hp fic: Anatomy of a Prank (part 3)

[xylodemon]

"Black."

Regulus paused with his hand poised over his bishop. A shadow fell across the chessboard, and Hyacinth Selwyn stopped lecturing her pieces on the inherent weakness in giving quarter to one's enemies long enough to offer Regulus a falsely sympathetic smile.

"Yes?" Regulus asked, mimicking Avery's toneless drone.

Avery frowned sharply. "Your brother."

The common room went suddenly and suspiciously quiet.

"Yes?" Regulus repeated, a bit expectantly. He rather wasn't in the mood. Conversations about Sirius were always tiresome, and it didn't help that Avery sometimes had difficulty speaking is complete sentences. Without looking away from Avery's face, Regulus used his bishop to rout one of Hyacinth's pawns. "What about him?"

"He's been seen."

Regulus swallowed a frustrated sigh. "You do realise we all live in the same castle, right?" In the far corner, Connors and Parkinson were pretending to commune over third-year Charms, but Regulus doubted they were learning much of anything. Parkinson's quill hadn't moved since Avery arrived, and Connors was watching them openly. "I often have the misfortune of seeing him several times a day."

One particularly bleak Thursday last month, he'd run into Sirius on twenty-two separate occasions. That had been a strange day all around, though, what with the Augureys roosting outside Ancient Runes and the enraged Devil's Snare holding the Astronomy Tower hostage.

"He's hanging around the Potions corridor," Avery said, and his forehead wrinkled like he was trying and failing to latch onto a full thought. Regulus wasn't going to hold his breath. "He shouldn't be down there this late."

"Don't let it worry you," Regulus advised lightly. Hyacinth ducked her head, her mouth twitching as it disappeared behind her hand. "He'll find his way home when he gets hungry."

Nott settled into a dark green armchair that boasted a clear view of Avery's arse. He didn't seem interested in taking advantage of this fact; he was too busy reading a Quidditch magazine, apparently upside-down.

"Black."

"Avery."

Avery tilted his head like a Crup trying to remember where it had buried its favourite bone, and the expression he took on could've almost been considered pensive. Regulus fancied he smelled smoke.

"Potions," Avery said finally. His tone was positively dire.

"I didn't have it today, thank Merlin," Regulus noted, as Wilkes came plodding up the dormitory stairs. He paused when he reached the landing, taking extreme interest in a potted fern and a pair of elaborate pewter candlesticks, and Regulus wondered who he thought he was fooling. "Some nancy Hufflepuff exploded a cauldron, and Slughorn got scurvy-grass in his eyes."

"Nettles," Hyacinth corrected sweetly. "I think it was nettles."

Regulus darted a considering glance at Hyacinth and tried to figure out what she was playing at. As a Prefect related to a prominent Ministry official, she had little to gain by helping Regulus, and quite a bit to lose from baiting someone like Avery. He was an idiot, but his two closest friends were the Head Boy (Rosier) and the Slytherin Quidditch captain (Mulciber).

"Potions is awfully close to Slytherin," Avery pointed out needlessly.

"It is, rather."

Hyacinth disguised a snort behind a cough, and Regulus decided it was best not to read anything into her behaviour. She was likely just enjoying the show.

"He shouldn't be down there."

Regulus was fairly certain they'd already established this. "He's probably just lost. He gets confused easily."

"It's all those Bludgers he's taken to the head," Hyacinth noted, favouring Regulus with a look that was both appraising and amused.

Regulus smiled at her, just a slight curve to the corners of his mouth. He didn't much care for blondes, but he had to admit she was quite pretty. At the very least, she was more attractive than the French troglodyte his mother expected him to marry when he came of age. Sophie Devereaux came from a wealthy family with an unbroken pureblood line that stretched back to the Roman conquest of Gaul, and as far as his mother was concerned, that far outweighed his loud and numerous objections to her face.

"Could be up to something," Avery ventured.

"Well, yes. I suppose he could be," Regulus said shortly. "And, let me guess -- this is the part where you want me to go do something about it."

Avery grunted. "Your brother."

Parkinson was chewing his quill and Connors was gnawing his thumbnail and neither were bothering to hide the fact that they were positively staring. Wilkes had progressed to lingering over a portrait of Slytherin's second wife, his head cocked at an angle he likely thought was more conducive to eavesdropping, and Nott had all but disappeared behind his magazine, and never mind that he still had it the wrong way around.

