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hp crackfic: Nightmare on Grimmauld Place
Title: Nightmare on Grimmauld Place
Pairing: Harry/Mrs. Black, Sirius/Cornelius Fudge, Remus/Stan Shunpike,
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Portrait frottage. Bowler hats. Spotty bus conductors.
A/N: This crackfic is brought to you by the Nightmare Pairing Meme, because![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
amanuensis1's was too funny, happiestwhen's was too easy and mine was just plain wrong. Unbetaed. Feel free to point and laugh. Or run screaming.
Nightmare on Grimmauld Place
I. A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
She is screaming again.
She screams all day and all night, never giving Harry a moment's peace. She's like a banshee, with bloodcurdling wails that slice through the silence like a knife, and her screams could very well fortell a coming death. Harry is quite convinced that one more sleepless night full of her braying will drive him to kill himself.
Harry hates this house anyway, he doesn't like living in it, and he'd sell it if Dumbledore and Remus would let him. But they won't; Dumbledore insists the Order still needs it and Remus seems to think it is important Harry keep it because Sirius left it to him.
And Harry understand this, he does. But it does not change the fact that Grimmauld place is dark and moldy like a tomb, nor does it get rid of the portrait on the wall that screams morning, noon and night.
He's sure there is a book in the library that would have a spell that could counter a Permanent Sticking Charm. But Dumbledore's locked up all the books with anything useful in them, and Remus likes to pretend he doesn't know where the key is.
Harry is furious by the time he gets to the hallway; his cheeks are flushed and his wand arm shakes, the slender length of wood slipping in his sweaty hand. Mrs. Black only grows more agitated when she sees Harry. She starts to shriek louder, her eyes rolling so hard they are pure white for several moments at a time.
He grates out various spells, hexes and charms from a long mental list of things that have worked in the past. He fires off several Silencing Charms to no avail, and tries to charm the curtains around her frame closed with a spell Hermione taught him for his bed hangings, but it only makes the curtains billow up like they've caught a breeze.
"BE GONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!"
"SHUT UP YOU OLD BAT!" Harry shouts. Remus did something to her the night before last that kept her quiet for nearly six hours, but be can't think of it with her screams ringing in his ears.
"CHILD OF DESPAIR!" She wails, saliva foaming at the corners of her mouth. "FILTHY HALF-BREED!"
Harry hits her with a Stunning Spell, like he doesn't know it didn't work the last two hundred times he's tried it. Her voice cracks, but she never misses a beat, and the spell does little more than freeze the blowing curtains in midair.
"LOVER OF MUDBLOODS!"
Harry drops his wand and runs at her, leaping onto the low table underneath her, his hands curling around the edges of her frame. He yanks and pulls on the carved wood, again like he doesn't already know it won't work, and she stays stubbornly attached to the wall, just as she has a thousand times before.
"HOW DARE YOU VIOLATE ME, YOU FILTHY LITTLE BOY!"
"VIOLATE?" Harry shouts, his mouth dropping open.
"UNHAND ME, YOU PERVERT!" She screams. "LECHER! DEFILER! VIOLATOR!"
"VIOLATE!" Harry rages, his hands tightening on her frame. "I'LL FUCKING WELL GIVE YOU VIOLATE, YOU COW!"
He leans in, standing on the tips of his toes so his crotch is level with her face, and rubs against her.
She screams, not another litany of curses, but a wordless, earsplitting wail, so high-pitched and grating Harry's surprised the window at the end of the hall doesn't shatter. He rubs against her again, putting himself right over her foaming mouth to muffle her, but she only screams louder.
And then.
Harry didn't want to do this, he only did it to shut her up, really, to prove a point because she was going on about being violated, but her screams are vibrating against him, and it's making him hard, the bulge in his trousers pressing right into her face.
He doesn't mean to press himself flat against her, splayed across her surface, his fingers clutching her frame so hard his knuckles are white, but he does. And he can't seem to make himself stop, even though he knows he should, and his hips just keep rocking against the canvas of their own accord.
And Mrs. Black is still screaming; he thinks maybe she's managing words again, but he can't quite tell, not with his cock shoved in her face. But he doesn't care, really, because whatever she's doing it feels bloody brilliant, every noise out of her mouth shakes the canvas and it feels like someone humming against his cock.
His legs are starting to ache and his knees are shaking like they are going to give at any moment. The only thing keeping him upright is his firm grip on her frame, but he risks shoving a hand between him so he can pull at his flies, because his trousers are painfully tight and he thinks her screams would feel that much better against his skin.
He has to lean a bit away from her to get his trousers down and this gives her a chance to get a word him, her toneless wail tapering off into a new string of curses.
"FILTHY DEPRAVED PERVERT!" She screeches, her eyes rolling even more wildly than before. "VIOLATOR!"
"SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!" He spits back, shoving his trousers down around his knees. "I WOULDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS IF YOU HADN'T STARTED SCREAMING!"
He leans back in, and his cock slaps her right in the face.
And yes, it's a thousand times better without all that cloth in the way. His cock slides against the canvas with friction so delicious it almost hurts, and every time she screams it vibrates against his skin to hard he can feel it in his toes.
How me must look, standing on a table in a dark hallway with his trousers pooled around his knees, rutting against a sodding portrait, a portrait of his godfather's mother, but he doesn't really care, he just hopes that Remus doesn't pick this exact moment to come home because he'd have a lot of explaining to do.
She screams again, louder, but it's different somehow. It's lower, reverberating against his cock like thunder, and it almost sounds like a moan. His cock slips up by her nose the next time he thrusts, freeing up her mouth, and yes, that was a moan, because she does it again.
And that's a little bit disturbing (because this isn't disturbing enough already), so he doesn't think about it, just like he doesn't think about how the candlestick on the table behind her has disappeared below her frame or why she's shifting around oddly in her chair.
