Snack for the Night

The summer had been a slow, sweltering revelation. Harry Potter, newly fourteen and freed from the Dursleys by the combined efforts of a devoted hippogriff and a dogged godfather, had anticipated a holiday of Quidditch and freedom. He had not anticipated Sirius Black.

They had met before, of course—in the chaos of the Shrieking Shack, in the silver light of a Patronus across the lake—but those encounters had been frantic, life-or-death, the man no more than a ghost given form. Now, in the grim splendour of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Sirius was flesh and blood. And Harry was utterly, catastrophically captivated.

It started innocuously enough. Harry told himself it was admiration, hero-worship, the natural gratitude for the only adult who had ever chosen him. But the way his heart stumbled whenever Sirius flashed that reckless grin, the way his tongue tangled when those grey eyes settled on him, the way he dropped teacups and tripped over his own feet—none of that felt like simple gratitude.

Worse, he knew it was wrong. Sirius was his godfather, meant to be a father figure, a connection to James. Harry would lie awake in his dusty bedroom, staring at the faded emblem of the Black family on the ceiling, and imagine his parents’ disappointment. What would his dad say, seeing Harry pine for his best friend—a man twice his age, fresh from Azkaban and bearing scars Harry could only guess at? The guilt was a physical weight, but it did nothing to cool the heat that coiled in his belly whenever Sirius leaned in close to ruffle his hair.

Sirius, for his part, seemed oblivious, or perhaps willfully blind. He treated Harry with an easy affection, calling him ‘Prongslet’ with a warmth that made Harry’s chest ache. But he also brought strangers home—women and sometimes men, with hollow eyes and painted mouths, who disappeared into Sirius’s room with a bottle of firewhisky and left before dawn. Harry, lurking in doorways, would hear fragments of laughter, the clink of glasses, sounds that made his blood run hot and then cold with jealousy.

He hated them. He hated the way Sirius’s arm would drape over a prostitute’s shoulders, the way he’d whisper something that made them giggle. It was a different Sirius, one Harry didn’t recognise—a Sirius who was still that arrogant young man from the photos, the one who had never lost his best friend, never been betrayed, never wasted away in a cell. Harry wanted that Sirius to look at him, not at them.

The night it happened, Harry had plucked up his courage like a bludger to the chest. He had bathed and changed into his least rumpled shirt, then carried a tray of tea and biscuits to Sirius’s room—a nightly ritual he’d invented just to steal a few more moments in his company.

The door was ajar. Sirius stood by the window, silhouetted against the gas lamps of the square, a glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers. He turned at Harry’s knock, and his face broke into a smile that was at once fond and dismissive.

“Ah, Harry. Just set it down, there’s a good lad.” He gestured vaguely to a side table. “I’m expecting company tonight, so you’d best scarper before it gets…” He trailed off, his grin going lopsided. “Before it gets inappropriate.”

Harry’s heart plummeted. Another one. Another faceless, nameless someone who would touch Sirius’s hair and kiss his mouth and be allowed to stay when Harry was always shooed away like a child. Something inside him cracked.

He didn’t move toward the table. Instead, he walked forward, tray still in hands, until he was close enough to smell the whisky on Sirius’s breath and the faint, woody scent of his soap. He set the tray on the windowsill with deliberate care, then turned, meeting Sirius’s bemused gaze.

“And what if,” Harry said, his voice steadier than he felt, “I was your snack for the night?”

Sirius’s smile froze. The glass in his hand tilted, amber liquid sloshing dangerously. “Harry…”

But Harry didn’t give him a chance. He stepped into Sirius’s space, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes, and then, heart battering his ribs, he sank down onto Sirius’s lap. The tray clattered to the floor, teacups shattering, but neither boy nor man paid it any mind.

For one suspended moment, there was nothing but the astonished, ragged draw of Sirius’s breath. Then his hands rose, seemingly of their own accord, and cupped Harry’s face. “Prongslet,” he murmured, and the word was a prayer and a curse.

