Forbidden Fruit

The summer before Harry Potter’s fourth year was meant to be a reprieve from the Dursleys, a stretch of ordinary days at the Burrow before the Quidditch World Cup and the return to Hogwarts. Instead, it became the summer that Harry’s heart turned traitor.

When Sirius Black had staggered out of the Shrieking Shack a year ago, a gaunt spectre of the man he’d once been, Harry had seen only the godfather he’d longed for—a reckless, devoted protector who offered him a home. But now, in the dim-lit rooms of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the Black family’s ancient London manor, Harry saw something else entirely. Sirius was no longer just the escaped convict who’d sent him a Firebolt. He was a man. A man with a rakish smile that hadn’t been dulled by Azkaban, with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a voice like smoke and velvet. Harry noticed the way his black hair curled against his neck, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands—scarred but graceful—moved when he talked. He noticed, and he couldn’t stop noticing.

It began innocently, or so Harry told himself. He was just glad to have Sirius near. But gladness twisted into something heated and furtive. When Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, Harry’s skin tingled for hours. When their eyes met across the dinner table, Harry fumbled his goblet, spilling pumpkin juice in a crimson flood. He stammered over the simplest words, his face burning, while Sirius’s brow furrowed with gentle concern. ‘All right, Harry?’ that voice would rumble, and Harry would nod, mute, cursing himself.

At night, lying in the gloomy bedroom allotted to him, Harry dissected every moment. He replayed Sirius’s laugh, the crinkle of his eyes, the casual endearments—‘Prongslet,’ Sirius called him, and Harry’s gut would coil with pleasure and shame. Prongslet. James Potter’s son. Guilt was a knife in his ribs. This was his father’s best friend, a man twice his age, the very person who was meant to guide him. What would James say if he could pierce the veil and see his son’s thoughts? Harry would press his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to purge the images: Sirius’s bare forearms, the dark swirl of tattoos peeking from his collar, the low, rough way he said Harry’s name when he’d had a firewhisky.

And there was the firewhisky. And the women.

Harry hadn’t expected it. In the two weeks he’d been at Grimmauld Place, Sirius had entertained a parade of witches who arrived through the Floo network late at night, their laughter sharp and hollow. They were pale and perfumed, with crimson lips and eyes that devoured Sirius like a meal. Harry would hear them through the walls—muffled voices, the clink of glasses, and later, worse sounds that he tried to drown out by burying his head under the pillow. His insides would curdle with a jealousy so violent it left him trembling. These women weren’t good enough for Sirius. They didn’t know what he’d suffered. They weren’t… they weren’t him.

One morning after a particularly noisy night, Harry stormed into the kitchen, his mood black. Sirius was at the table, unshaven and wearing only a rumpled shirt, his hair mussed. A half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Old stood beside him. He looked up with a sleepy, unrepentant grin. ‘Morning, Harry. Sleep well?’

Harry slammed a cupboard door. ‘No.’

Sirius’s smile faded. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Harry’s voice was tight. He refused to look at Sirius, focusing instead on the teapot. ‘Just thought you might be tired. You had… company.’

A beat of silence. Then Sirius chuckled, but it was forced. ‘Ah. I’m sorry if we disturbed you. It’s just—’ He waved a hand vaguely. ‘After so long in that place, I suppose I’m making up for lost time. Doesn’t mean anything.’

Harry’s fingers whitened around the teapot handle. Doesn’t mean anything. The words settled like ash in his chest. He wanted to scream that it meant everything, that every touch those strangers stole was a betrayal. But he only poured his tea and left the room, his breakfast uneaten.

A week later, he returned to Hogwarts, and the distance was supposed to cure him. Instead, it fed the obsession. Every letter from Sirius—brief, affectionate notes brought by a nondescript owl—was pored over like scripture. Harry wrote back with frantic care, hiding his real feelings beneath a layer of news about classes and Quidditch. He imagined Sirius in that dark house, waiting for his letters, perhaps even thinking of him. But then the jealousy would return: who was with him tonight? What woman’s perfume clung to his robes?

Ron began to notice Harry’s distraction. ‘Mate, you’ve been weird all term. Is it the dreams?’ he asked in the common room, alluding to the flashes of Voldemort’s snake Harry had reported. Hermione, sharper still, fixed Harry with a searching look over her Arithmancy book. ‘It’s not just You-Know-Who, is it? You’re pale and you’re not eating. Is something else bothering you?’

Harry shrugged them off. He couldn’t speak it aloud. Even the thought was monstrous. But the more he tried to silence it, the louder it grew, until every lesson was a blur, every meal a torment. The one bright spot was the Triwizard Tournament, but even the excitement of the Goblet of Fire dimmed next to the slow burn of his secret.

