I'm writing this one solely because I adore the living hell out of Sirius Black, and the idea of somehow weaving him into '70s (well, nearly '80s) culture is something I've dreamed of for ages. So yes, this book is invariably going to be a bunch of pretentious drivel.

Disclaimer: The author claims no ownership over the Harry Potter series, or the works associated with it.

Warning for language. Oh, and sex (not really), drugs (not quite), and rock 'n roll (an overload), baby.

Hyperion

Leigh's Bar was not a dance club, thank you very much. The dingy old place had thrived long before most of these disco-dancing bogues were in the womb. It had seen eons of rock come and go- hell, it was where my mom had, in her groupie heydays, met (and shagged, if auntie's accounts are anything to go by) Mick Jagger himself.

A perpetual miasma of cigarette smoke, sour, flat beer, and acrid cologne curled around its worn mahogany-and-red-velvet interiors, but it smelled like home. Twanging, crooning guitars for the blues, hollow riffs for rock 'n roll, sprawling, dreamy solos for prog-rock, and the rough, metallic synergy of punk; these were the sounds that I'd grown up listening to, within the walls of this very enigmatic establishment.

William Leigh Jr., or Bill, as patrons called him, was rather fond of me. "Now, Seltzer, you've got a real charm for the guitar. Don't see why you should be indulgin' in this punk nonsense. It ain't real music, that's what. Mark my words, little lassie: rock is dead, and ain't no leather-wearin' chainsmoker gonna revive it," he'd say, in a very and that's that tone .

Well, leather-wearing chainsmoker though I might be, pseudo-anarchist I was not. The girls and I, we liked to have our fun, if that's what Bill meant by "punk". We did what the boys had been doing for years; simple as that.

We were putting up a show that night- the old codger would get us in at half the price he paid the other acts, but it was free publicity, and a hell of a good time, so we didn't really mind. Besides, on a good day, there was the off-chance that a fellow from a label might be hanging around. Leigh's was the sort of place where you'd find the ones who still adored Zeppelin; the office-workers who'd had musical ambitions at the dawn of the '70s; the ex-groupies looking to share the wild stories of their youth; biker dudes that were a bit out of loop with today's scene; and so forth.

One thing that bought all of Leigh's patrons together was their common hatred of disco and punk. Which was precisely why we'd included both stuff by Donna Summer and the Sex Pistols, with some Blondie thrown in to provide middle-ground.

Hey, if we were forced to play the cover band, we could cover whatever the hell we wanted to. Even if it meant getting leered at by the crowd (which tended to happen, anyway, once they saw we were all chicks with electrics that were actually plugged in).

The crowd and atmosphere were much the same that night. Dingy, smokey room, dingy, smokey people. A bunch of bikers with slicked-back hair were ogling my legs in their thigh-highs. Shouts of "You sure you can lift that, sweetcheeks?" as Machia, our dainty guitarist, slung her red-as-sin Ibanez over her shoulder. "The soundcheck's better than the real deal," as we began twanging and tuning our instruments.

"Good evenin', you chauvinistic fuckers!" And before the inevitable booing could follow, Valerie beat her drumsticks in the air, and we began our first number.

I loved the lights on my sweat-soaked face; I loved the feel of my Les Paul's leather strap against my (more often than not) bare shoulder; I loved the little moments of perfect synchronization we had: Lottie's heady bass lines, Valerie's deep, rolling drum solos, Machia's alternations between earthy acoustic and twanging electric, my effervescent riffs, and our dreamy vocals. We fizzed, we burned, we taunted the audience, and made eyes at the biker boys. It was a tobacco-scented heaven.

I also adored the smooth façade of my on-stage persona. Confident, outspoken, promiscuous. All cherry-tinted lips, ripped fishnets, and smudged eyeliner. Sweet as saccharine, with a bitter aftertaste.

It was this act that boys fell for; they lapped it up like half-starved dogs. That's why none of them stayed around that often. Painting my face and wearing black seemed insignificant, but I was a chameleon to my surroundings. If I looked like a delinquent, I acted like one. And at home, in my boyshorts, curled up with my crumbling copies of poetry books I'd flicked from libraries, reading glasses falling off my nose, I was the farthest I could be from Seltzer.

Boys don't like something they can't predict, after all.

It was cold; my breath fanned out in wisps as I leaned against the curb with an unlit cigarette dangling between my lips, hands in my pockets in their quest for a lighter. A scuffling brought my attention the motorcycle parked against the wall- and its owner, who was surreptitiously held out a lighter for my use. I raised an eyebrow, accepting the lighter, while settling myself comfortably against his bike.

"Your gig was wonderful," he said, baritone voice laced with no hint of ingenuity. I inclined my head in reply, a slow smile stretching across my face as he responded with one of his own, cloud-like eyes glimmering strangely from underneath wisps of wavy black hair that he'd evidently tried to restrain with a thong.

"New to the Leigh's scene?" I asked, observing his outfit with some interest. A fading, old Pink Floyd concert tee (no self-respecting punk would ever), a worn, but well-fitting leather jacket, blue jeans and boots of dark leather. A welcome change from the awful gleaming, garish metallic paraphernalia that the bikers had been favoring recently. This one seemed to be a lone wolf, too, as the lack of a leering, rowdy gang suggested.

He nodded. "It's been a while since I've visited London,"

I grinned, holding my hand out to him. "I'm Ray Seltzer. If you ever need a tour guide, I'm your gal,"

He laughed, a ricocheting, deep sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Sirius Black, at your service," he said, unexpectedly placing a kiss on the sensitive underside of my wrist.

"Sir-ee-uhs," I said, testing the name on my tongue, hand still held (and engulfed) in the warmth of his own. "Were your parents astronomy enthusiasts?"

His expression remained charming, boyish, yet guarded. The slow, easy smile that curved his lips was unwavering, but his eyes turned stormy as a strange gleam passed through them. "You could say that,"

Sore spot, then.

I crossed my legs, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I've an interest in studying the stars myself,"

He grinned wolfishly, thumb running over the back of my knuckles. "I'm open to applications, sweetheart,"

I remembered him. He'd been leaning against the counter, straddling the stool with a lazy ease. His mercurial eyes followed me as I sang, smoke sometimes obscuring the sharp lines of his face. An interesting face, that. The bridge of his well-defined nose was pointed upwards, and his full lips framed features Michelangelo would've given limbs to carve; delicate, sloping brows, smooth waves of hair, and the most ridiculously expressive eyes I'd seen on a man. Grey, framed by sooty lashes, holding some imperceptible depth of emotion.

Sirius Black had secrets.

Secrets I was determined to uncover.