Title where the layers of dust lie, dying
Pairing Sirius/Harry, Sirius/Peter, implied Harry/one of the Malfoys
Disclaimer all standard disclaimers applied
Author's Notes for sirryslash Secret Santa 2006 as a gift for Amanuensis
Sirius wants to hit something.
"I can smell blood," he says instead, his eyes carefully training on a small moss green spot just above Harry's shoulder, "I can smell blood from yards away. There's an advantage of living as a dog so long, you see."
In his peripheral vision, he sees Harry nod, looking almost as if he understands, and Sirius sighs. He reaches out, careful not to move too fast and make Harry flinch away like the last time, and tugs the tattered blanket tighter under Harry's chin. The dirty cloth wafts gently when Harry shudders, and Sirius forces himself not to react to the rotting smell exuding from it.
"It's not only the blood though," he adds, his voice hoarse from the long, one-sided conversation, "my nose can define the most complicated smell. Do you know what a year old dragon's hide boot smells like?"
Slowly, Harry shakes his head and opens his mouth, his face frozen in a half-curious half-disgusted expression. For a minute, Sirius forgets what he planned to say.
Are you still bleeding...there? Sirius wants to ask, but the last time he did Harry looked at him as if he wanted Sirius to just cease existing, so he doesn't. There are just so many things, too many things that they would rather leave untouched these days.
Sirius tries not to look at the rusty patch of grime on the floor next to Harry's thighs, he does try, but the bitter resentment still stings his heart.
Harry's eyes were enormous; pupils blown wide like fathomless pools of nothing. Sirius hated it that Harry still looked so beautiful like that; scared and so young it hurt to just think of what he was about to do. Harry's legs parted easily when Sirius touched him, so casually like it was natural for godfather to fuck his godson. Sirius wanted to dig his fingers into Harry's thighs and leave imprints there, to make him hurt, to remind him that this wasn't right. That Harry wasn't supposed to be giving up like this.
Sirius was gentle anyway.
He muttered a spell and, wish as he might, Sirius knew wandless magic wouldn't work, so he was not surprised when it was confirmed by the dry skin under his touch. Slowly, he tried to slip his finger in, and froze when Harry let out a startled gasp.
He would think that must have hurt a lot, but it was better than Cruciatus.
His clumsy fingers, dirty and huge between Harry's thighs, looked bigger hovering over Harry's flaccid cock. Sirius sighed regretfully and let his hand rest there, helpless and unfit and wrong.
He forced himself to move slowly under the pressure of a booted foot pressing down hard on his hip and to not wipe away Harry's sweat -- Harry refused to call it tears, and had made sure Sirius know it -- because the Death Eaters liked it when the hero cried.
(It ends faster when they comply.)
Harry gasped, his eyes staring at Sirius so intently that Sirius felt the hair on his neck rise. Harry's lips parted as if to form unspoken words, but in place of words he was breathing hard; so hard that Sirius was afraid tiny bits of his lungs would come out with each exhalation. Sirius stared at the white thin line of Harry's clenched teeth against the dark background of grimy cheeks and bruised lips, wishing that he could move faster, fuck harder, and get this over with.
Neither of them pretended to not hear the laughs and the comments prodding at them like hot spades.
Harry burned around him, anger and pain and resignation bright in his tearful eyes.
Not tears, sweat, Sirius reminded himself, sweat.
Sirius dipped his hips lower, letting his hips snap into rhythm; back-forth, back-forth.
Harry was silent, except for the few escaped whimpers.
Sirius would never be certain he came from the need to come (please, Lord, make it end) or because of he was getting off from it (tight, tight, tight heatsobeautifulmyharry), and he felt sick in the stomach.
That was the third week into their capture…
Sirius sneered and didn't flinch when Peter shoved his cock in his mouth. Peter wasn't even half-hard, but Voldemort was looking so they were going to do it no matter. Sirius didn't lick, because Voldemort didn't tell him to, and Sirius thought he might gag otherwise. Peter moved to Voldemort's command like a puppet and didn't come until almost an hour later, when Voldemort got bored.
(You don't even have the competence to come, do you, Peter?)
Sirius was sent back to his cell and the way Peter looked at him afterwards, for a perverted reason, made Sirius grin in triumph. He didn't even say a word when Harry was sent back to the cell with come and blood running down his thighs and the limp in his steps.
Sirius stayed awake all night trying to take away all the threads of blond hair from Harry's jagged nails.
The light in the hallways goes out and the wind picks up. Sirius thinks he heard a noise from the distance, far, far up above them, on the level the Death Eaters on duty are keeping watch, but he's been hearing noises since their first day here. It can be an owl or a fight, it can be anything. Sirius stopped hoping after the fifth time he reassured Harry that help was coming.
Harry stopped speaking after the fifteenth day, and started recoiling from Sirius's touches after the twentieth.
This is improving; Harry looking calmly at him and listen to him ramble. It's a good sign.
It's going to be all right, he doesn't say, but Harry is letting him get closer and his pinched expression relaxes a bit, and that is enough. For now.
There is another loud clash from the end of the hallway and Sirius closes his eyes, trying not to hope. Hope shatters frequently here.
He makes himself smile. And then Harry might have nodded or smiled, but Sirius doesn't see it, because there's a bright light; green and red and a kaleidoscope more of colours. Thick smoke of dust lingers in the air as he falls, falls, falls…
So the year old dragon's hide boot? He wants to say, it smells like dragon's crap.
(Hope shatters frequently here.)
"I can smell blood," Sirius says, "I can smell blood from yards away. There's an advantage of living as a dog so long, you see."
In his peripheral vision, he sees Harry nod, looking almost as if he understands.
"It's not only the blood though," he adds, "my nose can define the most complicated smell. Do you know what a year old dragon's hide boot smells like?"
Slowly, Harry shakes his head and opens his mouth, his face frozen in a disgusted expression. And for a minute, Sirius forgets what he planned to say.
Then Harry smiles, leans over the table, and kisses him softly on the cheek. And Sirius smiles, too.
"It smells like dragon's crap," Harry says, looking exasperated, but he is smiling, "you've said this a million times already, Sirius."