She wails again, long and low and really fucking loud, like something is happening that he doesn't want to think about, and it makes the canvas ripple violently over his cock and with a strangled yelp he comes, spurting hot and hard and absolutely everywhere, all over her face, all over her, even on the table behind her and the arm of her chair.
The force of it is too much for his watery legs and he tips backwards, tumbling off the table and landing on his arse. He sits there for quite some time, trying desperately to catch his breath, and he doesn't look at Mrs. Black, who is suddenly and uncharacteristically silent.
When he can breathe again he stands up, tucking himself into his trousers, and decides just to leave the mess for Kreacher.
II. It's Been a Hard Day's Night
It's awfully late for Cornelius Fudge to be at work, but there is nothing else for it. The paper is piled so high on his desk he can't see out his office door. The stack on the left, which is threatening to topple over on his head, is from Lucius Malfoy's solicitor alone.
And now is not the time for Cornelius to be slacking, because his job could very well be on the line. The news of You-Know-Who's return has spread like wildfire. The Wizarding World was happy enough thinking it was all a horrible rumor when Cornelius was telling them that, but now that they know better, they are furious.
They are accusing him of keeping secrets, of treating them like children, never mind that it had all be for their own good. The owls have been endless, circling the building in the mornings and arriving all day, well into the evening, and every third one a Howler besides.
The aftermath of that business with the Prophecy has been a mess like Cornelius has never seen. You-Know-Who back. Death Eaters loose. Children injured. Unregistered Portkeys to Merlin-knows-where.
And Sirius Black. Cornelius doesn't even want to think about Sirius Black. He's done more paperwork to clear Black's name than Millicent Bagnold did to put Black in Azkaban in the first place.
Cornelius is not sure he believes Dumbledore's story; all that talk about switched Secret Keepers and faked deaths and unregistered Animagi sounds like a bit of a stretch. But, Black is dead, so there hadn't been any harm in clearing his name. Dumbledore can be a right bother when he doesn't get his way.
He finishes the report he is filling out (which is, thankfully, not about Sirius Black) and sets it aside. It's quite late, and past time he went home, and there isn't a point in starting in on the mountain of parchment from Malfoy's solicitor until the morning. He'll only fall asleep halfway through.
He puts his bowler hat on his head and pulls his coat from the rack, folding it over his arm. He turns, pulling his wand to extinguish the lamp, but freezes, and very nearly faints.
Sirius Black is standing in the doorway of his office, with a slightly muzzy look on his face. He's also completely starkers.
Complete and utter horror settles in Cornelius' stomach, because he's in a tight spot, to say the least. He pardoned a man he was not quite sure was innocent based on the fact that he was dead, and now it seems he is very much alive.
This will not do at all.
Black cocks his head, studying Cornelius, his brow pinching like he's trying to remember Cornelius' name. His eyes make a sweep of the office, lingering on the nameplate on Cornelius' desk, then widen.
"You're the Minster of Magic," Black says slowly. "I'm at the Ministry."
"I am," Cornelius says slowly. "And you are Sirius Black."
Black stiffens at that and his face darkens, and it occurs to Cornelius that Black doesn't know he's a free man. He raises his wand, and thinks maybe this situation is salvageable after all.
He tells himself he has nothing to worry about, because Black is unarmed and seems to be a bit confused.
"I must say, you gave us quite a turn, escaping like that," Cornelius says, moving towards Black. "It's good of you to come here and save us the trouble of looking for you."
"You've got the wrong man," Black says, his eyes darting between Cornelius' face and his wand. "I'm innocent."
"That's what they all say," Cornelius replies, forcing his voice to stay steady.
He cuts off Black's next denial with a Silencing Charm, and ties Black's hand behind his back with silvery ropes that sprout from the end of his wand. He moves behind Black, propelling him inside the office with a hard shove, and when Black hits the desk, folding over it, Cornelius holds him in place with a firm hand to the middle of his back.
He needs to think of a way out of this mess, because he doesn't want to kill Black, but he doesn't want to let him loose on the public. He tries to focus his thoughts, tries to come up with a plan, but he can't, it's suddenly very warm in his office, and his cock as taken an interest in the curve of Black's arse and the way Black feels thrashing under his hand.
Cornelius lets his hand wander Black's body, down to the small of his back, just above Black's arse. Black jerks under him, wildly, and Cornelius can seen the muscles of his jaw working, spitting out silent protests, and Cornelius' cock twitches in approval.
Black had been such a pretty thing before Azkaban.
He's not near as pretty now; he's overly pale and a bit too thin, but he looks a right sight better than he did when Cornelius saw him in his cell two and a half years ago. And, as his fingers dip into Black's crease, he thinks Black would be a pretty thing indeed with Cornelius buried inside him, especially if Black was amenable to the idea.
"Imperio," Cornelius murmurs, and Black stills underneath his hand.
He leans forward over Black, his cock pressing hard against Black's arse, convincing Black that he wants it with hissed whispers in his ears. He can feel Black fighting it mentally, and Cornelius worries briefly that Black will be able to throw it off, but coming back from the dead is a hard day's work and Black obviously more than a little weary, and he eventually relents.
Cornelius pauses, fumbling for the spell. He doesn't have it on with blokes every often; when he does it's usually that Weasley fellow that Crouch was keeping, and Weasley usually casts the spell himself.
His first two tries are no good; one that turns Black's arse blue and one that makes Black fart with a noise like a foghorn. He manages it on the third try, and Black squirms under his hand as the spell loosens and warms him.
Black's body is hot when he slides two fingers inside, impossibly hot and ridiculously tight, and Cornelius can only imagine what Black will feel like around his cock. Except, Cornelius probably shouldn't have imagined it, because he's coming from the thought alone, spurting long and thick directly onto Black's arse.
And the Imperius is slipping, because Black is laughing. Cornelius can't hear it, but he can feel it. Black's body is shaking under his hand, and he knows Black is probably laughing so hard he is crying with it.
