require murder, darling, and it didn’t hurt anyone except me.”

He sighs, looking down at Harry with a fond expression.

“It seems that our time together weakened the link between the horcrux and yourself, somehow,” he continues. “Possibly because the magic involved in my resurrection was far purer than I had anticipated it could be. Sex magic would have done the trick – repeated sexual sacrifice driven by desire. Instead, darling, you gave me so much more than that.”

Harry feels his cheeks redden. He honestly hadn’t meant to fall in love, let alone so quickly or with a portrait, but. But. It had been impossible not to. Orion has never looked down on him, has never treated him badly or scolded him. He’s taught him, treated him like an equal, praised him and spoken to him like he’s important and lovely and precious.

He hadn’t stood a chance.

“So,” he says, “it’s gone? The horcrux?”

“Yes, I should think so,” Orion says. “It attempted to flee, you see, and ended up being sacrificed in order to bring me back.”

Harry stiffens. He – if that thing was in his scar then…

“It hasn’t affected you?” he asks worriedly. “I mean, you’re not feeling homicidal or anything, are you? No urge to talk to snakes? You don’t fancy going out and murdering toddlers?”

Orion raises an eyebrow. “No,” he replies, his tone as dry as dust. “Though I do appreciate the concern, love.”

Harry relaxes. He snuggles in closer, and relishes in the feel of Orion tightening his grip. “Good,” he says. Then, “will you kiss me?”

Orion chuckles softly, stroking his fingers along Harry’s jaw. “Every day, if you’ll allow it, darling,” he says.

His lips are soft and warm against Harry’s own. There’s a hint of stubble on his jaw that prickles against his skin. He kisses Harry soft and slow and deep, teasing his mouth open with his tongue, licking over his teeth and palate. Harry moans into it, his body still sensitive from their earlier activities and yet still responsive.

He reaches up, curling his fingers in Orion’s hair. It’s soft. He grips it tightly as Orion draws back. He ghosts chaste little kisses over Harry’s cheeks and brow and jaw before nudging his head back and kissing down his neck. Familiar heat sparks in Harry’s groin. His toes curl. He arches his back, clutching tightly at Orion as sharp teeth graze over his throat.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “Orion.”

He can feel Orion’s smile pressed against his neck. “Are you sure, darling?” he asks, his breath hot on Harry’s skin. “You did so well for me this morning. Are you sure you’re recovered?”

Harry nods eagerly. “Yes,” he hisses. “Want you to fuck me. I – ah, Orion – I want you so much.”

Orion hums, sucking lightly on Harry’s neck. Then, abruptly, he stands. Harry yelps as he’s deposited on the desk, the dark wood cool against his naked arse. Orion turns him so that they’re facing each other, Harry’s legs parted. His cock, flushed red and aching, already hard against his belly.

“Do you have any idea how you look, darling?” Orion asks, pressing Harry down so that he’s lying on his back. “All spread out for me like this? All eager and willing, so perfect.” He kisses a path down Harry’s chest, down his belly. He presses hot, open mouthed kisses down the trail of dark hair that leads from Harry’s belly button to his crotch, inhaling deeply as he nuzzles against Harry’s too-sensitive prick.

“Please!” Harry begs. “Please fuck me!”

Orion hums. He kisses along Harry’s thigh as he opens one of the drawers. There’s a pause where Harry lies squirming, needy and exposed, before Orion touches what feels like a wand to his hole. He stiffens.

“Relax, darling,” Orion purrs. “Just a couple of spells to make it easier.”

The first makes Harry feel oddly empty and tingly inside. The second makes him feel wet. Slick. He shifts again on the desk. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s not the best thing he’s ever felt, either.

Orion grips his hips with one hand, holding him still. The other… Harry feels the tip of one finger circling his hole.

“Have you done this before, darling?” Orion asks.

Harry shakes his head, blushing. “No,” he says. “I only ever kissed one girl before meeting you.”

His kiss with Cho feels like a distant memory. Sad and wet and awkward, it was completely different from everything he’s shared with Orion so far.

Orion smiles down at him, oddly smug. “Good,” he says.

He presses in. Harry gasps at the intrusion. It’s not much, but he’s so sensitive that it sets every nerve alight.

“You’re mine, darling,” Orion tells him. “Mine forever. If it was up to me, I’d keep you right here. Naked and wanting on my desk with your legs open, dripping with my come. As it is, I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll still be able to feel me when you’re sitting at Hogwarts tomorrow. I’m going to mark you up so that everyone knows you’re taken.”

He adds another finger. Harry moans at the stretch. Orion presses deeper, leaning over him. His dark robes and dark hair falling around them like a curtain. The tips of his fingers touch something that makes sparks dance across Harry’s vision. He arches his back, parting his legs wider as he cries out.

“Like that, darling?”

“Yes! Please, yes, fuck, just like that,” Harry knows he’s babbling, but he doesn’t care. It feels so good. Too good. His poor cock is dripping with arousal, smearing fluid across his belly as he pushes down on Orion’s fingers.

