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Just One More Secret

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It starts one lazy summer afternoon with the sun beating hot in the Grimmauld Place drawing room. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is enjoying a rare quiet moment. Harry’s sprawled on the settee, eyes shut, fading in and out of sleep with a Quidditch Weekly spread across his chest. Ron's snoring kept him up again last night and, more often than not, Harry has been spending his afternoons with Padfoot lying at his side.

Harry's dream is incoherent, the restless sort one has during a mid-afternoon nap in a too hot room, just flashes of images and emotions with no real sense. All Harry knows is that his mind is filled with thoughts that are soft and wet and slick and, at fifteen, those are the very best kind of dreams.

It's like a splash of cold water when Remus' shout jerks Harry awake.

Harry’s eyes snap open. Shock quickly fades to mortification; his body’s alight with something very pleasant that slips from his mind like sand slips through fingers. He blinks into awareness. He’s hard and sweating, and Padfoot’s muzzle is at his crotch, his nose pressed to the obvious outline of Harry's cock in his jeans.

Remus looks between them, his eyes flashing. In a booming voice Harry's never heard before, Remus snaps, “Padfoot!”

Harry reaches for a pillow to cover himself and Padfoot hops over his legs. Harry's not sure what's about to happen. He expects Sirius to transform right there and have the row Remus seems to be waiting for, but Sirius rarely transforms in front of people. And lately, he's taken to hanging about the house as Padfoot.

George hinted once that it was because Mrs Weasley nagged Sirius less when he was a dog, or maybe Sirius didn't care as much. Either way, as the first of September draws closer, Harry's godfather tends to prefer four legs.

Padfoot doesn't transform. Walks straight out of the room, instead, ignoring Remus.

Remus opens his mouth as though he might say something and Harry winces. The hand holding the pillow over his crotch curls into a fist.

After a drawn out silence, Remus' lips press tight and thin. Then he turns and follows Padfoot out of the room.

Collapsing back on the couch, Harry finally lets out the breath he was holding. He stares at the ceiling a long while, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. The light of the room is already fading when Ron comes to get him for dinner, wondering how Harry got out of getting the Doxys out of the curtains in the parlour.


Dinner's an awkward affair, with Sirius to Harry's right, trying too hard to act like nothing is off and Remus scowling at them both. Harry meanwhile cuts his chicken and tries to answer Hermione's questions about this year’s course load, but his mind is stuttering on the vague memory of his dream and how good it felt just before Remus woke him.

He debates finding Sirius before dinner and trying to apologise. For what, he isn't quite sure. But it’s possible that he had been humping Padfoot's face and he hadn’t even realised it.

"Alright, Harry?" George asks, interrupting his thoughts. "You're looking… "

"Flushed," Fred says.

Sirius coughs. And if Harry wasn't red before, he has to be now.

"Just a little warm in here, I guess," he manages to say and stuffs more chicken into his mouth.

Luckily, this spurs Mrs Weasley into a tirade about the stale air in this cursed house and Mr Weasley promises to get some more windows unlocked. The discussion takes them through to pudding.

After Harry's cleaned his plate, he begs off Ron and Hermione, who are anxious to talk of the Order and what the latest meeting might’ve been about, and he searches out Sirius. He finds him in the library. He stops short as Remus comes into view through the half-open door. Their rushed whispers and angry faces make Harry’s stomach twist with a guilt he can’t quite understand.

He slinks away, unnoticed.


After the argument with Remus, Sirius is almost never seen; Padfoot is everywhere.

Remus frowns every time he sees Padfoot and Harry roughhouse in the backyard, or finds them curled up next to each other while Harry chats with Ron. Harry wonders if that’s half the reason Padfoot’s doing it. But Sirius is never around to ask, so Harry lets his guilt fade.

He can’t find it in himself to feel bad about finally having someone -- even a dog -- for the first time in his life show him physical affection.


