Yellowish light spills from the sitting room, filtering through the heavy shadows of Grimmauld Place. It wreaths the doorway in a golden glow and paints a long stripe on the floor, both of which Sirius is careful to avoid. The floorboards creak under his feet as he leans forward, but it is a soft noise, drowned out by laughter and the familiar sounds of the old house settling in for the night.
Harry is curled at one end of the couch, wrapped in a thick, black blanket woven with the Black family crest, and Hermione is perched on the other end, leaning back against the armrest. Ron is nearby, cross-legged on the floor, with his head resting against Hermione's knee and a bottle of Firewhisky tucked in his lap.
They are whispering, their voices soft and muted by the alcohol, and Sirius has to hold his breath to catch their words. He knows he shouldn't be watching, knows he is intruding, but he cannot make himself turn away.
It's nice to see Harry like this, open and relaxed, nice to see Harry laughing and smiling and enjoying himself. Harry loves Sirius and Sirius knows this, and Harry spends as much time with Sirius as school and Order business will allow, but Harry is different with Sirius than he is with his friends. He is quieter, more reserved, as if he's afraid to speak, as if he doesn't know what to say, as if the fifteen years they spent apart is a gap that cannot be bridged.
And this hurts Sirius, slices through him like a knife twisting into his gut, because he wants nothing more than for Harry to be happy.
Harry is happy now, a smile playing across his lips and the heat of the Firewhisky dancing over his cheeks as he laughs at something Hermione says to Ron. Ron makes an indignant noise and swats at her, flushing pink to his ears, and Harry laughs harder, choking in his effort to contain it.
He looks down at Ron, then pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and he looks so much like James in that moment that Sirius forgets how to breathe.
Harry's resemblance to James is uncanny; it always has been. It struck Sirius hard the first time he saw Harry, but it's become more pronounced in the last couple of years, grown stronger as Harry approaches the age that Sirius remembers James best.
"We should go," Hermione says quietly.
"Yeah," Ron agrees. "Mum would kill me if she knew I was out this late."
"You could stay here," Harry offers. "There is plenty of room."
Sirius heart aches at this, at how Harry wants their company instead of his own.
"No offense, mate, but I had enough of this place last summer."
Harry tosses a pillow at him and the blanket shifts, revealing the leg he is dangling off the couch. It's bare to at least the knee, and Sirius tries not to wonder about what he is wearing underneath, because that is a dangerous train of thought.
"What about your clothes?" Harry asks.
"Oh, I can get them when we come by for dinner tomorrow," Hermione says.
"Night, then," Harry says, the disappointment evident in his voice.
He watches them leave silently, and Sirius watches him, the ache in his chest growing sharp and painful. He wants so badly for Harry to be happy, for Harry to be happy here, with him, but it seems like there is nothing he can do.
After a moment, Harry reaches out with his wand and Summons the Firewhisky. He unearths an arm from the blanket as the bottle sails toward him, and the blanket slips off his shoulder. He's wearing what looks like a Hogwarts shirt, unbuttoned, and Sirius catches a glimpse of something shimmery and black underneath.
He takes a pull from the bottle and sighs, stretching out on the couch, and the blanket rides further up his leg. It's bare well past the knee, and his skin is too smooth for a boy, too pale, and when he kicks to untangle the blanket from his feet, Sirius sees a flash of creamy lace against Harry's thigh.
Sirius feels himself warm, feels himself harden, and he steps into the room, his need to see what Harry is wearing outweighing his desire to remain unseen.
Harry jumps, scrambles to sit upright, and pulls the blanket around him like a suit of armor. He looks at Sirius, then at the bottle in his hand, and he flushes bright red, color rushing to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
"Sirius--" Harry begins, panicked.
"It's all right," Sirius says. He rescues the bottle, and takes a long swallow before continuing. "I'm not mad. It's no worse than what I got up to at your age."
At Harry's age, he'd been guilty of far worse.
"We didn't wake you, did we?"
Harry fiddles nervously with the blanket, and Sirius can't stop himself, because he has to know. He reaches down and gives the blanket a tug, but Harry fights him, holding the thick material tightly and pulling it free of Sirius' fingers.
"Just, I'm not--" Harry trails off, dropping Sirius' gaze. "We were playing Truth or Dare. It's a Muggle game Hermione learned in school. And she--"
Sirius' breath catches, and a memory half-swallowed by Azkaban claws its way to the surface, a memory of James prancing around in one of Lily's skirts on Halloween. He thinks of how James had looked that night -- James, who had no longer been his to touch -- and his cock throbs.
"Are you wearing Hermione's clothes?" Sirius asks.
