Man's Best Friend
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Sirius had been Padfoot so long he'd nearly forgot what it was like to be a man, and so when he found himself with long weeks stretching ahead before he could even begin to consider that the rat would actually be at Hogwarts, it was far too easy to let his doggie feet and canine senses send him wandering where they would. That was how he came to be lurking in the flowerbed at Privet Drive, nose full of hyacinths and the scent of growing boy, wishing he dared approach Harry and try to, well, do something to make amends, even if that something was just being Harry's dog.

A few hours of watching the house showed him that even that would be denied them, however -- Padfoot wasn't exactly the most groomed-looking of dogs, every inch the stray from his fleas to his matted coat, and the Dursleys seemed put out by Harry's clean, beautiful snowy owl, let alone some mangy mutt. Instead he lurked around the neighbourhood, overturning rubbish bins for his supper and aggravating that awful little dog of Harry's relative's by marking everything he had the bladder for. It couldn't make up for Harry's loneliness and misery, for his own self-loathing and pain, but it did give him a certain smug, canine satisfaction, which was about the best he could hope for with his human form denied to him.

This night, everything seemed to be going pretty much as usual with Harry acting the servant and the Dursleys being generally unpleasant, but there was something in the air that made Padfoot's hackles rise and his ears perk. He could just hear their conversation drifting out on the torpid summer air, thick and dull with an edge of pettiness that crackled through it like the promise of lightning before a storm. That horrid Aunt was deliberately provoking Harry, and Padfoot growled softly to hear Lily and James spoken of so callously by some fat, nasty old harridan. Harry did more than growl, however -- first he yelled, and then with a release of wild magic that set Padfoot's hair on its end, he blew up his Aunt until she floated to the ceiling like some grotesque balloon.

Padfoot just knew there'd be trouble, and he slinked into the nearby bushes to watch from a safer distance, nerves still jangling from Harry's anger and pain. He kept trying to get rid of the lingering magic-tingle, shaking it from his fur like water, but it didn't seem to help. The power filled his doggie brain with white noise that drowned out the Sirius-voice inside just enough to make the world seem brighter, simpler. He wanted Harry to be happy, Harry wanted someone to love him, so obviously Padfoot needed to love him.

This logic nearly got him in trouble, but before Padfoot could do more than stand up, Harry came storming out of the house, wand in one hand and trunk dragging from the other, which Padfoot found terribly convenient. He came strolling out of the bushes with his tongue lolling happily as he loped toward the boy, jumping up to lick Harry's face, all eager affection and puppyish enthusiasm. Harry made a face and tried to push him away, but he was sort of smiling and that was enough to make Padfoot only try harder, which ended up with them both sprawled out right on top of those poor, sweet-smelling hyacinths.

Harry was laughing, struggling, wand lost in the darkness though Padfoot would gladly fetch it for him in a bit, once they'd become properly acquainted. Instead he kept up with his licking, tasting boy-sweat and anger and fear, which brought a soft growl to his throat at the thought of those awful Muggles frightening his Harry. Which, unfortunately, made the fear-taste spike again as Harry's struggles increased and his laughter died. Padfoot tried to make it up, nosing into Harry's neck to show himself harmless, but Harry's panic only increased and he rolled over and began trying to claw his way across the lawn.

Padfoot couldn't lose Harry, not like this; he had to fix this misunderstanding before Harry ran away from him and he never got his Harry back. Padfoot grabbed onto Harry's belt with careful teeth and tried to drag him back into the fragrant, muddy flowerbeds, but Harry's clothes were too large -- instead the boy slithered forward out of them, exposing a moon-pale curve of arse and tangling his legs in the loose jeans and pants. Padfoot shook himself again to try and get that tingle of brain-fuzzing magic to go away, but it only increased with Harry's panic, crackling through him and making his body come alive, hairs standing on end and prick rising along with his adrenaline.

Harry was saying something, but Padfoot couldn't quite understand through the haze of wild power in the air, or maybe he just didn't want to understand, not with Harry before him bared and beautiful, far more fragrant to his canine nose than any flower. He solved the problem of getting Harry to stay by flopping his weight down on Harry's legs, then he snuffled his cold nose up and into the tempting crevice before him, smelling more of that sweat and fear, and more interesting musk as well, sex and dirt and life at its most basic. Harry struggled a bit more and his laughter seemed to come back when Padfoot's teeth didn't make any appearance, saying something about "cold" and "there" that Padfoot ignored in favour of swiping his tongue, hot and agile, from Harry's balls to tailbone.

