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“Where is Wood?” said Harry, suddenly realizing he wasn’t there.
“Still in the showers,” said Fred. “We think he’s trying to drown himself.”
- Prisoner of Azkaban
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It wasn’t fair.
It wasn't fucking fair.
As that one thought kept repeating through his mind, Oliver only just managed to resist the impulse to smack his head against the cool tiles of the shower room wall. While knocking himself unconscious might serve to temporarily banish the the day’s defeat from his mind, it certainly wouldn't solve any of his problems. Besides, the Gryffindor team already had one member in the hospital wing, they didn’t need another there as well.
Although, the thought of a few hours, perhaps even a day, of sweet, concussion induced bliss sounded awfully tempting.
But, no. He was Captain of the team. He had to hold it together. Especially if the people under him couldn’t.
Under the warm, almost comforting spray, Oliver shook his head. He really couldn’t blame Harry for what happened. The poor kid couldn’t help how the demenetors affected him. And, it’s not like he was some little Malfoy, always whining and crying, and making the biggest fuss over the tiniest of things. On the contrary, Harry never really complained. He was tough. After all, this was the kid who had gone up against, and defeated, You-Know-Who more than once. So, logically, Oliver knew that if the dementors affected Harry badly, they affected Harry *badly*.
Despite the warmth of the water, and the cocoon of steam trapped in the small shower room, Oliver shuddered. If he never got close to another one of those things again, it would be far, far, too soon.
The young wizard sighed and rinsed the shampoo out of his short hair, not bothering to shield his eyes. Thankfully, the stinging managed to clear his mind for a little while.
When there was nothing left to rinse off, and even the magically heated water seemed to be growing cold, Oliver finally stopped delaying the inevitable and with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, he stepped back into the real world... or, as real as the Gryffindor locker room happened to be.
As soon as Oliver's bare feet hit the stone floor he knew something was wrong. A shiver ran up and down his spine, and he could almost feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise to attention. Anxiously, his eyes scanned the semidarkened room, taking in the lockers and cubby holes, the equipment, and storage closets.
Nothing seemed out of place, or too unusual, although, somehow, the shadows cast from the torches on the wall did seem a bit more ominous then usual. Mentally shrugging, Oliver continued on into the room.
Perhaps, if Oliver had been muggle born he might have exuded a bit more caution. Maybe, if he had been raised on a steady diet of teen slasher/horror movies, he might have paid a bit more attention to his instincts. At least, hopefully, he would have had the good sense to summon his wand.
But, he wasn't, and he hadn't. So, when a pair of thin, but surprisingly strong arms grabbed him from behind, and a hand clamped down over his mouth, magic wise, Oliver was defenseless.
For a moment, the young man struggled against the person who held him, thinking this was nothing more than the beginnings to some prank. He definitely wouldn't put it past the Slytherins to want to pour salt into an open wound. Oliver could only too easily imagine what might be in store for him, and he'd be damned if the whole of Hogwarts was going to wake up the next morning and find the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain tied naked to one of the goal posts on the pitch.
Then, his attacker began to speak, and Oliver was forced to radically reevaluate his situation.
"Stay still! Don't make a sound." The hand was removed from his mouth, but a split second later Oliver felt something cold and sharp press against his neck. "I don't want to hurt you, boy. But..." The deep, low voice by Oliver's ear trailed off, but the intent had come through crystal clear.
The blood in the teen’s veins turned ice cold as a swift and horrifying realization came to him.
It was him! *Him*! The reason the Dementors were at Hogwarts in the first place. The psychotic who had murdered one of his best friends and a dozen muggles. The Death Eater who was supposed to be at the right hand of You-Know-Who. The most infamous Gryffindor in history.
Sirius Black was holding a knife to his throat.
He had just wanted to get clean. That's all. There had been no loftier reasons for his latest foray into the school other than the intense desire to let warm water run over his body again. He was certain he had forgotten what it felt like.
It wasn't an imperative, of course. Thanks to a few trips into the lake while in dog form, Sirius was presently cleaner then he had been during all his years in Azkaban. But, fur wasn't skin, and, lake water wasn't fresh and scaldingly hot from a showerhead. And, Sirius wanted, *needed* to feel truly clean, if only for a little while.
So, he had taken the chance. The risky, foolhardy, completely stupid chance, of going down to the Gryffindor locker room.
As he made his way into the familiar dressing room bittersweet memories began to wash over him. For the first time since his escape, Sirius let his mission fade to the background.
He had spent the past twelve years being tormented by every horrible, depressing, agonizing thought and experience his mind could dredge up, he figured he was due a few happy memories. Especially happy memories of James. It had been so long since he had been able to think of his late best friend with anything other than pain and guilt. So, not knowing when he might get another chance, Sirius had let nostalgia claim him.
He was so caught up in the past, he hadn’t fully taken note of the fact the showers were on. However, for some reason, an integral part of his brain did notice when the sound of running water stopped.
