Gratitude

Gratitude

The boy was devastated when Black died. I know this. I, myself, felt nothing but a sort of blankness when I heard. I never liked the man, anyone could tell you that. Our arguments were almost legendary within the Order of the Phoenix. Everyone knew that if Black and I were in a room together, yelling and curses would soon erupt. No, the mutt and I never got on well. Still, he was a bit of amusement. A safe enemy, one who wasn’t allowed to hurt me, and whom I wasn’t allowed to hurt in return. So, I felt nothing, when I heard of his death. Nothing at all.

But afterwards....oh afterwards, when the boy came to me... it was understandable. He knew I wouldn’t sympathize for him, wouldn’t give him my shoulder to cry on, like the fools he calls his friends. I gave him the best thing I could for his godfather’s death - indifference. So Potter stayed with me, trailed after me as if he were my shadow, and I took a secret joy out of this. How could I not? This idiotic, beautiful boy came to me on nights when he couldn’t sleep. No, not for sex. He didn’t come for sex. Merely....companionship, a place to sit quietly with someone who wouldn’t bother him with stupid questions every five minutes. I knew a great deal about loss, about guilt. I knew, all too well.

I, of course, wanted more from the boy. On those dark nights, I grew nearly desperate from want of him. Sitting at my desk, pretending to scratch down notes and take grades, actually taking in the lines of his face discretely, taking in the beauty of his face in the flickering light of the fireplace. It made me want to draw him near, paint my name on his skin with my tongue...Merlin, stop the poetry, I wanted to fuck the boy blind, bend him over my desk with loving care and take him hard, fast, long.

So I did. It wasn’t hard to persuade the boy. Potter was...nearly catatonic at times. It wasn’t rape, no, he never told me to stop. I made sure he had pleasure in it. He came, often, hard. In my hand, on the sheets, wherever. Pleasure was certainly a part of this ...liaison.

I think the werewolf suspects something. He’s probably taking a whiff, whenever Potter or I get near him. Blasted creature, it’s none of his business! Shouldn’t he be off mourning for his mutt lover?

I sometimes wonder what Black would say, if he could speak, about this little ...fling, between his godson and me. Probably curse a great deal, before tossing one of the Unforgivable curses at me, the idiotic mongrel.

That’s not really fair though. I should be grateful for him. After all, if it weren’t for him, I would never have had the chance to have Potter like I have. To have him under me, crying out my name, ever so softly.

So thank you, Sirius Black. I’m certainly grateful for this.