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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Every Boy Needs a Dog
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: torture, non-cons
Pairings: Harry/Sirius
Disclaimer: These characters and places belong to JK Rowling. I am making no profit.
Summary: It's an alternative universe where Sirius didn't escape from Azkaban in Harry's third year. In this universe, Harry meets Sirius when, according to the laws of this world, the murderer of his parents is given to him for punishment.
Beta: A million thanks for Els-chan for the fastest and neatest beta in the world, for being so nice and kind to me - and for helping me when I desperately needed it!
Notes: Part of 'Dogstar: The Sirius Black Fuh-Q-Fest' (challenge # 1: Sirius's lover decides that even Animagi need to be housebroken)

EVERY BOY NEEDS A DOG

They lied to me all my life. The Boy-Who-Lived and all that crap - and to think that I wasn't even worth telling the truth. The whole truth.

They told me Voldemort killed my parents - oh forgive me, You-Know-Who did. No, I *don't* know *who*. Because Dursleys with whom I lived for so many years used to tell me that my parents were reckless drivers and killed themselves in a stupid crash.

I thought we were done with secrets, after my fifth year, when I found out about the prophecy, that I'll either have to kill or to die. I thought what else was to hide from me, the final veil was raised.

Wrong I was...

But now he's in front of me, the real murderer of my parents, their Secret Keeper, the one who gave away their location to Voldemort. The one they trusted. Their friend and traitor. I feel Dumbledore's hand squeeze my shoulder slightly, as if trying to stop me in case I jump at him and try to murder him with my bare hands. I won't; I can control myself better than that.

I'll have enough time to deal with him anyway.

"Now, Harry," Dumbledore says in a patient voice of someone who tries to keep a child from unwrapping his present too early. And in fact, it is a present, the best one I've got at my seventeenth birthday, "when you're of age, according to the wizard laws, you can..."

No one cared that I was underage before, when I had to fight Voldemort, year in and year out. No one cared when I writhed under 'Crucio'; when I saw my friends tortured and dying. But better late than never - finally they told me about him, even if I won't forgive them for keeping it secret for so long.

Now I have him.

Sirius Black, my father's friend. My *godfather*.

His eyes are the colour of the brightest summer sky, and flickering lights of the candles reflect in the pupils, dilated as if he's in pain or scared. Well, if it's the former, I don't care - and if it's the latter, he should be. He should be aware of what expects him.

"The oldest law of all," Dumbledore drones. "Life for life, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth... He betrayed your parents, Harry. Now you can make him pay for it."

I will, by all means. The thought of it makes my lips move apart, not quite in a smirk. This grimace, I know, makes slimy Slytherins cower in fear when I direct it at them. This one was not a Slytherin.

Sirius Black. I'll destroy you, filthy bastard. And I'll do it slowly.

His whites are bloodshot and eyes red-rimmed, making his stare poisoned and weary. His clothes are frayed, rags hanging on his shoulders. He is rail-thin, all sharp bones and dirty skin flashing through the tears in his shirt. His shoulders are hunched slightly, maybe with the weight of the chains on his wrists. His ankles are shackled as well. Dangerous one, isn't he?

"We have kept him for you, Harry," Dumbledore continues, "till your coming of age. Now he's yours to do whatever you want to him."

His hand doesn't restrain me any more but pats my shoulder lightly, in an inane manner that annoys me out of my mind.

"To what extent?" My voice sounds cold, and I like it this way. Dumbledore's fingers keep stroking the cloth of my robe.

"To any extent, Harry. Since he's guilty in murder, you can do anything you want to him, in revenge for your parents. Even take his life."

Sirius Black doesn't flinch hearing it. Cold-blooded son of bitch; but what else can a man who betrayed his friend be? Strange... I imagined him in some other way, thought he should be someone as ugly as Voldemort, that his betrayal had to leave a mark on him.

His eyes are blue... And his hair is long, tangled, black, falling over his shoulders like a flood, framing the haggard, unshaven face, cheekbones like blades. Shadows the dull light casts make him look exhausted. Lips split and cracked, trembling as he curves them - in a smile?

