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The bed is uncomfortable, sagging and sharp in odd places, smelling of damp unpleasant things. There are spare few people in this house he has any real desire to speak to, and many more he actively avoids where he can. Molly is on the war path again, desperately trying to do the impossible and purge ten generations of dark magic from the house. He’d offered to find her a priest for an exorcism, very funny he’d thought- she’d disagreed.
He supposes he could come out now, it’s well past dinner time, what counts for children in this house likely already sent off to bed and the moon rising steadily outside his bedroom window.
He’d much rather hide in here though, sprawled on his bed feeling sorry for himself, lounging in a way he thinks befits his status as house layabout – book in hand and filling his lungs with sweet smoke from an ill-gotten joint held loosely between his fingers.
The bedroom door creaks open, and he suppresses a groan.
“What have I done now?”
Sirius doesn’t bother looking away from the tatty, well-worn muggle paperback he’d found jammed underneath his mattress. His old – and now current – room is full of such things. Miscellaneous bric-a-brac collected over his youth and jammed into his bedroom; every visible inch used to advertise his rebellion, designed specifically to be as inflammatory as possible.
Not long after his thirteenth birthday his mother begun refusing to step foot into the room, choosing instead to scream at him from the doorway, feet firmly planted in the hallway, not so much as an expensively shoed toe crossing over the boundary line. At fourteen a muggle poster of a scandalously not quite naked bikini model was erected on the wall across from his bed – that had stopped her from speaking to him all together, even to scream.
James had joked he should have put up a male swimsuit model, but well, Sirius was a shit stirrer, not suicidal, so the poster models remained strictly female.
Remus pushes himself off from the doorframe, arms crossed and looking down at Sirius with a mixture of curiosity and reproach. “What makes you think you’ve done something?”
This does make Sirius arch his neck back, mouth pulling down into a disgruntled frown.
“You’ve never been a very good at casual, Remus. All these years and you’re still being given the responsibility of pulling me into line.”
“The others think you’re less likely to tell me to fuck off.” Remus offers with a shrug, the twist of his mouth implying he’s aware of the futility of that hope.
“If I tell you to fuck off, can we skip we the lecture?”
“We can skip the lecture if you promise to stop drinking quite so much in front of the kids.” Remus shoots out, irritation pulling his mouth into a thin line.
“We’re at war, there are no kids in this house Moony, despite what Molly and the others think.”
Pinching at the bridge of his nose Remus huffs. “Harry and the others - ”
“Are teenagers. What were we doing at their age?” The sharp twist of his mouth pulls at cracked lips, and he buries whatever cruel words are bubbling in his throat underneath a slow, heady drag of smoke.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“I’d say you have three guesses, but you’ll only need one.”
Remus rolls his eyes, entering the room properly and closing the door behind him. “Mundungus.”
“Ding, ding, ding, ten points to Gryffindor, Professor Lupin.”
“If Molly finds out-”
“Fuck Molly. This is my bloody house.”
Sirius rolls onto his stomach, feeling slow and heavy. “There’s a case of wine under my bed, nicked it from the cellar.” He takes a slowly, indulgent drag, eyebrow quirked at Remus. “If you’re interested.”
….
“I’ve got a twenty-four year old with pink hair chasing me Sirius. I’ve got my own problems.”
“Hey, you could do a lot worse than Tonks you know?”
“And she can do a hell of a lot better.”
“The self-sacrificing martyr act hasn’t gotten any cuter with age, Moony.”
Remus snorts, swallowing down another burning mouthful of the ancient wine. “You’ve always been selfish enough for both of us.”
It’s an old argument and they know their lines well, even after all these years. It’s so easy to fall back into old habits.
“Do you remember that thing we used to do?” Vague and almost nonsensical he knows, the sweet smoke filling his lungs and shutting up that annoying, panicky voice in his head - his almost constant companion these days.
“I’m not blowing you Sirius.” Remus warns, tipping the rest of the wine into his mouth with one bold move. “This is already pathetic enough without dredging that old shit up.” He mumbles, slurring slightly as he tries to uncork the second bottle with his teeth.
Sirius can’t help his small smile when he hears Remus’s quiet noise of triumph as the old cork comes loose with a pop.
He can almost pretend, here in the dark, that nothing bad ever happened.
