Drink Me Up

The Hogwarts Express cut through the misty September countryside, but Harry Potter saw none of it. He was staring at a creased photograph in his lap, a moving image of a man with shoulder-length dark hair and a grin that made Harry’s stomach clench in a way he didn’t fully understand. Sirius Black had given him this picture at the end of the summer, a small memento until they could see each other again. Harry had promised to write every week, but what he hadn’t said was that he’d already memorised every line of Sirius’s face, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the low, warm rumble of his voice that made Harry’s heart stutter.

He’d known something was wrong since the moment he’d met Sirius in the Shrieking Shack. He was supposed to see a father figure, someone to fill the hollow left by James Potter. Instead, at thirteen, he’d looked at this escaped convict and felt a pull that had nothing to do with family. It was the way Sirius had stood over him protectively, the way his hands had briefly cupped Harry’s shoulders before pulling him into a fierce embrace by the lake. Harry had blushed then, and he was blushing now, a hot, guilty flush that crept up his neck every time he thought about his godfather.

Ron and Hermione were arguing about Quidditch across the compartment, oblivious. Harry tucked the photo into his robes and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. What would his dad say? The question gnawed at him. James’s best friend, the man he’d trusted with his son, and Harry was imagining what it would be like to kiss him, to be held by him in ways that were anything but paternal. The guilt was a constant, sour weight in his chest.

The fourth year brought no relief. If anything, the Triwizard Tournament only worsened his fixation. Every time Sirius’s head appeared in the Gryffindor common room fire, Harry’s mind went blank. He’d stammer through his messages, drop whatever he was holding, and forget basic words. Once, he’d tripped over his own feet and nearly pitched into the flames. Sirius had just laughed and told him to be careful, but Harry had seen the slight furrow of concern between his brows. He didn’t know that Harry’s heart was pounding for an entirely different reason.

After the third task, when Voldemort had risen and Cedric was dead, Harry had clung to Sirius in the hospital wing with a desperation that bordered on unseemly. He’d buried his face in Sirius’s chest, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and leather, and felt the older man’s arms tighten around him. It was comfort, but it was also more. Harry’s hands had fisted in the back of Sirius’s robes, and he’d had to fight the urge to tilt his head up and press his lips to the underside of Sirius’s jaw.

That night, alone in his dormitory, Harry had dreamed of Sirius. Not of rescue or protection, but of soft darkness and whispered words. He’d woken with his sheets tangled and his heart aching, and he’d cried into his pillow until he couldn’t breathe. The guilt was a physical thing now, a serpent coiling around his lungs.

The summer brought a strange, painful reprieve. Harry learned he would be staying at 12 Grimmauld Place, the Order’s headquarters, under the watchful eye of his godfather. He’d arrived at the gloomy townhouse with a mixture of dread and elation, and the first sight of Sirius standing in the dim hallway had nearly undone him. Sirius looked older, his face more lined, but still devastatingly handsome. Harry had managed a weak hello before fleeing to his assigned room to collect himself.

The house was oppressive, full of screaming portraits and lurking house-elves, but the real torment was Sirius himself. He was a restless presence, pacing the corridors at night, snapping at anyone who tried to coddle him. He’d been locked away too long, first in Azkaban, then in this house. Harry saw the way it gnawed at him, the way he’d disappear for hours and return with the faint smell of firewhisky clinging to him. And then there were the women.

Harry first became aware of them a week into his stay. He’d woken in the night for a glass of water and heard low voices from the ground floor. Peering over the banister, he’d seen Sirius in the entrance hall, his arm around a plump, giggling witch with copper hair. Harry’s blood had run cold. He’d watched, frozen, as Sirius murmured something in her ear and led her towards his bedroom. The door clicked shut, and Harry had staggered back to his room, his chest heaving with a jealousy so violent it frightened him.

It became a regular occurrence. Sirius would go out to some Knockturn Alley pub or make a Floo call, and soon enough a woman would appear. They were never the same one twice—Harry couldn’t tell if they were prostitutes or just lonely witches, but it didn’t matter. Each time, Harry’s mood darkened. He became snappish with his friends, silent at meals, and he couldn’t look at Sirius without seeing those other hands on him.