The thought that there could be someone else in the vicinity shocked Sirius to the core. He couldn’t believe he had been so careless in his actions. Yes, the game had been over for a while. Yes, the team should have been showered, and changed, and gone. But, all that didn’t change the fact that Sirius instantly felt very stupid.
It was too late to try and run, and there was no where in the room big enough to hide him. A possibility presented itself to his panicked mind, and Sirius grasped at it. He quickly pressed himself against the wall by the entrance of the shower room, and when the young man emerged from the steam, he grabbed him with a strength borne out of pure desperation.
So, there he was, standing in the middle of his old locker room with a half naked, mostly wet teenaged boy pressed to his chest.
Sirius was at a loss. He knew there had to be a way out of the situation, one that wouldn't result in harm coming to either himself or the young man in his arms, but for the life of him he couldn't think of anything. Stress, and shock had driven constructive thought from his head, and now all Sirius could focus on were what his senses were telling him.
What happened next must have been because he had spent so much of the last twelve years in dog form, reverting back to his animagus training when the reality of a prison cell just became too much. At least, that's what Sirius firmly decided to tell himself later, if he started to question his actions.
When he started to question his actions.
It was automatic, instinctual. He couldn't help himself. How long had it been since he had his arms around a warm body? Warm, but not willing. And that snippet was filed back away in the part of Sirius's brain he didn't like to look at, the part that the dementors always left to him.
Thinking was overrated. Instead, Sirius concentrated on the scent filling his nostrils. The smell of a strong, healthy, clean male. And, the skin. Smooth, firm, and so, so warm.
Yes, that was it. He was out of his mind. Nutters. Driven temporarily insane by a conspiracy of forces that went far beyond his limited control. It was too much. The scent... the touch... And, something deep, or not so deep inside just had to know if the boy tasted as good as he smelled.
The conscious mind that was Sirius Black - former Gryffindor, eternal Marauder, Harry James Potter's godfather - objected to the more baser urges his instincts were throwing out at him. But, in the end, that Sirius Black, who was getting better, but was no where near as strong as he used to be, was overruled, and with a soft growl the older wizard slowly licked a path up the teen's throat.
Whatever Oliver had been expecting, and his traitorous mind had managed to come up with quite a lot of different possible outcomes to the situation, being licked hadn't been in any of them. And, that's what had to have happened. Hot breath, and then a rough, mobile wetness moving up his neck. Black had actually *licked* him.
Oliver shuddered, disgust and disbelief running through his body. He was suddenly, almost painfully aware of his state of undress, of the picture he must have presented. The word rapist had never been used to describe Black, but he wouldn't have put anything past a Death Eater, especially an act which could be just as much about power as it could about sex.
Oliver's stomach dropped and his mind raced. There had to be a way out of his. There *had* to be. He was a Gryffindor dammit! More bravery than brains, that's what the Ravenclaws and Slytherins were constantly saying.
So, that was that. He would try... *something*. Yes, death was a possible outcome of any of his actions, but Oliver had to admit to himself that a slit throat would be far more preferable then submitting to the man behind him. The man who was currently nuzzling into Oliver's neck.
The action was surprisingly gentle for an escaped murderer.
As Black continued his ministrations Oliver could feel the man's grip on him lessen until it felt no stronger than a firm embrace. The teen swallowed a gasp as one roughly calloused hand slowly burned its way down his stomach to his towel. With an almost deft move the knot was loosened, and Oliver swallowed harshly as he felt the material fall away from his hips. He then squeaked in surprise as that hot hand demandingly pulled his lower body into firm contact with the one behind him.
There was now something quite hard pressing against his bare backside, and Oliver's face flamed even as his skin crawled. He had never been touched like this before.
Before Oliver could blink, let alone fully come to terms with this new development, he found himself being violently spun around and pushed against a wall. His hands shot up in time to cushion the impact, but to be treated that way was still jarring. Black wasted no time in pressing against his back again, and Oliver was stuck, effectively lodged between a psychotic and a hard place.
In desperation the teen lashed out, bucking backwards, hoping to dislodge the madman from the position he had once again taken. But, he was stilled by a firm hand on the back of his neck. And then the voice came back, only this time it was softer, almost as if Black was intending to soothe him.
“Shh. It’s all right love. You know I won’t hurt you.”
Oliver nearly snorted at that. Of course. He was sure this wasn’t going to hurt a bit.
Sirius rested his cheek on the warm shoulder in front of him and sighed softly, happily. He had missed this. This contact. This closeness with another person. With Remus.
This wasn’t Remus.
Wait. Of course it was. It had to be. He had just gotten a little taller, that was all. And a haircut. He had obviously gotten a haircut. But, it was Remus. Who else could it be?
Sirius firmly pushed all those nagging thoughts out of his mind. He had far more important thing to concentrate on. Like the nape of Remus’ neck. the smooth, unblemished skin covering his shoulder blades. The small, imperfect bumps and ridges of his spinal cord that led down to the sweet indentation of his tailbone. And, the firm, rounded swell of his beautiful arse.
