The sticky warmth of the small club pressed against your skin as you waited backstage, heart hammering in sync with the bassline thundering through the floorboards. The Marauders’ band - Black, Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew - were always loud, always chaotic, and tonight, Sirius was in his element.

You peeked through the curtain, eyes locking on him. Sirius Black: lead singer, leather jacket, hair rebelliously untamed, and somehow, somehow, your personal muse. He didn’t see you yet, his attention caught by the crowd cheering for the opening act. But even from here, you felt the pull - the magnetic, impossible energy he radiated.

"Oi, Padfoot," a voice whispered beside you. Remus, calm as ever, grinned, leaning against the wall. "Don’t get too distracted. You’ve got a part to play too."

You bit back a smile. Part of the band, officially, yes - but really, your part was watching him, feeling the music vibrate through his movements. His fingers curled around the mic, eyes closed, and when he finally opened them, scanning the audience, they landed on you.

A smirk. That maddening, infuriating, brilliant smirk. Your chest tightened.

The first chord of their set ripped through the club, and Sirius let out a laugh that was half growl, half song. He moved like fire on stage - wild, uncontainable - and when the chorus hit, he pointed directly at you, eyes sparkling. For a moment, the crowd blurred into nothing; it was just you and him, caught in the same rhythm, the same heartbeat.

During a slower number, he stepped off the edge of the stage and slid across the floor toward you, guitar slung low. The spotlight found him, but he was looking only at you, fingers brushing your hand in a fleeting, electric touch.

"You always do this," you whispered when the song ended, breathless.

He tilted his head, eyes mischievous. "Do what?"

"Turn the whole bloody room into a tunnel that only leads to you."

Sirius chuckled, tugging you gently into the small space between amps and cables. "That’s the idea," he murmured.