GP

He was Sirius, unchanged from that last day in the Department of Mysteries, down to the bunching of his shirt where the second button met the third button hole.



"What's wrong?" he asked. "Why did you call me back?"



There was irritation in his voice. Something about him was different, too. He moved slowly, if he moved at all, and his eyes were calm. Harry faltered.



"I ... Sirius, I've been trying for - since you fell through the Veil."



"The what?" Sirius frowned. "Is that what it looked like to you? What I passed through was a curtain. It's not the same thing, not at all."



He laid his hands out on the table between them, palms down, near to Harry.



"I get news of you whenever I can."



Nothing Harry could think of to say was better than sitting in the silence with Sirius close enough for their knees almost to touch. Sirius cast his eyes over the debris on the tabletop: belladonna, runes traced in powdered moonstone, Harry's wand resting in a small pool of blood.



"I know what this room is, Harry. You could never have come here unless you needed something."



"I just wanted to see you." He picked viciously at the cuff of his jumper. "I can't ... Sirius, I don't-"



"Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?"



Harry's mouth made a tight, miserable line.



"I don't know." Then it all came tumbling out. "I get this sick feeling. Like my stomach turning over. Like falling off my broom. I thought it was being around Cho, because I used to like her. But it didn't stop and now it happens all the time, in the dorm, at dinner, in Quidditch - once when there was no-one in the room but Professor Snape. I think," He twisted the cuff until it constricted his wrist. "It's something to do with Voldemort."



Sirius laughed gently.



"Harry, it's perfectly-"



"DON'T YOU TELL ME IT'S NORMAL!" His knuckles were white around the edge of the table. "It's not fucking normal. When you have Voldemort in your head, nothing in your life is ever normal! Nothing! Do you see?"



"Listen, Harry." Sirius wet his lips.



"And don't lecture me. I didn't bring you back here for that."



Sirius watched the furious breaths shaking his godson's shoulders. A wicked smile stole over his lips.



"Fine, no lectures." He pushed back his chair. "On the other side, we do things differently."



As he sauntered across the room, he was humming a low, slow melody. Harry thought he felt the vibration of it in the base of his spine.



"Now listen, Harry," he murmured. Experimentally, he put a tune to the words. "Now listen, Harry."



He had a rich, lazy voice that lingered on each note with erotic intent. That lurching was attacking Harry's stomach again when Sirius turned and snapped his fingers and -



Harry choked. Now bathed in the linear light of an overhead spot, Sirius wore a pair of slender satin trousers and a red feather boa and nothing more. He brought a microphone to his lips.



Now listen Harry, don't wear that pout

This thing you're feeling, we'll work it out

It isn't wrong for

A boy to long for

Making whoopee.



His voice reached into the dark corners of the room and his hips swayed as he gave himself up to the rhythm. Harry swallowed. Sirius extended one bare arm and a low red light rose beside him. A grand piano glinted. Its keys tinkled and faded, teasing at an opening refrain. The pianist was familiar - healthy now, sitting straight at his stool, Broderick Bode. Sirius closed his eyes and growled:



Rosy lips or a rugged jaw,

If it moves you, make it yours.

A low cut dress or

Your Potions professor

It's only whoopee.



Sirius grinned his wicked grin and wound his fingers round the mic. A few moist strands of hair clung to his neck and shoulders as his voice and the piano's notes entwined.



Your stomach's feeling queasy

You think that's painful - kid,

You have never gotten sleazy

With a lonely giant squid.



A trumpet kicked in. Golden sound - a high note soaring out of the darkness. Cedric stepped forward so the light revealed him, his powerful lungs turning air into magic. Sirius threw his head back and let the light spill down his chest. The sultry tone ensnared him. Ivory coupled with brass. His eyes sparked as he turned them on Harry.



It's everywhere - that Flitwick's trouble

He takes on Hooch and Hagrid double.

Filch and his kitty,

Man that ain't pretty

But that is whoopee.



He turned. Sharp shadows falling from the peaks of his shoulder blades. Slid easily onto the edge of the piano with his long legs dangling and his trousers clinging with all their might an inch below his hips. The trumpet lingered and went out. Hatcha.



The Malfoys sub, Fudge begs for more.

They call Minerva the "Gryffinwhore".

And me and Moony -

You know the tune - we

Were making whoopee.



Soft swish of snare drums. Spatters of golden light fell on the drummer, a face obscured by black hair. The light frame, the glasses - Harry knew his father in the gloom. Beside him, Professor Quirrell on the double bass plucked out the beat.



Sirius on his back, arching off the piano beneath him, lips reaching for the mic. Dark hair trailed toward the floor. Points of light from a mirrorball fingered their way across flesh and polished wood.



Now Harry, keep your cap on,

This story's Hogwarts lore:

Your mum, your dad, a strap-on,

Plum jam and Dumbledore.



The trumpet climaxed and fell - only the pulse of the drum remained as Sirius rolled onto his stomach and pinned Harry with his gaze.



Now do you see? You mustn't fight.

The world's an apple. You should bite.

If you believe me

I want you to leave me

And go make whoopee.



The trumpet's dying note burned long. The darkness moved in, the piano vanished. Sirius, alone again in his cage of light, but the room still seemed to echo with the memory of song.



One kiss. His lips solid flesh over Harry's, but cold. Their mouths wet and slow. Feathers meeting Harry's touch then slick skin. His stomach sizzled.



"You've got it."



Movement but no breath as Sirius spoke against his lips. Two paces between them. With a casual wave, he conjured two velvet curtains onto the wall. They opened as he approached and, beyond, Harry caught the clink of glasses, a laugh rising above conversation, muted lights, smell of cigars, a beat he thought he knew.



Sirius nodded once and stepped through. The feather boa slithered to the floor.



The curtain fell.