Sirius’ hands, and lips, and tongue ghosted over this stretch of pristine skin. This amazing expanse of a naked back. He was almost reverent in his explorations. Along with the caresses, the dark haired wizard kept a low, steady monologue running, hoping that the soft words and softer touches could ease some of the tension that was almost radiating out from the boy’s body.
“Come on, Moony. You didn’t used to be such a prude.” Sirius nipped lightly at a tricep as he finally decided to stop teasing and just go for the direct approach.
Oliver knew that the common consensus among wizarding folk was that Sirius Black was insane. However, he certainly never thought he would be getting an up close and personal demonstration of just how right they were. Black had undergone a complete personality change in the short time since he had first attacked Oliver. There was no malice or mocking tone in his voice. He sounded like he was truly addressing a lover, and not just another victim. It was quite unsettling. But those feelings were nothing compared with the raw terror produced when he felt Black’s hands delve between the cheeks of his arse.
Oliver trembled at the alien sensation. His mind was having trouble wrapping around the sudden reality of being touched... there. Right... oh... *there*. The teen bit back a whimper as the caress became something more. One moment there was nothing but a soft touch at a surprisingly sensitive piece of skin, and the next, Oliver felt an insistent pressure as something pushed it’s way inside his body. It must have been one of Black’s fingers. It had to have only been one of his fingers. But, still, it felt big, and intrusive, and it was *inside* of him.
“God, so tight. You’re still so tight.” The voice murmured to him. “Let’s see if we can fix that, shall we?”
The thing inside of him began to move a little and for the first time that he could remember, Oliver felt well and truly helpless.
“Please.” The young Gryffindor’s pride was overwhelmed by fear and mortification, and he couldn’t help the faint whisper that worked it’s way out of his throat. “Please...”
The tip of one finger encased in his lover, Sirius grinned at the sound of the soft voice. They were going to need something slippery soon, before he actually started stretching the young man, but Sirius wanted to tease a bit more.
After all, it had been so very long...
Yes, twelve years was a very long time.
Sirius jerked away from the younger man’s body, horror spreading through his veins as the realization of what he had just done, and what he was about to do, hit him full force. It wasn’t Remus. This person was just a boy. A quidditch player. A Gryffindor. An *innocent*, or at least he had been until Sirius had gotten his hands on him... in him.
Remus hated him. James was dead. Harry was in danger. And, this boy, this nameless, faceless, boy was sullied.
Because of him.
All because of him.
Sirius did the only thing he could think of. He ran.
“And, you’re sure there’s nothing else you can remember about your encounter, Mr. Wood?”
Oliver cleared his throat and cursed the blush staining his cheeks. Of course he could remember more. He could remember all of it, vividly. But, he sure as hell wasn’t going to give Albus Dumbledore a play by play description of how he was nearly raped in his own locker room. He just couldn’t.
“No. I’m sorry, sir.” Oliver's gaze dropped to the floor. He didn’t quite feel worthy enough to look the headmaster in the eye anymore.
Dumbledore simply nodded, silently going over what the young Gryffindor had told him. Sirius Black had found his way into Hogwarts again. He had surprised and threatened Oliver. And, then he had left, disappearing before an alarm could be sounded.
The aged wizard was no fool. Dumbldore knew very well that there was more to the story, and he also knew he wouldn’t be hearing it anytime soon. He could certainly hazard a guess, though. No physical injuries had been found, and Poppy had fussed over the boy quite thoroughly, but still, there was something there, in Oliver’s eyes, that wasn’t present before. And, the headmaster knew it wasn’t just due to the devastating loss the boy’s team had suffered the previous day.
“Very well.” Dumbldore finally said. He rose and made his way around his desk to Oliver’s chair. “If you can remember anything else. Anything at all that you feel should be brought to my attention, discussed with me, don’t hesitate to ask Professor McGonagal for the password to my office.”
Oliver stood up and nodded, indescribably grateful that this bit of torture seemed to be over.
“Good, good. And don't’ worry about Quidditch, dear boy. Mr. Potter will bounce back, and the team will be better than ever, I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, sir.” Oliver blinked at the chocolate frog that was suddenly offered to him. “Thank you.” He said, taking the soothingly familiar piece of candy.
“Think nothing of it. Oh, and, if you don’t mind, I think we should keep this little incident to ourselves. No point in causing an even greater panic then there is now.”
“Right. I certainly won’t say a word.”
“Good boy.” Dumbledore turned to go back to his desk
Oliver headed for the door, but before he exited the office he paused. There was one piece of information he could share. It had been a strange part of an extraordinarily hellish experience. “He called me Moony.”
for a few moments he seemed to think I was someone else.
A... friend. He called me Moony.”
“I see. Thank you Oliver. You’d best be running along now.” Dumbledore watched as Oliver inclined his head in acknowledgment, and left, firmly shutting the door behind him. “Moony...” The old man murmured. “Interesting.”
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