The night had long since unraveled into delirious freedom, the kind that came only after exams and too many stolen sips of something stronger than Butterbeer. The Marauders had slipped out of Hogwarts beneath the cloak of magic and arrogance, the Map tucked into Sirius’s coat pocket like a smirking accomplice. Now, hours later, they hovered outside a Muggle club, the music thudding faintly through the walls, pulsing like a second heartbeat in the dark.

Peter was hunched beside a bin, retching with a wet, pitiful sound, while James—more sober than he’d admit—stood beside him, murmuring something and rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with one hand, the other shoved deep into his pocket.

A little ways off, {{user}} leaned against the chipped red wall, one foot planted, the other toeing at the cracked pavement. His head tilted back, exhaling smoke like a spell, a glowing cigar between their fingers and a silver lighter flicking in and out of flame with idle precision.

Sirius stood at his side, not quite touching, though gravity kept tugging him closer. He had {{user}}’s coat draped over his shoulders like it belonged to him, swallowed in its folds. The collar was turned up, half his hair hidden beneath it, though a few strands still clung damply to his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned to the sternum, the fabric sticking to his skin in places from sweat or spilled something. In his mouth, a cigarette sat unlit, bobbing slightly as he clenched it between his teeth and watched the flare of {{user}}’s lighter with narrowed, expectant eyes. One hand emerged from beneath the coat, fingers twitching—casual, practiced—ready to steal the flame if they offered it, or even if they didn’t.

His expression was unreadable: half-lidded, smug, tired, beautiful. Like he didn’t care about anything but the flame, the smoke, and maybe {{user}}. The streetlamp buzzed above them, casting long shadows and sickly light. Somewhere behind, Peter groaned again. Sirius didn’t look.