Archive of Our Own ^beta

This room, like all the others in Grimmauld Place, is suffocating.

It’s not Draco’s first time here. He’s spent countless days scouring every room for traces of festering dark magic, doing his job, and when he does come back here, late at night, he’s doing as he’s told.

The creaking floorboards and peeling wallpaper ooze with Black family history, as tangled and grimy as the dark magic that clings to the air. The house feels alive, in the worst way—dusty and defiant, steeped in generations of darkness.

And yet, Sirius Black has somehow made it his own. Draco catches glimpses of him in the house’s charm: the mismatched, battered furniture dragged into place like a rebellious shrug against the weight of tradition, the cracked leather armchair by the fire where Sirius lounges, boots up, as if daring the house to challenge him. There’s a roguishness to it all that’s impossible to ignore, a reckless disregard for appearances that echoes in Sirius’s sharp grin and the lazy way he leans against door frames.

Draco hates how often he notices these things—how Sirius’s dark hair falls into his eyes or how his laugh cuts through the gloom like a wand slicing through fog. It’s maddening, the way his chest tightens whenever Sirius smirks at him.

He forces himself to focus.

In this room—the third door on the left of the long, gloomy corridor—traces of something peculiar float idly in the air, retreating from the Lumos at the end of Draco’s wand. The light feels feeble here, swallowed by the shadows.

Draco crouches before the artifact—a small, ornate mirror with cracks spidering across the glass. Beneath his gloves, he can feel the radiating, malevolent pulse of magic, a steady thrum of intent that seems to watch him back.

“Well?” Lucius drawls from behind him, his voice grating against the silence. “Do you plan to employ any spellwork of substance, or is waving your pathetic Lumos around yet again the extent of your ingenuity?”

The air is too heavy, too thick. He shifts uncomfortably, acutely aware that Sirius is somewhere in the house, probably watching with that infuriating smirk of his. Clenching his jaw, he wills himself to concentrate, but the thought lingers: What would it be like if Sirius smiled at him for real, instead of just to antagonize his father?

Draco bites his tongue. He hesitates, only for a moment, fingers clutching tightly around his wand, before continuing with his observations. This magic—curse, whatever it may be, it ripples in the air like water, invisible to the untrained eye. It isn’t erratic or abrasive like they’ve dealt with before; there are no dark, smokey tendrils, or ominous whispers haunting the silence. It moves in a pattern, anticlockwise, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

Across the room, Sirius appears in the doorway. “Give the poor boy a break, Malfoy. He’s proved to be extremely useful these last few weeks, whereas you… Well, barking orders has done this house a fat load of good.”

Draco, still observing the mirror, rolls his eyes. It was only going to be a matter of seconds before Sirius and his father would be at each other’s throats.

Lucius turns a frosty glare on Sirius. “I did not ask for your unsolicited commentary, Black. You summoned us here to deal with this matter, so kindly refrain from interrupting the process.”

“Let young Draco handle it, you mean,” Sirius smirks.

Lucius’s jaw tightens. “Draco’s task is to conduct the preliminary diagnostics. My responsibility, as dictated by the Ministry’s protocols, is to report findings, and oversee the implementation of safety measures to ensure this curse is contained and eradicated.” He pauses, the edge of a sneer curling his lips. “Do you intend to contribute anything of value, or are you content to meddle in affairs far beyond your comprehension?”

Draco’s gaze flickers momentarily to Sirius. It’s not often people battle his father. He tries to stifle the hint of amusement glowing over his face.

Sirius grins, slow and wonderfully confident. “Lucius, please, we mustn’t flirt like this in front of the child.”

Draco almost snorts. He quickly clears his throat and furrows his brow at the same suspicious glimmer he’s been inspecting throughout this conversation.

Lucius turns stiffly away, snapping his fingers. “Draco? Do you have an explanation to offer?”

“Well,” Draco swallows, finding his voice. “The way in which this magic reacts to light suggests—”

“It is quite obvious that this is an ancient artefact,” Lucius cuts in. “Its composition is gradually absorbing the residual traces of dark magic permeating this wretched house—spirits within the very walls, cursed paintings, and so forth. Given that this residence belongs to the illustrious Black family, it is hardly surprising that dark magic festers here like a rot.”

Draco can’t help but watch as Sirius flashes a smirk, an impressive display of confidence Draco could only dream of wielding against his father. It’s alluring, the way Sirius’ dark eyes sparkle with challenge, the way he’s slumped carelessly against the door, one leg bent on the wall behind, his bare, tattooed arms crossed against his chest.

Draco’s stomach knots.

“Come, Draco,” Lucius snaps, marching past Sirius as the tapping of his cane echoes faintly down the long corridor towards the front door. “Now!”