"She dared me, Sirius," Harry says desperately, blushing to his ears. "I didn't want to, but she said I had to."
"Let's see," Sirius says, more firmly.
Harry stands, watching Sirius with wide eyes. He shakes his head silently, but slowly, the blanket falls from his shoulders and pools around his feet.
Smooth, flesh-toned stockings cover his legs, disappearing under the hem of a gray, pleated Hogwarts skirt, and a white button-down hangs open and untucked, revealing a black silk camisole edged with lace.
Harry makes a fretful noise, and shifts uncomfortably, his eyes fixed to the floor. His nervous hands stop fiddling with the tails of his shirt to pull at the skirt, which is so short it scarcely covers the curve of his arse. This only rucks it up in the front, giving Sirius a clear view of the lace on the stockings and the thin straps holding them in place.
"I wasn't aware garters were part of the Hogwarts uniform."
"Hermione... her and Ron--" He abandons the skirt to cover his face with his hands. "I don't want to talk about it."
Sirius steps closer, pulling Harry's hands away from his face. He realizes immediately that he shouldn't have touched, because now he can't stop, now his fingers are tracing the lace on the neck of the camisole, dipping down to smooth over the slippery silk.
"Are you wearing Hermione's knickers, too?"
"No," Harry mumbles. "They didn't fit."
Sirius has to bite his lip to stop himself from coming on the spot, because that thought -- the thought of Harry sliding a scrap of lace and silk up his legs and over his hips, of Harry's cock struggling against the delicate frills -- is more arousing than the idea of him not wearing anything at all.
His hands are traitorous, dangerous things, and they drop down to play with the hem of the skirt, even though he knows they shouldn't. Harry stiffens as Sirius' hands slip underneath, and Sirius can feel him shaking as his fingers trail over nylon and lace and skin.
"Do you know how you look?" Sirius asks. His hands come to rest just under the garter-belt at Harry's hips, fingers curling around, stroking the curve of his arse.
"I look ridiculous," Harry says quietly.
"So hot," Sirius murmurs, unable to stop himself. "I want to touch you everywhere," he adds, working his thumbs between the garter-belt and Harry's skin. "I want to lie you down and fuck you. Bury my cock inside you."
"I used to fuck your father," Sirius continues, his lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear. "I used to spread him out on my bed at school. I'd kiss him and lick him until he begged me to suck him off."
"Oh my God."
"He loved it when I did that. He'd pull on my hair and he'd scream my name when he came down my throat."
"My dad... oh God, Sirius."
"Yes, just like that." Sirius says. He leans in, rubbing his cock against Harry's body, and Harry gasps. "You look so much like him. I wonder if you'd say it the same way."
"Sirius, stop it."
Harry's hands fly up to Sirius' arms, but Sirius leans in more, and feels Harry cock, hard against his hip. He traces his tongue over Harry's ear and Harry shivers, and his fingers dig into Sirius' skin instead of pushing him away.
"I tried to get him to wear a skirt for me once," Sirius says, his mouth moving across Harry's cheek. "He wouldn't do it. Said he wasn't a girl."
"He wore one for your mum though, on Halloween," he continues. He dips his head down, his lips brushing against Harry's. "It was all I could think about for weeks. I pictured him in that skirt when I wanked. I fucked my hand and tried to pretend it was his arse."
"Please, what?" Sirius asks. His tongue flicks over Harry's lips, darting into his mouth. "What do you want?"
"I... I don't know," Harry stammers. He squirms between Sirius' hands, rocking forward to grind his cock against Sirius' leg. "Oh God, Sirius."
Sirius drops to his knees, nosing under the hem of the skirt to get to Harry's cock. It's hard and red and perfect, and when Sirius takes it into his mouth Harry whimpers, a noise so needy and desperate Sirius has to squeeze himself roughly to stave of his own building release.
He sucks Harry hard and fast, his lips dragging over slick, heated flesh as it slides in and out of his mouth, his tongue tracing the vein on the underside and swirling over the head. Harry begs, a jumble of more and yes and now spilling from his lips, and he wrenches the skirt up and away to tangle his fingers in Sirius' hair. He rocks his hips, thrusting into Sirius' mouth, and Sirius lets him, encourages him, coaxes Harry to fuck his mouth with hands that wander his hips and thighs.
"Sirius, I'm gonna--"
Sirius knows Harry is going to come, he can feel it in the way Harry is shuddering, in the way Harry's legs quiver and shake under his hands. But he doesn't stop, he only sucks Harry harder, because that's what he wants, because he wants Harry to come down his throat the way James used to, in the skirt he could never get James to wear.
