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“This is revenge for my crush on Professor Lockhart, isn’t it,” Hermione groans, resting her forehead on her book with a level of drama that Harry doesn’t care for.
“And Lupin and McGonagall,” Ron adds, breezily. “You had your thing for professors. Now it’s Harry’s turn.”
“Exactly,” Harry says.
His head rests on his chin while he gazes up at the professors’ table. He’s been snagging a seat at the very front of the table. Closest to where the professors sit, it’s where the first years used to be shunted to give upperclassmen a modicum of privacy during mealtimes. Now, Harry notices he’s accidentally started a trend, reversing the usual order even at the other house tables: eighth years at the front, then all the way down the line the other years.
But Harry pays this no mind. His only goal in this was sit closest to Sirius’ spot at the professors’ table, calling out comments to his godfather during meals.
Now, Sirius is in conversation with Flitwick, so Harry only sighs and stares. “He was handsome before, but now he’s even hotter. I can’t explain it.”
Ron exchanges a glance with Hermione. “Me neither. Harry, you hate authority figures.”
“He can give me his authority all day. By that I mean his dick.”
“We get it,” Hermione says. “When I objected to him taking the Trangsfiguration professor position, this isn’t what I expected to be the worst part of the whole thing.”
Ron nods solemnly. “Harry, your thirst is out of control.”
“Tell Sirius to stop rolling up the sleeves of his robes, then,” Harry replies, not looking away.
When Sirius catches him staring, Harry only grins and waves. Sirius abandons his conversation to loudly chat with Harry over the tops of their respective tables, to the annoyance of various professors and eighth year Gryffindors. Ron and Hermione’s expressions are distinctly long-suffering, and it’s only September.
*
Sirius paces the Defense room during his lectures, as if unable to stay still unless the topic turns serious. Even then, when describing the worst of the war in the hopes of teaching students to be able to protect themselves if another conflict arises during their lifetimes, Sirius’ hands move as he speaks.
He delights in giving homework, though to Hermione’s great pain, gives passing grades to almost everyone. “Now, who’s going to give me eight inches on the Patronus and other defensive magics in the shape of animals?”
“I’ll take your eight inches,” Harry says, raising his hand.
“I see your passion for Defense hasn’t waned since you offed Voldemort. You’re a credit to your peers. Everyone, immitate Harry.”
Padma looks between Harry and Sirius. “I’d rather not.”
*
There is a persistent rumor that Harry is fucking his Transfiguration professor.
When called to the headmistress’ office over it, Harry addresses the issue as such. “I would like to be.”
“Mr. Potter,” Minerva says, sounding much like she would rather be taking tea with Voldemort. “Please. I understand that this so-called eighth year has taken liberties at school, as you you have all aged out of the standard curriculum, but save it for after your graduation, for decency’s sake.”
Harry nods. “Does this mean you think I have a chance?”
“Out with you, Mr. Potter.”
“I’ll take that as a solid maybe.”
*
“What if I just jump him and see what happens?”
“Harry,” Neville pleads, “This is worse than last year under the Carrows.”
“No, it’s not.”
“No, but at least no one was interested in the professors that year.”
*
For his Halloween debacle that year, Harry gets dosed with a love potion.
“You love me now, don’t you,” says the all too hopeful Hufflepuff girl.
“Not really,” Harry tells her. When she starts to cry, he tries, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
She takes him to the infirmary, where they both get a lecture. Her on not love potioning the savior of the wizarding world or any other member of society. Him on not getting himself love potioned.
“Why didn’t it work?” Harry asks.
Madam Pomfrey checks her clipboard before saying, “This specific type of love potion won’t work if there is real love in your heart — it isn’t able to conquer it.”
“Oh, so it’s not just lust,” Harry says aloud.
“Mr. Potter, I will pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You don’t have to, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry says, earnestly.
He’s almost set to leave the infirmary when Sirius appears. He gives the Hufflepuff a lecture sterner than Harry has ever heard from Sirius, who rarely opts to be as serious as the other professors, and keeps touching Harry and looking into his eyes, as if making sure that every drop of the potion is gone.
Harry can’t take it for more than a few minutes. “Sirius, if you keep doing that, I’m going to drag you into a broom closet.”
“Poppy, are you sure he’s alright?”
“I’m not paid enough for this. Out with all of you.”
*
Trelawney nods sagely. “The tea leaves say you are very happy together.”
“We’re not together yet,” Harry corrects.
“That’s not what the tea leaves say.”
Harry chooses to take it as a positive sign, never mind Trelawney’s various other prophesies.
*
As the months pass, Harry and Sirius continue to spend long hours together, alone in a room.
Sadly, this is because Sirius is teaching Harry the animagus transformation. They’re sitting on padded mats at the center of the empty Defense classroom, cross-legged and nearly touching.
“I can’t concentrate,” Harry groans yet again, opening his eyes from his meditative trance. “I went through this once with Snape already. I can’t clear my mind.”
“Last time you tried, you had someone breaking into your mind and the threat of Voldemort over your head.” Sirius leans into Harry’s space, as if searching for cracks in his meditative trance. “What’s stopping you this time?”
“My all-consuming urge to kiss you,” Harry tells him.
“Hm.” Sirius strokes his chin, affecting a thoughtfulness that doesn’t quite land with the wicked glint to his gaze. “Then we’ll have to try a different strategy. Maybe if you act out all the impulses that prevent you from clearing your mind, you’ll be able to master the transformation.”
Harry wastes no time in pulling Sirius into a kiss. He’s been thinking a lot about what things other than meditation they can get up to on the meditation mats—and it’s even better now that he knows Sirius is game.
Eventually, Harry admits, “I’m never going to be able to think straight around you.”
“I hear Minerva also teaches the transformation,” Sirius suggests. “Best of both worlds.”
“Perfect,” Harry says, and he kisses him again.
*
The rumor mill explodes. Harry doesn’t notice.