"I'm busy just now." Regulus frowned at the forgotten chessboard; Hyacinth had used his distraction to do something clever with one of her knights, and now his king was in jeopardy. It shook its tiny fist at Regulus, shrieking worrying imprecations in its ridiculously high-pitched voice, and Regulus sighed. "I'm not finished letting Hyacinth beat me."

Hyacinth sniffed loudly. "You were doomed five moves ago, Black."

Avery grunted again and pulled a face that suggested he'd point his wand at Regulus as soon as he sorted out which end went up, but Regulus wasn't going to hold his breath there, either.

"He's probably buggered off already," Regulus said.

"Black."

"All right, all right," Regulus muttered, because Avery was quickly turning an alarming shade of purple. He rather looked like he planned to explode at any moment, and Regulus didn't want to clean up the mess. He was wearing new robes, and blood stained something terrible. He also didn't want to spend the rest of the evening exchanging hexes from behind an overturned couch, and that's precisely what would happen if Avery got truly naffed off and found his wits long enough to fetch Mulciber and Rosier. "I'll go see what he's on about."

The stone door that guarded Slytherin opened with a hurried and disgruntled scrape, nearly barrelling out of the way in its rush to let Regulus by. He heard whispers behind him -- Hyacinth's soft flutters, Avery's dimwitted monotone, Nott's fussy and meticulous tones -- but he shrugged it off as he exited the common room. A bust of Demeter snickered at him, evidently amused by the way he paused to straighten his hair and robes, and he calmly Transfigured it into a fruit bowl. Considering it a vast improvement, he helped himself to a satsuma and headed toward the left, taking what he hoped was the quickest route to Potions.

He rounded the corner at the end of the hallway and slammed right into Severus.

"Was it something I said?" Severus asked quietly, as he picked himself up. He took care to leave the satsuma where it had rolled under a tapestry.

"Where have you been?" Regulus demanded. He smoothed a crinkle in Severus' collar and brushed a bit of lint from Severus' sleeve, but quickly decided his hair would need nothing short of a miracle. It was just as lank as usual, but it was also disordered in a way that said birds had been nesting in it at some point. "You look a fright."

"It's a chronic condition, or so Potter tells me," Severus said. The tapestry returned the satsuma with a dusty belch, and Severus ignored it as it rolled into his foot. "It didn't help that some clumsy Quidditch hooligan knocked me arse over head."

Regulus disregarded this with a wave. "I could've used you about ten minutes ago."

"I was in the Library," Severus explained, frowning when Regulus grabbed his arm and began dragging him down the hallway without ceremony. "Where are we going? You said you were tired, earlier."

Regulus was very tired. It had been a fairly exhausting day, between Quidditch practice and the amorous Flobberworm he'd run afoul of during Care of Magical Creatures. Not that Kettleburn had gone out of his way to help him, or anything. He'd also suffered through a double period of Divinations, where Ogleby had treated him to a long and disturbingly detailed list of the horrors scheduled to assault the House of Black once Mars did something or other in the vicinity of something else. His eventual escape from the North Tower had been foiled when Hectate Hettledown had ambushed him at the foot of the stairs, bristling like a freckled and large-breasted bird whose feathers were quite ruffled, and he'd been forced to spend the next hour convincing her that his recent romantic advances had been made honestly, and were not actually part of some convoluted political subterfuge in his brother's general direction.

The girl hadn't been half wrong, but it wasn't like Regulus was just going to admit it.

"You distinctly mentioned taking a nap before dinner," Severus pressed.

"Change of plans. Your boyfriends have sent their goon after me."

"Again? It's only Thursday."

"Apparently, Sirius is loose in the Potions corridor," Regulus continued, herding Severus around a corner. "And apparently, they want me to sort him out."

"Ah." Severus stopped short, causing Regulus to stumble into a broom cupboard door.

Huffing sharply, Regulus steadied himself on the doorknob. "What?"

"Potions," Severus said, with the same monosyllabic single-mindedness that had plagued Avery earlier.

"Yes?" Regulus had the strong urge to beat someone with the handle-end of his wand. Avery came to mind, as did Mulciber and Rosier. Failing that, Severus would do. Or the statue smirking at him from the corner. "What about it?"

"We're here."

"Oh, right. Of course."

The hallway was empty.