He wonders if it will ever stop feeling like time froze the moment James and Lily were killed. So much promise, all the things he’d wanted to do, all the things he could have been. Stolen from him. It took him everything to escape this house the first time, and a twisting, instinctual panic he won’t survive Grimmauld place a second time tears at his chest in cold terror some days.
Those are days when the unfairness of it all rips at him, leaves gaping wounds in his chest. But then, there’s Harry. If they’d lived, he’d be their Harry. All James’s swagger and cockiness, Lily’s softness, her gentleness. And on those days, he’s almost thankful for it all because it means this Harry, his Harry exists.
Rolling his eyes, knowing Remus can’t see his face but enjoying the effect all the same, Sirius scratches at his collarbone, pressing at the bruise there guiltily.
“No, not that. The secrets thing. The one James started.”
“Oh my God yes! Because he had that crush on Madam Pomfrey for all of second year and didn’t want us taking the piss.”
The four of them crowded onto the James’s four poster bed, curtains drawn and whispering late into the night. James, burning red with embarrassment admitting his crush on Pomfrey. Remus telling them about his first kiss at thirteen with a Hufflepuff girl from his Care of Magical Creatures class. Hiding laughter behind their hands as Peter admits to a dream where he’d kissed James, face buried into a pillow and beat red.
“You remember the rules?” Sirius pushes, the warmth of the memories filling him up.
“No judging, no interrupting, no holding it against the person afterwards, and we’re not allowed to talk about it outside of the circle unless prompted.” Remus counts them off on his fingers.
His humour turns into a sharp laugh, “You’d think we were working for the Department of Mysteries, not a bunch of kids talking about stupid shit.”
“Not all of it was stupid shit.” Sirius reminds him quietly, closing his eyes against the burning in his lungs.
The older they got, there was less giggling and less innocence to their admissions, but the system still worked. They all knew there was nothing that could not be shared, no burden they would have to carry alone.
In the later years Sirius would admit to the escalating physical abuse from his mother and father, the increasing pressures to submit to family beliefs and traditions.
Passing a joint back and forth in astronomy tower, sixteen and limbs too long to all fit in James’s bed, Remus would admit to sometimes wishing he hadn’t survived the attack that had turned him into a werewolf.
Seventeen-year-old James scared shitless because Lily’s period was a week late and he doesn’t know how he's going to tell his parents. A week later holding him while he ugly drunk cries because Lily isn’t pregnant, and he doesn’t know how he can feel so relieved and so disappointed at the same time.
“Yeah.” Remus mumbles, heavy and hushed against the mouth of the bottle, clutching it to his chest. “Not all of it.”
The mood drops suddenly in the room, the shadows lengthening and silence dropping to an almost suppressive level.
The bruise on Sirius’s collar bone throbs. Flashes of a hot mouth sucking and licking it into existence, a slim body grinding against his, too large hands-on narrow hips.
“Remus I’ve done something. Something awful. And I need to tell someone, because I think I’ve gone fucking mental.”
Remus turns to look at him, unimpressed and irritated and looking so much like his teenage self again Sirius nearly laughs.
Pushing up on his knees Remus leans over and steals the joint from him, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke up at the yellowing ceiling.
“That’s what all this is about? Fuck Pads, we’re not teenagers anymore, embarrassed and blushing over crushes and catching each other wanking. I’m not playing secrets in the dark with you.”
Joint halfway up to his mouth for another drag, Remus pauses, and Sirius wonders how stricken he looks in the weak moonlight coming through the dirt-streaked windows. Something in his face must give him away, a man on the edge, burdened by something terrible because Remus sighs, great and suffering and pushes himself off the floor to crawl onto the bed next to him.
The sheets are musty and cold, too long unwashed and rumbled because Sirius never did learn to tidy up after himself and something about this house makes him feel like a rebellious teen all over again.
Lying on their backs side by side, heads pressed together to try and share the thin pillow, a stray curl of Sirius’s falls across Remus’s face and he blows it away with practised ease. Their bodies touch in odd places, proportions different and changed from the days when this had been comfortable and natural. Elbows brushing, hips pressed together, a knee shoved into a thigh.
Once upon a time this would have been a prelude to more exciting activities, there would have been touching and warm mouths, desperate moans, and hands in scandalous places. That’s all long over now though, done with even before they graduated.