Is he mad? Sixteen years in Azkaban - and only two years ago Dementors finally defected to Voldemort's side. Perhaps it's madness I see shining in his gaze as he looks at me, it can be nothing else, this strange expression... hungry. As if he craves to see me.

Perhaps he's been alone for so long he's eager to see any human being.

"Now you're mature enough, Harry, to accomplish your right for retaliation..."

"Fine," I say a bit abruptly. "Can I start now?"

"Yes, my boy," Dumbledore says. "I understand your impatience. Oh, and please don't do anything you might regret later."

He doesn't really mean it, I can feel it. He just says it as a token appeal for mercy - and he knows I'll show none. He knows me well enough for that.

I look at Black again, my eyes promising to let him experience everything I can. I had good teachers, his *Dark Lord* among them. His eyes meet my stare openly; he doesn't look away. Does he think I'm still a child? I'm not. He shifts, and the chains clank heavily.

"Thank you for your assistance." Dumbledore nods to the mousy, life-worn man that brought Black to us. "We leave. You can remove the irons."

"But, but..." the man sputters. "The measures of precaution... he's very dangerous."

"Nothing to worry about," Dumbledore says. "Harry is a skilled enough wizard to cope with him safely."

Of course I am; and I can't wait to do it.

The chains fall from Black's wrists, and he straightens a little, the weight gone. There is almost enjoyment in his pose, as if he relishes sudden freedom - and it makes me seethe. How dares he, doesn't he know what's going to happen to him?

My hand clenches on the wand, fingers slick with sweat, cold even though inside my chest there is a place of almost unbearable heat. Black looks at me - those bright eyes on the pale face - and beyond tiredness, there is something in his stare that I can't interpret. A question? A longing?

"The room is prepared for you, Harry," Dumbledore says and hands me something, a rusty doorknob. I see him look at Black, and there is no kindness in his eyes, just cold and disillusionment. "You too," he says. "Take it."

What if he refuses? It's a fearful and thrilling thought - will I get to punish him for it right here?

"By the way," Dumbledore says to me, "he's an Animagus. Remus told me all about it. But don't worry, the room is warded to prevent him from transforming."

Nothing changes in the haggard face, and I don't know if Black was going to use it against me, attack me. I reach to the doorknob and see his bony, dirty hand reach towards it as well. No one disobeys Dumbledore - but it's a bit strange, to see him do it so willingly, ready to undergo everything that expects him... pain, maybe even death.

Then my hand touches the rusty iron, and I feel slight pull in my belly.

And next moment I'm in a big room, on my knees. It's not a place I know - with high dark ceiling criss-crossed with wooden beams and French windows opening to the brilliant blue sky.

Blue like his eyes...

Black stands in a few steps away from me. I get up on my feet hurriedly. My glasses nearly fall off, hang on one shackle, and I readjust them quickly, cursing myself. What a fool I am, he's a Death Eater, he's dangerous, he could try something now when we're alone and I was distracted for a moment.

But he hasn't. He doesn't. He just stands and looks around.

There is a strangest expression in his face, pained and yet rapt as he looks at the window, squinting painfully, half-hiding his face against his tattered sleeve.

"Light," he whispers in a hoarse, scraping voice.

He sounds like he hasn't talked for years, and maybe it's true. Well, there is no reason for him to start talking now.

His bony hand is clenched on his other arm, as if he's hugging himself in a lop-sided way, and then he turns to me, and shifts, pushes a strand of hair away from his face, in a clumsy, almost timid movement - as if to see me better.

"Impacto!" I yell.

He's thrown at the wall, his head cracking against it loudly - and there is somewhat surprised, dazed expression on his face as he slumps down, not trying to get up. A little trickle of blood slides from the corner of his mouth, and for some reason it incenses me more than anything else.

I want to see him bleed; I want to hear him scream. Like my parents screamed when Voldemort killed them, like they bled. I don't know if they bled but it doesn't matter. This one, this monster - will.

"Get up," I say.