"I don't see him," Severus said, poking a tapestry that was billowed out at an odd angle. It fluttered benignly, and Severus coughed as dust clouded around his face. "And everything looks all right."

Everything did, for a certain value of 'all right.' The floors wanted polishing, and the portraits flanking Slughorn's office were still hopelessly gaudy, and it wouldn't have killed a house-elf to come down there with a wet rag and a bottle of Grime-Be-Banished, but as far as Regulus could tell, nothing was naked, burning, curiously smelly, teetering precariously atop a steaming pile of compost, or dripping with nauseating amounts of violently blue slime.

"Well, I suppose that's that, then," Regulus said, turning back toward Slytherin. "A nap is well out, but I'd like to wash up before--"

Footsteps rang out suddenly, sounding less than a corridor away. Regulus glanced at Severus; his wand was out and his eyes were narrowed.

"We should hide," Severus whispered, pointing to an alcove that a suit of armour was only mostly using.

"Yes, all right."

It was a very tight fit, starting with elbows and knees and trodden-on feet and ending with Regulus flattened against the armour, Severus pressed into his back and his mouth full of lobstered metal. The footsteps stopped as abruptly as they started, and the hallway went silent, except for the quiet hitch of Severus' breathing and a distant flurry of shuffling noises that Regulus couldn't account for. He angled his head over the armour's helmet to get a better look, which caused his knee to catch the armour directly in the arse; the armour creaked loudly in complaint and Severus reached around Regulus and rapped it smartly with his wand.

"Can you see anything?" Regulus asked.

"Just your inflated head."

"Merlin's dirty pants," Regulus snapped, as Severus shifted closer and the armour's elbow jabbed him in the belly. "I hope that's your wand in your pocket."

"I hope--"

The footsteps resumed and Regulus wiggled around a little more, trying to find a position that would give him a decent view of the hallway. He got his head around the armour's shoulder just in time to see his brother sauntering up the hallway, his arm slung over Pettigrew's shoulder and a rather satisfied grin plastered across his smug, irritating face. Regulus blinked at the scene for a full minute; he wasn't surprised that Sirius was actually down here after all, but he didn't understand how he'd ended up behind them.

"... really think it worked?" Pettigrew asked.

"Of course it worked. We're brilliant," Sirius replied arrogantly. "Bloody brilliant."

"What about that portrait?" Pettigrew frowned slightly. "You don't think she'll tell on us, do you?"

Sirius shook his head. "No. Not if she knows what's good for her."

"Nosy old hag."

"She's a distant relative."

"Oh. Sorry, then."

"I didn't say she wasn't a hag."

Pettigrew snickered loudly, squeaking in a way that was incredibly rodent-like, and Regulus caught himself grinding his teeth. This morning, he'd once again needed to remove a family of mice from his favourite pair of shoes. Regulus pulled his wand slowly, sliding along the line of the armour's visor, but Severus lurched closer without warning, moving too quickly and widely in such a constricted space. Regulus caught his chin on the armour's spaulder and the armour gave them up with a deafening shriek.

"Oh," Pettigrew said, as they tumbled out of the alcove. He stopped snickering and took a step closer to Sirius, but his mouth developed a suspicious twitch.

"Fancy meeting you here," Sirius said slowly. He watched calmly as Regulus found his feet; Severus' wand was already trained on his forehead. "Interesting place for a snog, but I guess you two have to take what you can get."

Severus' face twisted, his lips forming a thin, hard line. "Furnunculus!"

Sirius ducked flawlessly. Pettigrew's face erupted with boils -- bloody huge boils, which were a solid marker of Severus' anger -- but Regulus didn't feel vindicated in the slightest. Sirius had learned to counter the more garden-variety curses on before his eighth birthday; he'd have Pettigrew sorted without blinking an eye.

"Tarantallegra!" Sirius darted smoothly to the side and Pettigrew managed to avoid it by dint of falling over. Regulus spat as a suit of armour opposite took up the tango. "Balls!"

"Rictusempra!" Pettigrew offered, hitting Severus despite the fact that he was still sprawled on the floor.

Severus aimed at Sirius, his left side twitching as he sputtered and gasped. "Expulso!"

"Densaug--"

"Protego!"

"Sectumsempra!"