“Oh, you were born for this, darling,” Orion coos. “You’re taking my fingers so well. Just perfect.”

He adds a third finger, twisting his hand and flexing his fingers while Harry wails. He scrabbles at Orion’s shoulder, clawing at his expensive robes. He sobs as Orion fucks him with his hand, slow and deep, rubbing against that spot that sends waves of pleasure through him. He’s begging, pleading for more, for Orion to fuck him.

Eventually, Orion deems him ready. Harry’s so ready to come that he’s practically crawling out of his skin with need for it. Still, he props himself up on his elbows and watches hungrily as Orion unfastens the buttons of his trousers and guides out his cock.

It’s the first time Harry’s seen it. When he was in the painting, Orion had never touched himself. Not when Harry was looking, anyway. It’s long and thick and flushed at the tip. It looks heavy in Orion’s hand and Harry feels his mouth water.

He wants to suck it.

He moans, watching as Orion picks up his wand and flicks it, coating his erection with clear, viscous fluid. He watches as Orion strokes himself for a moment before positioning himself at Harry’s entrance. He feels big, pressed there. Very big. A lot bigger than his fingers.

Harry swallows nervously. He looks up, meeting Orion’s gaze. He relaxes at the look on his face: that familiar hunger is there, but tempered by something warm and tender that make’s his belly flutter.

He lies back, raising his hands to grip the edge of the desk behind him. He gasps as Orion pushes in, crying out as he’s stretched wide. His toes curl. His back arches. He grips the desk until his knuckles turn white, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as Orion presses in and in and in and –

When he’s fully seated, hips flush with Harry’s arse, Orion leans down over him. He kisses him softly, reassuring him with gentle words as he starts to grind his hips in slow, small circles. Pleasure sparks at the base of Harry’s spine. He whines into Orion’s kisses, releasing the desk in favour of gripping at Orion’s hair again.

He’s so full. So full. He can feel every inch of that cock inside of him. He can feel the buttons of Orion’s trousers pressing into his skin; can feel the embroidery of his waistcoat rough against the head of his cock. It’s too much. Too much, but too good.

When Orion pulls out slightly, he feels like crying. When he thrusts back in, Harry does cry – tears sliding from under his lashes as his body struggles to cope with the stimulation. Orion kisses them away, praising him softly.

“I love you,” Harry tells him, choking the words out between sobs. “I love you. Please, I –“

Orion kisses him deeply, his tongue sliding into Harry’s mouth. Harry kisses back as best he can, and he feels a thrill run through him when Orion pulls back and he sees how dark the man’s eyes are with lust.

“I love you, my darling,” Orion says. “My pretty, perfect Harry. Do you want me to keep you, darling? Do you want to be mine?”

Harry nods eagerly, tears running down his face as Orion keeps praising him, keeps fucking into him relentlessly slow and deep. He can feel magic sparking across his skin. His balls ache as they tighten with his impending orgasm.

It’s too much.

He screams as he comes, crying out for Orion as his body arches, his come striping his chest and belly and staining the embroidery of Orion’s waistcoat. He twists in agony as Orion fucks him through it and keeps fucking him, holding Harry steady as he keeps fucking slow and hard and deep into his arse. Harry writhes, sobbing from the overstimulation. He’s shaking.

It feels like forever before Orion comes. He goes still between Harry’s aching thighs, and Harry feels the pulse of it inside of him – hot and wet and wonderful.

When Orion pulls out, he cries out at the loss. The sudden emptiness and the slow slide of Orion’s come as it starts to drip out of his body. Mortified, he tries to close his legs, but a hand on his thigh stops him. He looks up at Orion in confusion before he feels fingers at his hole, swiping through the fluid there. He can feel himself blushing furiously as Orion pushes it back into him, twisting his fingers through the mess before raising them to Harry’s lips.

Harry blinks.

Fucked out and exhausted as he is, it takes him a moment to catch on before he opens his mouth and lets Orion push his fingers inside. The taste of his come explodes across his tongue – salty and musky and bitter – and he moans loudly.

He… he likes it.

Orion withdraws them slowly, tracing his fingertips over Harry’s lips before brushing the last of his tears away with his knuckles.

“Thank you, Harry,” he says softly. “For giving me this, my darling.”

Harry smiles up at him tiredly. “Will you hold me again?” he asks.

Orion smiles back, nodding. He guides Harry off the desk and into his arms, returning him to his lap and holding him close. He kisses away the trails of Harry’s tears, kisses his lips.

“Stay with me,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes.

“Always, darling,” Orion murmurs, kissing his forehead. He can feel the man’s smile. “I told you: I’m keeping you, my dear.” A soft sigh gusts through Harry’s hair, and he feels that smile turn wicked. “At least Sirius won’t be able to complain his new stepfather is a complete stranger.”

Harry laughs.

“Harry? Who on earth? How did - ?”

“Father?!”

“Hello, Sirius. My, what a rag-tag group your little vigilantes are. Now, now. Wands away. This is my house, after all. Now, are any of you actually doing anything useful to get rid of that ghastly little upstart Riddle, or do I have to do everything?”