There must be something in my voice, almost soundless with rage, that changes his look. I see his face ripple with effort as he struggles to get up on his feet. Black hair falls on his white face like wings of a raven - and his eyes are so blue, and there is something in them, something like hope, like a question, again.

"Impacto," I repeat.

The blow against the wall is heavy and he lies awkwardly, his right arm turned under a strange angle. I wonder if I broke it. There is more blood coming from his mouth. He gets up, painfully, before I say anything. Quick-witted, isn't he?

Hatred is like a hot wave filling me, I want to hurt him so much. How dares he behave as if his obedience, his guessing of my wishes can repay for what he did to me, to my parents?

How dares he look at me as if I'm something he likes to see, something he can't look enough at...

If he thinks so, he should have another think coming.

I'll destroy his body and what's left from his mind after the work of the Dementors. I'll wipe this enthralled expression from his handsome, haggard face. He'll beg me to spare him - and then I'll think whether to do it.

The spell throws him at the wall again, and this time he cries out, a stifled, painful sound, as if he doesn't want to make it. He pants, sitting, pressing his temple to the wall, and then raises his hand slowly and wipes blood from his mouth.

I come up to him quietly.

"How do you like it, traitor?"

A little shiver goes through his body, and then he looks up at me, and his eyes... what are they doing to me? Why do I feel like looking into them? Blue like the sky, like lake water on a quiet day...

His bloodied lips quiver.

"Harry."

"Don't call me that!"

I kick him. Hardness of his ribs under my boot, a tiny sound of cracking bone... He draws in a hitching breath - good, that'll make him stop... and what is it doing to me? Do I enjoy it - hitting him? I should - after what he did to my parents.

His eyes, blue water, make me drown in them. Blue and red, and his face is white and red, smeared in blood...

"You don't understand," he says. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

His body is a crumpled heap on the floor, in a pool of ragged clothes - did he get no new clothes for all sixteen years? Tatters barely hold, showing sharp points of his shoulders, his bruised ribs. I kick him again, now in his belly, and he curls involuntarily.

"I hate you," I hiss.

Hate? Is this burning feeling that consumes me all - just hatred? I thought I hated Voldemort, and I hated Dumbledore for manipulating me, and Snape, and the Dursleys. But what I feel to Black...

It's like there is nothing from my life left, just him and me.

"I remember you... when you were little," he says. "I held you on my lap. You grew up so much."

Bastard. Damned bastard, does he think these words can do something to me? Apart from making my anger rise until is suffocates me.

Shut up... But my throat is closed, I can't make a sound.

"I'm so glad... to see you, Harry," he says.

"Crucio," I scream.

I know it's forbidden - I know I'll have to fill in a million papers later, explaining why I used it. But what wouldn't they forgive to the Boy-Who-Lived, the only hope of the wizard world? And right now the only thing that is important for me is Black, thrashing on the floor, hoarse sound breaking through his clenched teeth. I feel happy.

I wish my mother and father could see him like that.

When I break the spell, he lies flat, his long arms and legs thrown apart, quivering with aftershocks. With his eyes closed, his face is white and exhausted, contrast between pale skin and black shade of unshaven beard harsher than usual. His lips are compressed in a thin line, as he struggles to stay silent.

I feel as if sharp hooks stick into my lungs, making it painful to breathe. I need to do something, anything, just stop staring at this face, deathlike and yet mesmerising me.

Then his eyes open, blue and bloodshot, meeting my gaze.

"Crucio," I say before he can say anything.

This time he screams, and I listen to it, and when I stop, he pants, curling loosely on his side, his bony fingers clenching on his own clothes, as if it helps him to hold onto something.

The word is bitter in my mouth but I repeat it again and again:

"Crucio. Crucio."

I do to him what I can't do to Voldemort, to any of his allies who made me life hell for so many years. I do it to him for everyone who used and ignored and deceived me. I do it to him, he's in my power - I can do whatever I want to him. Torture him, mutilate him, kill him, keep him... Blissful law that allows me all that.

And I don't need to stop.

The thought that his mind can snap under 'Crucio', like it happened with Neville's parents, is ice-cold. I lower my wand. Black is a mess; there is bloody foam in the corners of his mouth and his legs scribble on the floor convulsively. And there is a stain of piss spreading under him.