It’s only natural, Harry thinks as he creeps up the stairs careful not to wake anyone, that when he’s suffering from yet another sleepless night due to Ron’s thunderous snoring, he goes to see if Sirius wouldn’t mind letting Harry sleep in his room.

Whether Sirius was in human form before Harry arrived, the reply Harry receives when he knocks is a bark.

“Can I bunk here, Padfoot?” Harry says, nodding to the large four-poster bed. “Just for tonight. I really need sleep.” His eyes are half-lidded and he knows he sounds pathetic, but he's desperate and isn't above pity at the moment.

Padfoot replies by hopping up and lying at the foot of the bed, resting his muzzle on his paws.

“Thanks,” Harry says, his jaw cracking through a yawn. He gives Padfoot a scratch behind the ears and climbs into bed. The pillow is still warm and smells of Sirius. Harry buries his nose in it and his eyes flutter shut. He’s just fading off into a dream as Padfoot creeps up the bed and wriggles his way beneath Harry’s arm.


Harry lied when he said, “just for tonight.” It's likely they both knew it at the time. But Harry loves sleeping in Sirius' room for reasons he can’t name. Each morning he wakes from a deep sleep, encased in warmth and fur and the feeling of being taken care of.

Maybe fifteen year olds shouldn't need this so badly, the feeling of being wanted and appreciated. But Harry doesn’t care. It’s new, and fills an empty spot inside him that Mrs Weasley’s hugs barely touch.

Over the next week, the path to Sirius' room becomes well travelled by Harry’s stocking feet creeping silently through the house each night.

He’s never slept so well or woken so content in his life.


Remus is often absent. It's just as well. When he's not around, at least Padfoot joins Harry for meals, even if — much to Mrs Weasley's horror — he hangs out under the table, begging for scraps.

"It's unsanitary," she tuts.

Ron snorts, whispering to Harry, "And if he were sitting properly, she'd be telling him that whiskey's not appropriate to drink in front of the children."

Harry has to bite back his laughter. There's a nudge at Harry's knee and he palms a bit of steak and drops it beneath the table. He feels Padfoot search out the meat that fell on the chair between Harry's legs, and suddenly Padfoot's nose is pressed to Harry's balls as he sniffs out the steak. With a jolt of surprise, Harry spreads his legs further.

He swallows a groan, eyes flickering around the table, and he breathes again when he sees no one is looking at him.

Rather than taking the steak and eating on the floor, Harry can feel Padfoot's muzzle graze his crotch with each chew. Harry's neck prickles with sweat and humiliation. He should shove him off, draw a line now. His heart pounds. He knows the decision's his to make and the proper thing to do is clear.

Instead, he cuts another piece of steak and sneaks it into his palm.

The conversation at dinner swirls around him; he only half-listens, nodding where he thinks he should until Hermione gives him an odd look and whispers he's just agreed they are all too young for the Order. He stops even trying to listen then because Padfoot's snout is pressing harder into his crotch with each piece, and Harry is aching, a minute away from coming in his pants. He should definitely stop now.

“Do you have any more steak?” he finds himself asking. He's positive he's headed straight to hell when Mrs Weasley beams and him, serves him a steaming slab and mutters something about 'growing boys.'

Halfway through the second steak, he comes in his pants. No one notices. Padfoot slips out the door not long after and Harry curses his stealth. Harry has to wait until everyone's left the kitchen before he can stand and scamper to his room for a change.


Remus is at dinner the next night and Padfoot has disappeared on cue.

When Remus casually asks after Sirius, Mr Weasley shrugs. “Hasn’t been around much, has he?”

“Oi,” Fred says, “Padfoot was wrestling in the library with Harry just before dinner. He’s fine, you lot.”

“It’s not healthy being a dog all the time,” Mrs Weasley says, her lips pursed as she dishes out a bowl of soup to Harry and raps the spoon against the bowl as if it has offended her.

Harry keeps his head down and mutters a thank you. He doesn’t meet Remus' eye.

After dinner, Remus is waiting for Harry in the hall.