Draco straightens his cloak, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It reacts to light,” he says, clearing his throat. “This curse, I mean. When Lumos is cast, the traces of visible magic seem repelled by it, suggesting something similar to a living organism recoiling from light—like a parasitic fungus thriving in darkness.” He tucks his wand into his pocket, admiring the way Sirius peels himself away from the wall, dragging a hand back through his long, untamed hair. Never once does he break eye contact, his cocky smirk softening. “I believe it’s in the early stages,” Draco goes on. “It hasn’t transformed into a physical entity yet, meaning it’ll be easy to eradicate. I’ll try to inform my father of what I’ve found but rest assured, this curse isn’t a threat.”

Sirius’ eyes narrow. “You’re very bright, Draco. Pity your father is such a prick.”

“He just wants me at my best, Mr Black.” Draco tries for a smile. He can hear his father’s voice already barking in his mind to hurry up, be professional, stop talking.

“He’s a nasty piece of work, Draco.”

“I—” Draco stammers, looking anywhere but Sirius. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Sirius steps in closer. “You don’t deserve to be spoken to that way.”

A pang of shame spreads over Draco’s chest. The curse manifesting in this room feels as though it’s crawling under his skin. “Don’t pretend to care,” he huffs, “I’m used to it.”

Sirius raises a brow. “Oh, Draco.” His footsteps echo across the quiet room, stopping shy of Draco’s heels. Draco tenses, a hot flush creeping up his neck when Sirius reaches out, caressing Draco’s cheek. Draco’s gaze falls to the floor, but Sirius is there. His firm, rough fingers smell like cigarettes as they brush his jawline, the pad of his thumb dragging on his lower lip.

Draco can hardly catch his breath. The dust and the musky, thick air are lodged in his throat. His limbs are heavy with guilt, but a heat blooms under his ribs, an insatiable longing to be touched.

“I’ll never be enough,” Draco whispers, desperate.

“For him, maybe.” Sirius says, close enough for Draco to feel the warmth of his breath against his mouth. “I know a thing or two about disappointing those we love.” His thumb circles Draco’s lips, and Draco’s mind swims like the languid drag of shimmering magic surrounding them both, the intoxicating pull of Sirius—his words, his caress, his affection. “You’re still in control, Draco. You can control how you disappoint him.”

He can, and he does so without thought, by sinking to his knees. The flash of pride across Sirius’ face is electric, sparking something deep in Draco’s chest. It feeds him, emboldens him, and before he can stop to think, Sirius’ fingers are combing through his hair, gentle but teasing, tugging just enough to force their eyes to meet.

“Look at you,” Sirius murmurs. “How could anyone be disappointed in you, eh?”

Draco tries to nod, but there are tears in his eyes, and his throat is tight. It feels like his heart is lodged against his ribs, beating hard and fast. His hands fumble at the waistband of Sirius’ trousers, shaky with anticipation.

When Sirius’ cock springs free—thick, heavy, the head already slick—Draco lets out a weak, breathless moan. The sound escapes him before he can stop it, the heat in his cheeks blooming into something unbearable. But he doesn’t look away. He can’t. Not when Sirius is watching him like that, eyes dark and half-lidded, his thumb brushing over Draco’s temple in something achingly close to tenderness.

He can be so good. He can be enough.

And he lets those thoughts consume him as he leans into the nest of wiry black curls at the base of Sirius cock. He inhales, his own dick pulsing with want. This, he can do. He’s mastered it. And Sirius makes him feel good, makes him feel wanted, and looked after, and sick with filthy hot shame.

Kissing Sirius’ cock, feeling the flesh against his lips — Draco’s alive with it. His heart patters wildly in his chest, his mind wandering, just a little, with the idea of his father returning, walking in to see this. The look on his face would be worth a thousand galleons, and the idea alone makes Draco cock spurt with precome.

He takes Sirius to the root, licking and sucking with care while his hands rove over Sirius’ thighs. Sirius gently fucks his face, gasping soft little curses with each thrust. It’s manly, the way he draws pleasure—all deep and guttural. The ease with which he melts into this showcases a mass of experience Draco can only dream of.

“Fucking hell,” Sirius moans. He fists Draco’s hair and Draco whines through his nose as hot come splashes down his throat. Sirius jerks against him, and the heat and the weight of regret pools deep in Draco’s gut and pins him to the floor, boneless.

“Precious, precious boy,” Sirius says. “Merlin, your father would be so disappointed in you.”

Slowly, Draco smears the come from his lips and sucks the remnants off his finger, smiling up at Sirius, moon-eyed and innocent. “Good. It’s what I’m best at.”