I can't look at it. My throat is constricted. I cast a quick cleaning spell, trying to forget all about it. I look down at him - and moments later, his eyes open again, and I want to hit him, to make him look away, to touch him, to wipe the blood from his face...

I go down on one knee in front of him, and he looks as if seeing me closer consoles him in some way.

"I should kill you," I say.

He swallows; his throat moves with effort - but everything is an effort for him, after so many 'Crucio'. Then he smiles. Blood is on his lips and blood on his hand as he reaches to my face. His fingers are trembling, the tips wet, touching my cheek.

"You look... so much like your father."

And I don't know what happens to me, why his touch makes something burst in me, makes heat rush down, to my groin, and blossom there. His body is thin, hot and writhing, convulsing as I throw myself at him and his broken bones shift. His lips taste salty, hot and wet, his blood coating my tongue - but his tongue licks on mine and the taste is gone soon, exchanged with another taste, *his*. His hands clench on my robe, hard and incredibly strong - pulling, tearing my clothes off. My glasses get in the way, and I throw them aside, hear them clatter on the floor. I fumble with Black's rags, trying to get to the skin, faster, closer, now - and he growls as I hurt him but doesn't let me go.

His bare chest is scarred, ribs sticking out under the dirty skin, bruises I left on him crimson and black-blue. His nipples are hard peaks, brown on the pale chest. I want to feel them, with my fingers and in my mouth - and as I twist them, as hard as I can, he hisses and arches towards me.

I don't know why I want it; he's a man, he's old enough to be my father, he's dirty, he smells and, oh God, he killed my parents - but I can't stop, I can't... His throat moves as he swallows, Adam's apple rolling, the hollow between his collarbones becoming deeper. He smiles, wryly, and I think I can hit him, I can wipe this smirk off his face - but I don't, and I know suddenly that he doesn't laugh at me, there is something different in his eyes, something dazed and calling.

I know even less why *he* wants it. Sixteen years in prison? Starved for a human touch, whatever kind it is? He raises his hips, making it more convenient for me to pull down his pants. His hipbones are sharp like knifes, standing out at the concave belly. And there, lying across his lower abdomen - smooth and hard and long and leaking - is his cock.

My fingers aren't any gentler as I grab it than when they mauled his nipples. I breathe through the open mouth, teeth bared, and he smiles again, a little hitch in his breath. I squeeze, getting some more fluid on my fingers. And that's it - his pre-come and my own, on my cock, and I move his legs apart, roughly, marking his hips with my fingernails. Yet there is no need to apply force, he opens for me willingly, bends his knees. I pull his thighs on my lap and thrust in.

He gasps. His back is arched, black dirty hair spilled on the floor, teeth glistening between bloody lips. I see his fingers dig into the floor, clawed.

He's so tight, I can't believe it, it's like being squeezed in a fist - so hot, so tight, so good - and I can't move, I can't bear to stay motionless. Anguish and pleasure run along my spine. I moan, in a hoarse, choked voice - and toss my head back, and the ceiling seems blurry and distant. I thrust a bit more, and he groans, too, and I'm fully in, the clinging heat of his rectum is all along my shaft. It's bliss and it's torment, and I hate him for making me feel like this, for letting me feel like this. I want to spit in his face but the position is inconvenient. I feel blood seeping from under my fingernails as I stick them deeper into his hips.

It's rape, and it's gross, and I'm hurting him - and somehow it's different from hurting him with 'Crucio' but isn't the whole point of it that I want to hurt him?

He arches - and thrusts deeper onto me.

And then it's all just a blur. I shove in and out, brutally, hurting him, not bothering if I hurt myself. He meets my every thrust with his own - and my cock is so hot and squeezed - and his is hard and leaking, and he moans hoarsely as I grab it. He rolls his head on the floor, his eyes are dazed and drunk, blue reflecting the sky in the opened windows. I speed up. I just batter into him, jerking his cock in cadence. And he gasps and buckles, and sweet, melting feeling spread from my groin through all my body. And he comes, and I come, too.