Well, there's nothing for it. Back through the Veil for him.
Cornelius is just getting his trousers back up when he hears a sound that makes him whirl around. For the second time tonight, there is an uninvited guest darkening his doorway, and he wonders when the shit his office became Kings Cross Station.
"Headmaster," Cornelius says flatly.
"I trust I am not interrupting anything, Minister?" Dumbledore asks.
"No, Headmaster. Not at all," Cornelius manages.
"Your trousers say otherwise, Minister," Dumbledore says airily, giving Cornelius flies a pointed look. "Ah, Mister Black. I thought I might find you here."
Dumbledore approaches the desk, removing the bonds and the Silencing Charm with a wave of his hand. He Summons Cornelius' coat from where he'd dropped it on the floor, shaking it out before handing it to Black.
"I trust you will not mind Mister Black borrowing your coat," Dumbledore says mildly. "It's quite cold outside. I'd hate for him to catch a chill."
Cornelius waves him on, because he knows there is no point in arguing.
"This, too, I think," Dumbledore says, pilfering Cornelius' bowler hat and stuffing it on top of Black's head. "Frightfully cold."
"It's the least I can do," Cornelius replies, but they are already out the door.
III. Slow Ride. Take it Easy
It takes quite a bit of alcohol to get a werewolf drunk, but somehow, Remus has managed it.
Remus' is not quite sure how much he has had. He vaguely recalls ordering a Firewhisky. All right, several Firewhiskies. He also has the feeling there was Mandrake Vodka involved, because there's a slightly medicinal taste lingering in his mouth just underneath the familiar tang.
Yes, he remembers now. There was Mandrake Vodka. It was ordered for him my a young bloke who had been sitting at the other end of the bar. He had been a nice-looking fellow, quite fit, with dark hair and light eyes, and Remus would have tried it on with him if he had though he could have walked that far without falling over.
It's cold outside the Leaky Cauldron, which he doesn't really notice because of the alcohol thrumming through his body. It's also quite dark, which he wouldn't mind so much, if he hadn't just dropped his wand. He casts about for it, a bit blearily, but he can't see a bloody thing, and when he takes a step forward to peer at something by the lamppost he hears the creak of stepped-on wood and winces.
He sways a little when he bends to retrieve it, but he doesn't fall, and as he rights himself he runs his fingers over his wand, relieved to find it hadn't snapped. Not that it matters, really, because he can't quite remember the spell.
Tom had told Remus not to Apparate, anyway. Of course, that's a bloody fine thing for Tom to say, because Tom's not standing in the middle of a dark street in the middle of the sodding night. Tom is going to go upstairs and go to sleep, but after all the booze, Remus doesn't have enough money on him for a room.
Remus shoves his hands in the pocket of his robes, fingering the small collection of coins. He counts them three times, getting twelve twice and thirteen once, which is fine, because he only needs eleven. If he remembers correctly, fourteen will get him a hot chocolate, but it's probably better, he's not sure how well hot chocolate will mix with alcohol.
Sighing, he collects the Sickles in his pocket, and sticks out his other hand.
There's a loud bang, followed by a violently purple bus appearing out of thin air. It comes straight at him, perpendicular to the sidewalk, practically rolling onto his toes before coming to a stop.
Remus studies the Knight Bus for a long, drunken moment, feeling a vague unease in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He wonders if he'd be safer trying to Apparate, but a spotty boy in a uniform as purple as the bus sticks his head out of the door and makes the decision for him.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," The spotty boy says. His voice is a bit wooden, like he's reciting a memorized speech. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you where you want to go."
Despite his better judgment, Remus does just that.
"My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening," the young man continues, hauling Remus up the stairs by an arm. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang."
Remus' unease returns; Ernie looks about as old as Dumbledore, and his glasses are the thickest things Remus has ever seen.
"Woss your name?" Stan asks, eyeing Remus up and down.
"Remus," He replies, a bit slowly. He mulls it over a little, then nods. "Yes, Remus."
"'Ad a bit t' drink, 'ave you?" Stan ventures, leading Remus further inside by a hand to the elbow.
"A little," Remus admits, allowing Stan to herd him towards the back of the bus. There are brass bedsteads instead of seats, which is unsurprising, since it's so late it's almost early, and there are no other passengers, which is also unsurprising, since it's so late it's almost early on a Tuesday night.
"Where you going?" Stan asks, eyeing Remus up and down again.
"Grimmauld Place," Remus replies. "It's on the other side of London."
"Grimmauld Place?" Stan asks slowly, obviously fishing for a house number. "Jess off at the corner, like?"
"Yes," Remus insists. "Just Grimmauld Place is fine."
"You 'eard the man," Stan calls up front. "Take 'er away, Ern."
There is another great bang, then the bus jolts into motion.
Stan turns back to Remus and smiles. "Eleven Sickles," He announces. "Firteen if gets you a 'ot chocolate, and..."
Remus waves him off with the Sickles in his hand, which could actually be twelve and might possibly be thirteen, but Remus doesn't really care. He hopes maybe the extra will give the kid some incentive to go away, and leave Remus alone with his head, which is starting to ache dully.
"'Choo doing out so late on a Tuesday?" Stan asks, handing Remus his ticket.
"Nothing better to do," Remus grumbles. He reaches for a pillow and gives Stan a pointed look, hoping the he will get the hint.
"Nuffink better to do?" Stan repeats. He whistles through his teeth, and takes a seat on the edge of Remus' bed. "Must be nice, 'aving nuffink better to do." He pauses, waiting just long enough for Remus to close his eyes before starting in again. "Did you go to Sirius Black's funeral this weekend?"
Remus growls a bit, low in his throat. If he wanted to think about Sirius, he wouldn't have wasted time and money getting drunk. He doesn't want to think about Sirius' funeral, either, but he knows it's a valid question. Nearly all of Wizarding Britain had put in an appearance.
