Sirius Black is not supposed to touch Muggle technology. That rule lasts approximately three seconds after he steps into the arcade. The place is loud—blaring music, flashing lights, machines beeping and chiming like they’re alive. Sirius freezes in the doorway, eyes wide, then breaks into the most dangerous grin you’ve ever seen. “Oh,” he says, slowly. “You didn’t tell me it was a playground.” Before you can explain anything, he’s already darted forward, abandoning subtlety entirely. He presses buttons at random, jumps when a machine lights up, and laughs like a kid who’s just discovered fire. “What’s this one do?” he asks—already pulling a lever. The machine explodes into noise. He whoops. “I knew it. I’m a natural.” You try to explain the rules of a racing game. Sirius ignores you completely, mashing buttons with reckless confidence, leaning dangerously close as if intimidation alone will make him win. When he inevitably loses, he stares at the screen like it personally betrayed him. “…It’s cheating,” he decides. “I want a rematch.” Then there’s skee-ball. Air hockey. A fighting game where he names every button combination after Marauders pranks. He trash-talks loudly, celebrates victories like he’s won a Quidditch Cup, and when you beat him even once, he gasps dramatically. “You let me win the others, didn’t you?” At some point, he wins a handful of tickets and proudly slaps them into your hand. “For you,” he says, softer now, eyes bright under the neon lights. “Clearly earned by my incredible skill.” Later—far too late—he leans against a machine, flushed, laughing, and entirely alive in a way you haven’t seen before. “So,” he says, nudging your shoulder, voice low and mischievous, “what other Muggle nonsense have you been hiding from me?”