It would have been the perfect gift. Before – for a decade, Peter Pettigrew had searched for the perfect present for Sirius Black. There was something poetic or ironic - or one of those words Peter never quite grasped but Remus had always explained patiently - at finding just the thing when the man in question rotted away in Azkaban. If there was anything left of the boy Peter had been, he might have felt morose or guiltily for celebrating the birthday of a mate he had driven mad. But nothing could have kept Wormtail from celebrating Padfoot's birthday at a Pink Floyd Concert.

He rolled his shoulders, uncomfortable with walking on two feet for the first time in years. Muggles were everywhere but not one was looking at him, not one had noticed the man in a too long yet too small black cloak scurrying into the shadows. Sometime in fifth year, Sirius had taught the marauders how to sneak into muggle concerts. It had been bafflingly easy, a flick of a wand here and slipping into a back door there. Peter had always wondered how a pure breed wizard like Black had ever learned how to do it. He remembered the lessons now, like riding a broom, the movements came back easily.

Slipping through a back door with a flickering exit sign as a security guard smoked, hiding in plain sight, and walking towards the noise of the crowds. The Omni was like other venues, concrete halls spilled into crowds. Peter had stolen one of the twins' wands. The stolen wand jumped with every spell, as if trying to escape its thief's grasp but a child's enchantment wasn't going to beat him. He cast a spell to bring him a beer knowing no one would notice the blatant magic and barely caring if they did. When he sipped, he grinned at the familiar bitter taste.

It was dark and the air had a mist settling Peter had never seen anywhere but rock concerts and cemeteries. The music began, slow and teasing and the crowd began to rumble with clapping and shouting. When the guitar began strumming, the muggles stilled for a moment before all collectively leaning forward. Peter knew he had a minute to find a spot, before the show really began, and he pushed forwarded towards the stage.

Remember when you were young…

The singer began to croon as Peter passed a boy in a black leather jacket, one shockingly familiar to something Sirius had owned. Peter struggled to remember if Prongs had given Padfoot that jacket, allowing himself to do a double take to jog the buried memory.

You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom…

Peter Pettigrew had been to four muggle rock concerts before this one in his life, all of them with and because of Sirius Black. Each event had been crowded and loud but undeniably electrifying, pulsing with life and rebellion perfectly in tune and attuned to the marauders but especially to Black. Padfoot had been the cool, reckless, powerful marauder who taught Wormtail about the magic of music.

It was magic, and Peter supposed it could even be a curse. The music and the master of the lesson had driven him to leave the rat behind for one night – for this night. Wormtail had been a boy when Padfoot had taught him about music, about the way a strumming guitar and beating drum felt inside his chest. He could feel it now, with the guitar bubbling in his ribcage.

A redhead girl danced with the lights of the stage up ahead. Peter couldn't be sure if imagined the man in glasses that laced his fingers around her waist. Memories were floating about just beyond - violently flashing before Peter's eyes.

Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr…

Peter found himself singing the words with the crowd. The Dark Lord who had promised Peter the world, the adoration of all, would have found this excursion ridiculous. He would have punished Peter for leaving his post, for remembering his traitorous mate, and for being among muggles and allowing them to live. But the Dark Lord had abandoned him, and nothing he was promised had come.

You cried for the moon…

Red lights flooded the crowd before sweeping up to the sky. Peter's eyes followed the light, suddenly searching for Moony. Prongs was dead. Padfoot in prison. But Moony, he might have come – might have realized this was undeniably perfect. But Wormtail knew he wouldn't find the familiar pale face and graying gold hair in 1500 people. Not even for Padfoot's perfect present.

Wormtail would have won the gift competition this year, the one that everyone denied existed. This would have been better than James' leather jacket that Sirius wore for years or Remus' enchanted Farah Fawcett poster that hung in their dorm from second year on. Wormtail would have beat Prongs and Moony who had never understood Padfoot and the music quite like Peter.

Well you wore out your welcome…

Peter hadn't thought about November 3rd since 1980. He suspected he wouldn't have thought about it this year either, except for overhearing this news. Over the summer, Charlie had been discussing music with an American. A cousin, or a cousin's cousin, or some ridiculous relation which Peter didn't bother to understand. But he had been curled up in the open school trunk, feasting on the forgotten chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties when the conversation started about The Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix, and meandered to the Pink Floyd American tour. The American cousin had mentioned The Omni on November 3rd and Peter had known then that he would find a way here.

The band was coming to the end of Shine On You Crazy Diamond, a song Peter had heard countless times the summer in-between fifth and sixth year. He knew the swells and drops of the music, like he knew the words to summon the Dark Mark.

"Come on… you prisoner, and shine!"

Peter shouted the lyrics and lifted his beer. Happy Birthday Padfoot.

Sirius would have been so surprised; he might have even enjoyed the celebration despite his usual reservations about birthdays. Padfoot had been alive for 28 years today, because he was still alive – of that Peter was sure – even if he might wish he was not. Wormtail would have taken great care to point out that Sirius had outlived 27, the infamous age when so many famous musicians, artists, actors, and athletes had died. A muggle superstition that Sirius had taken great pride in telling ghost tales about at Hogwarts. Sirius Black was older than Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison had ever been. Sirius was older than James would ever be.

The song drifted into whistling and cheering. Pink Floyd wasn't like the other bands Sirius had favored, the sound came in waves and buoyed the audience to the heavens above. It was the kind of music they listened to on rainy afternoons, or early mornings, or after the parties had ended. Pink Floyd was the kind of music that had always been playing when Sirius was intoxicated enough to settle into a deep conversation with Peter.

Music is magic. Sirius had explained, more than once. He insisted the marauders pay attention to how it made them feel, how it made them move.

Peter magicked another beer into his hand, swaying to the music and movement of the crowd around him. Someone nearby handed over a lit cigarette and Peter inhaled the smoke with his eyes closed, remembering how it felt to be alive as a human and not just a rat.

Peter wondered if Sirius had forgotten how to be alive as well. Would Padfoot even know it was his birthday today? Would he know someone in the world was celebrating his birth? Would it matter?

Peter swayed and drank for song after song. Feeling the sweat run down his forehead and back. His feet ache from standing, and sometimes he shrieked with the crowd. The lights flashed and flared, and he didn't hide from them, or the occasional glance or glare. Peter let the music bring him back to a life he had left behind long ago.

Music is Magic.

It was the only lesson that remained. A persistent memory that festered. The memory vindictively pulsed with every strum of the guitar or beat of the drum beyond.

Sirius Black had learned to celebrate his birthday for James. James was dead.

Peter jerked at the thoughts. It did not matter. He did not care. He had not thought of them for years. The crowd was cheering for an encore. A final song and as the singing began, Peter pushed his way out of the crowd.

Feel the bile rising from your guilty past… The band was singing to him. Music was a curse.

You'd better run. Peter ran out into the night, whispering Happy Birthday Sirius to the wind as he apparated.