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Sirius is the best Defence Against the Dark Arts professor that Hogwarts has ever had. Harry is sure of it; compared to the years full of mishaps and wasted time, Sirius deserves all of the accolades relevant to his station. Once the year is out, maybe Sirius will even stay.
How strange it seems now: to learn more about protecting oneself, experimenting with ingredients Harry had never heard of before, even being able to apply what they have learned against all manner of beasts. It is much like when Lupin taught the class, and yet it is more.
Sirius' guidance promises not only a wealth of knowledge, but a future.
Sometimes Sirius' voice booms with excitement, as if he has finally found where he is meant to be. After being cooped up at his family home for so long, Harry cannot blame him. The constant howling of his mother's portrait would drive anyone away after a while. But there is something more to Sirius' excitement, something almost magical.
In another world, perhaps things are different. Maybe Sirius knows that. It had been a close call back at the Ministry of Magic, after all. In the glimmer of the Veil, perhaps Sirius saw a realm of possibilities, of the other side beckoning to him, crooning.
Harry had asked what he saw, what he heard, but only once. Sirius never told him.
Despite his newly-found position as professor, Sirius still manages to let his biases slip in.
"Ten points to Gryffindor," Sirius says.
Hermione beams, but it's Harry whom Sirius winks at. She turns to her friend, a question on her lips; before she can say anything, Harry is tapping a section of his textbook.
"There is this part here I don't quite understand," he murmurs as Sirius turns his back to the class, bottles tinkling as he pulls them off a shelf for his next demonstration.
"We learned this in sixth year," Hermione says, thinning her eyes, suspicion intrigued.
"Oh, that's right. Sorry."
How might he explain the wink to Hermione? Harry isn't sure. Although Sirius is his godfather, there is more to it than that: the lingering touches, the longing stares.
When Sirius looks at him, there is loss in his eyes.
But why? Harry wants to ask. Why long for me when I am right here in front of you?
After class, Harry tells his friends to head on out before him. Then it's just Harry alone in the classroom with Sirius, their eyes meeting over the rows of desks.
Sometimes when they are alone like this, Sirius lets his sentimentality slip. He'll tell Harry how proud his mother would be of him, how much he has grown up, how much he resembles his father. Part of Harry wonders if that is what is spurring their closeness: Sirius' past friendship with Harry's father.
Perhaps his father denied Sirius such intimacy. The thought makes Harry's stomach hurt, his heart thumping in his chest.
Who could resist Sirius Black? With his long, dark hair; the line of stubble cradling his jaw; his charm; his insistence to live life to its fullest.
Not Harry, that's for sure. So when Sirius closes the distance between them, striding across the room in a flash, Harry doesn't pull away. Sirius' hand is on his shoulder, squeezing. Then his fingers are curling up his throat, twirling the hairs at the nape of his neck.
"Are you all caught up on your homework?" Sirius asks, face scrunching up as his hands and heart wage war.
When they are alone, it's usually only for a few minutes at a time. Harry never visits him in his office.
But he could. Then nobody would disturb them without knocking, or at least Harry hopes they wouldn't. Late night, candles aflame, the smell of wax drifting through the air. Harry imagines there would be something to recline on, some sort of chaise lounge set by the window, basking in the light of the moon.
If not, there'd always be Sirius' desk.
"Not quite caught up," Harry says, shaking off his thoughts.
Sirius steps back, relinquishing his ward to the chill of the room. Yet another endearing trait of his is his ceaseless worry for Harry.
"You have been through so much; it is understandable that you might fall behind. If you ever need help, you have but to ask."
"Oh. Well, it's a little more complicated than that, Sirius." When they're alone, Harry lets himself slip out of referring to him as the more formal Professor Black.
"Does it involve my class? I could go over the material again with you. As many times as you need."
"No, it's —"
Harry wonders what he might say to slip out of this situation. What half-truth might quench his godfather's curiosity? But then Sirius is closing in on him again, worry be damned, until Harry can feel the heat of his breath on his face.
"Is this what ails you?" Sirius asks, one of his legs sliding between Harry's, his hands wrenching away pesky robes.
When Sirius cups the front of his trousers, Harry gasps his name like a long-held secret.
"Sometimes," Harry admits. "More often as of late."
"And why do you think that is?" Sirius' fingers are dipping past the waistband of his trousers, teasing Harry's skin. He senses need and he jumps on it, like a Boggart tasting its enemy's worst fears. Just like everyone else, Sirius craves the confirmation that he is wanted; that he is seen, opaque and as real as anyone else.
"I dream about you," Harry says.
Of losing you. Of having you.
Both terrify me in their own way.
"And I you," Sirius mumbles into Harry's neck, stubble scratching soft skin. "For a while, I thought I had lost you."
"Don't say that." Harry shakes his head. Such a reality seems so close, and yet so far. "That's not what happened."
"But it could have."
"But it didn't," Harry insists. He wraps his arms around his godfather, pulling him against him, relishing his warmth. For he is alive, he is real, and just like in his dreams, Sirius is between his legs, rocking against him.
When Sirius' face bends down to meet his, Harry meets his lips head-on. The scratch of his facial hair; the life thrumming beneath his skin; the deepness of his voice, rumbling in his throat as he tells Harry that, despite the role bequeathed to him, he desires him in abominable ways.
Harry's dreams could never compare to the real Sirius, not truly.