That got a startled "Oh!" out of Harry, and Padfoot did it again, tongue curling forward to cup and stroke the boy's tasty, barely-furred balls, caressing upward and gathering the warm, dark tastes as he went, up over the puckered hole all the way to the small of Harry's back this time. Harry wiggled and bucked and cried out again, and another wave of fear and sex rose up off him, a potent aphrodisiac for a dog. Padfoot began licking in earnest, laving the high, tight balls and hairless crease, lapping at Harry's hole over and over and even delving just the smallest touch inside. He buried his face between Harry's white thighs to get his tongue all the way up to the base of Harry's prick in front, finding it taut and straining, the grass below salty with fluid from Harry's unwitting desire.

But if Harry had desire from this, came the puppy logic, then it must be all right despite the pervasive stink of fear lingering under and over the taste of musk and sweat and lust. If Harry was enjoying it, then Padfoot could enjoy it, too.

"Oh, please, please," Harry begged, lifting himself up into Padfoot's face, barely even trying to get to his wand anymore despite the moonlight shining on it just a few feet away.

Padfoot gave a comforting sort of whine, rubbing his aching prick against Harry's thigh in sympathy -- he wanted something, too, and he thought it might be the same thing, but he wasn't quite sure. He lapped back up to Harry's puckered entrance and began working his tongue deeper, panting as the agile muscle breached Harry's body and slithered inside the heated depths, tasting even more tantalizing in here than he had on the surface. Padfoot wasn't sure how Harry would react to this, the tiny, fuzzy Sirius-voice in him screaming at him for even thinking of it, but instead of renewing his struggles, Harry just went limp beneath him, his rocking hips the only motion left in the small body.

Padfoot's tongue went deeper and deeper, and a part of him began to wish for other things, for fingers and slick stuff and vague images of a past spent doing things like this with James and Remus and even chubby Peter in the confines of their dorm on lazy weekend, exploring things that would brand them forever if anyone ever found out, but were just boys doing boy things to them. Instead he just used his thick doggie saliva to slick up every inch of Harry's crack, used his tongue every way he could think of to make that hole open and ready, because somewhere in the back of his head even Padfoot had known where this was going the minute he'd seen and scented Harry's bare, perfect arse.

Harry's pleading was quieter now, with an edge that Padfoot chose to believe was the same lust coursing through his own veins -- after all, if Harry had blown up his Aunt over a few words against James, he'd be able to get Padfoot off him even without his wand, if that's what he really wanted. A few more probing licks showed the boy's cock as hard as ever, sliding through the dew-slicked grass while Padfoot lapped the new-made sweat off of Harry's balls. He began to bunch his body up, hind legs moving up to Harry's thighs even while his mouth continued to prepare the boy, and Harry shuddered once and lay still.

Padfoot moved further up, his tongue travelling with the rest of him now, breath snuffling onto Harry's sweaty back as he worked his nose up under Harry's oversized shirt, front paws on either side of the distressingly narrow ribcage. He wanted words, dammit, words and hands to soothe the boy, but even now he couldn't take that final risk and give his godson anything more than Padfoot's love. The fear-smell was stronger up here, but the tingle of magic was stronger, too, pulling at Padfoot's desire until his prick was wedged in the crevice, his nose pressed up against the nape of Harry's neck, head trapped in the bunched fabric of Harry's shirt. He paused one last time to listen, to smell, to feel the boy beneath him, Sirius breaking through for just long enough to really pay attention to Harry instead of Padfoot.

Harry was whimpering softly, whispering into the still night air barely louder than the crickets chirping in the neighbour's grass, his body tense and still as if expecting something, though his hips kept rocking up, thrusting himself over the tip of Padfoot's prick over and over. "Want it, why do I want this, how can I want this, ohgod, I'm a freak, they're right, ohgod, ohgod, it's a fucking dog for fuck's sake but it feels good, nothing ever feels this good, not for me, ohgod."