"I did," Remus mumbles. The bus lurches hard to one side, and Remus clutches at the sheets.
"Grand ol' thing, wossnnit?"
Remus growls again, because grand did not quite cover it. After Fudge cleared Sirius' name (he'd likely figured there was no harm since Sirius was dead), he'd insisted on providing Sirius with a Ministry funeral. It had been the biggest, most pompous thing Remus had ever seen. It had probably made Fudge feel important, but it had been exactly the kind of thing Sirius would have hated.
"Saw people I 'adn't seen in years," Stan goes on, swaying a bit as the bus takes a sharp turn. "Who'da thunk, Sirius Black, a hero?"
"I would have, but no one asked me." Remus mumbles under his breath.
"Wossat?" Stan asks. He leans in a bit, but Remus shakes his head and closes his eyes again.
"You got funny 'air," Stan comments, reaching out to twist a lock of it around his finger. "Too many colors innit, all red and brown and gray."
Remus tries to pull away, but it only pulls the hair tighter around Stan's finger, and there isn't really anywhere for him to go, since he's flat on his back with his head on a pillow.
"Your eyes, too," Stan goes on, his voice dipping a little. "All gold-like. Where you from?"
Remus huffs at that, and attempts to turn over, but Stan hand leaves his hair and moves down his arm.
"Don't 'choo worry, Mr. Remus," Stan says, his hand pulling Remus' robes apart, traveling over Remus' stomach and hovering just above is belt. "You've 'ad a 'ard night. Jess you lay back and let Stan take care of everyfink."
Remus protests, but it comes out a bit garbled. The alcohol has settled heavy in his veins, and laying down, it feels like it's all rushed to his head. And it almost feels good, even if Stan is a bit spotty and not Sirius, he's tired and lonely and no one has touched him since Sirius died.
"'Ey Ern," Stan calls out. "Take 'er the long way 'round."
Stan's hand is smaller than Sirius', and not quite as clever, but it's warm and a bit sweaty, and more importantly, not Remus' own. Stan wraps his fingers around Remus' cock tightly and strokes him firmly, setting a rhythm that matches the rumbling of the bus tires.
Stan doesn't speak, which suits Remus just fine, because if Stan keeps quiet and Remus keeps his eyes closed he can pretend it's Sirius, even if the hand is wrong and a little clumsy. Remus hears the quiet rasp of a zip which means Stan's taken himself in his other hand, but Remus tries not to think about it, and stuffs his hands under his pillow so he won't get the urge to reciprocate.
But he doesn't have to worry about it, because Stan comes before he does, his hand slipping slightly on Remus' cock, and he gives a little grunt, which actually sounds a bit like the kind of noise Sirius use to make. That thought is enough to tip Remus over the edge, spilling over Stan's hand, and onto his robes, he's sure, but he doesn't much care because it's so late it's almost early on a Tuesday night and he's sodding drunk besides.
When he opens his eyes Stan is leering a bit, his eyebrows wiggling like he has come kind of facial tic. Remus gropes for something to say, but he's saved by Ernie, who brings the bus to a violent halt and announces Remus' stop.
Remus flees the Knight Bus as soon as Stan gives him enough room to pass. He takes the three steps out the door at one go, which almost topples him over, but he doesn't really care, as long as it puts as much space between him and Stan as possible.
The street he's on doesn't look quite right, either, but he dismisses it. That's not surprising, because it's dark and he's drunk. He waits for the tell tale bang of the Knight Bus driving off, and starts to walk.
IV. Pretty as a Picture
Morning comes in the form of the brass knocker on the front door.
It's a persistent knock, the kinds that says the person knocking doesn't care if no one is home, that they mean to come inside if they have to batter the door down.
Harry waits for Mrs. Black to start screaming, the way she always does when someone's at the door, but she doesn't, and Harry smiles at this as he starts for the door.
He frowns again when he opens the door for find Dumbledore on his step, because he knows damn good and well Dumbledore knows how to use the Floo.
Then he's shocked. Dumbledore is not alone. He has Remus with him. And Sirius.
Remus looks tired and rumpled, and he has the pinched face and bloodshot eyes of someone who was out drinking all night. Sirius looks like hell all over again, and not just because of his tacky, too-short-yet-overlarge coat, and Harry is quite sure he doesn't want an explanation for the suspiciously familiar bowler hat on his head.
Sirius has an arm around Remus' waist, and Remus has his head tucked under Sirius' chin.
"May we come in, Mister Potter?" Dumbledore asks, a bit dryly, smiling at Harry's shell-shocked expression. "Or would you rather I leave them to snog on the steps?"
Silently, Harry steps out of the doorway to let Dumbledore by. He flings himself at Sirius before Sirius and Remus are even inside, but they take Harry with them, including him in their embrace and shuffling inside.
"How... um, I... but," Harry starts.
"All in good time," Dumbledore says. "Mister Lupin needs tea. At least," he adds, frowning at Remus, "and Mister Black needs clothes."
In short order Harry has a kettle on the stove and Sirius in a pair of trousers. What he doesn't have are explanations, because Remus and Sirius are too wrapped up in each other to tell him anything of use, and Dumbledore seems to have disappeared.
After a quick search, he finds Dumbledore in the hallway, linger over Mrs. Black. In her frame, Mrs. Black is sleeping quite peacefully.
"And?" Harry demands.
"I found Mister Black in the Ministry building late in the evening," Dumbledore says, his eyes still on Mrs. Black. I'm not sure how he managed it. Of course, knowing Mister Black, he's probably not sure himself."
"As for Mister Lupin, he was wandering Gremlin Way in the early hours of the morning." Dumbledore continues. "He's not sure how he got there, and I'm quite sure that is probably for the best."
Harry only stares.
"Now, how about that tea?"
"It's ready," Harry mumbles, his mind still reeling.
"Did you give her a restorative?" Dumbledore asks, reaching out to run a finger across the canvas. "She looks better than she has in years."
