Music pounded in his veins. Everywhere he looked, people were moving, dancing, fighting, living.

Harry had never felt more alive.

He lifted his beer to his mouth and took another swig. The girl behind the bar winked at him before moving on to serve someone else. He paused, confused. He could have sworn the girl was into other girls, exclusively. Why would she wink at him?

He shrugged it off and spun around on his stool, looking up at the band that had taken over the stage. They were loud and messy, to the point of violent. Sirius possessed exactly three of their records, and Harry had listened to every one more times than he could count.

His gaze fell to the centre of the crowd, and his skin began to prickle with urgency. With need. He had to be there—right there.

Finishing his drink, he hopped down off his stool and wound his way through, body swaying and stumbling as people fell into him or knocked him forward. It was always like this—sometimes worse. He couldn't get enough of it.

Every violent shout made him feel closer to Sirius. Every broken bottle was a memory they almost shared. And here, in the centre, he could stand perfectly still and shut his eyes—with a mild Shield Charm cast around him to keep from being completely knocked out—and just be.

He stood there for ages, moving to the beat. A touch self consciously at first, as always, and then his nerves faded and the sheer energy of the crowd took over. It didn't matter who he was here. All that mattered was that he was here.

Opening his eyes, he discovered he'd become turned around somehow, facing slightly toward the shadowed corner of the hall. He moved to turn back, and then froze.

There were two people in the shadows there, kissing.

They were men.

Harry stared at them as the racing beat of his heart kicked up speed. They were... Merlin... they were making out like the world was ending. Their hands were threaded in each other's hair—one of them bright blond, the other messy and dark. Silver piercings flashed in the light. Their denim-clad thighs were wrapped tightly together, grinding against each other with every pulse of the music.

It was like no one else mattered, nothing else mattered. They were devouring each other, consuming each other with mouths and teeth and desperate hands.

Harry couldn't look away.

His gaze kept flicking up to their hair, to the colours of it, to the way they tugged at it, threading the strands through their fingers. His heart beat so loud he could barely hear the music.

Then, suddenly, the world came rushing back in a roar of sound and colour. He stumbled, reeling backward as he realised what a creep he was being.

"Merlin, what's gotten into me?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair and turning away.

For the rest of the night, he focused on nothing but the music. He danced, raged, and drank his way through it all. Pumping his fist beside one stranger, singing in unison with another. Then spilling out onto the empty, midnight street to walk aimlessly with the crowd, lost amongst it—just another nameless friend of the evening.

He was still buzzing when he came home, and so for a second, when he dropped his leather jacket on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, he didn't notice the photo that slipped out of the pocket.

Then, he doubled back, frowning as he knelt to pick it up with shaking hands.

What the hell was happening? He'd worn this jacket a dozen times, and never noticed a photo in it. Despite Hermione's disbelief, he swore the house really was keeping things from him, and only revealing them when it cared to. First the Will, then little notes in Sirius's hand that Harry insisted hadn't been there before—nonsense lyrics about glimmers of souls and earthly wiles, scrawled on paper slipped between records. And now this.

It was a photo of Molly and Arthur in the kitchen, smiling and waving soap covered hands at the camera. Except, the photographer had caught more than they meant to; Sirius and Remus were in the background, and the conversation looked serious.

Harry peered closer. It was a wixen photograph, and both of them were facing the camera...

He could read their lips.

"Pick up..." Harry muttered, squinting. "Left over... No—off. Left off." He straightened, triumphant.

And more confused than ever.

"Of course," Sirius said, brow furrowing. "We'll just pick up where we left off."

"How can we?" Remus answered, his expression twisted into an infinite sadness.

It was such a small snapshot. Far too small to make sense of. What were they picking up? Something for the Order? That didn't feel right.

And the look on Sirius's face was almost broken. Shattered. It made Harry feel ill.

Suddenly, he clutched his stomach, as everything he'd drunk rose abruptly within him and made him really ill. He raced to the bathroom, leaving the photo behind him.

That night, he dreamed of two men kissing—one blond and one dark-haired at first, and then one long-haired and one scarred—but by the time he'd woken up, he'd forgotten.