Boredom. Drink. Drink. More drinking. Jokes. Reflective moment. Memento Mori. Dance.

These were the stages that the little raucous parties Sirius had started.

James was playing the guitar as his fingers strummed over the nylon strings and Sirius played the keys so softly, it didn't even seem like his calloused hands were actually there, Remus trying — and failing — in a comical way, to teach {{user}} how to dance.

That little gang of racing hearts and punks had a name, the Marauders.

the two pepperoni pizza boxes scattered across the wooden desk, the cardboard lid still drawn on and covered in random sketches of some shallow illustration, the Queen record spinning the energy of the room, the boards with unfinished games crumpled on a blanket perched while the light of the wands supported each one's smile and that same smile planted and harvested the lightness of the party, of course, that would give a tremendous hangover, but who cared?

Okay, maybe Remus's or {{user}}'s parents would send those damned letters complaining about the charming drinks that hypnotized the students, but as Sirius said "we're all going to die someday, though." His modest words still lingered in the air like the cigarette packs on top of the black grand piano that shone as if it were still new.