Sirius' heart nearly broke, but that small voice of conscience was silent as a particularly rough thrust upward combined with Padfoot's rocking hips to impale the boy on the slick, smooth canine cock. He slid in easily, the tip small and pointed and the way slicked with his own thick saliva, and instinct took over after that, driving away all thoughts but completion. His hips worked quickly, thrusting shallowly in and in and in faster than the boy could keep up, but Harry kept trying anyway. His whimpers had become soft cries, and Padfoot could smell the tears leaking from tight-closed eyes even as one small hand worked its way underneath to grasp and stroke the boy's cock as Padfoot could only wish he had the hands to do.

It didn't take long; Padfoot had no experience with the concept of holding back with all his instincts focused on the rush for release, and Harry was... well, he was thirteen and overwrought and being fucked by some random stray dog in the garden mere moments after running away from home. Soon they were both panting and rocking, movements erratic and out of synch but working, somehow, working for both of them as Harry kept chanting, "Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod," until he stopped and whimpered and the sharp smell of come rose and overpowered all the others. That was more than enough for Padfoot, though Sirius had just enough presence of mind to pull out with a rough jerk before the knot could swell enough to prevent it, humping Harry's crack for a few dozen more thrusts before spraying Harry's arse with thick seed.

It really wasn't much of a surprise to Padfoot when Harry slumped down on the grass and began to sob, and the helplessness that Padfoot felt for both of them banished the last of his euphoria, though his body's demands kept him nestled atop Harry as he came twice more, coating the boy's skin with his scent. Harry seemed to take comfort in Padfoot's continued presence, and even after he'd finished he lay there for a few moments more, tongue coming out to lick at the back of the boy's neck, almost an apology. He stayed until Harry's sobs had become sniffles, until the crackle of magic had died away entirely, and sense was slowly returning to him even as he began to extricate himself from Harry's shirt.

He found the cooling pool of his own seed and worked quickly to lick away the evidence and leave Harry's skin, if not clean precisely, at least mostly free of come. When he finally moved off Harry, lying in the grass next to him to whine piteously, guilt was already overwhelming everything else, guilt that he'd fucked his best friend's son, and moreover that he hadn't even had the decency to be Sirius when he did it.

Harry rolled over and, shockingly, placed a shaking hand on top of Padfoot's head, stroking the filthy fur and looking down with a nearly blank expression hedged about with confusion and longing. Padfoot crawled up the grass and licked Harry's face, tasting tears and his own complicity.

"I suppose I'll have to keep you now, if only so I always know who was my first," said Harry, his voice blank and almost conversational if it weren't for the edge of hysteria creeping in. His scents had all muted out, and his motions were rote and mechanical, as if Harry weren't quite home right now but he wanted Padfoot to stick around until he figured out just how he felt about it all.

Padfoot whined and cuddled closer, Harry's fingers in his fur muddling his brain in an entirely different way, pure canine pleasure in the midst of everything that seemed to wash away some of his sins, or at least transmute them to something less heinous, and more forgivable. It was only when the boy shivered again that Padfoot realized that perhaps lying in the damp grass with his pants down might not be in Harry's best interest.

It came as an entirely different sort of surprise for Padfoot to realize that he still cared what was in Harry's best interest, cared far more now than the vague sense of obligation he'd felt before. He slunk forward and fetched Harry's wand in gentle teeth, depositing it in one outstretched hand and licking at the blank look on Harry's face. That seemed to bring Harry back to himself, and he pulled up his pants and trousers and rearranged his clothing, then stood up and held his hand out to Padfoot, who sniffed it, licked it, and then put his head underneath for more absentminded scratches.

"Come on," said Harry, picking up his trunk and heading off aimlessly into the night. Padfoot ambled along at his side, confused and remorseful and utterly loyal, more determined than ever to make sure that the rat never got a chance to harm his Harry.

Title: Man's Best Friend
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Padfoot/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, Animagus bestiality, non-con, rimming, chan/underage (13); general feelings that one will go to hell for reading/enjoying.
Summary: Padfoot wanted Harry to be happy, Harry wanted someone to love him, so obviously Padfoot needed to love him.
Acknowledgements: For the pornish_pixies fantasy fest; talonsage requested: SB/HP Padfoot Sirius/chan Harry non-con in the garden at Privet Drive. Thanks to isidore & juice for beta duties, and the rest of closet for joining me in the handbasket

All of the works contained herein are labours of love, unauthorized by those who hold the rights to such things, and no profit is made from them. No harm is meant, and hopefully no offense given.