Author's Notes: This one was written on a whim, because there just isn't enough post-OotP Harry/Sirius shipping in the fandom for my liking.

One Last Connection

By Queen of the Castle


"... and Malfoy was being a total git, as per usual, and –"

"Ron," Harry interrupted, "I think I'm ready to head upstairs."

Ron looked slightly taken aback. "Oh ... alright ... I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry replied noncommittally. It had been impossible to get any time to himself since arriving back at school for his sixth year. Hermione had made it her personal goal in life to make sure he ‘always had a friendly ear nearby if he needed it', as she had put it. Somehow Ron had gotten roped into assisting her. Harry just wished they wouldn't trail after him like watchdogs all the time, it really wasn't helping.

He trudged up the stairs, not quite ready to sleep but preferring to be alone in his dormitory room to remaining amongst the headache-inducing chatter that filled the Common Room. At that moment Harry was certain Ron was whispering to Hermione in a hurried tone that Harry had gone off on his own; this would be followed by Hermione's forehead creasing in concern as she looked wistfully at the stairs, wishing she could be with her best friend.

They just didn't get it, though. They didn't understand that he didn't want to always have them hanging around just to keep him company, just because they thought he was fragile. They didn't get that he wasn't all that interested in Ron talking about Quidditch and Malfoy and more Quidditch, or Hermione explaining exactly what being a mediwitch at St Mungo's entailed and how worthwhile the job really was. And they couldn't really identify the reason why Harry had lost interest in these things, for they hadn't been there when Harry witnessed his only real family being snatched away from him. It was because they didn't understand any of this that their near-constant presence was more of a hindrance than a help in the matter of his recovery after Sirius' death.

Harry opened the door to his room, wincing slightly as the rusting old hinges creaked ominously; a noise which echoed throughout the room and down the hall. Harry suspected that whatever charms had been put on the door to prevent rusting had worn off. Since Dobby was the only house elf who visited Gryffindor Tower these days (thanks, of course, to Hermione's well-meaning attempt to free them all) he was probably too busy cleaning up after all the tower's occupants to notice a squeaking door. Not that a little thing like that mattered in the grand scheme of Harry's preordained life.

Harry dropped onto his bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling the curtains shut around him. He was unlikely to hear the door now if anyone else entered, as his curtains had Silencing Charms on them. His fellow Gryffindor sixth-year boys had grown tired of waking up to Harry's screaming during the night, only to be told upon waking him from his torment that it was just a nightmare and to leave him alone. Ron had protested half-heartedly, "What if he has one of his vision-things of – of You-Know-Who?" But Harry himself was sick off waking up from his dreaming to four pairs of eyes staring down at him. Ron had been outnumbered and the Silencing Charms had remained firmly in place ever since.

Of course, Harry found other uses for his new-found privacy. While the other boys in the dormitory slept peacefully unaware, Harry could often be found with his trousers pushed down far enough out of the way to indulge himself in the hopes that he might find momentary peace in his sexual satisfaction.

He sighed, shrugging off his school-regulation robes and attacking the Muggle clothes he had on underneath. He doubted that getting himself off was really going to help his mood tonight, but he couldn't stand not to try. He unzipped his jeans and kicked them off, allowing them – quickly followed by his underwear – to fall in a heap at the foot of the bed. Shirt unbuttoned but still clinging uselessly to his shoulders, Harry leaned back onto his pillow.

Harry had no memories of sexual encounters to lean on during masturbation; he preferred his own gender, a fact very few of his schoolmates were aware of, which made it difficult to get to that point with anyone he was actually attracted to. As a result, he had to create his own fantasies, a task that he found particularly difficult at first. He'd found himself to be quite uninspired at first, thinking about the boys who shared his room, encounters in the Quidditch locker room, even imagining a fight with Draco Malfoy that turned into a lot more once when he was desperate. He found that even in the moment of his climax there wasn't a time when memories of Sirius weren't lurking in his mind, and it hadn't been enough.