Sirius missed Severus by a mile, likely because he'd fired over his shoulder while running down the hallway with Pettigrew in tow, but it hit the tapestry behind Regulus' head, slicing it neatly in half, and Severus snarled in a way that suggested he was fit to castrate Sirius with his bare hands. He sent a terrifyingly forceful Petrificus Totalus down the hall, but Sirius and Pettigrew had already disappeared, and Severus' aim was sloppy from the Tickling Charm buggering his arm. It bounced off the wall and slammed into a statue, which toppled over and rolled quietly into the shadows.

"We need to go," Regulus said, countering the Rictusempra as he shoved Severus toward Slytherin.

They took the Potions corridor at a dead run, skidding as they rounded the corner, carrying on until the onset of dinner sent small knots of students in their direction. They slowed considerably after a pair of lower form girls fixed them with matching curious looks, and Regulus pasted on the coldest, haughtiest face he could muster with his sides aching and his hands shaking and his chest tightening from a lack of air.

Severus stopped at the mouth of the hallway that fed the Slytherin common room and frowned.

"What?" Regulus asked wearily.

"Something is wrong here," Severus replied, waving at the walls. "Something... I don't know. Something is not right."

Regulus sighed. "You're paranoid."

"Of course I'm paranoid," Severus admitted quietly. "That doesn't mean those four aren't actually out to get me."






Remus headed for the common room slowly, weighted by the leaden feet and sinking stomach that often accompanied a general sense of trepidation. He'd been down twice this morning already, once to stop himself from beating Sirius bloody -- and Sirius had been begging for it, really; Remus had been awake for a good fifteen minutes, there'd been no call for Sirius to fart on his face again -- and then about twenty minutes later, when it had rather sounded like Evans meant to spontaneously combust. Both times, the frosty reception he'd received from a good half of his house mates had sent him right back up the stairs.

The other half had called it a good show, but the point remained. Remus had a very bad feeling about this.

Not that Remus minded a little mischief, because he didn't. Granted, he didn't revel in wanton chaos the way James and Sirius did -- an impossible feat; he'd have to Banish his sense of decency, at the very least, and possibly embrace his inner nudist -- but he quite enjoyed a bit of fun now and then, as long as no one got hurt, nothing slimy took up residence in his shoes, and any resulting fistfights happened somewhere other than in his bed, on top of his trunk, or three feet to the left while he was trying to have a shower.

Their first proper prank had taken place in their fourth month of school. Remus considered it proper because it had been a collective effort and marginally successful. It had also been a premeditated attack, rather than a random act brought on by boredom, circumstance, and Sirius' chronic inability to behave normally. On that landmark occasion, Remus had learned three rather important things: Sirius was madder than a cupboard full of Jarveys, James' sense of adventure was really just a death wish in a nice set of robes, and no good could possibly come from messing with two bags of itching powder, a breeding pair of Bowtruckles, and an impossibly large brassiere in the same afternoon. They'd been lessons, in a way, and the very next day Remus had learned two more.

"Useless wassocks," snarled Elgar Chesterton, a seventh-year approximately the size and shape of Greenhouse Three. He glared sourly at Remus as he slouched toward the portrait hole, and Remus remembered that the previous term, he'd won the All Hands, No Heart award for most unprovoked fouls in a single Quidditch season.

Thing the first: on the morning after a prank, Remus needed to approach any and all common areas with his wand at the ready.

"We are the kings!" Sirius proclaimed the exact moment Chesterton ceased darkening their doorstep. The wrinkled sheet in which he was wrapped looked very much like it wanted to be a toga when it grew up.

Thing the second: on the morning after a prank, there was no living with James and Sirius.

Remus swallowed a satisfied smile. All nonsense aside, it had been a good show. It took a fair measure of talent to wreak havoc school-wide in the space of a single evening and, unless Remus missed his guess, that was precisely what they'd done. Judging by the riot Evans had nearly managed to incite, their spell had buggered every permanently occupied bed in Gryffindor -- Pyke's bed had been spared, but spattergroit was the gift that kept on giving -- and the evidence showed that the beds in Hufflepuff had suffered a similar fate. A peace delegation had knocked on the Fat Lady shortly after six, asking to parley with James and Sirius under a flag of truce.

The other four targets remained to be seen, but Remus wasn't worried. Sirius and Peter had likely done their bit correctly; Remus had taught Sirius the Anti-Theft Jinx himself, and Peter was a better wizard than people wanted to realise. Chances were, the four of them had hexed every bed the school had to offer. That definitely qualified as a good show, and really, it was pretty funny.

