Better Than Bedfellows
Abby Ebon
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; or Sirius Black, or Remus Lupin.
Sabishii Kage Tenshi's challenge, rewritten in my (Abby Ebon) own words; Set in the summer after fourth year, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin encounter "Harry", already intoxicated, in a pub not entirely somber themselves, it results in that the three then wake up snuggled naked together like puppies come dawn. Sex to be more then a little implied. Prophesy can play a part if it grows to be a chapter story.
Dedication; this was brought on by a request-challenge (though I'd like to think I came up with the time-travel bit all on my own, I may never know…) by none other then Sabishii Kage Tenshi, prior to my taking on the challenge that sprung "Dementor's Kiss" (I was given two choices to choose from, this among them, the first time around I chose "Dementor's Kiss" – to which Sabishii Kage Tenshi began writing "A Furry Little Problem" for me)… so, as she again got to the "Readers Rewards" goal this time for "Green Eyes, Black Sand" – I find I must scribble something else out…
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Soaked Up Like A Sponge
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Harry Potter was laid out on his belly. His head tilted toward the window, dirty ill-colored curtains had likely plotted for the blinding beam of happy sunshine to wake him, splashed across his face. Such a plot was foiled, due to a headache verging to migraine levels that he knew could only be explained by multiple accounts of alcohol. Harry had worked with wand cores more volatile – that was not what had waked him.
This was a case of instinct. Something had changed, he was being watched – he might as well be in very real danger. A shift of his hips and shoulders let him know he was not alone. The weight of arm was about his shoulders, fingers touching tenderly at his neck – barely there. There was warm thigh thrown carelessly over his hips, pinning him to the damp sheets. He did not remember if the sheets had ever been dry.
Wary now, he turned his head away from the window (and its sly sunlight) and looked to one side – his companion was a rough looking fellow, stubble along his cheeks and jaw – shallow eyes (this one didn't get much sleep, by the looks of things) though there was a look of calm about him. He, at least was content – so well he should be, he was the owner of the thigh against his hips, there was a throbbing erection pressing insistently to his buttocks. Ginger hair tickled his nose. It was almost endearing.
Harry wasn't truly surprised at the look of him, he'd been lucky this time; he usually went for the more dangerous ones. He didn't know if he subconsciously had a death wish, or his libido was just that warped for rough sex. The ones he chose were often those whose natures verged to moralistic dark, insofar as the rest of the world may care. Harry had learned quickly not to trust his bed partners, and though as a rule he did not kill anyone in the bedroom, it did not stop him from stalking them a few blocks and putting a well placed knife in a heart deserving to be stopped.
Harry narrowed his eyes, green glinting as he inhaled the strangers scent – familiar, everyone and everything in this room was so wrongly familiar. It told him one unhappy fact. He was not where he had been when he went to sleep. Something was off. It tugged at his magic like something not-quite forgotten. Or a qualm that his conscious had; those were, now a days, few and far between. He could not afford a conscious. He was in the midst of a war, a war he was loosing. A war he wasn't sure was worth the winning.
He heard an inhaled breath, then a sigh that could have been a yawn. The bed dipped as a stranger stretched. Harry peeked over the wiry chest of his closest bedmate to get a look at the second one. He should have suspected that there would be two, with the mood he had been in last night. He would not have fallen asleep for less. His heart ached, lurched. A dozen, a fucking dozen years; his first true loss of this be damned war, it still ached. He should have shut his eyes tightly after a glimpse of dark hair, a little past shoulder length, and quick stormy grey eyes. The high cheek bones, gaunt cheeks, and the aristocratic tilt of his chin. It was how Harry remembered him best, recovering from the hell that had been Azkaban.
'Damn it…' Harry let his eyes trail longingly over that body, the familiar features. Scars in all the right places; or about where Harry had guessed they might be. He had never had his godfather as a bedroom partner, never known such a body in the reality as a fifteen year old boy when Sirius had gone through the veil and not come back. He was no teenager now, closer to thirty then twenty. Still, this was reality, a stark contrast to the delirium of alcohol and lust.