The kiss, when it came, was not gentle. It was desperate and scorching, a dam breaking after twelve years of solitude. Sirius’s mouth claimed Harry’s with a fury that left him dizzy, teeth scraping, tongue demanding entry. Harry responded with equal fervour, clinging to Sirius’s shoulders as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

It did not stop at kisses. Sirius’s hands roamed, tracing the curve of Harry’s spine, the jut of his hip, mapping him with a reverence that belied the harshness of his earlier words. Harry let out sounds he didn’t recognise—breathless whimpers, half-formed pleas—as Sirius’s lips migrated to his jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. Clothing was pushed aside, skin pressed to heated skin, and in the flickering firelight they were just two souls, wounded and wanting, seeking solace in each other.

When it was over, Harry lay trembling in the tangle of sheets, his heart a wild, triumphant drum. Sirius was propped on one elbow above him, and for a long moment, he simply looked. Then, in a voice like splintering glass, he said, “This was never to happen again.”

Harry felt the words like a blow. He scrambled up, clutching his shirt to his chest. “Why?”

Sirius wouldn’t meet his eyes. He reached for his whisky, found the glass empty on the floor, and let his hand drop. “Because I’m your godfather. Because you’re fourteen, and I’m… old enough to know better. Because your father would never forgive me.” He laughed, a hollow, ugly sound. “I can’t even forgive myself.”

“But I—”

“No.” The word was final. “Get dressed, Harry. Go back to your room. And in the morning, we’ll pretend this was a dream.”

Harry dressed in stunned silence, his fingers fumbling with buttons. At the door, he paused and looked back. Sirius had turned away, his shoulders hunched, his reflection in the dark window a ghost of the man Harry had just held. Love and fury warred in Harry’s chest, and he left without another word.

The next morning, Harry returned to Hogwarts. He didn’t say goodbye.

What followed was a blur of spite and self-destruction. The Gryffindor common room, once a haven, became a stage for Harry’s reckless new persona. He sought out anyone who showed interest—older students, Hufflepuffs, even a smirking Ravenclaw who reminded him painfully of Sirius. He let them kiss him in alcoves, let them leave purpling marks on his neck that he displayed like badges of honour. If Sirius didn’t want him, fine. He’d prove he was wanted. He’d drown the heartbreak in a sea of eager hands and whispered false promises.

The whispers spread like fiendfyre. Rita Skeeter, ever the vulture, published a gleefully scandalous article titled “The Boy Who Lived… and Loved? Potter’s Midnight Escapades.” Harry read it with a grim sort of satisfaction. Let the world see. Let Sirius see.

Professor Snape saw, and it was clear he was not amused. For days, the Potions master watched Harry with narrowed eyes, taking in the fresh bruises on his throat, the smudged shadows beneath his eyes. Finally, one evening after a particularly disastrous Potions class—Harry had melted his cauldron for the third time that week—Snape ordered him to stay behind.

The dungeon was cold and quiet, the only light the flicker of atrophied flames under the remaining cauldrons. Snape stood behind his desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he simply regarded Harry with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably.

“Potter,” Snape said at last, his voice clipped but lacking its usual bite, “I am not in the habit of concerning myself with your… personal affairs. However, your recent behaviour has become a disruption.”

Harry bristled. “With all due respect, sir, my personal affairs are none of your business.”

“On the contrary,” Snape said silkily, “when the Boy Who Lived makes a spectacle of himself, it becomes everyone’s business. But that is not why I asked you to stay.” He paused, and something almost human flickered across his features. “I recognise that look, Potter. I have seen it in the mirror. Heartbreak is a poison, and you are trying to burn it out.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Snape moved around the desk, stopping a few feet away. “I understand that you are in pain. I understand that you feel abandoned, perhaps even unworthy. But this… this parading of yourself like a common trollop will not mend what is broken. It will only deepen the wound.” His voice softened, a rarity that caught Harry off guard. “You have worth, Potter, beyond what you can offer in the dark corners of this castle. Do not let your grief convince you otherwise.”