One afternoon, Harry was in the drawing room, pretending to read a book about defensive hexes, when Sirius walked in. He’d been out all morning and looked unusually rumpled, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair in disarray. He gave Harry a tired smile and sank onto the sofa across from him.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Sirius said, his voice gentle. “Everything all right?”

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the page. “Fine.”

“Really? Because you’ve been biting people’s heads off all week. Ron told me you hexed his trainers into biting him.”

“He deserved it,” Harry muttered. He could feel Sirius’s gaze on him, a concerned warmth that made him want to squirm.

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Harry, if something’s bothering you, you can tell me. You know that, right? I’m here for you. That’s what I’m supposed to be.”

The word supposed sparked a hot flare of anger in Harry’s gut. He slammed the book shut and stood. “Supposed to be? You’re never here. You’re always off with your… with those women.”

Sirius blinked, clearly taken aback. “Those women? Harry, what are you talking about? It’s none of your business what I do.”

“It is when you’re supposed to be my godfather!” Harry’s voice cracked. “When you’re meant to be looking after me, but instead you’re too busy drinking and shagging to even notice I exist!”

Sirius’s expression hardened. “That is not fair. I’m a grown man, Harry. I’ve spent twelve years in hell, and if I want to find a bit of comfort, that’s my right. It doesn’t mean I care about you any less.”

“It’s disgusting!” Harry spat, and immediately regretted it. The hurt that flickered across Sirius’s face was like a knife to his own heart. But the jealousy was a wild, snarling thing, and he couldn’t stop. “You’re not my father. You’re just some bloke who can’t keep his trousers on.”

Silence. Sirius rose slowly, his face pale. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Go to your room, Harry. We’ll speak later when you’ve calmed down.”

Harry stormed off, slamming the door so hard a portrait screamed. He threw himself onto his bed and punched the pillow, hot tears of frustration blurring his vision. He was a mess of anger and shame and longing, all tangled together. He hated Sirius for not seeing him, and he hated himself for wanting something so wrong.

Days passed in tense silence. Sirius was distant, and Harry avoided him. The others noticed, but no one dared comment. Then, one evening, Harry heard the familiar murmur of a woman’s voice from downstairs, followed by the soft click of Sirius’s bedroom door. The sound broke something inside him.

He couldn’t do this anymore. The guilt, the jealousy, the desperate, aching want—it was eating him alive. He had to tell Sirius the truth, no matter the cost. If Sirius rejected him, at least it would be over. He could try to move on.

Harry waited until the house was quiet, the woman long gone and the clocks striking midnight. He found a silver tray in the kitchen and loaded it with a crystal decanter of firewhisky and two glasses. His hands trembled as he climbed the stairs to the top floor, where Sirius’s room was tucked away at the end of the corridor. The house was dark and still, the only sound his own ragged breathing.

He paused outside the door, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure it would wake the whole house. He wore only his pyjama bottoms and a thin T-shirt, his feet bare. It was reckless, but recklessness was all he had left. He knocked.

“Come in,” Sirius’s voice called, muffled.

Harry pushed the door open. Sirius was seated in an armchair by the fire, still fully dressed, a half-empty glass in his hand. He looked up, and surprise flickered across his features. “Harry? What are you doing up? It’s late.”

Harry crossed the room and set the tray on the small table beside the chair. “I brought you a drink,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Sirius eyed the tray, then Harry. His expression was guarded, but a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “That’s kind of you, but I’m expecting company. You should go back to bed.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. Another company. Another faceless woman who would touch what he ached to touch. The jealousy rose, but this time he didn’t push it down. Instead, he stepped closer, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. “I know,” he said quietly. “But what if I was your snack for the night?”

Sirius’s glass paused halfway to his lips. He stared at Harry, clearly not understanding. “What?”

Harry took a breath, then moved. Before he could lose his nerve, he closed the distance between them and sat on Sirius’s lap, straddling him in the heavy armchair. The crystal glass slipped from Sirius’s fingers and shattered on the floor, amber liquid splashing across the ancient rug. Sirius’s hands flew up instinctively, gripping Harry’s hips to steady him.

“Harry, what the hell are you doing?” Sirius’s voice was sharp, but his hands didn’t push Harry away. They remained on his waist, warm and solid through the thin fabric.