This was a trap. It had to be. This was what his instincts were screaming of – to warn him of this danger. There could be no other reason; no one could have looked so like Sirius on purpose. It might be polyjuice. No way to really tell. Harry did what he did best, he reacted – he felt the pulse of wants, their cores as familiar to him as heartbeats – he reached, and then paused as fathomless grey eyes caught his own green ones. His heart wanted to believe.
'Who are your holders…?' If ever these two had looked differently then they did now – their wands would betray them. A wand chose its wizard. Yet a wand and its core "remembered" being crafted, and would spill secretes to such a mind if it recognized a similarity (though no two wand makers were alike, all wand makers could not help but think similar) so though Harry had not crafted these wands they recognized him as a wand maker.
Sirius Black. A barking laugh, a gangly black haired child whose green eyes hid behind glasses; he barely recognized this image as his third year self – and Buckbeak, proud and grey, it didn't strike him until now that Sirius must have sympathized with the hippogriff more then Harry had understood at the time; both were trying to do the right thing, only to end up at the wrong end of laws that should have been rewritten before their births. A flicker of Harry as he was now, being kissed by Remus – desire and lust and a bit of jealously left over let Harry know Sirius had been touching his wand if the echo was so strong. Memories seeped into a wand, a wand developed a personality of sorts based on such contact.
Remus Lupin. An eerie howl, a full moon that was tainted a rusty color like dried blood, scraped off, but not quite gone; Sirius, as he looked now, and as he looked as a boy – Lily, James – there was rage that Harry found himself distressed by even though it was directed toward Peter. The last image was of Harry – not that of a fifteen year old, but as the thirty year old self; eyes half lidded, a smug smile on his lips. Looking as if he ought to be kissed or slapped. There was no emotion to this, merely a flicker of memory – something the wand core eagerly washed over him at his asking.
Such resounding echoes – truths that could not be denied, least he taint all that Ollivander had taught him. Harry did not dare reach further. He did not know what to do with himself as it was. This was not a trap. If it was a trick, it was a very elaborate one – such lengths that only the fae folk would go to. They would have reasons too. There was no reason for this. Even if there were a reason – perhaps to teach him not to leap to conclusions or to take care to what he wished for, or not to think and act first and follow his heart second. Their magic – even if they did not know - would recognize that he had puzzled their riddle out. It would have let it fade by now.
It was not fading. Nothing was hazing about the edges. Remus and Sirius did not glow within to an eternal unearthly cold flame. There ears were not even remotely pointy. It remained a reality, settled with a soul taste that lingered in his mouth, like backwash alcohol. Outlined by stark, bold lines; an all too real migraine that fluttered at the edges of his thoughts.
"You alright..?" It was a rough voice, an almost growl – as grating as his new reality. He almost did not recognize it.
Sirius.
Green eyes flicked toward the strangers – no, toward Sirius – to Remus, he was partly dismayed to realize they were waking.
"Fine" Harry murmured, even if he wasn't.
Amber-brown eyes fluttered open, Harry did not have time to realize that with his messy hair, and disarrayed bangs – his pale scar would be boldly and clearly visible against the stark contrast of his tanned skin. He would be exposed. Harry did not think Sirius and Remus would be pleased to know they had fucked the thirty-year-old version of their dead best friend. Frantic for a way to avoid questions – just for a little while longer, Harry looked toward the too bright light of the sun shining through the dusty curtains into the dank little room with a too full bed.
He did not have to fake the sickened groan that passed his lips. His migraine, like a vengeful boy band drummer, went from fluttering butterfly to pounding-nail into skull.
"Can I get you anything?" It was awkwardly spoken, though there was no stutter to the words. Harry practically felt the glance the two must have shared. Remus had spoken that time.
"No." Harry did not fake his annoyance.
"By the way I'm Sirius – this is Remus…" There was amusement in the rough tones, alongside the vague curiosity. They did not know who he was; he had not given them his name. His tensed shoulders nearly slumped with relief. It was enough he was bare-assed, and had a very good memory of how it felt to have Sirius' cock sliding thick and hard down his throat, while Remus thrust up his ass; without wondering what the hell he said.
"Don't care." He almost hissed the very-not-true words.
