Fate

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Harry wasn’t sure why he was here, bare feet shuffling over the cool floor of the Department of Mysteries. It hadn’t been a conscious choice to come here. Rather, it was a deeper drive, something Harry couldn’t even control.

He let the robes slip from his shoulders, silently pooling at his feet as he stepped out of them, shivering slightly.

His pale, naked figure approached the veil, pausing before its the rustling black material that rippled and whispered and was completely alive; of this Harry was certain.

There were sounds, hushed voices, coming from behind the depths of that veil, echoing from wherever it led. Harry imagined that one of those voices was Sirius, though they were all unrecognizable, murmurs and toneless cries, all matching with faces Harry didn’t know.

He ran his hand experimentally over his stomach, raising goosebumps over his skin, and down to his cock, which had hardened in the cool air as if instinctually awaiting the touch of his hand.

Harry rubbed in long, solid strokes, staring into the empty blackness of the veil, half-hoping he would see something in there, a face, anything. His hand was moving against his will, or perhaps synchronized with a will he didn’t know he possessed, and his feet were controlled by something else entirely because they guided him closer, until he was nearly brushing against that silky screen.

And then he was.

His hips thrust forward and his cock grazed the black curtaining. It felt like a ghostly hand tracing down his length. He rubbed against the thin material, wondering if he was trying to break through it, to penetrate the darkness that lay behind there, to get to Sirius.

Without meaning to, his voice crawled from his throat in a languid moan, and he threw his head back and stroked faster, memories flashing across his mind at a warped speed. Sirius’ eyes. Grey staring into his as that hard cock thrust into him again and again. Sirius moaning. Gruff and low and needy.

Harry remembered each time vividly. Against rusty doors, dust motes swirling in the air, on fraying mattresses, springs aching under their weight, over kitchen tables, armchairs, bathroom sinks. Each time hard, fast, achingly wanted by both of them.

Now Harry was alone, the memories only memories, and he was accompanied only by his own shallow breaths, growing more and more rapid with each thrust against those dark hangings.

Harry wondered if Sirius was back there, if he was alive back there, if he could hear Harry’s gasps and pants and impatient groans. He wondered if Sirius was stiff and cold and whether his lips were blue and his fingers mere bones now. Somehow this last image was so haunting that Harry felt his hand moving faster.

And he was still alone.

But there was another sound, from behind the veil, a sound so familiar and dark and rich that Harry’s knees weakened and he had to fight to stay standing.

Harry came, short white spurting against the black of the veil. He came so hard that he actually did lose his balance and he fell forward into the black curtain, crying out in a mixture of shock and ecstasy.

He’d heard Sirius’ voice.

*~*~*