Harry’s whole body shook. He could feel the heat of Sirius’s chest beneath his palms, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Meeting Sirius’s eyes—grey, wide, and utterly stunned—he whispered, “What if I was your company tonight? What if I was the one you wanted?”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Sirius breathed, but his fingers tightened fractionally. “You’re just a boy. You’re my godson. This is—this is wrong.”

“I’ve wanted you since I was thirteen,” Harry confessed, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want a father from you. I never did. I wanted this. I wanted you to look at me the way you look at those women. Every time you bring one here, I feel like I’m dying. I can’t stand it.”

Sirius’s face was a storm of emotions—shock, denial, something that looked almost like pain. “Harry… you’re fifteen. You have no idea what you’re asking. If anyone found out, I’d be—we’d be—”

“I don’t care,” Harry said fiercely. He leaned closer, his lips a breath away from Sirius’s. “I love you. I know it’s twisted and I know my dad would hate me, but I don’t care. I just want you to see me.”

A shudder ran through Sirius. His hands moved from Harry’s hips to cup his face, trembling. “You think I haven’t seen you?” His voice was hoarse. “You think I haven’t noticed? God, Harry, do you think it’s easy for me? I look at you and I see James, but I also see someone I’d burn the world for. And that terrifies me, because the last thing I ever want is to hurt you.”

Harry’s heart soared and shattered at once. “Then don’t push me away. Please, Sirius. Just for tonight. Let me be the one.”

For a long, agonising moment, they stared at each other. Then Sirius made a low, broken sound and pulled Harry into a kiss.

It was fierce and desperate, years of denial giving way to raw need. Harry gasped against Sirius’s mouth, his hands fisting in the dark hair he’d dreamed about. Sirius tasted of firewhisky and regret, but his lips were gentle even in their urgency. He kissed Harry like he was something precious and fragile, something he was terrified of breaking.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sirius pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “This is madness,” he whispered. “You’re so young. I’m twice your age. I’m your godfather. We can’t—”

“We can,” Harry insisted, his voice fierce. “We can do whatever we want. No one has to know.”

Sirius pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Harry’s. There was a war still raging in his expression, but the walls were crumbling. “If we do this, it isn’t just ‘for tonight’. If I let myself have you, I won’t be able to let go. Do you understand that? You’re not a one-night diversion, Harry. You’re everything.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Then don’t let go.”

Sirius closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and when he opened them, the decision was made. He kissed Harry again, slower this time, savouring. His hands slid from Harry’s face down his back, tugging him closer until Harry was pressed flush against him. Harry moaned, losing himself in the sensation.

Time blurred. Clothes shifted and fell away in a haze of whispered reassurances and gentle touches. When Sirius laid Harry down on the ancient four-poster bed, his grey eyes were dark with desire but also infinite tenderness. He traced Harry’s cheekbones, his jaw, the scar on his forehead. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

Harry nodded, pulling him down. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That night, in the flickering firelight of Grimmauld Place, Sirius Black showed Harry Potter exactly what it meant to be seen, to be wanted, and to be loved. It was messy and imperfect, full of whispered apologies when Sirius’s hands shook too hard from Azkaban’s lingering trauma, full of Harry’s own awkward inexperience. But it was also beautiful, a slow and tender claiming that spoke of more than just physical need. Sirius held him after, their bodies tangled in the rumpled sheets, and murmured promises against his hair.

“When this war is over,” Sirius said quietly, “we’ll leave this house. We’ll go somewhere no one knows us. And we’ll be together properly, the way you deserve. I swear it.”

Harry tucked his face into the curve of Sirius’s neck and smiled. The guilt wasn’t gone—it would likely never be gone—but it had been relegated to a distant whisper. What mattered now was the steady beat of Sirius’s heart beneath his ear, the arms wrapped securely around him, and the knowledge that he was no longer alone in his impossible, consuming love.

Downstairs, a clock chimed three. The fire had burned low to embers. And somewhere in the dark, the house-elf Kreacher muttered direly about blood traitors and unnaturalness, but no one heard him. The only thing that mattered was in that room, where two damaged souls had finally found a sliver of peace in each other.

In the morning, they would face the complications: Ron and Hermione’s confusion, the Order’s watchful eyes, the ever-looming threat of Voldemort. But for now, there was only the quiet intimacy of a shared bed and the fragile hope of a future written in starlight and shadow.