"Yeah," Harry replies with a smile. "Something like that."
Pairing: Harry/Mrs. Black, Sirius/Cornelius Fudge, Remus/Stan Shunpike,
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Portrait frottage. Bowler hats. Spotty bus conductors.
A/N: This crackfic is brought to you by the Nightmare Pairing Meme, because
amanuensis1's was too funny, happiestwhen's was too easy and mine was just plain wrong. Unbetaed. Feel free to point and laugh. Or run screaming. I. A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
She is screaming again.
She screams all day and all night, never giving Harry a moment's peace. She's like a banshee, with bloodcurdling wails that slice through the silence like a knife, and her screams could very well fortell a coming death. Harry is quite convinced that one more sleepless night full of her braying will drive him to kill himself.
Harry hates this house anyway, he doesn't like living in it, and he'd sell it if Dumbledore and Remus would let him. But they won't; Dumbledore insists the Order still needs it and Remus seems to think it is important Harry keep it because Sirius left it to him.
And Harry understand this, he does. But it does not change the fact that Grimmauld place is dark and moldy like a tomb, nor does it get rid of the portrait on the wall that screams morning, noon and night.
He's sure there is a book in the library that would have a spell that could counter a Permanent Sticking Charm. But Dumbledore's locked up all the books with anything useful in them, and Remus likes to pretend he doesn't know where the key is.
Harry is furious by the time he gets to the hallway; his cheeks are flushed and his wand arm shakes, the slender length of wood slipping in his sweaty hand. Mrs. Black only grows more agitated when she sees Harry. She starts to shriek louder, her eyes rolling so hard they are pure white for several moments at a time.
He grates out various spells, hexes and charms from a long mental list of things that have worked in the past. He fires off several Silencing Charms to no avail, and tries to charm the curtains around her frame closed with a spell Hermione taught him for his bed hangings, but it only makes the curtains billow up like they've caught a breeze.
"BE GONE FROM THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!"
"SHUT UP YOU OLD BAT!" Harry shouts. Remus did something to her the night before last that kept her quiet for nearly six hours, but be can't think of it with her screams ringing in his ears.
"CHILD OF DESPAIR!" She wails, saliva foaming at the corners of her mouth. "FILTHY HALF-BREED!"
Harry hits her with a Stunning Spell, like he doesn't know it didn't work the last two hundred times he's tried it. Her voice cracks, but she never misses a beat, and the spell does little more than freeze the blowing curtains in midair.
"LOVER OF MUDBLOODS!"
Harry drops his wand and runs at her, leaping onto the low table underneath her, his hands curling around the edges of her frame. He yanks and pulls on the carved wood, again like he doesn't already know it won't work, and she stays stubbornly attached to the wall, just as she has a thousand times before.
"HOW DARE YOU VIOLATE ME, YOU FILTHY LITTLE BOY!"
"VIOLATE?" Harry shouts, his mouth dropping open.
"UNHAND ME, YOU PERVERT!" She screams. "LECHER! DEFILER! VIOLATOR!"
"VIOLATE!" Harry rages, his hands tightening on her frame. "I'LL FUCKING WELL GIVE YOU VIOLATE, YOU COW!"
He leans in, standing on the tips of his toes so his crotch is level with her face, and rubs against her.
She screams, not another litany of curses, but a wordless, earsplitting wail, so high-pitched and grating Harry's surprised the window at the end of the hall doesn't shatter. He rubs against her again, putting himself right over her foaming mouth to muffle her, but she only screams louder.
And then.
Harry didn't want to do this, he only did it to shut her up, really, to prove a point because she was going on about being violated, but her screams are vibrating against him, and it's making him hard, the bulge in his trousers pressing right into her face.
He doesn't mean to press himself flat against her, splayed across her surface, his fingers clutching her frame so hard his knuckles are white, but he does. And he can't seem to make himself stop, even though he knows he should, and his hips just keep rocking against the canvas of their own accord.
And Mrs. Black is still screaming; he thinks maybe she's managing words again, but he can't quite tell, not with his cock shoved in her face. But he doesn't care, really, because whatever she's doing it feels bloody brilliant, every noise out of her mouth shakes the canvas and it feels like someone humming against his cock.
His legs are starting to ache and his knees are shaking like they are going to give at any moment. The only thing keeping him upright is his firm grip on her frame, but he risks shoving a hand between him so he can pull at his flies, because his trousers are painfully tight and he thinks her screams would feel that much better against his skin.
He has to lean a bit away from her to get his trousers down and this gives her a chance to get a word him, her toneless wail tapering off into a new string of curses.
"FILTHY DEPRAVED PERVERT!" She screeches, her eyes rolling even more wildly than before. "VIOLATOR!"
"SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!" He spits back, shoving his trousers down around his knees. "I WOULDN'T HAVE TO DO THIS IF YOU HADN'T STARTED SCREAMING!"
He leans back in, and his cock slaps her right in the face.
And yes, it's a thousand times better without all that cloth in the way. His cock slides against the canvas with friction so delicious it almost hurts, and every time she screams it vibrates against his skin to hard he can feel it in his toes.
How me must look, standing on a table in a dark hallway with his trousers pooled around his knees, rutting against a sodding portrait, a portrait of his godfather's mother, but he doesn't really care, he just hopes that Remus doesn't pick this exact moment to come home because he'd have a lot of explaining to do.
She screams again, louder, but it's different somehow. It's lower, reverberating against his cock like thunder, and it almost sounds like a moan. His cock slips up by her nose the next time he thrusts, freeing up her mouth, and yes, that was a moan, because she does it again.
And that's a little bit disturbing (because this isn't disturbing enough already), so he doesn't think about it, just like he doesn't think about how the candlestick on the table behind her has disappeared below her frame or why she's shifting around oddly in her chair.
