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    Summary

    Harry takes a step forward. “We could…”

    “No.” Sirius shakes his head. “We couldn’t.”

    “Just—”

    “It’s a bad idea.”

    “You still let it happen before.”

    True. Stupidly, Sirius has let it happen, a fortnight ago. Harry had dug out an old Quidditch shirt of James’ and Sirius is nothing but a weak, weak man because he couldn’t stop himself from following the emblazoned POTTER around like a lost fucking Crup until he had Harry crowded against the kitchen sink, Sirius’ nose buried in the crook of his neck like maybe he could lick the smell of James, mud and sweat, right from him. He couldn’t, of course. Harry smelt like Sirius’ own cheap shampoo and something distinctly him, but he hadn’t minded Sirius sniffing him like an absolute maniac. Had encouraged it, in fact.

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