The night splits open with the sound of an engine, a low, hungry growl that vibrates through the air. The flying motorbike cuts out of the dark clouds above, headlamp flaring briefly before dipping as it slows. Sirius rides it like it was always meant to be an extension of him; loose-limbed, confident, reckless in a way that makes you want to reach out and catch him.

The bike lands with a thud against the road, breaks squeaking as he pulls up a few feet away, boots skidding lightly against the ground as the bike settles, humming and impatient. Leather creaks as he swings one leg down, grin already carved into place. He lifts a hand a flips his visor up, grey eyes glinting at you mischievously.

“Didn't keep you waiting, did I?” Sirius drawls, voice roughened by wind. He's late, of course he's kept you waiting. “You look like you're ready for a night of bad decisions.” With that, he tugs his wand from his jacket's sleeve, giving it a flick. One of the keyrings on his bike keys transfigures back into it's original form: his spare helmet. Then he chucks it to you. "Get on then," Sirius's head tilts, "You're burning my petrol."