She wails again, long and low and really fucking loud, like something is happening that he doesn't want to think about, and it makes the canvas ripple violently over his cock and with a strangled yelp he comes, spurting hot and hard and absolutely everywhere, all over her face, all over her, even on the table behind her and the arm of her chair.
The force of it is too much for his watery legs and he tips backwards, tumbling off the table and landing on his arse. He sits there for quite some time, trying desperately to catch his breath, and he doesn't look at Mrs. Black, who is suddenly and uncharacteristically silent.
When he can breathe again he stands up, tucking himself into his trousers, and decides just to leave the mess for Kreacher.
II. It's Been a Hard Day's Night
It's awfully late for Cornelius Fudge to be at work, but there is nothing else for it. The paper is piled so high on his desk he can't see out his office door. The stack on the left, which is threatening to topple over on his head, is from Lucius Malfoy's solicitor alone.
And now is not the time for Cornelius to be slacking, because his job could very well be on the line. The news of You-Know-Who's return has spread like wildfire. The Wizarding World was happy enough thinking it was all a horrible rumor when Cornelius was telling them that, but now that they know better, they are furious.
They are accusing him of keeping secrets, of treating them like children, never mind that it had all be for their own good. The owls have been endless, circling the building in the mornings and arriving all day, well into the evening, and every third one a Howler besides.
The aftermath of that business with the Prophecy has been a mess like Cornelius has never seen. You-Know-Who back. Death Eaters loose. Children injured. Unregistered Portkeys to Merlin-knows-where.
And Sirius Black. Cornelius doesn't even want to think about Sirius Black. He's done more paperwork to clear Black's name than Millicent Bagnold did to put Black in Azkaban in the first place.
Cornelius is not sure he believes Dumbledore's story; all that talk about switched Secret Keepers and faked deaths and unregistered Animagi sounds like a bit of a stretch. But, Black is dead, so there hadn't been any harm in clearing his name. Dumbledore can be a right bother when he doesn't get his way.
He finishes the report he is filling out (which is, thankfully, not about Sirius Black) and sets it aside. It's quite late, and past time he went home, and there isn't a point in starting in on the mountain of parchment from Malfoy's solicitor until the morning. He'll only fall asleep halfway through.
He puts his bowler hat on his head and pulls his coat from the rack, folding it over his arm. He turns, pulling his wand to extinguish the lamp, but freezes, and very nearly faints.
Sirius Black is standing in the doorway of his office, with a slightly muzzy look on his face. He's also completely starkers.
Complete and utter horror settles in Cornelius' stomach, because he's in a tight spot, to say the least. He pardoned a man he was not quite sure was innocent based on the fact that he was dead, and now it seems he is very much alive.
This will not do at all.
Black cocks his head, studying Cornelius, his brow pinching like he's trying to remember Cornelius' name. His eyes make a sweep of the office, lingering on the nameplate on Cornelius' desk, then widen.
"You're the Minster of Magic," Black says slowly. "I'm at the Ministry."
"I am," Cornelius says slowly. "And you are Sirius Black."
Black stiffens at that and his face darkens, and it occurs to Cornelius that Black doesn't know he's a free man. He raises his wand, and thinks maybe this situation is salvageable after all.
He tells himself he has nothing to worry about, because Black is unarmed and seems to be a bit confused.
"I must say, you gave us quite a turn, escaping like that," Cornelius says, moving towards Black. "It's good of you to come here and save us the trouble of looking for you."
"You've got the wrong man," Black says, his eyes darting between Cornelius' face and his wand. "I'm innocent."
"That's what they all say," Cornelius replies, forcing his voice to stay steady.
He cuts off Black's next denial with a Silencing Charm, and ties Black's hand behind his back with silvery ropes that sprout from the end of his wand. He moves behind Black, propelling him inside the office with a hard shove, and when Black hits the desk, folding over it, Cornelius holds him in place with a firm hand to the middle of his back.
He needs to think of a way out of this mess, because he doesn't want to kill Black, but he doesn't want to let him loose on the public. He tries to focus his thoughts, tries to come up with a plan, but he can't, it's suddenly very warm in his office, and his cock as taken an interest in the curve of Black's arse and the way Black feels thrashing under his hand.
Cornelius lets his hand wander Black's body, down to the small of his back, just above Black's arse. Black jerks under him, wildly, and Cornelius can seen the muscles of his jaw working, spitting out silent protests, and Cornelius' cock twitches in approval.
Black had been such a pretty thing before Azkaban.
He's not near as pretty now; he's overly pale and a bit too thin, but he looks a right sight better than he did when Cornelius saw him in his cell two and a half years ago. And, as his fingers dip into Black's crease, he thinks Black would be a pretty thing indeed with Cornelius buried inside him, especially if Black was amenable to the idea.
"Imperio," Cornelius murmurs, and Black stills underneath his hand.
He leans forward over Black, his cock pressing hard against Black's arse, convincing Black that he wants it with hissed whispers in his ears. He can feel Black fighting it mentally, and Cornelius worries briefly that Black will be able to throw it off, but coming back from the dead is a hard day's work and Black obviously more than a little weary, and he eventually relents.
Cornelius pauses, fumbling for the spell. He doesn't have it on with blokes every often; when he does it's usually that Weasley fellow that Crouch was keeping, and Weasley usually casts the spell himself.
His first two tries are no good; one that turns Black's arse blue and one that makes Black fart with a noise like a foghorn. He manages it on the third try, and Black squirms under his hand as the spell loosens and warms him.
Black's body is hot when he slides two fingers inside, impossibly hot and ridiculously tight, and Cornelius can only imagine what Black will feel like around his cock. Except, Cornelius probably shouldn't have imagined it, because he's coming from the thought alone, spurting long and thick directly onto Black's arse.
And the Imperius is slipping, because Black is laughing. Cornelius can't hear it, but he can feel it. Black's body is shaking under his hand, and he knows Black is probably laughing so hard he is crying with it.
Well, there's nothing for it. Back through the Veil for him.
