We drink a toast to innocence, we drink a toast to now
Characters: Any who wish to attend Summary: Remembering and drinking, in equal measure.
Harry had been to enough memorials at the end of the war to know what he did and didn't want while remembering Sirius. Tom gave him a decent price on renting the entire Leaky for the night, a tip of his hat to an entertainer he respected, and Harry had enlarged a typical picture of Sirius to sit in a corner. His godfather was already waving and blowing kisses to anyone who passed him, including the staff. Sirius was literally the picture of life, so also heartbreaking in equal measure. Harry'd had a hard time finding a good picture; there had been several long moments while going through his drawers when Harry was breathless with burning regret over how few times any of them had pulled out a camera.
A few people were already getting past the doorman Tom had hired for the night, an older, well-trained wizard who knew to keep out anyone who showed up out of pure curiosity. Harry had put a terse notice in the Prophet, calling the evening a Memorial so that anyone who didn't know Sirius had lived again would think they were marking an anniversary. Harry had contacted the Order and anyone else who might have a personal interest personally.
Now, Harry was seated in what had been Sirius' old dressing room, waiting for the bar to fill and absently running his finger through some spilled magical makeup. The colours kept changing whenever the pad of his finger warmed the substance, and Harry couldn't help from flicking his eyes between the swirling hues and his own image in the mirror hanging over the dresser.