Harry stared at him, stunned. Of all the people to offer comfort, Snape was the last he’d expected. “Why do you care?” he whispered.

Snape’s lip curled, but it was an expression of weariness rather than disdain. “Because I, too, once tried to destroy myself over a pair of green eyes. It did not help. It only cost me everything.” He turned away, his robes billowing. “Now get out. And try to remember that you are more than a headline.”

Harry fled the dungeon, his chest tight with a mess of emotions he couldn’t name. Snape’s words echoed in his head, a strange, unwelcome balm.

Two weeks later, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open to reveal a face that made Harry’s heart stop. Sirius Black stood in the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, looking uncharacteristically haggard. His hair was lank, his eyes shadowed, and in his hand he clutched a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet. The headline screamed, “Potter’s Love Life: A Fourth Year’s Foray into Fornication.”

The common room fell silent. Ron and Hermione, who had been flanking Harry on the sofa, exchanged worried glances.

“Harry,” Sirius said, his voice rough as gravel. “Can we talk? Please?”

Harry wanted to refuse. He wanted to shout, to throw the accusations back in that beautiful, tired face. But something in Sirius’s eyes—the same desperation Harry had felt that night—tugged at him. He stood, ignoring Ron’s protest, and led Sirius up the stairs to his dormitory, which was mercifully empty.

Once the door was shut, the silence was stifling. Sirius leaned against the doorframe, the newspaper crumpling further in his grip. “I saw the papers,” he said hoarsely. “I saw what you’ve been doing. And I—” He broke off, swallowing. “I was going to stay away. I thought it was the right thing. But every article, every photo of you with someone else… I felt like I was in Azkaban again, watching the world move on without me. Only this time, the Dementors were your face on some stranger’s arm.”

Harry’s anger flared. “You said it was a mistake. You told me to forget.”

“I know.” Sirius pushed off the door, stepping closer. “I was a coward. I was so scared of ruining you, of betraying James, that I tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything. But it did, Harry. It does.” He reached out, tentatively, and his fingers brushed Harry’s cheek. “When I saw those love bites on your neck in that photo… I wanted to hex everyone who had touched you. I wanted to break things. I wanted to come here and—”

“And what?” Harry demanded, but his voice wavered.

Sirius’s thumb traced the fading remnants of a bruise on Harry’s throat. “And claim you. And tell you I’m sorry. And beg you to stop trying to punish yourself because of my mistakes.” His grey eyes, so like the sky before a storm, held Harry’s. “I can’t promise it will be easy, or that the world won’t judge us. But I can’t watch you destroy yourself, Prongslet. Not over me.”

Harry’s breath caught on the nickname. That word, which had once been a blade, now felt like a key. He leaned into Sirius’s touch, his anger ebbing, replaced by something fragile and hopeful. “I don’t want to destroy myself,” he admitted. “I just wanted you to see me. To choose me.”

“I see you,” Sirius whispered. “I choose you. And if that makes me the worst godfather in history, so be it. I’ve already spent twelve years in hell for crimes I didn’t commit. I won’t spend another day pretending I don’t love you.”

The kiss that followed was nothing like their first. It was slow, deliberate, a promise sealed with the mingled salt of tears. When they parted, Sirius pressed his forehead to Harry’s, his breath warm and unsteady.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Harry murmured.

Sirius laughed, a real laugh this time, though it was watery. “When have I ever been careful?”

But Harry knew they would be. For each other, they would learn. As the setting sun streamed through the dormitory window, painting them in shades of gold and crimson, Harry felt the heaviness in his chest finally, mercifully lift. Outside, the world was waiting with its judgments and its dangers, but in that moment, there was only the steady beat of Sirius’s heart against his own.