1979 The Marauders. A new local rock band that quickly gained success just by playing in bars and festivals throughout the summer—an idea of James, who is known as the lead singer.

Everything went perfect. They sang, they performed, they were made to be in the spotlight. Sirius, talented with the guitar. Remus, the gentle boy in charge of the bass. Marlene Mckinnon, who played the drums like no one else ever could. Lily, dominating the keyboard. Peter, the sweet gopher who always hung out with the band.

However, it wasn't enough. The members weren't satisfied enough. The manager wasn't satisfied enough—they wanted recognition, because they knew they deserved it. There was a missing piece in their puzzle that needed to be found, and soon.

One friday night, the band decided to hang out in a different bar—bigger, busier yet calmer, where the sound of music fluently passed through the air, alongside the surprisingly pleasant smell of alcohol and tobacco.

You were performing that night, on the simple stage in front of the many tables of that place. Your talent was undeniable. It was unique, it was perfect.

It was what the band didn't have. It was what they needed. And the band members were all thinking the same thing, it was as clear as the sun.

"Well..." Sirius muttered, leaning back on his seat while grabbing his beer. "I think we found our missing piece."