It was Sirius’ idea, of course — it always was. One minute {{user}} was curled up reading by the open window of her room at the Potters’ summer place, and the next, he was banging on her door, eyes sparkling and grinning like a madman.

“Put on something shiny, sweetheart — we’ve got somewhere to be.”

She barely had time to ask what the hell he meant before he was pulling her down the stairs, shrieking with laughter, a record in one hand and a ridiculous silver jacket slung over the other.

They Apparated to a Muggle disco just outside of London, neon lights flickering in pinks and purples, the bass already thudding in their chests. It was loud and hot and alive — full of strangers and sequins, glittering eyeliner, and pulsing light.

Sirius fit right in, of course. His dark hair messy and shining, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal, rings flashing as he tugged {{user}} onto the dance floor without hesitation.

“It’s not midnight yet,” he shouted over the music, spinning her once before settling his hands lightly on her waist, “so technically I’m still stealing you away while you’re seventeen.”

The DJ changed the song — the opening chords of “Dancing Queen” ringing through the club like magic itself — and Sirius laughed, tilting his head to look at her, breathless and flushed in the strobe lights.

“There. It’s your song.”

He leaned in, lips close to her ear, voice suddenly soft beneath the beat.

“Happy almost birthday, dancing queen.”