Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

Raggle Taggle Gypsy
by Amanuensis

"What care I for my house and land?/What care I for my money-o?"
Pairings: Harry/Sirius
Categories:  Drama/Angst
Notes: This is as close as I come to songfic. Lyrics are here, and a version can be heard here. (Another version of this ballad was made popular by Steeleye Span, called Black Jack Davy, also terrific.) For the Pornish Pixies's Sexual Healing challenge. Thanks to Cluegirl for the beta!


"Shall I tell you what it's like?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore hesitated. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to conjure the tea set for the two of them. The tulip-patterned china seemed incongruous to the cottage furnishings, and tea-drinking likewise.

The look on Harry's face as he leaned forward was telling enough. But the very tip of that pink tongue, presenting to wet just the center of both top and bottom lip before retreating, reassured Dumbledore that he didn't want to hear the forthcoming description.

Maintaining composure, he dropped his eyes to his teacup, pretending it had his full attention as he raised it and sipped. "I do not believe I need--"

"He fucked me that first night. Then I fucked him."

It would take more than that to make him drop the teacup, or even choke on the tea. And he'd been expecting it. "I am not unaware of the nature of your relationship."

"We'd never talked about it. When he asked me to leave with him, three days after Voldemort's death, there wasn't any talk about our relationship--" Harry's repetition of the word made it profanity-- "or about what we wanted. I knew. He knew."

Dumbledore fell silent, glad of the tea after all. He would feign dispassion, and let Harry speak.

"We stayed at this little inn that first night. I thought we should save the money, but he wouldn't hear of it. I knew why. He was as impatient as I was." Harry's eyes flickered to the side, once, as if searching for more details of the memory, but then they returned to meet his former headmaster's gaze, as if the look could burn the scene into Dumbledore's imagination where mere words might only fall in inadequate pieces.

"It was the first day I could remember where no one acted like they were looking for my scar underneath my hair. And for him, the first day since his return where no one looked at him like they couldn't believe he was alive.  Do you know what it's like to think everyone is saying, 'Why are you alive, and others more deserving of life aren't?' when they look at you?"

Harry had used the word think, so Dumbledore didn't interrupt. It would have served no purpose.

"No one knew who we were, that entire day of travel. And when we got to that inn, the clerk gave us a bit of a look, but it was because the rooms there only had one bed and we'd said that would be fine, and we were two blokes, one twice the other's age. Not because we were any kind of goddamn figureheads of war.

"He kissed me like he was fucking going to eat me alive. His hands were in my hair and I was the one trying to get my shirt off, and his too, because he was acting like he could have kissed me and done nothing else for a year, even though he was as hard as I was. The bed had this tufty white coverlet on it, and I remember how it felt; did you see the coverlet in our bedroom? It's the same kind. He bought it. Did you ever know he had a romantic streak?"

Again, Dumbledore felt no need to answer.

"He wouldn't take his mouth off me. When I finally got us both half-undressed, he moved his mouth down to my chest, and my stomach, and then he was the one who finished undressing us both. And I was too inexperienced to know if being sucked off like that was always that amazing or if it was him. I learned.

"He got me onto his lap with my legs around his waist, so that we could face each other and he could watch my face and know if he was going too fast, or hurting me. He taught me to ride him, that first night, his prick in my arse and my own cock leaking on his belly and mine. When he came he said my name, not my father's or Remus's or anyone else's. And then I put him face down on that coverlet and did what he told me to, to get him ready, and I had both of my hands in his hair as I pushed into him and I was whimpering louder than he was, and he said yes like he was trying to make up for every no anyone had ever said to me.

"We traveled for a year. One full year. I remember every place we stayed by the way the bed felt under us: whether the bedframe creaked when we fucked, or if the mattress gave under my hips or my face, or if it was too cold to do anything but stroke each other off beneath the blankets that night.

"We chose this country because it's warm year 'round. He chose the house because it looks nothing like 12 Grimmauld Place.

"The bed's big enough for both of us to sprawl across it. But we always go to sleep touching. Usually clutching.

"And you ask me why I'm not coming back."

There seemed to be nothing more to say. For either of them.

He could have left the tea service, but the way Harry was staring at him, Dumbledore knew he did not want even that remnant of his visit left behind. A wandflick dismissed the entire tray.

Exiting the cottage, Dumbledore stopped just outside to observe the figure leaning against its unassuming exterior. Sirius Black did not look at him until he'd finished the pull on the beer bottle in his hand. Then, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he lifted the bottle in a salute that was not entirely mocking.

Dumbledore did not know if it was Harry's narrative or Sirius's half-smile that was the more responsible for the heat beneath his own robes.

"Be well," he said, and went away.


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