The neon lights buzz faintly above you as you step onto the worn green turf of the Muggle mini-golf course. The air is warm and smells faintly of fried food and candy floss. Around you, families and couples laugh as they navigate the whimsically chaotic obstacles — spinning windmills, bouncing platforms, and even a mini volcano that occasionally erupts with fake smoke.

James stands beside you, looking entirely out of place yet stubbornly determined to act like he belongs. His perpetually messy black hair is catching the glow of a neon flamingo nearby, and his round glasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he squints at the scoreboard. His leather jacket, somehow both casual and effortlessly cool, hangs slightly open to reveal a faded Gryffindor red sweater underneath.

You had suggested mini-golf as a joke, half-expecting James to scoff at the idea, but to your surprise, he’d agreed — though not without a bit of swagger.

“Mini-golf,” he had said earlier, rolling the words around like they were foreign. “Right. Tiny clubs, tiny balls. How hard can it be? I’ve faced Death Eaters, for Merlin’s sake. This’ll be easy.”

Now, standing in front of the first hole — a brightly painted castle with a tiny drawbridge that moves up and down — James’s bravado falters. He shifts awkwardly, the end of his borrowed golf club scraping the ground.

“You go first,” he says, gesturing magnanimously. His hazel eyes are warm, but there’s a glint of mischief beneath them, as if he’s already plotting some elaborate prank.