“You know Sirius is Padfoot and Padfoot is Sirius, right, Harry?” Remus says, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “They aren’t different, not as different as you might think.”

Harry wonders whether Remus has lost his mind. “I know that.”

“It’s just that sometimes we allow an animal some... liberties.”

Harry does everything he can to fight his blush, but his thoughts go to dinner the night before and Padfoot’s muzzle pressed up against his hard-on beneath the table.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry says, his eyes wide and as innocent as he could manage.

Remus' lips press tight, disappointment etched on his face.

Guilt settles like lead in Harry’s belly for a moment, but it's forgotten at the sight of Padfoot standing behind Remus.

Harry falls to one knee and feels his smile breaking free as Padfoot goes right to him.

Above them, Remus sighs. “If you ever want to talk, Harry. Anytime. I’m here for you.”

Harry nods, not looking up, and breathes a sigh of relief when Remus finally walks away.

Padfoot’s on him in a second, head butting his chest until Harry topples to his arse. Padfoot flips over, his head in Harry’s lap and begging for a belly rub.

“I don’t care what Remus says,” Harry whispers into Padfoot’s fur. “You know that, right?”

Padfoot barks, tail thumping against the old wood floor, and Harry knows they understand each other like this. Maybe even better than he and Sirius, who always looks wrecked with guilt when he looks at Harry.


When Harry finally tells Ron that the windows rattle from his snores (which isn't entirely the truth, but nearly so), Ron’s face turns red. Harry feels bad, but he needs to explain why he's never around in the mornings, just to stop Ron from asking over breakfast and in front of everyone. It would start a whole discussion about it and word would get back to Remus. Harry’s positive Remus would put an end to it, and there’s no way he’s ready to defend the innocence of his sleeping with Padfoot. Not when that morning he woke rocking his hips and rubbing his morning wood against thick fur, before he jumped out of bed and stumbled off to the loo.

Ron offers for Harry to spell him with a Silencio each night, but Harry insists, "It's easier on everyone this way. Sirius' bed is plenty big and it's not like he's ever Sirius anyway. Sharing a big bed with a dog isn't so hard."

If he's blushing, Ron's thankfully oblivious.

That night after his shower, he ties his bathrobe tight around his waist and heads straight for Sirius' room, grateful he doesn’t have to wait for Ron to fall asleep.

He knocks and listens for the bark.

Padfoot’s sitting on the bed, staring as Harry enters. Harry feels the dog’s eyes on him more intently than ever before and realises that while Ron sees him in his bathrobe all the time, it’s not something Harry usually wears around the house. It’s old, the terry cloth worn thin, and it hasn’t fit quite right since Harry’s last growth spurt.

He reaches for the pyjamas he stuffed under Sirius' pillow that morning. He stops as he sees a half-drank glass of Firewhiskey on the bedside table.

He turns to Padfoot; the dog looks back, unblinking. It’s odd to think of Sirius, drinking whiskey on his bed and changing into his animagus form on Harry’s knock. He wants to ask why, but feels like something might shatter if he does.

Instead, he picks up the Firewhiskey, lifts it to Padfoot in a toast. Then he tips the glass to his lips and swallows a mouthful. It’s his first taste of Firewhiskey and it steals his breath away. His throat tightens in protest at the burn, but he swallows past it, eyes pressed tight. The heat in his belly chases away the trace of guilt he felt since his conversation with Remus about ‘certain liberties.’

He lifts the glass for another gulp, but he’s startled when Padfoot barks his disapproval. The glass sloshes, and whiskey slops over the side, landing on Harry’s lap. He feels the cool splash of whiskey hitting his thigh where his bathrobe has fallen open.

“Shit.” He sets the glass down, licking his wet finger and looking around for a tissue.

As he reaches for the box, Padfoot makes it unnecessary. He’s hopped off the bed and he’s there, between Harry’s legs, licking the spilled alcohol from Harry’s thigh, just above his knee. The rough tongue catches on his hair, tickling and pulling a bit. It’s warm and wet, though, and it doesn’t feel nearly as gross as one might think. As in, not at all.

