Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/244433.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Sirius_Black/Ron_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Drinking, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-24 Words: 2251
****** The Haunting of Grimmauld Place ******
by Fluffyllama_(Llama)
Summary
     Ron watches Sirius, and Sirius has noticed.
There’s a brooding presence in Grimmauld Place again tonight.
Mrs Weasley treads carefully around it, when she isn’t pursing her lips in
disapproval. Hermione gives it troubled glances, and doesn’t even dare mention
Harry’s name when it shambles among them spreading silence and the stench of
stale whisky. Even the twins whisper in corners, poring over secret parchments
instead of embracing their host with their usual vigour.
It prowls the hallways, it pokes in the corners at imaginary creatures, it
swears at “That no good bloody house-elf”, and then it takes off for hours, as
it has done every night since they crept through the cobweb layers of this
house like maggots invading an empty corpse.

When the door slams shut on it, though, normality gradually returns. It takes a
while, but Ron waits and watches, feels the atmosphere lighten little by
little. First the fire burns a little brighter; the air loses its chill. Soon
Hermione even smiles faintly when she looks up from her book, but he doesn’t
smile back. Mrs Weasley sighs in exasperation at Fred, or is it George? Ron
can’t tell right now which one is which.
Yet somehow, he always knows exactly where the restless figure upstairs is
pacing, which rooms he’s haunting; he can even feel the path it takes from desk
to window, to library, to bathroom, to bed… a well worn track that Ron has
listened to in its many permutations for days and nights now.
“Best leave him be,” his mother always says, as if Sirius is as dangerous as he
looks. “He has a nasty temper, that one.” Maybe he has, but Ron still wants to
argue with her – she talks as if he’s a real criminal, but he’s an innocent
man. Or at least, as innocent as a thirty-odd year old escaped convict who
drinks too much can be.
And that’s the problem, really. Now he’s here, and even if the accommodation
isn’t exactly comfortable he is at least well-fed and has a bed to sleep in,
Sirius should be happier, shouldn’t he? Happier than sleeping in hedges and
living off rats, at least. But his long, shaggy hair never quite makes it to
fully untangled, and however many times Sirius swears he’ll do it, somehow it
never gets cut.
Then there are the scars on his hands, and the tattoos that Ron remembers
glimpsing through a torn shirt. The eyes that still sometimes bore into him in
that way they did on a dark night among the dust and splinters of the shack. He
didn’t understand the look then, and he doesn’t now, not enough, anyway. It all
screams of experience, of adulthood, of something just out of his reach,
especially when he lies awake at night next to an empty bed, a child sent out
of the way while the grown ups talk.
It will be different when Harry’s here.
But for now there is only him to listen to the raised voices echoing up from
the kitchen. Snape, icy and cold. Sirius loud and harsh. That’s the usual way
of things, though tonight there’s a third voice rising above them both, and Ron
cringes at his mother’s tone. When she loses it, she really loses it, and
neither of those men are taking it well, by the sound of it.
Doors slam, and there’s footsteps on the stairs. Harmless curses are growled at
the shrieks from Mrs Black’s portrait, and Ron waits, pulse thumping in his
ears, for the familiar bedroom circuit to start up. Instead there’s a crunch
from somewhere outside, and a thud—and then silence.
Ron tries to stay in bed, even though he can feel something pulling him
upright, eyes wide and breathing loud in the darkness of the room. He waits for
the footsteps to continue, but something’s happened. The pattern is broken, and
his eyes won’t stay shut, wondering why nobody has come to do something about
it yet.
Nobody leaves, nobody comes. It takes a whimper of pain to move him, but then
he’s out of bed like a landslide, slipping down the sheets and blankets to the
floor. It’s undignified, but he doesn’t care, and he’s so busy untangling
himself from the mess that it’s only when he opens the door that he remembers
his thin pyjamas aren’t going to be warm enough out there.
Sirius turns, and there’s that wild-eyed look again. Ron should be afraid,
because this man has sharp teeth even when he doesn’t have his fist jammed into
the wall, and wounded creatures are always dangerous, he knows that. But the
wince of pain as Sirius twists his arm to pull it out drives him forward, and
when plaster dust and old splinters cover them he’s there to steady the gaunt
frame. Sirius’ forearm is blood-streaked and and bloody hell that must hurt,
but he hardly seems to notice until Ron takes hold of it. It’s hard, bony and
brittle in his grasp. Fragile, almost.
“You should have that looked at,” says Ron, and it sounds stupid, but he can
see himself taking Sirius down to the kitchen to his Mum, who at least then
might notice something is really wrong here. Maybe she’d even notice that Ron
can be trusted, maybe could be allowed to know a few things. But the fantasy is
destined to remain in his head, because Sirius pulls his arm away at the
suggestion. His breath is ripe and ragged, heavy with the stink of whisky
again.
Ron waits, but Sirius doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. There are just those eyes,
dark and heavy with nameless burdens. They’re fixed on his face, and suddenly
he’s too close to the man who’s leaning heavily against the mouldy wallpaper of
the landing.
“Or,” he says hurriedly, “I could fix it up.”
Sirius sits on the bed and focuses on pouring another drink while Ron works,
and he doesn’t seem to notice the clumsiness of Ron’s patch-up job.
“Your mother is a bitch,” Sirius announces when he’s finished inspecting his
newly bandaged arm.
“She’s okay,” Ron mutters, and he’d leave but Sirius is filling a second glass
and leaning towards him conspiratorially.
“She wants to baby you all.” Sirius snorts into his whisky, and Ron lets his
drink just wet his lips. It burns when he licks them, but in a good way.