Remus flinched, even as he carefully moved his thigh and leg away, unpinning his hips. Harry felt the movement keenly, jolting into his chest. It hurt, but it would hurt Remus worse to know Harry was the rude jerk with shoulder-length black haired, a man with lovely sun kissed skin and gleaming green eyes – rude as he was, his back to his bed partners. It was not the best of reassurances. He fought himself not to turn around and beg Remus to forgive him. To lick his lips and reassure Sirius that it would be better this way.
"Right" Sirius was becoming angry, withdrawing the arm with fingers that had tensed into a fist. It was a very real threat. Harry, hating himself, didn't really care. He knew he might more-then-a-little deserve it. He was worse then a coward. He was hurting them, rejecting them.
"We'll be going then. Remy, c'mon." Harry pressed his face into the pillow, feeling their movements, their distance, as if each were a physical blow. He heard them dressing, the slid of cloth over flesh, the pang of wand cores responding to their wizards touch. When he was sure they were gone, he lifted his head from the smothering cloth of a feather pillow. He had not known he had been crying.
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Harry licked away amber liquor that coated his lips. He had a very good idea of where he was time-wise; all it had taken was a step out of the smoky smelling inn. Diagon Alley. In his own time, on his sixteenth birthday, Tom had given him it, allowing the Order and a handful of Hit-wizards and Aurors though – they saw a crumbled ruin; blood still stained the earth there. Everyone had been slaughtered. Few knew what had become of the goblins, though Gringotts still stood, it was sealed – impenetrable.
He might have forgotten, over the years, how it felt to have wizards and witches roaming about freely, their magic a heartbeat of tangled webs battering at the inside of his skull. His migraine got a little worse. He thought he now knew why. He dealt with sensitive magic, this was anything but subtle. It was like a target smeared into the very foundation.
No wonder Tom had targeted Diagon Alley after Hogwarts had fallen to his whims – this, too, was a keystone.
He felt like a relic, some bit of tarnished metal that clung unwanted to the present. In truth, he was what this world would become; if he let things go on without interfering. Harry could not believe – would not believe – that he had slipped into the past to watch it all happen again.
A smile that was not pleasant crossed his lips.
He was determined to change things; with what he knew – that the goblins and magical creatures had defenses that wizards and witches did not. He knew with what to start. He had to bring about an alliance. Tom did not yet have much of a foothold, he had not stolen the blood that flowed through Harry's veins – the ministry, while tainted, was not yet unredeemable. Though it was all true, Harry did not yet know how much time he had. Sirius had escaped Azkaban in his third year – but it was not until he was fourteen that Sirius and Remus were on speaking terms and within Grimmauld; safe until near the end of his fifth year.
Harry saw only one choice left to him – he had to have someone from this time-and-place to help him, Remus and Sirius were not a option, his younger self did not have any contacts outside Dumbledore, and Albus was a unknown Harry would not chance just yet. That left one man; a man who had never been surprised when Harry arrived, who had been dead a half-year to Harry in his own time, who had taught Harry everything he knew about wand making.
It was almost a physical pain to step through Ollivander's door, the scent of wood, of leather and velvet and silken cloths assaulted his nose. It was so quite – so withdrawn, something almost cold and abandoned about it that Harry feared he might have gotten it wrong. That he might be wrong, that Ollivander might have been taken by Death Eaters sooner then he had thought.
All his fear faded when a chill breeze swirled curiously about him. It brought to memory snowy mountains and distant places Harry had never laid eyes on.
"Well, I must say; you are not whom I expected…Harry Potter…" Harry licked his lips, more then a little nervous as he turned to face Ollivander. Slight in size, though taller then Harry, his skin snow pale and as deadly and delicate looking as ice. There was no fae folk cold flame glow. Harry knew that what a wizard or witch expected to see of Ollivander was what they did see. It was an illusion that Ollivander was very good at. Harry was not so easily fooled.
Ollivander himself had shown him his true appearance, and such things could not be easily undone. Certainly not by a mere slip through more then a dozen years of time; a slight widening of Ollivander's eyes told Harry that Ollivander recognized that he was being seen, truly seen, perhaps for the first time in over a thousand years; having lived since 382 B.C. was a very long time amongst mortals, even mortals as long lived as wizards and witches.
"Ollivander, 'ello, I've much to tell you." Harry's wide smile was genuine, perhaps for the first time since waking that morning.
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Note; …-rubs hands together cackling madly-…