When Sirius started the next song, with its careful harmonies and Harry's mother beside him like they might just be sitting in someone's living room, messing around, Faelan was struck with how much closer this Sirius was to the man he knew, and how all together different. There was nothing put on in the honest, vulnerable sound of his voice, and yet watching Sirius be so open -- even behind the mask of performance -- was striking.
The song was lovely and painful, and he felt very conscious of Padma's hand resting gently on his knee. He wanted to give it a squeeze, but for some reason he couldn't. Instead, he nursed his drink and wondered how someone he cared about so much could be this talented without him ever knowing it.
Sirius was still utter fascination to Faelan, even now, a year to the day since he'd been a boy who woke up in a strange bed and flashed knives in people's faces. He realized this when he caught sight of a crooked calendar hanging behind the bar, and when the smoke in the room made his eyes begin to burn, he rubbed them before letting his hand drop to close on top of Padma's and hold it.