Preface: I guess it all started when I was googling the Marauders on the Harry Potter wiki. I saw that for the movie of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, they had based the Marauders' appearance on the Beatles. I couldn't help but start seeing parallels between the two everywhere, with James' character and John Lennon especially. And that led me to think... What if the Marauders had been a wildly popular band instead of the Beatles at that time? So here is a story, of what it would be like if the Marauders were a band, and all the characters are around 25. And what better time to start a fic than the beginning of November, NaNoWriMo? So here you go...
I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters. I do not own the Beatles, their music, songs, lyrics, logo, or any other related copyrighted material.
1965, a small pub in Liverpool
James can't help but notice the waitress as he sits holding his beer.
She couldn't be more normal, with her hair tied back, as she weaves around the tables, pouring water into glasses, and writing down Scousers' mundane orders.
She doesn't smile much, but her eyes have something special. Their green sparkles with deeper green flecks, and lighter, almost golden ones, like kaleidoscope eyes. He smiles at his sudden stroke of genius. That's a good line, he thinks as he jots it down on his napkin and stuffs it into his jacket's pocket.
He smiles dazzlingly as she makes her way towards his table, lifting up the cap that until then hid his famous face from onlookers. He waits for realization to dawn on her face as she realizes who she's in the presence of, but she only registers a small green flicker as she scans his face then looks back down at her waiter's pad.
"Would you like something else?" she asks, and hearing her voice, he immediately knows she's Liverpudlian.
"Another beer," he says, gesturing half-heartedly to his now-empty bottle. She picks it up with an expression he can't place and makes her way over to the bar. He leans back into his seat, a glimmer of amusement threatening to make him smile; that same smile that makes fans roar as he finishes a song, and melt at the sight of him.
She walks back to James, holding the bottle carefully yet effortlessly. She sets it down on the table. James looks up again, giving her one last chance to recognize him before he told her.
He tries not to feel disappointed as she walks away without a second glance. "Wait!" he says, and she slowly turns around. Her ponytail swishes above her shoulders as she walks back towards him.
Suddenly feeling awkward, James stammers, "I- I'm James-"
"James Potter. I know," she says simply. "You're one of the Marauders, aren't you? All of England's dropped off its trolley for the Marauders. Maraudermania they're calling it."
"Y-yeah," James says, composing himself.
The waitress shoots him her first smile of the evening, a half-smile that holds something much more dangerous than your usual one. "Well don't expect me to turn into a pillock just for that."
"How long've you been here?" Sirius demands, brushing a too-long strand of black hair away.
"Ages," James murmurs. He's been watching the waitress out of the corner of his eyes, looking away every time she turns his way. He pulls out the crumpled napkin from his pocket, and adds underneath: something about the way she moves.
He looks up to the look on Sirius' face that so clearly means he's about to have a go at him. "Weren't we supposed to have practice today?" Sirius asks, his eyes flashing.
"Yeah, but I'm knackered today," he says, looking to the side to catch her reaching up for a glass.
"James." He's called back to reality and looks up with a doleful look.
"Come one. You can't stay here forever."
"Stop getting up my nose!" James says, his volume rising.
"You're absolutely barmy! Been drinking, have you?" Sirius snaps. Both of them get up in one fluid movement.
James clenches his fists, feeling bile clouding his thoughts, as the stress of the week rises up in a wave of anger.
The bartender, a short, fat man, gets up, and makes his way over to the pair that ripple with tension. "Now, gentlemen," he begins, seemingly unsure of how to settle this.
Gasps come from the pub. "It's Potter!"
"And Black!"
"Happy to have your moment of fame, are you?" Sirius taunts. James balls his fist and throws a punch, always keeping his eyes, alight with anger, looking straight at Sirius'. Sirius recoils as it hits the side of his face, the pure indignation throwing off his aim.
Sirius hits him above the eye and James feels someone holding him back, restraining him. "Someone call the bizzies!" a voice calls across the pub, and as James struggles, something hits him over the head.