Title: Ghosts
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Sirius/Harry
Warnings: AU - Sirius Lives, War
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry never used to believe in ghosts. Before Hogwarts, such things were impossible. Now, he feels like he’s drowning in them.
AN: For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
human_veil, written for the Winter Exchange at rarepair_shorts.
Here on AO3
“Hey kiddo.”
Harry doesn’t turn around. There are Death Eaters staring up at the house from the park across the street; dark shapes amongst the trees. He knows they can’t see the building; can’t see him staring down at them, but still. Their presence is less than reassuring.
Behind him, Sirius moves like a ghost. His reflection in the dark window pane is transparent and colourless. But Harry can feel the heat radiating from his thin form as he comes to stand behind him. He can feel Sirius’ breath on the back of his neck.
He never used to believe in ghosts. Before Hogwarts, such things were impossible. Now, he feels like he’s drowning in them. Like he is one, almost. Something invisible and powerless; a relic.
Downstairs, the Order are arguing again.
He watches as Sirius steps closer. He watches as a thin hand rises, white, and then he exhales softly as he feels it curl over his shoulder. Sirius is almost burning-hot through the thin material of Dudley’s castaways.
“Harry,” Sirius whispers, and Harry feels his name more than he hears it. The rush of it against the back of his neck, stirring the stands of his hair.
“Do you see them?” Harry asks.
“Yeah,” Sirius replies. “That’s Rowle, looking at the way he’s standing. Vicious fighter, that one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Nah.” He feels Sirius crowd up behind him; the space between them is so small that if he shifts only slightly then he’ll be resting back against Sirius’ chest. He’ll be in his arms.
“Most Death Eaters’ll hex you six ways to Sunday, and they’ll know some nasty enough curses to do it, but Rowle? He’s as likely to use his fists as his wand.”
Harry remembers Harry Hunting and the frying pan and Vernon’s meaty fists. “Charming,” he says.
So close. So, so close. He feels Sirius smile. He takes a breath. He leans back.
Behind him, Sirius is reassuringly solid. Harry doesn’t fall through him like he almost thought he might. He doesn’t phase out of existence and tumble through the floor back to where Mrs Weasley is shrieking at Moody and Shacklebolt. Instead, the hand Sirius has on his shoulder dips lower as he loops his arm around Harry’s chest to hold him steady. His other hand curves around the sharp bone of Harry’s hip. He holds Harry close, saying nothing; he breathes and stays silent and Harry finds himself matching his own breathing to each of Sirius’ soft exhales.
He lifts his hands to cover Sirius’ own. He tips his head back against Sirius’ shoulder and breathes in the scent of him. Whiskey and cigarettes and just a hint of dog.
Below them, echoing through Grimmauld Place’s draughty corridors, Sirius’ mother begins to scream. Echoing her, Teddy Lupin begins to cry.
Harry closes his eyes. He tilts his head back and turns his face and he catches Sirius’ soft kiss as it descends towards him. He hums softly, leaning into it. The Order, the Death Eaters, the shrieking portrait and the crying baby...none of it matters as long as Sirius is here. With him. Keeping him grounded and, above all, keeping him from becoming another ghost.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Sirius/Harry
Warnings: AU - Sirius Lives, War
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry never used to believe in ghosts. Before Hogwarts, such things were impossible. Now, he feels like he’s drowning in them.
AN: For
human_veil, written for the Winter Exchange at rarepair_shorts.Here on AO3
“Hey kiddo.”
Harry doesn’t turn around. There are Death Eaters staring up at the house from the park across the street; dark shapes amongst the trees. He knows they can’t see the building; can’t see him staring down at them, but still. Their presence is less than reassuring.
Behind him, Sirius moves like a ghost. His reflection in the dark window pane is transparent and colourless. But Harry can feel the heat radiating from his thin form as he comes to stand behind him. He can feel Sirius’ breath on the back of his neck.
He never used to believe in ghosts. Before Hogwarts, such things were impossible. Now, he feels like he’s drowning in them. Like he is one, almost. Something invisible and powerless; a relic.
Downstairs, the Order are arguing again.
He watches as Sirius steps closer. He watches as a thin hand rises, white, and then he exhales softly as he feels it curl over his shoulder. Sirius is almost burning-hot through the thin material of Dudley’s castaways.
“Harry,” Sirius whispers, and Harry feels his name more than he hears it. The rush of it against the back of his neck, stirring the stands of his hair.
“Do you see them?” Harry asks.
“Yeah,” Sirius replies. “That’s Rowle, looking at the way he’s standing. Vicious fighter, that one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Nah.” He feels Sirius crowd up behind him; the space between them is so small that if he shifts only slightly then he’ll be resting back against Sirius’ chest. He’ll be in his arms.
“Most Death Eaters’ll hex you six ways to Sunday, and they’ll know some nasty enough curses to do it, but Rowle? He’s as likely to use his fists as his wand.”
Harry remembers Harry Hunting and the frying pan and Vernon’s meaty fists. “Charming,” he says.
So close. So, so close. He feels Sirius smile. He takes a breath. He leans back.
Behind him, Sirius is reassuringly solid. Harry doesn’t fall through him like he almost thought he might. He doesn’t phase out of existence and tumble through the floor back to where Mrs Weasley is shrieking at Moody and Shacklebolt. Instead, the hand Sirius has on his shoulder dips lower as he loops his arm around Harry’s chest to hold him steady. His other hand curves around the sharp bone of Harry’s hip. He holds Harry close, saying nothing; he breathes and stays silent and Harry finds himself matching his own breathing to each of Sirius’ soft exhales.
He lifts his hands to cover Sirius’ own. He tips his head back against Sirius’ shoulder and breathes in the scent of him. Whiskey and cigarettes and just a hint of dog.
Below them, echoing through Grimmauld Place’s draughty corridors, Sirius’ mother begins to scream. Echoing her, Teddy Lupin begins to cry.
Harry closes his eyes. He tilts his head back and turns his face and he catches Sirius’ soft kiss as it descends towards him. He hums softly, leaning into it. The Order, the Death Eaters, the shrieking portrait and the crying baby...none of it matters as long as Sirius is here. With him. Keeping him grounded and, above all, keeping him from becoming another ghost.
