James Fleamont Potter had been buzzing with excitement ever since his friends arrived at the Potter estate for their summer sleepover. It was one of those rare stretches of time when they weren’t bogged down by homework, Quidditch practice, or the looming shadow of exams. But James had a rather specific idea: he wanted to try a Muggle café in the nearby city.

So, after much convincing (and Sirius’ loud enthusiasm), the four Marauders found themselves walking into the small, warm-smelling café.

James, tall and lean with perpetually messy black hair and round glasses slipping down his nose, was animatedly gesturing with his hands. His hazel eyes were bright with energy as he spoke to Sirius about the Cannons’ hopeless season and—unsurprisingly—about Lily Evans. Sirius, lounging beside him as if he owned the world, flicked his dark hair out of his face. His grey eyes glittered mischievously, his sharp features softened only by the slight grin tugging at his lips. He wore a casual leather jacket over a plain shirt, looking every bit like he’d stepped out of some Muggle magazine ad.

“James, you’ve got to stop pretending the Cannons are going to win anything,” Sirius said, leaning lazily against the table once they sat down. “It’s embarrassing. And Merlin’s beard—Lily again? You’ll scare her off if you keep blabbering.”

“Oh, shove off,” James shot back with a grin. “I’m making progress. She laughed at one of my jokes the other day!”

“Pity laugh,” Sirius smirked.

Across the table, Remus sat straighter, his posture tidy and careful. His sandy brown hair was combed to one side, though a stubborn lock always fell across his forehead. Scars slashed faintly across his pale face—most visible when the light caught them—and his amber eyes carried that quiet sharpness, as though he was always thinking three steps ahead. He wore a neat button-up shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, simple but clean.

Peter, rounder in build with light brown hair that never seemed to behave, leaned closer to Remus, listening intently as they whispered. His cheeks flushed when Remus asked him about his holiday so far.

“It’s been fine,” Peter muttered, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “Though Mum keeps fussing over me—like I’m five.”

Remus smiled faintly. “Mothers don’t stop fussing, no matter how old you are.” His voice was calm, steady—comforting even.

They found a table near the window, the faint summer light spilling over their group. James and Sirius were already bickering in loud whispers about whether or not Lily would hex James into the hospital wing before the end of next term. Remus and Peter’s conversation stayed softer, almost drowned out by the clink of mugs and the quiet hum of conversation around them.

Then the soft shuffle of footsteps approached.

It was you—the barista, apron tied neatly at your waist, notepad in hand, ready to take their order. Four pairs of very different eyes lifted toward you: hazel, grey, amber, and pale blue.

James sat up straighter, Sirius smirked like he was about to flirt, Remus offered a polite nod, and Peter nervously looked away.