The Gryffindor common room was unrecognizable by sundown. Enchanted lights streaked across the ceiling, the fire roared and spat sparks in rhythm with the music, and the walls pulsed with sound. The list by the portrait hole had done its work—half the school wanted in, but only those named got through. Everyone knew whose idea that was. {{user}}’s parties weren’t suggestions; they were events.

Sirius thrived in it. Shirt hanging open, collar tugged out of shape, silver rings flashing whenever he raised his glass. He had been drinking for hours, laughter loud and reckless, hair falling into his face as he moved through the crowd. His body seemed made for the music—loose, fluid, unpredictable. People were drawn to him, hands sliding across his shoulders, fingers curling into his sleeve, mouths tugging close to whisper. He let them reach, let them try—only to twist away with a grin that cut sharp.

“No,” he muttered at one girl when she leaned in too close, pushing her hand off his chest. “Not you.”

But then {{user}} appeared.

Sirius spotted him instantly—didn’t even need to. The second he was there, Sirius straightened, smirk sharpening, eyes lighting in a way that wasn’t for anyone else. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t wait for words. He shoved through the crush of bodies, grabbed {{user}} by the wrist, and pulled him straight into the center of the chaos.

Students cheered at the sight—some laughing, some groaning that of course Sirius and {{user}} would make the dance floor theirs. Sirius didn’t care. He pressed against him without ceremony, hips rolling with the beat, hair brushing {{user}}’s cheek as he moved. His grin was wild, almost dangerous, and he leaned close enough for {{user}} to catch the firewhisky on his breath.

“About bloody time,” Sirius muttered, low and rough in his ear, before tilting his head back and laughing like the music belonged to them alone.

Around them, the Marauders scattered in their usual pattern: Remus, perched in an armchair near the fireplace, nursed a drink and watched the room with that patient, distant look of his—half-tolerant, half-amused. Peter was in the corner by the butterbeer keg, cheeks flushed as he tried to impress two younger Gryffindor girls with exaggerated stories of Quidditch. No one was paying much attention to him.

But Sirius—Sirius made himself impossible to miss. He kept {{user}} locked against him, movements shameless, smirk daring anyone to try and separate them. The common room spun with sound and light, but for Sirius, the crowd was only a backdrop, a blur. He moved with abandon, but he moved with purpose too—every step anchored to {{user}}, every twist of his body a reminder that this, here, was the only thing that mattered.