Harry lets his legs fall open a little more.

He’s still descent, his bits covered by the robe, and Padfoot is only licking by his knee, cleaning up the whiskey. Harry tells himself the squirrelly feeling in his gut is uncalled for: dogs do this sort of thing.

If dogs liked whiskey.

Padfoot does. He’s eager, lapping long stripes up Harry’s inner thigh, and Harry’s grateful for the robe because he’s suddenly hot all over, his cock growing hard, tenting the terry cloth enough that he has to press his hand over it to hide his body’s reaction.

He’ll need to slip his pyjamas on quickly and sleep on his belly tonight. Or maybe wait until Padfoot’s asleep and...

The thought makes his hand tighten over his cock to relieve the pressure. He couldn’t do that with Padfoot in the bed. He’d just have to wait and sneak out to the loo or something. Sirius would never need to know that his godson got hard just from a dog’s tongue on his knee.

Only Padfoot isn’t at his knee any longer.

In Harry’s panic, he didn't realise just how far up his thigh Padfoot had moved. He’s pretty sure no whiskey fell so high up his leg. To his mortification, Harry’s mind flashes to pouring the rest of the glass over his cock, just to see what would happen next.

He moans, embarrassed and aroused at his own perverted thoughts. His hips involuntarily shift forward and fuck, Padfoot’s nose bumps against his balls. It’s not like at dinner, though. This isn't Harry's crotch through layers of jeans and boxers; it's Padfoot's nose on his ball sack, smelling him. Harry sucks in a surprised gasp.

Before he can squirm away and babble the million apologies that are on the tip of his tongue, Padfoot licks him there.

Harry’s mind blanks.

He thinks for an instant he’s imagined it, fantasy and reality blurring in his horny, fifteen year old mind. But there’s a second tentative lick, and then another. And when Harry’s legs open wider -- because, oh god, nothing has ever felt like this -- Padfoot laps at his balls like they are water on a steamy August afternoon.

Harry’s robe opens as he unconsciously rocks forward, eager for more. Padfoot is tenacious, licking every bit of Harry he has access to. At Padfoot's nudging, Harry’s cock bounces free from the split in his robe. It’s thick and glistening at the tip, jutting proudly from Harry’s groin, just above Padfoot’s muzzle. Fuck -- just above Sirius' face, because deep down Harry knows this is Sirius, that Sirius is doing this as Padfoot because he’d never let himself touch Harry if he were human.

Part of Harry understands that everyone Harry knows and loves would call this wrong, but no part of Harry cares at the moment.

A dog’s tongue is long, Harry soon learns, long and talented. It can wrap half way around a cock or make a boy’s eyes roll back as it flicks mercilessly at the slit. He watches, fascinated, as precome dribbles from the tip and gets lapped up in quick efficient swipes. The image burns into his brain. He already knows that some night he'll pull himself off to it until he's chafing.

Harry’s hand buries in Padfoot’s fur, holding him just behind the ears, and he whimpers curses he’d never, ever say in front of Sirius.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” Harry says, his voice brittle as he tries to hold back. When Padfoot stops, Harry wants to cry in frustration because that was the last thing he expected. But Padfoot’s backing away just enough to nudge Harry’s side, pushing his muzzle to Harry’s hip until Harry finally catches on and turns over.

“What --” he begins then chokes on his question as Padfoot licks a stripe up the crack of his arse.

“Oh shit.” Harry scrambles up the bed, both getting away and buying himself time to think. In the back of his mind, he knows he’s also moving to make room for Padfoot behind him.

A million things race through his head, like ‘preparation’ and ‘stretching’ and naughty things he’s heard whispered about in the Quidditch locker room when the older boys don’t know he’s listening. All that flees from his head as Padfoot licks again. His legs spread so that Padfoot’s tongue can also catch his dangling balls. He feels shameless. His head falls forward so he can bury his heated cheeks in his hands, and he lets the world fall away to Padfoot’s (oh God, Sirius') tongue at his arse.

