Of Promises Broken

~1300 words :: Harry Potter :: Remus/Harry :: 1/5/07
This is what Harry needs. He thinks it’s what Remus needs, too.

“I’ve got a credit card,” Harry offers.

Remus snorts and looks around the hotel lobby. “And when Ginny sees the bill?”

That shuts Harry up quickly. He hands Remus all he has: a tenner and some coins. There’s a Galleon in there, and a couple of Knuts, too. Must’ve put the Muggle money in the wrong pocket; he usually tries to keep them separate.

Remus takes the tenner, leaves him the change. He pulls another note from his battered wallet and slides them across the counter. The girl looks annoyed at being interrupted from whatever it is she’s doing on her phone, but she doesn’t bat an eye when Remus asks for a single room. She’s probably used to it. Couple of geezers in here on a Friday night, wedding rings in their pockets – well, in Harry’s pocket, anyway – that’s nothing new to her. She just chews her gum and, eyes already back on her mobile, hands Remus the key and says, “Room 205.”

Hands shoved in his pockets, Harry trails behind as they make their way to the room. Remus doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look around. He’s been here before, Harry realises. And not with Tonks. A dodgy hotel with hourly rates isn’t exactly a romantic getaway.

They should’ve gone down the pub first. Harry fingers his ring, turning it over and over in his pocket. This was easier when he was drunk. When it wasn’t planned – or when he could pretend it wasn’t planned, and he was good at pretending, wasn’t he, somehow managing to surprise himself the second, third, tenth time he ended up in the toilets with some bloke. Easier with strangers, too.


Harry blinks. Remus is already inside, shrugging out of his coat. “Sorry,” Harry says, stepping inside. He shuts the door behind him, glances around the room. “I…” His voice comes out strangled, squeaky, like a boy half his age, and he looks away, smoothing his hands over the sides of his thighs.

“Harry.” Remus’s tone has changed in a way Harry can’t put his finger on. The weariness is gone, but that’s not quite it. It’s the voice he’s heard in his head for the past month – nearly two by now – since that night at the pub.

I love Ginny, he thinks. This has nothing to do with that.

He’s already stepping forward when Remus says, “Do you want this?”

“Yes.” His hands are on Remus’s hips, their lips nearly touching. He remembers waking from a dream of that voice, taking Ginny in his arms. She’d been surprised, pleased. How long since they’d made love? His cock stirs and he presses close. “Yes.”

Remus’s hand comes up, tangling in his hair, pulling his head back. Harry’s cock jerks against Remus’s thigh, stiffening faster than he thought possible. “You’ll do as I say.” Remus’s voice is low, his lips moving against Harry’s throat, over his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Yes,” Harry moans. His hips jerk and Remus’s grip tightens, then releases.


Like he’d refuse that order. Not with the way his cock’s threatening to burst his jeans at the seams. He’s quick about it, letting his clothes fall to the floor, conscious of Remus’s eyes on him, of the obvious bulge in Remus’s trousers.

“On your back.” Remus jerks his head towards the bed. “Hands above your head. You can hold onto the headboard if you need to, but the moment you touch me or yourself, it’s over.”

Heart pounding, Harry scrambles into position, gripping the iron bars so tightly his nails dig into his palms. Remus vanishes his clothes, mutters another spell too low for Harry to hear, and then sets his wand aside. He settles between Harry’s spread legs, runs his hands over his thighs, but when Harry starts to pull his knees up, Remus forces them down, holding him flat against the bed. “No.” One corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “Maybe next time. If you’re good.”

Harry stills immediately, forgets to breathe for a moment. His legs are tense under Remus’s hands, trembling, but he doesn’t move. Up and down, up and down, and though Remus’s thumbs come within a hair’s breadth of Harry’s balls, they never quite touch. After a while, he can’t even feel it anymore; there’s only the constant throb of his cock.


“Please what?”

“I don’t, I don’t know.” Precome drips down onto his belly. He groans. “Whatever you want, just please, do something.”

He’s not expecting Remus to straddle his thighs, to take his cock in hand and lower himself onto it, and he shouts, bucking up into the slick heat of Remus’s arse. “Oh God! Oh God, oh God, oh…”

“Stay. Still,” Remus growls, planting his hands flat on Harry’s chest. He shifts slightly and then starts to move, mouth falling open as he slides up and down on Harry’s cock. He pays no attention to Harry, and somehow that makes it even better.

Harry whimpers, teeth cutting into his lower lip. His muscles are cramping. His balls are aching and he’s so close, so close. If Remus would just move a little faster, let him thrust.

And then Remus reaches down, grabs his cock, and with a few quick tugs and a grunt, he’s coming, shooting jizz over Harry’s chest, his chin, his lips. Harry is frozen, not daring to move, to breathe, to think, because if he does, if he does…

“Come,” Remus says, and yes, Harry’s moving now, sharp jerks of his hips, Remus moving with him, and coming is almost an afterthought, because he made it. He was good. There will be a next time.

Eventually his heart stops racing and his breathing slows. The white noise in his head ebbs away. At some point Remus has stretched out beside him; he doesn’t even remember him moving.

Harry turns on his side, facing the wall. Remus shifts, the bed creaking with him, and draws his fingers through Harry’s hair. Neither of them speaks.

For a long time Harry thinks of nothing, mind carefully blank. He has no excuse. He’d gone to Remus’s house, made chit-chat, asked Remus if he wanted to go down the pub, terrified Tonks would want to come with them. Almost hoping she would. He has no excuse, but he can’t make himself regret it.

He thinks of Tonks when she answered the door, looking the same as she did the first time he saw her. Looking younger than both of them now. She could look like anyone. Like a man, even. Like… He smoothes his hand over the wrinkled sheet. It never occurred to him before. Is that the problem? She can look like him, but you’ll always know.

Remus’s fingers in his hair are soothing and he remembers summer at Grimmauld Place, forever and ever ago, remembers the manic air that surrounded Sirius and the way he’d sometimes seem to calm under Remus’s touch. It kept him sane, Harry thinks, and he doesn’t know if he means Sirius or Remus. Maybe both.

Does she not give you this? Did you ever even ask?

Their time is nearly up. Surely it’s time to go. The bed shifts as Remus turns away, creaks as he swings his legs over the edge and sits up. I love Ginny, Harry thinks, and with his back still turned, says, “When…” He clears his throat. “When can we…?”

There’s the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle. “Friday next?”

It seems both too soon and unbearably far away, but his shoulders relax, tension he hadn’t even noticed building up drains away, and he lets out his breath. “Same time?”


Harry doesn’t move til after Remus has gone, and then he mutters a cleaning spell, dresses quickly. He slips his ring back on and wonders if next time Remus will let him kneel.

And all the while, it’s looping through his head like a mantra, beating in time with his heart: I love Ginny, I love Ginny, I love Ginny.