Title: My Godfather, the Wizard
Sirius, my godfather, likes cherry tomatoes, but likes me more because I get plumper and redder, he says. I do not know if this is true.
The cherry tomatoes live in a basket on top of the refrigerator, so that only Sirius can reach them. Otherwise, my lips would glisten with their seeds all day long and Sirius would have no choice but to lick them off. But he cannot do that all day long because we often have visitors (who wear funny things, like cloaks and pointy hats) and they would want to lick my lips too, he says.
Sirius can do magic. That’s what wizards do. (He tells me that the people who visit us are also wizards and that I am not allowed to talk to them because they are on secret wizard business.) Sometimes Sirius takes out his magical wand, gives it a flick, and the basket comes right down and floats in front of my face. I drop a handful of tomatoes into my pocket, and take another handful to eat all the way up the rickety staircase, leaving sticky streaks up the banister.
I am in my white rocking chair—my feet still don’t touch the floor!—when Sirius shows up on the threshold to my room. I knew he was coming. He always does. Sirius himself made this rocking chair with magic, and his thighs fit perfectly into the gap between the curvy, rocking legs; he is on his knees before me, elbows atop my legs, and his chin in his hands. Sirius smiles at me, the same smile he and Moony get when they are about to do something devilish, and swipes the tomato from between my teeth. Just—zip!—into his fingers.
My nose wrinkles up, as I know he is going to hold that tomato outside his mouth, aim for his tongue, give it a good squeeze, and get juice all down his shirt. But this time he aims right and, after I tell him to put it into his mouth and don’t you dare forget to chew with your mouth closed like Moony says, Mister, he grins at me. He slurps, slurps, slurps more messily than when he is Padfoot, and growls louder than when he is Padfoot as well. Tomatoes make him growl so much that I dare not lean forward to catch the fat, orangey drop hanging onto his lip.
Before I know it I am in his tight hold, swinging in the air; tomatoes tumble from my hands and pockets, deep red and bouncing, some decorating the floor with brilliant splashes of juice.
Most beds are squashy and soft, but mine is not; Sirius assures me that all it will take is a quick charm to fix. Then, we go outside to play Quidditch and forget all about it. Right now Sirius does not seem to remember or care to charm it either, just as long as I am pressed between it and him. The pillows only a few inches away, I slip from under Sirius to sink my head into them. The cloth is cool. Much cooler than my neck, my face, Sirius’ lips on my belly. I remind him that there are still seeds to be found in my mouth, though he always takes the long road up: his tongue on my naval, his tongue on my rib cage, his tongue on my nipples. No, I do not squeak when he licks them, because little boys do not squeak no matter how adorable their godfathers insist it is when they do. I do not have much time to protest, for his big hands are wrapped almost all the way around my hips, pressing them into the mattress, and his tongue searches the inside of my mouth. I can never open it wide enough. I can never open it long enough without pushing him away to breathe.
Sirius says a great part of being a wizard is being able to hex insulting things away. Most of the time it is Snape, however this time he makes the threads that hold buttons onto material disappear so that the buttons slip down the sides of my body and he is free to force my shirt of easily, my pants down to my ankles before he realizes that I am wearing trainers. Sirius is not always the most patient man, much less so when has stiffness in his trousers. And being a wizard, he flicks those darned trainers off my feet as well, says some other mumbo-jumbo, and tosses his wand onto my bedside table.
I see the bottle of slime floating its merry way into my bedroom, the stuff that makes him slick so that he slides in nicely. He wants to put it onto the bedside table, I just know it, so he can put his mouth on me again. Sirius lets me know that he would lick me all over, all day, if he could: His tongue up my sweet, rounded toes and over the points of my ankles; my fingertips, still bitter, pink, and moist with fruit; behind my ears, where Sirius says I taste like honey shampoo; that little bump up inside me, hot and growing as he tries to reach it with his tongue, though he never can and I always tell him so, but Sirius is so very stubborn.
So stubborn that he will not use his wand to slicken himself, that he must summon the slime, uncork the slime, and fist it onto himself while I am outside my skin with excitement in wait of every drippy, squelchy moment to pass that he must lean over me and let me hear him grunt, and let me watch him pulse, purple, in his hand.
Oh! I do not squeak again when I am filled with him, filled so much that I think this is what he means when he says that I get plump and red, that I swell up with blood, and heat comes out of my skin in thick streams, out, out like the wet breath in my ear. I hardly notice my knees nudging my shoulders and my bottom being tickled by the hairs of his sac, and he is busy with his teeth on my ear, but it would be easier for him if my head would only stop whipping about.
This is the best part of being a wizard, and Sirius doesn’t have to tell me for me to know. What being a wizard is all about. Being able to twist something to do what you want it to do. Sirius can make baskets float, build rocking chairs, do away with buttons, fly bottles of slime wherever he wants them to fly, and he can make my entire world hazy just sticking himself inside me. Sirius is a wizard.
And just before I pop like a tomato would, he presses past my special spot especially hard and heavenly whiteness comes spraying out of me; he’s such a powerful wizard that he only needs to call out Merlin’s name to make it happen. But it’s no use because Sirius just fills me right back up again with his own whiteness.
We go through several months’ worth of cherry tomatoes before I get my letter to Hogwarts. Sirius says if I’m a good boy he’ll let me go, and then I’ll be allowed to do magic, too. I ask him if he’ll be coming with me to Hogwarts and whether we can share a bed when we get there. Sirius just pats my bottom and tells me that godfathers are not allowed at school. But who will teach me how to do the magic? I ask him this while I straddle his leg and try not to giggle when he bounces me on his knee. The greatest wizard in the world, he says, Albus Dumbledore.
I open my first chocolate frog box on the Hogwarts Express, sitting across from a red-haired boy, whose name I do not recall, and the card I pull out is of Dumbledore. His skin is droopy, his head is full of gray hair, and his hands are bony and spotted: This fellow is not as handsome as Sirius. I just hope he’s half as good under the covers.