And yes, that does rankle, because there are adults out there who haven’t faced
half of what he, Harry and Hermione have faced… well, Harry anyway. Harry even
gets to have an interesting godfather, not old Great Uncle Sedgefield, who was
about the only one left for Ron by the time he turned up.
“My godfather smells of cabbage,” Ron says morosely, but that just makes Sirius
throw his head back and roar. Ron pushes the glass away from him nervously,
because if his mum catches him here his life won’t be worth living.
Sirius just sloshes more amber liquid into the bottom of it.
“Erm, cheers then.” And too late to stop his gulp Ron remembers he hasn’t even
really tasted it yet, and now his throats on fire and his face must be glowing
bright red and he’s going to cough and splutter it all over–
“Head down, deep breath,” Sirius is saying above him, and oh, blessed cool,
cool water on his neck, on his face, hands holding him over the washbasin by
the window. He grabs for a clean towel, and his mother might have been mean
about Sirius but he didn’t have freshly laundered anything when he was living
in a bloody cave, did he?
Ron’s probably not going to be saying that any time soon, however. He’s not
going to be saying anything, because his throat isn’t going to work forever,
and even if it was there’s something hypnotic about the rough fingers stroking
his damp hair off his face.
Hypnotic, and maybe more. “You’re really not a baby, are you?” Sirius’s chuckle
is downright dirty, and if Ron had any heat left to blush with he would turn
redder, but the blood he has is rushing south faster than he can wriggle free.
It’s too late anyway, and he really is going to need thicker pyjamas if his
body is going to get all out of control any time someone comes near him.
“It’s okay.” Sirius’s hand on his forehead is soothing, but there’s nothing
soothing about the one grasping his hip. “You should have seen me and James at
your age. We could barely get through an afternoon without giving each other a
helping hand.”
Ron’s mouth is open now, but there are no words coming out, and with the
pictures in his head that’s probably for the best.
“I know you’ve been watching me,” Sirius is murmuring, and the hand on Ron’s
hip is circling, predatory, moving with intent and the worst of it is that Ron
sort of wants it to. He wants to know what it feels like, a hand pressed there,
a hand that isn’t his.
He dreams about that sometimes.
“Do you?” Sirius whispers, his voice warmer, just for him and nobody else, and
Ron didn’t know he was saying it aloud but maybe Sirius can read minds anyway.
He certainly seems to know what’s in Ron’s, although it’s possible the way he’s
pressing closer is a bit of a clue.
Ron can only nod over the sink, but he thinks that’s enough because his stomach
is bare now against the cold white porcelain, his pyjama cord a tangle of
loosened knots that isn’t holding anything up any more and a strong, firm hand
is holding him steadily in place.
“Hold still now,” says the burn of whisky breath in his ear, and “Good boy,
that’s it,” as he pushes into a warm fist, leaking a trail from wrist to
fingertips that feels so, so good when he pulls back. There’s a warmth against
his back too, and after a quick fumble, something hot and hard rubbing against
his hip. He wants to make Sirius feel as good as he does right now, but if he
loosens his grip on the basin he’s not sure his legs will hold him up, and
Sirius seems to be doing just fine on his own.
“I– I’m–” he gasps, but Sirius just chuckles.
“Not yet,” he says, and that glorious fist stops, holding him still between
Sirius and the basin. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” There’s a wet, sucking
sound, and–
“Oh, blimey,” Ron says fervently, because he hadn’t even thought of this, but
there’s something so wrong about the wet finger pushing at his arse that he
can’t help but jerk his hips, and before it’s past the first knuckle he’s
panting hard and his dick is sliding through that slick fist beyond his power
to prevent it.
And now his legs really are going to give way, because that has to be two
fingers slipping and twisting their way in, and he’s not ready for that, he’s
really not, but Sirius is breathing fire down his neck and hey, at least he
doesn’t think Ron is a kid, right?
“Ron,” Sirius groans, and that’s not his fingers there now, pushing inside him
and it’s too tight, it’s not going to work, not really; but Ron doesn’t care
because this is Sirius Black, it’s Harry’s godfather, and if he could decide
which was more thrilling he’d probably know whether he was about to come his
brains out all over the wall or fall over, and god only knows he’s not sure
about that. The touching, the fingers, they don’t really count, he knows that,
but this? This is what it’s all about, this is having sex and that’s it for
Ron, there’s no more holding it back.
“That’s right, you come for me,” Sirius whispers, a wicked delight in his voice
that makes Ron shiver in pleasure as much as the aftershocks still running down
his spine, through his dick and leaking the evidence through Sirius’s clenched
fist. The force of it pushes him back hard, but he’s pretty sure Sirius is
still barely inside him when he feels a matching wet heat trickle down to cool
sticky on the back of his legs.
He’s going to count it anyway.
“Better clean up before you go back to bed, kid.” Sirius is crashed out on the
crooked four-poster when Ron straightens up, robes askew and angry red cock
still half hard and shiny.
It feels like a dismissal, and that’s something Ron’s all too used to from the
adults in this house. He thought Sirius was different. He thought he
understood.
“Hey.” He turns in time to catch a wink and follows an outstretched hand to the
bed. “Tomorrow, all right? Harry won’t be here for a few more days.”
“Yeah, tomorrow.” Ron grins, and allows Sirius to pull him close enough for a
hungry kiss that promises tomorrow, there won’t be any doubt.
There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there before on the way back to his
bed, and he’s not going to be falling asleep for a long time tonight, but he
doesn’t care. He’s the only one who gets to see that Sirius, something other
than the prowling, growling creature that stalks the house. He’s had too few
possessions of his own not to treasure it.
It’ll all be different when Harry gets here.
So he’ll just have to make the most of it.
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