Professor Snape, whose loathing for Harry had only intensified since the events of the graveyard the previous June, seemed to scent his turmoil like a shark. In Potions, he hovered over Harry’s cauldron, his voice a silken whisper of venom. ‘Celebrity has addled your mind, Potter. You cannot even brew a simple Wit-Sharpening Potion without daydreaming. What, pray, fills that empty head? Fame? Glory? Or something rather more… sordid?’

Harry’s cheeks flamed. He knew Snape couldn’t possibly guess, but the barb struck too close. He forced himself to meet Snape’s black gaze. ‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing,’ Snape repeated, his lip curling. ‘A fitting summation of your intellect. Detention. Saturday. Perhaps scrubbing cauldrons will focus your mind.’ As Harry gathered his things, Snape added softly, for his ears only, ‘I knew your father, Potter. He was arrogant and foolish, but he at least was honest about his vices. You are a coward pining after what you cannot have.’ It was a generic insult, but Harry felt as though Snape had peeled back his skin.

By Halloween, the tension was unbearable. The feast in the Great Hall was a riot of enchanted pumpkins and floating candles, but Harry’s thoughts were hundreds of miles away. He’d received no letter from Sirius in over a week, and the silence gnawed at him. After dinner, he slipped away, clutching the Marauder’s Map. He’d discovered something months ago: a hidden passage from the fourth-floor corridor that led not to Hogsmeade, but to a cellar in Grimmauld Place. The Blacks had long kept a secret connection to the school. Harry hadn’t used it, afraid of what he might find. But tonight, desperation and an aching, mad hope drove him through the damp tunnel until he emerged into the familiar, dusty wine cellar of Number Twelve.

The house was still. Harry crept upstairs, his heart hammering. He smelled incense and something sweeter—perfume. A woman’s laugh trickled down from the floor above, and Harry’s stomach clenched. He moved soundlessly to Sirius’s bedroom door, which stood ajar. Inside, Sirius sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, a glass of wine in hand, wearing a black silk dressing gown. He was alone for the moment, but the room’s dim light and the rumpled sheets spoke of impending company. Harry’s breath caught.

He noticed the platter on a side table: a decanter of firewhisky and two glasses. He’d often seen Kreacher, the house-elf, bring such things. With a strange, detached calm, Harry lifted the platter and pushed the door fully open.

Sirius looked up, his smile easy. ‘Harry? What—how did you get here? Never mind, you can’t be here. I’m expecting company. Off you go.’ He made a shooing motion, but his grin was fond.

Harry didn’t move. He crossed the room, the platter steady in his hands, and set it on the bedside table. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he turned and lowered himself onto Sirius’s lap, his thighs straddling the older man’s legs. Sirius froze, the glass in his hand tilting dangerously.

‘What if I was your snack for the night?’ Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. He forced himself to meet Sirius’s shocked eyes. ‘What if all those women don’t matter, and you just want me the way I want you?’

Sirius’s face drained of colour. ‘Harry…’ He said the name as though it were a plea. ‘No. No, you don’t know what you’re saying. Get off.’ But his hands, rising to push Harry away, paused mid-air, trembling.

‘I do know.’ Harry leaned closer, his breath warm against Sirius’s cheek. ‘I’ve known since this summer. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m not a child.’

‘You are a child,’ Sirius rasped, his voice cracking. ‘You’re James’s son. My godson. This is—this is wrong.’

‘I don’t care.’ Harry’s fingers curled into the lapels of the dressing gown. The fabric was slippery, cool. ‘I’d rather be wrong with you than right without you.’

Sirius’s eyes shimmered with something that might have been horror or a terrible, fleeting temptation. Before either could speak again, the air in the room thickened. The candles guttered and turned blue—a sudden, unearthly chill. Harry felt a presence, then another, as if the very veil between worlds had torn. He scrambled off Sirius’s lap, and both of them turned toward the doorway.

Ghostly figures materialised there, translucent but unmistakable. James Potter, his hair as untidy as Harry’s, his expression one of profound grief. Beside him, Lily, her red hair a faint glow, her hand covering her mouth. Behind them, more shadows: Remus, though not dead, was absent; these were spirits, and among them Harry glimpsed Cedric Diggory’s kind, sad smile, and even the stern visage of Albus Dumbledore, watching silently.

‘Dad… Mum…’ Harry’s voice was a croak.

James took a step forward, his form wavering. ‘Harry. Look at what you’re doing.’ His tone wasn’t angry, just infinitely weary. ‘I loved Sirius like a brother. He loves you like a son. Don’t twist that love into something it’s not.’