He wraps his hand around the base of Harry's cock, sliding it up as his mouth works over the head, and Harry comes, pulling hard on Sirius' hair and calling out his name.
"Oh God, Sirius," Harry breathes, sagging against him.
Sirius kisses him then, pushing his tongue between Harry's lips. Harry's tongue is lazy, sated, but it strokes against his, a slow, liquid tangle that makes heat flare under Sirius' skin. Sirius growls into Harry's mouth, kissing him harder, and moves them, backing Harry against the sitting room wall, his hands pulling desperately at his flies.
"I'm going to fuck you," Sirius says.
"What? No, Sirius--"
But Harry is limp and boneless from his release, and he's thin, still too thin no matter how much Sirius feeds him, and he doesn't resist as Sirius hauls him up, pressing him back against the wall and wrapping his legs around his waist.
"Yes," Sirius says, pulling his wand from his pocket and hissing the spell. "I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to come again. Better than before, because you'll have my cock inside you."
Harry moans, his cock twitching between their bodies, his head sagging forward onto Sirius' shoulder. Sirius braces Harry against the wall with one arm and drops his other hand down, reaching around Harry's hip to circle his entrance with the tip of his finger.
Sirius slides in gently, waiting for Harry's body to stop clenching around him. Harry moans, softly, his breath ghosting over Sirius' neck, and starts to relax, his body warming around Sirius' finger. He works it in and out slowly, building a steady rhythm, adding another finger and another as Harry starts to push down against his hand.
This is wrong, Sirius knows it's wrong, because Harry's young, because Harry is his best friend's son, his dead lover's son, but he can't stop, not with Harry's stocking-clad legs wrapped around his waist, not with Harry's body so hot and tight around his fingers, not with Harry begging breathlessly for his cock.
"What, Harry?" Sirius asks. He presses his fingers in deep, stroking over Harry's prostate. "What do you want?"
"You... I don't, I--"
"You want me to fuck you?"
"Oh God, Sirius, please!"
He kisses Harry as he pushes his cock inside, soothing Harry's pained whimper with his lips and tongue, snaking a hand between them to stroke Harry's cock. And Sirius knows he shouldn't be doing this, knows that if he is going to do it he should at least take Harry upstairs and do on a bed, soft and slow, but Harry's body is tight, searing heat around him, and Harry's cock is hardening in his hand.
The first thrust sends sparks of pleasure up Sirius' spine, causes fire to dance over his skin. He looks at Harry, at a flushed face and dishevelled hair, at a rumpled shirt and a gray, pleated skirt, and heat coils tightly in his stomach, dangerous and ready to explode.
He tells himself not to think about James, but it's difficult with Harry in front of him, looking so much like him. He tells himself to be slow and careful, but it's impossible with Harry's heels pressing into the small of his back, and Harry's fingernails digging into his shoulders and raking down his arms, and Harry's body so tight and hot around his cock.
Harry is whimpering now with every thrust, with every stroke over his prostate, his mouth moving up Sirius' neck to meet with Sirius' own. Harry is kissing him, warm lips and a rough-slick tongue, each sound he makes sneaking into Sirius' mouth and rushing through his body.
He wants to touch Harry, wants to curl his fingers around Harry's cock and stroke up until he comes hot and thick over his hand, but he can't, Harry's rocking against him hard and fast, and he's afraid he'll drop him if he lets him go.
"Touch yourself," Sirius says, against Harry's lips. "I want you to come again. I want you to pull yourself off to my cock."
Harry obeys, fisting himself quickly, stroking as hard as he can between the awkward press of their bodies. He arches and bucks, shifting so wildly he almost unseats Sirius' cock, and Sirius holds him tight as he thrusts, fingers pressing into the curve of his arse hard enough to bruise.
He tries not to think of James, but he can't, he can't not think of James -- of the first time he fucked James, awkward and desperate in the Shrieking Shack, of the last time he fucked James, apologetic and slow after Lily agreed to give James a date.
Of James in a skirt on a Halloween night long ago. A lifetime ago. Harry's lifetime ago.
Sirius bites Harry's neck to stop himself from calling out James' name, teeth scraping over sweat-slick skin, and Harry comes, with a choked moan and a burst of wet heat between their bodies. Sirius follows immediately, dragged over the edge by the clench and pull of Harry's muscles, the world flashing white as he pulses inside Harry's body.
He lowers Harry to the floor, spreading him out on the blanket he'd tried to hide behind, and pushes Harry's legs apart, dipping his head down before Harry asks, before Sirius has to explain. His come tastes bitter on his tongue, salty and sour, but he laps at it, sucking it into his mouth, trying to clean up the mess he made.