He relaxes enough he can feel the wriggling tip of the tongue poking at his entrance, working it’s way inside. Padfoot’s breath is hot on his arse cheeks and every once in a while there’s a graze of sharp teeth. The reminder sends a thrill down Harry’s spine.

Padfoot pulls away and Harry looks back, confused, just in time to see Padfoot climb onto his back. Harry still has his stupid robe on; it’s pushed aside at the back, but the material is hot at his neck as he feels Padfoot’s paws pressing into his shoulders.

There is a nudge at his anus, a sharp poke like a finger, only it isn’t, and Harry breaks out in a cold sweat.

No, he almost says, it won’t fit, but it catches in his throat. This is Sirius and he wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt Harry. If we stop now, this is over. It's all over. His chest aches at the thought.

The pressure grows into a burn and Harry’s mind swirls with whiskey and arousal. Adrenaline charges through his veins, making his heartbeat frantic. In one swift thrust, Padfoot mounts him and Harry’s lungs expel all their air with the sudden force of it.

Padfoot waits a heartbeat or twenty, just long enough for Harry to breathe again, and he begins to rut, stuttering, sharp punches that make Harry's eyes water and his erection wilt. But the burn fades as Harry comes down from the initial shock; the intrusion becomes less strong, his body sending mixed signals of pleasure and pain so that Harry can’t tell the difference anymore. He just feels taken, owned -- closer to anyone than he has ever been.

Harry knows that this is all right because they both say it is.

No one can take this away from them. Even when he’s back at school and Sirius is still stuck in this miserable place, Harry will touch himself and remember this.

His shoulders ache from the strain of Padfoot’s weight on his back, but Harry manoeuvres so he can reach between his legs. He finds he’s hard again. When he wraps his fingers around himself, he has to close his eyes. The stretch of Padfoot’s cock buried deep in his arse, the tickle of fur on the back of his thighs and the heavy panting in his ear -- it’s all too much. Three tugs and he’s crying out into a mouthful of sheets. His arse clenches at the cock filling him. Through the buzz of his orgasm and the thundering pulse in his ears, he hears Padfoot’s high-pitched whine.

The paws at Harry’s back scramble for purchase as Padfoot presses in deeper and stills. Their bodies slam together. Harry thinks its likely over, but the pressure at his rim that he’s gown accustom to suddenly morphs into a burn. He feels the base of Padfoot’s cock thicken and the pulse of his cock as he starts to come. The base is still growing, stretching him impossibly wide. He scrambles, suddenly panicked, but he’s pinned by Padfoot’s weight and every move sends a sharp reminder that they can’t be separated. Tears spring up at the sudden throbbing pain and he sobs into the bed.

Padfoot licks as his shoulder; it’s muted through the terry cloth but it’s all he can reach and Harry lets it comfort him.

It feels like it lasts forever but maybe it’s a couple minutes, long enough that the tears on his cheeks cool and the come on his hand has turned tacky.

The cock inside him shrinks and slips free. Padfoot climbs off and Harry winces at the drip of come down his thigh, then shivers when Padfoot licks him clean. Padfoot hops to the floor, lifting his leg to clean himself (which Harry thinks is disgusting, but it doesn’t stop his cock from twitching).

Harry collapses onto his back and tentatively clenches his arse. The sting isn’t bad. It's actually nice kind of sore that leaves him weak in the knees at the memory of what just happened. He strips off his robe and uses it to clean his hands and the sheets before balling it up and tossing it across the room. He yawns, suddenly exhausted, slips on his pajama bottoms and crawls under the covers.

He’s already half-asleep when Padfoot wriggles in beside him like nothing’s changed.

Harry smiles, wrapping an arm around Padfoot’s neck and shuffling over so they can share a pillow.

No one can know; it’s a secret he’ll keep close to his heart, more precious than so many others he has tucked away. But he’ll meet Remus' eye tomorrow and feel no guilt.

Because this can’t possibly be wrong.