I sit on my heels and look at him after that. His legs are spread, he's bleeding, and my cock is smeared - but I'm so tired, I can't think about it. All I want is to slide on the floor and close my eyes and think about nothing.

Black looks up at me, smiling again. I don't know what's it in his smile, his face is exhausted but the smile makes him beautiful, makes me want to look at him. He smiles at me as if he enjoys seeing me.

"Harry," he croaks in his broken voice.

Don't call me that. My spine doesn't support me any more. I crumple forward, over my knees, bury my face in my hands. It might be dangerous, my mind tells me, where is your wand, you need to keep watch on him, he might use this chance to...

He moves - and there is a thin hard arm around my back, hugging me. And it's incongruous, he doesn't dare do it, he's a murderer, a traitor.

But no one in my life has held me like that - so close, and feeling so warm, so comforting with sheer presence. Black's fingers comb through my hair, again and again, and the whisper is very close, nearly brushing my hair.

"Harry..."

And then he kisses me, my hair, and his touch is soft and demure, and it doesn't have the right to feel so good but it does.

And when he tugs me a little, closer to himself, I just go with him. His arms wrap around my chest, thin and strong, and hold me.

The sky behind the windows turns dark blue. The torches on the walls light up. I lie and watch their flames blink, shadows play on the ceiling.

My head in on Sirius Black's chest, and his hand still goes through my hair. I feel steady movement of his ribcage. His ribs, I think, isn't he hurt? But he never let me know.

"I loved your father so much," he says, and I can feel his chest fluctuating with the effort talking takes him. "He was the most wonderful man I've ever known."

I press my lips to the soft skin of his upper arm, smelling him - warmth, sweat, sex and blood.

"Is it why you killed him?"

His hand doesn't stop moving through my hair.

"I didn't kill him," he says. "I would rather die to save him."

I don't know if I believe him. But if I don't, where is this feeling from then - this *jealousy*? If he loved my father so much, why is he with me? Because I'm his son? Because I look like him? I tense. He probably feels it, his body going rigid, too.

My voice is dull as I talk, and I'm proud of my self-control.

"Not kill then. Betray then."

"I didn't betray him. Pettigrew did. We... switched."

Pettigrew... the fourth friend. The one Black killed.

"You murdered him."

"I didn't. He set me up."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't expect you to. Maybe... one day you will."

Does he hope for that? Because then he won't have to go back to Azkaban? Then I'll spare him?

He kisses me again, on the top of my head, and I tilt up my face and meet his lips, and he grunts as I press on his ribs too roughly. His lips are soft and yielding to mine as I kiss and kiss them, as if trying to crack them to bleeding. While I kiss him, it almost doesn't matter whether he tells the truth, whether he was imprisoned wrongly for sixteen years, whether the betrayer of my parents is still unpunished somewhere.

And if he lies, I'm kissing the man who is to blame for my parents' death and who served Voldemort willingly and faithfully.

"I waited for you for sixteen years," he says. "I knew I'd see you. I knew you'd come to punish me. It helped me stay sane."

There is wetness in the corners of my eyes, and when his rough thumbs brush over my eyelashes, wiping the moisture away, I'm grateful. I don't cry - not in front of him. Never at all.

"You're everything I have, Harry," he says. "I don't want to lose you."

The heel of his palm rests against my lips - and I stick my teeth into it, tasting blood and not feeling him flinch. He keeps holding me as I clench my teeth harder.

"You're so beautiful," he says.

And I'm hard again, I want him again, I know I'll die if I don't have him - and I know he'll let me and he'll want it as much as I do. I quickly cast a spell, cleaning blood, shit and come from my cock.

I won't let him go. Dumbledore said that I could do whatever I want with him, that I could keep him. He'll stay with me. I'll break him and restore him, as I wish. He won't leave me as my parents did.

"What's your Animagus form?" I ask.

"A dog," he says.

I entwine my fingers into his black hair and hold him tightly as he bends to my crotch.

"Would you like to be mine?" I whisper and feel the displacement of air on my cock as he answers:

"Yes."

THE END

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