However, one night after a detention with Snape he'd found himself jerking his hard length with the greasy git in his mind's eye, and that had been a better experience than he had ever hoped for. He'd come with a cry that thankfully couldn't be heard by the other boys, and marvelled at the fact that he'd actually been into it enough to become vocal. And in reflecting on it, Harry realised that he had not felt the overwhelming grief that was always threatening to overwhelm him during the stretch of his climax and the afterglow. He thought about Snape every night for weeks after that.

It wasn't just Snape that really affected Harry when he fantasized, either. A stray thought of Remus Lupin one night ended with a loud moan and a loud exclamation of the man's name as Harry came all over his hand and stomach, panting hard and feeling and more elated than he had done since Sirius' death.

Further exploration the following nights proved that thoughts of Arthur Weasley did something for him that he never would have expected, and when the notion of Lucius Malfoy bending him over a gravestone at the site of the Dark Lord's rebirth got him hard (to Harry's immense disgust), Harry decided that he definitely had a thing for older men. While those old enough to be his father – as those men all were – were not particularly ideal subjects for his desires, Harry found that he had a few moments of peace in the night after he came to the thought of them, and that was all that mattered. It was enough.

Tonight he thought that memories of Remus' kindness and affection toward him might serve him well. It always helped, even if only slightly, to remember that he was cared for by people who weren't dead. Sirius hadn't been the only one who loved him, but he'd loved him as Harry imagined his father, James Potter, would have, and that knowledge had been what formed the basis of their relationship. It had grown to the point that there was no one in the world Harry cared for more than his godfather. That was why it had hurt so much to have him taken away, why Harry couldn't move on. He felt like a part of him had been stolen away.

Harry grasped his half-hard cock, trying to concentrate on the thought of a private lesson with Remus, where he taught him just how pleasurable being bent over a desk could be. But thoughts of Sirius kept circling his head and he wondered whether they were intensified by the fact that Remus had been Sirius' best friend for all the time Harry had known him. Perhaps he should have been thinking of someone who had a less potent connection with the man he was trying not to remember.

A thought of Kingsley Shacklebolt lowering himself to his knees in front of Harry, taking his erection into his mouth and licking it in the most delicious way seemed to be safe enough, and Harry ran his fingers along his still-hardening cock. But then an image of Sirius smiling at the Quibbler article Kingsley had sent him invaded his mind, and suddenly it was Sirius whose warm mouth was engulfing him, smiling mischievously around his morsel, and Harry gasped in both shock and arousal. He tried to return Kingsley to that kneeling position in his mind, but the only face he could see was his godfather's, and the only thought he could manage was that Sirius rather looked like he was enjoying himself.

Harry moaned, his hand still wrapped around his cock and stubbornly refusing to still. It was so wrong. Sirius was his godfather, and he was dead, and there were so many reasons why Harry should not be having this vision running through his brain, imprinting into his very skull. But then ... perhaps it was better that he had this one happy thought of Sirius amongst all the grief. Perhaps if he had this one last connection with his godfather his sorrow could finally be lessened.

Memories of Sirius began passing through his mind – heedless of what he might want – and each morphed into something far less innocent than they had been at the time they occurred. Sirius taking him aside near the Whomping Willow to offer him a home led to an embrace and a feverish kiss when he agreed, lips pressing against his and devouring him whole. Their visit to the cave in Hogsmeade in his fourth year was added to by Ron and Hermione leaving them alone for a few minutes, during which time Sirius engulfed his prick again and again with his hot mouth until Harry was mewling in ecstasy. Their rendezvous in Sirius' pantry after Mr Weasley was attacked was taken further than their relationship could ever have gone, Sirius taking him ruthlessly up against the wall, and Harry was shouting hoarsely as he came both in his visualization and in reality.

The imaginings faded away as Harry gasped and panted in his euphoria. When he came back to himself he wiped tears he hadn't known he'd shed from his cheeks, grabbing his wand and cleaning the evidence of the act away with a muttered, "Scourgify!"

He curled up into a ball on the bed and whispered, "I'm sorry, Sirius." When he finally succumbed to sleep, he dreamed of a dog blacker than the night itself and a boy who could never release him from the real darkness that enclosed him.



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