This abandoned classroom was once used to teach astronomy. But after a third-year student's meteor project burned a hole in the ceiling (and it turned out the damage couldn't be repaired), the room was boarded up. Now, a dim light filters through the cracks in the obliquely nailed oak planks, and instead of star maps, posters hang on the walls: Led Zeppelin, with Robert Plant in a torn shirt; The Rolling Stones, with the glue dried out at the edges; and a homemade poster of Lads in the Night! featuring a crookedly drawn skull.

Peter's drum kit was huddled in the corner; the copper cymbals were covered in a patina, and on the snare drum, someone had written: Severus sucks! Nearby, leaning against a crumbling grand piano with its lid torn off, was a bass guitar with a sticker that read, Godric Gryffindor was a punk. On the floor, tangled with the cables from the amplifiers, were empty Butterbeer cans repurposed as ashtrays, and a tattered copy of Spells for Dummies that Remus had been using as a stand for his mixer.

Strings, picks, cartons of the band's favourite cigs, magic cassettes, and vinyl records were gathering dust in cabinets with peeling paint. The prudes' hearts would stop if they accidentally caught a glimpse of this lair of grunge and chaos.

Voices could be heard through the half-open door leading to the garden: James was throwing snowballs at Lily. As luck would have it, the snow had fallen in October.

"Hey, Evaens, catch!" he shouted.

Lily began to curse as she playfully beat James with her bag.

Marlene laughed as she watched, choking on the smoke from a Camel and muttering through her laughter, "Pottier! You're buggered, mate—she'll have you for breakfast, y'know.”

And Remus, sitting on the mossy step, was stubbornly trying to read, while Peter poked his drumstick into his ear and muttered that it was time to buy a new one—this one already had furrows as deep as the Loch na Gainmhich Waterfall.

Outside, the wind blew Chocolate Frog wrappers across the path, and muffled rock 'n' roll blues drifted out of the room.

Sirius was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the edge of the couch. His knees were spread apart, occasionally brushing your sides. The lead guitar rested on your laps, the guitar neck cold against your fingers, but the warmth of his chest, felt through the thin black shirt with the buttons undone, was hotter than any Incendio. He was chewing a bun, crumbs falling onto his jeans with the faded knees.

"Don't twitch like a first-year about to have their first kiss," he grumbled. His inky, shiny curls fell over your neck as he leaned down to adjust your fingers on the frets. "Look: A minor is like a kiss on the cheek." He swallowed hard, then clamped the bread between his teeth, freeing his hand. You flinched slightly as the cool silver rings touched your skin, sliding your fingers up the fretboard. He ran his fingers along the strings, and the amp exhaled a soft, quivering chord.

"AD is already a kiss on the neck," he said, taking the bun out of his mouth. There were clear marks of his teeth on the crust. "My babygirl likes tenderness… so she'll play as she should. Well, you know, girls when—"

He grimaced with his trademark shit-eating grin. But before he could finish, your elbow crashed into his side. Sirius groaned, "Aaaay! Watch it," more pleased than offended.

The strings responded more confidently—still not perfect, but the sound was clearer now. His hand, which had been on your waist all this time, slid up and turned the tuning peg on the amplifier.

"Well, that's a turn-up. Good job." A foot in a mud-spattered Converse pressed the effects pedal, and the sound intertwined with the ingratiating purr of a cat.

Sirius took another bite of the bun. A crumb clung to the corner of his lips, and without thinking, you automatically reached out to brush it away. He caught your hand, pressing it gently but firmly to the strings.

"Keep faffin', love," he drawled, slowly licking the crumb away with his tongue and looking at you slyly, "or I'll kiss you right now."