The spark had ignited hot and bright in their fifth year and burned out just as quickly. By end of sixth year it was over, and they’d been left a little embarrassed at the knowledge of each other’s bodies and sheepish at memories of mad declarations of eternal love under the covers and in dark corners.
“We’re too old for this.” Remus grumbles, shifting and trying to wiggle into a comfortable position. It's a perfunctory complaint. Objecting just so he can say that he did.
“You’re going to hate me Moony.” He whispers it, eyes glued to the faded and stained ceiling – he can’t bare to look at Remus in the face.
“You’re being awfully dramatic Sirius. Even for you.”
He passes the joint back; warm rough fingers brush against Sirius’s and god how he wishes that spark was still there. How much easier it would be if it were Remus making his heart burn and not –
“Harry tried to kiss me-”
“Harry’s got a crush, you didn’t know? Everyone can see it.” Remus awkwardly lifts the wine bottle to his mouth, craning his neck up so he can avoid spilling it out his mouth. “Well, everyone but Molly, thank God. I really don’t need to hear more of her screeching. It’ll pass. Try not to be a twat about it.” He huffs, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “I know that might be difficult, being a twat comes so naturally to you sometimes.”
Good humour turns into a sharp shout when Sirius pinches the side of his neck painfully.
“That’s interrupting. Against the rules.” Sirius mumbles frowning over at an indignant Remus who’s rubbing the red spot on his neck.
“Fucking prick!” He gasps, a little wide eyed in shock. “Out with it then! What's this horrible secret? I can’t imagine what kind of trouble you can get into locked in this fucking house.”
“That’s not the terrible part Moons.” Sirius whispers, as though saying it quieter will somehow make it not as wretched.
“Harry asked me to kiss him.” He repeats, pulling the truth out of his own chest like drawing out a splinter. “And I did.”
Confession is supposed to make you feel lighter, isn’t it? Repent and your soul will be saved, but Sirius doesn't know how much of his soul is left and he doesn’t feel much like repentance when he thinks of the warmth of Harry’s body pressed against his own.
Remus blinks at him, no horror in his features yet, just confusion. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“I kissed him.”
“I don’t-”
“I kissed him. Shoved my tongue down his throat, pulled him onto my lap, humped him and-”
“Enough! Fuck.” Remus pulls away from him hastily, pale and stricken.
…
Harry’s never been a great sleeper. A lifetime at the Dursley’s have taught him to sleep lightly and fitfully, tossing and turning and always ready for evasive action should a particular cousin decide to come lumbering in to throw a fist or a kick his way.
Hogwarts isn’t much better, safer certainly, but sharing a dorm room is not conducive to a well-rested, uninterrupted sleep. It had gotten better by fifth year, they’ve all learnt silencing charms and to keep all embarrassing night time activities quietly to themselves, but while silencing charms and pulled curtains block out the worst of the disruptions – and one point he thinks he may actually be able to work out some kind of satisfactory sleep schedule, the nightmares of Cedric’s death cure him of that hope.
Grimmauld place is all inconveniences combined into one shitty pile. The house itself leaves a lot to be desired and has - if Harry were asked to describe it politely - an unsettling ambiance. Impolitely, it’s downright fucking spooky.
Bumps in the night, floorboards creaking, wailings and whimpers from inside cupboards and behind locked doors they still can’t figure out how to unlock. Hundreds of years of dark artifacts hidden away and left to fester in the dark and damp. Frankly he’s surprised the walls don’t bleed - feels like an oversight on the house's part.
When, on the occasional blessed night, the house is quiet, he’s still left sharing a bedroom with three other boys and with no Hogwarts four poster beds to offer any sense of privacy. They’re a crammed into one of the few available inhabitable rooms of the house. Snoring, it would seem, is a Weasley trait and Ron's comparably quiet rumbles are drowned out by Fred and Georges window shaking snores.
Even if he manages to ignore the ambient horror movie sounds offered by the Black ancestral home, and Weasley’s brothers outrageously loud and frankly concerning inability to breathe correctly while asleep, adding in the sharp grip of anxiety crawling under his skin as soon he crawls into bed makes it impossible to fall asleep anyway.
He knows what it is, fear of the nightmares. Fear of seeing Cedric dying again and again. Fear of what humiliating things he might cry out. Fear of the other dreams. The ones he’s fairly sure now isn’t possession but are no less distressing.