Lily’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘Darling, I know you’re hurting. I know you feel alone. But this path will only bring you pain. Sirius needs to heal, not to be your… your obsession.’

Sirius had slumped against the headboard, his face buried in his hands. ‘James… Lily… I’m sorry. I should have stopped this before it started.’

James shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault, Padfoot. He’s a teenager, full of feelings he doesn’t understand. But you’re the adult. Guide him away.’

Harry’s throat was raw. ‘You don’t understand—’

‘I understand more than you think.’ James’s gaze was piercing. ‘I was a teenager once. I fancied someone I shouldn’t have. But I grew up, and so will you. This isn’t love, Harry. It’s infatuation, mixed with loneliness and a desperate need to be held. Don’t destroy the only father figure you have left.’

The words hung in the air like a verdict. Harry’s tears came then, hot and angry. He wanted to argue, but the truth was a stone in his stomach. He had been so blind.

Suddenly, another figure strode through the wall: Severus Snape, his ghost form as sneering as ever, though he looked distinctly uncomfortable to be standing beside James and Lily. ‘Potter,’ he drawled, ‘I might have known you’d bungle even this. Pining after Black—Merlin’s beard, the sheer stupidity.’ He turned to Sirius, his ghostly lip curling. ‘And you, Black. Can’t you keep your trousers fastened without corrupting children?’

Sirius lifted his head, a flash of his old defiance igniting. ‘Shut it, Snivellus. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I know that I’ve watched Potter moon over you like a lovesick fool all term,’ Snape retorted. ‘It’s pathetic. If Dumbledore weren’t already dead, he’d expel him.’

James put a translucent hand on Snape’s shoulder; Snape flinched but didn’t pull away. ‘Not now, Severus.’ James’s voice was surprisingly gentle. ‘This is about Harry.’

Lily moved toward Harry, her spectral hand hovering near his cheek. ‘Sweetheart, we came back for one night—Halloween always thins the barrier—because we felt your despair. We want you to be happy. But happiness won’t come from clinging to something unhealthy.’

Harry sniffed, wiping his eyes. ‘I don’t know how to stop.’

‘Time,’ Lily said softly. ‘And distance. And maybe… talking to someone.’

Sirius stood, his dressing gown slipping off one shoulder. He looked utterly shattered. ‘Harry, I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong idea. I was drowning my own misery in wine and women, and I didn’t see that you were drowning too. But I swear on your father’s memory, I will never touch you that way. I’ll be your godfather, the one you deserve, if you’ll let me.’

The ghosts began to fade, their forms growing transparent. James gave a sad half-smile, so like the one Harry had seen in the Mirror of Erised. ‘We love you, Harry. Both of you. Make us proud.’ And they were gone, the room suddenly ordinary and warm once more, the candles flickering back to gold.

Harry stood frozen, his body shaking. Sirius approached and, very carefully, drew him into a fatherly embrace, one hand cradling the back of Harry’s head. ‘It’s all right, Prongslet. We’ll figure this out.’

Harry wept into Sirius’s chest, his tears soaking the silk. The obsession hadn’t vanished, but it had cracked, allowing reason and shame to seep in. He felt like a child, and for the first time in months, that was a relief.

When he returned to Hogwarts via the secret passage that night, the castle was silent and sleeping. The Fat Lady gave him a reproving look but let him in without question. Harry lay in his four-poster, staring at the canopy, and thought of his parents’ faces. He wasn’t cured, but the edge of the madness had dulled. In the morning, he would send an owl to Sirius, carefully worded, asking for help. And he would request a meeting with Professor Sprout, the head of Hufflepuff, who had always been approachable, to talk about confusing feelings—not the specifics, just the confusion itself. It was a start.

In the dungeons, Snape was brewing a sleeping draught, his mind troubled. He had witnessed the supernatural gathering—his own ghostly form had been yanked there involuntarily—and he couldn’t shake the image of a broken Harry Potter. For all his hatred, he recognised that the boy was suffering, and that made his usual contempt feel hollow. He resolved to watch more closely, and perhaps, in his own acidic way, offer a warning off the path of obsession. It was the closest he could come to honouring Lily’s memory.

And at Grimmauld Place, Sirius poured the firewhisky down the sink. He locked the door to his bedroom and, for the first time since Azkaban, spent the night alone, thinking not of fleeting pleasures but of the boy who needed him. The road ahead would be rocky, full of missteps and strained conversations. But sometimes, the darkest hour comes just before the dawn. In that old, grim house, a small flicker of hope took hold—the belief that a bond, nearly shattered, could be reforged into something pure. And if the dead could return for one night to set things right, then the living could surely find the courage to live.