Cornelius is just getting his trousers back up when he hears a sound that makes him whirl around. For the second time tonight, there is an uninvited guest darkening his doorway, and he wonders when the shit his office became Kings Cross Station.
"Headmaster," Cornelius says flatly.
"I trust I am not interrupting anything, Minister?" Dumbledore asks.
"No, Headmaster. Not at all," Cornelius manages.
"Your trousers say otherwise, Minister," Dumbledore says airily, giving Cornelius flies a pointed look. "Ah, Mister Black. I thought I might find you here."
Dumbledore approaches the desk, removing the bonds and the Silencing Charm with a wave of his hand. He Summons Cornelius' coat from where he'd dropped it on the floor, shaking it out before handing it to Black.
"I trust you will not mind Mister Black borrowing your coat," Dumbledore says mildly. "It's quite cold outside. I'd hate for him to catch a chill."
Cornelius waves him on, because he knows there is no point in arguing.
"This, too, I think," Dumbledore says, pilfering Cornelius' bowler hat and stuffing it on top of Black's head. "Frightfully cold."
"It's the least I can do," Cornelius replies, but they are already out the door.
III. Slow Ride. Take it Easy
It takes quite a bit of alcohol to get a werewolf drunk, but somehow, Remus has managed it.
Remus' is not quite sure how much he has had. He vaguely recalls ordering a Firewhisky. All right, several Firewhiskies. He also has the feeling there was Mandrake Vodka involved, because there's a slightly medicinal taste lingering in his mouth just underneath the familiar tang.
Yes, he remembers now. There was Mandrake Vodka. It was ordered for him my a young bloke who had been sitting at the other end of the bar. He had been a nice-looking fellow, quite fit, with dark hair and light eyes, and Remus would have tried it on with him if he had though he could have walked that far without falling over.
It's cold outside the Leaky Cauldron, which he doesn't really notice because of the alcohol thrumming through his body. It's also quite dark, which he wouldn't mind so much, if he hadn't just dropped his wand. He casts about for it, a bit blearily, but he can't see a bloody thing, and when he takes a step forward to peer at something by the lamppost he hears the creak of stepped-on wood and winces.
He sways a little when he bends to retrieve it, but he doesn't fall, and as he rights himself he runs his fingers over his wand, relieved to find it hadn't snapped. Not that it matters, really, because he can't quite remember the spell.
Tom had told Remus not to Apparate, anyway. Of course, that's a bloody fine thing for Tom to say, because Tom's not standing in the middle of a dark street in the middle of the sodding night. Tom is going to go upstairs and go to sleep, but after all the booze, Remus doesn't have enough money on him for a room.
Remus shoves his hands in the pocket of his robes, fingering the small collection of coins. He counts them three times, getting twelve twice and thirteen once, which is fine, because he only needs eleven. If he remembers correctly, fourteen will get him a hot chocolate, but it's probably better, he's not sure how well hot chocolate will mix with alcohol.
Sighing, he collects the Sickles in his pocket, and sticks out his other hand.
There's a loud bang, followed by a violently purple bus appearing out of thin air. It comes straight at him, perpendicular to the sidewalk, practically rolling onto his toes before coming to a stop.
Remus studies the Knight Bus for a long, drunken moment, feeling a vague unease in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He wonders if he'd be safer trying to Apparate, but a spotty boy in a uniform as purple as the bus sticks his head out of the door and makes the decision for him.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," The spotty boy says. His voice is a bit wooden, like he's reciting a memorized speech. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you where you want to go."
Despite his better judgment, Remus does just that.
"My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening," the young man continues, hauling Remus up the stairs by an arm. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang."
Remus' unease returns; Ernie looks about as old as Dumbledore, and his glasses are the thickest things Remus has ever seen.
"Woss your name?" Stan asks, eyeing Remus up and down.
"Remus," He replies, a bit slowly. He mulls it over a little, then nods. "Yes, Remus."
"'Ad a bit t' drink, 'ave you?" Stan ventures, leading Remus further inside by a hand to the elbow.
"A little," Remus admits, allowing Stan to herd him towards the back of the bus. There are brass bedsteads instead of seats, which is unsurprising, since it's so late it's almost early, and there are no other passengers, which is also unsurprising, since it's so late it's almost early on a Tuesday night.
"Where you going?" Stan asks, eyeing Remus up and down again.
"Grimmauld Place," Remus replies. "It's on the other side of London."
"Grimmauld Place?" Stan asks slowly, obviously fishing for a house number. "Jess off at the corner, like?"
"Yes," Remus insists. "Just Grimmauld Place is fine."
"You 'eard the man," Stan calls up front. "Take 'er away, Ern."
There is another great bang, then the bus jolts into motion.
Stan turns back to Remus and smiles. "Eleven Sickles," He announces. "Firteen if gets you a 'ot chocolate, and..."
Remus waves him off with the Sickles in his hand, which could actually be twelve and might possibly be thirteen, but Remus doesn't really care. He hopes maybe the extra will give the kid some incentive to go away, and leave Remus alone with his head, which is starting to ache dully.
"'Choo doing out so late on a Tuesday?" Stan asks, handing Remus his ticket.
"Nothing better to do," Remus grumbles. He reaches for a pillow and gives Stan a pointed look, hoping the he will get the hint.
"Nuffink better to do?" Stan repeats. He whistles through his teeth, and takes a seat on the edge of Remus' bed. "Must be nice, 'aving nuffink better to do." He pauses, waiting just long enough for Remus to close his eyes before starting in again. "Did you go to Sirius Black's funeral this weekend?"
Remus growls a bit, low in his throat. If he wanted to think about Sirius, he wouldn't have wasted time and money getting drunk. He doesn't want to think about Sirius' funeral, either, but he knows it's a valid question. Nearly all of Wizarding Britain had put in an appearance.
"I did," Remus mumbles. The bus lurches hard to one side, and Remus clutches at the sheets.