There’s only so many nights he can lay awake in a dark room, staring at an extremely suspiciously stained ceiling. Which is what finally sends him towards Sirius’s room.
There are precious few places in Grimmauld Place that are both fit for human inhabitation and free for his use at two in the morning. He’s tried not to make a habit of it, he really has, especially when he’d become aware of his grown feelings towards Sirius.
It had been desperation which pushed him to it the first time, hoping Sirius’s sleeping habits was as poor as his own, he’d hoped to find the man still awake and whittling away the hours avoiding his own nightmares, needing perhaps – almost as much as Harry did, someone to spend the time with.
What he’d found was a sleepy Sirius, half awoken by the appearance of someone in his room. Harry hadn’t even said anything, it must have been written on his face, in the tired lines of his body, because without a word the other man had flicked the blankets back in clear invitation and silently Harry had crawled into the offered space. It had been the best sleep of his life.
He tries to use the ongoing invitation sparingly, very aware of the trouble it would kick off in the house should anyone find out he’s spending most of his nights crawling into bed with his Godfather.
He’s not even sure he could successfully lie about the innocence of it – and it had been innocent in the beginning - should anyone ask. The memory of the warmth of Sirius’s hold, the gentle roll of his hips into his own, a breathy gasp against his neck, whatever wafer-thin boundaries were still being held in place melted like wet tissue paper the moment Harry kissed him – and Sirius kissed him back.
He slips into the room quietly, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard. Sirius is awake, unusual for him at this hour. It’s only thanks to the weak streaks of milky moonlight which manages to cut through the dirty windows that Harry avoids kicking the three empty wine bottles.
Sirius must see his disappointed frown– he promised he’d stop the late-night lonely drinking the last time Harry had mentioned how much it worried him – because he sticks his head out from underneath the cocoon of heavy bedding he’d wrapped around himself.
“They’re not mine. Remus was here earlier.”
The whisper is heavy and wet, like he’d been crying, and Harry is struck with the knowledge that something very bad had happened between closed doors while he’d been tossing and turning trying to sleep.
“You told him.” It’s a statement as much as it is an accusation, fear splintering through his chest like broken glass.
“I had to tell someone.”
“It’s no one’s business but ours.” Harry pushes, angry and disappointed and so fucking scared.
Sirius says nothing to this, simply pulls back the blanket and exposes the empty pocket of warmth next to him, inviting Harry in without a word. A part of Harry wants to tell him to fuck off, the stomp back to his bed and stew in his anger, furious that Sirius has ruined this before it had even had a chance to start.
His feet are freezing on the wooden floor, and the unnatural chill of Grimmauld place begins to cut through him as he holds his arms across his chest to ward off the cold.
The warmth and safety of Sirius wins out and Harry shuffles over the last few feet and crawls into the empty space waiting for him, immediately wrapped up in strong arms and pulled close against the other man’s chest.
“Is he going to tell?” he mumbles it against Sirius’s collarbone, face pressed to the warm skin as he wriggles as far into the hold as he can.
Above him he feels the shake of Sirius’s head, a mouth presses against the top of his head. “He promised he wouldn’t. If I swore to keep my hands to myself.”
You touch him again and I swear Sirius, I’ll tell everyone and damn the consequences. I’ll take you to Azkaban myself.
“I’m a fucking liar.” It’s whispered into Harry’s hair, calloused fingers play with the short hair at the nape his neck, he can feel the Sirius’s heart racing in his chest. “Unless you want it to stop?”
“No.” Harry shakes his head, tilting up and pressing his lips to the bottom of Sirius’s jawline, rough and unshaven against his mouth.
It’s madness, he knows it’s madness. He’s in bed with his thirty-something year old Godfather, the most dangerous and reckless thing he’s ever done, and that’s in an impressive career of reckless and insane things. If people find out the consequences will be horrific, for both of them.
But while he knows he should say they need to back off, calm down and wait – in two years he’ll be of age and people can hate it as much as they want then, there’s nothing they could do about it – lately he’s been getting this feeling in the pit of his stomach, low down in his gut, that he might not live long enough for that.
If he’s going to die for this cause – and he is willing to – then he’s going to have what he wants in the time he has.
“Remus will be watching. He might even ask you about it.” Sirius warns as he slips an impossible warm hand under Harry’s jumper, burning against the still chilled skin.
“That’s ok. I’m a liar too.”