"Grand ol' thing, wossnnit?"
Remus growls again, because grand did not quite cover it. After Fudge cleared Sirius' name (he'd likely figured there was no harm since Sirius was dead), he'd insisted on providing Sirius with a Ministry funeral. It had been the biggest, most pompous thing Remus had ever seen. It had probably made Fudge feel important, but it had been exactly the kind of thing Sirius would have hated.
"Saw people I 'adn't seen in years," Stan goes on, swaying a bit as the bus takes a sharp turn. "Who'da thunk, Sirius Black, a hero?"
"I would have, but no one asked me." Remus mumbles under his breath.
"Wossat?" Stan asks. He leans in a bit, but Remus shakes his head and closes his eyes again.
"You got funny 'air," Stan comments, reaching out to twist a lock of it around his finger. "Too many colors innit, all red and brown and gray."
Remus tries to pull away, but it only pulls the hair tighter around Stan's finger, and there isn't really anywhere for him to go, since he's flat on his back with his head on a pillow.
"Your eyes, too," Stan goes on, his voice dipping a little. "All gold-like. Where you from?"
Remus huffs at that, and attempts to turn over, but Stan hand leaves his hair and moves down his arm.
"Don't 'choo worry, Mr. Remus," Stan says, his hand pulling Remus' robes apart, traveling over Remus' stomach and hovering just above is belt. "You've 'ad a 'ard night. Jess you lay back and let Stan take care of everyfink."
Remus protests, but it comes out a bit garbled. The alcohol has settled heavy in his veins, and laying down, it feels like it's all rushed to his head. And it almost feels good, even if Stan is a bit spotty and not Sirius, he's tired and lonely and no one has touched him since Sirius died.
"'Ey Ern," Stan calls out. "Take 'er the long way 'round."
Stan's hand is smaller than Sirius', and not quite as clever, but it's warm and a bit sweaty, and more importantly, not Remus' own. Stan wraps his fingers around Remus' cock tightly and strokes him firmly, setting a rhythm that matches the rumbling of the bus tires.
Stan doesn't speak, which suits Remus just fine, because if Stan keeps quiet and Remus keeps his eyes closed he can pretend it's Sirius, even if the hand is wrong and a little clumsy. Remus hears the quiet rasp of a zip which means Stan's taken himself in his other hand, but Remus tries not to think about it, and stuffs his hands under his pillow so he won't get the urge to reciprocate.
But he doesn't have to worry about it, because Stan comes before he does, his hand slipping slightly on Remus' cock, and he gives a little grunt, which actually sounds a bit like the kind of noise Sirius use to make. That thought is enough to tip Remus over the edge, spilling over Stan's hand, and onto his robes, he's sure, but he doesn't much care because it's so late it's almost early on a Tuesday night and he's sodding drunk besides.
When he opens his eyes Stan is leering a bit, his eyebrows wiggling like he has come kind of facial tic. Remus gropes for something to say, but he's saved by Ernie, who brings the bus to a violent halt and announces Remus' stop.
Remus flees the Knight Bus as soon as Stan gives him enough room to pass. He takes the three steps out the door at one go, which almost topples him over, but he doesn't really care, as long as it puts as much space between him and Stan as possible.
The street he's on doesn't look quite right, either, but he dismisses it. That's not surprising, because it's dark and he's drunk. He waits for the tell tale bang of the Knight Bus driving off, and starts to walk.
IV. Pretty as a Picture
Morning comes in the form of the brass knocker on the front door.
It's a persistent knock, the kinds that says the person knocking doesn't care if no one is home, that they mean to come inside if they have to batter the door down.
Harry waits for Mrs. Black to start screaming, the way she always does when someone's at the door, but she doesn't, and Harry smiles at this as he starts for the door.
He frowns again when he opens the door for find Dumbledore on his step, because he knows damn good and well Dumbledore knows how to use the Floo.
Then he's shocked. Dumbledore is not alone. He has Remus with him. And Sirius.
Remus looks tired and rumpled, and he has the pinched face and bloodshot eyes of someone who was out drinking all night. Sirius looks like hell all over again, and not just because of his tacky, too-short-yet-overlarge coat, and Harry is quite sure he doesn't want an explanation for the suspiciously familiar bowler hat on his head.
Sirius has an arm around Remus' waist, and Remus has his head tucked under Sirius' chin.
"May we come in, Mister Potter?" Dumbledore asks, a bit dryly, smiling at Harry's shell-shocked expression. "Or would you rather I leave them to snog on the steps?"
Silently, Harry steps out of the doorway to let Dumbledore by. He flings himself at Sirius before Sirius and Remus are even inside, but they take Harry with them, including him in their embrace and shuffling inside.
"How... um, I... but," Harry starts.
"All in good time," Dumbledore says. "Mister Lupin needs tea. At least," he adds, frowning at Remus, "and Mister Black needs clothes."
In short order Harry has a kettle on the stove and Sirius in a pair of trousers. What he doesn't have are explanations, because Remus and Sirius are too wrapped up in each other to tell him anything of use, and Dumbledore seems to have disappeared.
After a quick search, he finds Dumbledore in the hallway, linger over Mrs. Black. In her frame, Mrs. Black is sleeping quite peacefully.
"And?" Harry demands.
"I found Mister Black in the Ministry building late in the evening," Dumbledore says, his eyes still on Mrs. Black. I'm not sure how he managed it. Of course, knowing Mister Black, he's probably not sure himself."
"As for Mister Lupin, he was wandering Gremlin Way in the early hours of the morning." Dumbledore continues. "He's not sure how he got there, and I'm quite sure that is probably for the best."
Harry only stares.
"Now, how about that tea?"
"It's ready," Harry mumbles, his mind still reeling.
"Did you give her a restorative?" Dumbledore asks, reaching out to run a finger across the canvas. "She looks better than she has in years."
"Yeah," Harry replies with a smile. "Something like that."