Various Slytherins would probably disagree, but that was only to be expected. They could be horribly touchy -- Remus often suspected new Slytherins had their sense of humour surgically removed within an hour of their Sorting -- which meant they tended to react badly to things like scaly skin, sparkly uniform parts, and fermented foodstuffs in their underclothes.

Today was double Potions; Remus made a mental note to brush up on his Shield Charms.

"We'd best head out," Peter said, straightening his tie in front of a wall hanging he'd mostly Transfigured into a mirror. "I think it's kippers. I don't want to be late if it's kippers."

"Right," Remus replied. He frowned slightly. His Arithmancy essay was a good inch over the fifteen Professor Calcutront had assigned, but the splotches of pumpkin juice peppering the conclusion were somewhat unsightly. "Where are the other two?"

"Present!" Sirius crowed, thundering down the stairs. James was right on his heels, and they both fairly reeked of essence of Dittany.

James' eye was a bit of a sticking point, but James had gamely admitted that it had been his own fault, and having witnessed the whole messy affair, Remus could only agree. It might've been avoided, had James been paying the slightest bit of attention. He ducked when he clearly should've weaved, and since he'd once declared Evans' right hook a thing of beauty, Remus was of the firm opinion that he should've seen it coming. Of course, Remus also believed that when Evans whipped herself into an absolute tempest, the best course of action was not sweating profusely and staring somewhat lecherously at her mouth.

"Well, it looks better," Remus offered.

James' smiled crookedly. "It still hurts something fierce, but the swelling's gone down a bit."

"I've told you to leave that bird alone, mate," Sirius commented, stuffing his schoolwork inside his rucksack without regard to what it would look like when he wanted it back. His tie was so loose the knot was only pretending. "She's obviously daft."

"You're daft," James countered. He pulled Peter away from the mirror -- which was quickly regaining its original size, shape, and penchant for Gryffindor patriotism -- and herded him toward the portrait hole. "She obviously fancies me."

Sirius snorted, a noise that was both undignified and loud enough to shatter the windows. "Five Sickles says she tries to kill you in your sleep before Easter hols."

"You're on!" James bellowed from the hallway, and Remus sighed. At the next password change, the Fat Lady would likely treat him to a lecture on James and Sirius' lesser points, and she thought there were many. "She obviously fancies me. Obviously."

"He's as barmy as they come," Sirius declared, to an audience of Remus, a wall hanging that now favoured a wall hanging, and an overturned chair -- collateral damage incurred during Evans' attempted lynching of James. Of the three, Remus was paying the least amount of attention. "When he wakes up dead, he'll have no one to blame but himself."

"Right."

"Moony, come on," Sirius pressed, in a tone that suggested he'd actually been on time for anything in his life. "It's nearly seven."

"Sorry. I didn't realise we were in a hurry," Remus grumbled. As he understood things, Sirius had been born late. "It's not like you, getting your knickers in a twist over kippers."

"Kippers, again? Balls." Sirius wrinkled his nose, then shrugged. "Nothing for it. I've got Divs first, and I've got to eat before. I never can eat after," he explained, taking the stairs two at a time. "Ogleby is always on about how I'm meant to be dismembered at the next Quidditch match."

"So, this weekend, then?" Remus asked sweetly.

Sirius huffed. "Sod you."

"Don't worry. I'll plan you a nice funeral," Remus continued. "Soppy music, and those little canapés you like so much. I can probably get a couple of birds to cry if I pay them enough."

"I've not fallen from my broom yet," Sirius said loftily. "Besides, Ogleby is totally cracked. She's as bad as Evans, and Evans is off her nut." He pulled the face he always favoured when the subject of Evans came up, which rather made him look like he'd just found week-old gillyweed in his pockets. "Those beds were bloody funny... she had no business getting so shirty, and I don't know why she went and blamed me and James right off."

"You're usually guilty."

Sirius waved this off as irrelevant. "What about you? You're plenty guilty, and I've never seen her take to you with a potted sneezewort."

"Only because she doesn't suspect," Remus mumbled. It was only a matter of time, really. Evans was a bright girl; she'd eventually see through his unwitting accomplice routine, the same way McGonagall had. "And it's your own fault if she doesn't. You and James are always going on about what a complete stick I am. You can't blame me if she actually believes it."

"I've never called you a stick," Sirius said, a bit too quickly. Remus arched an eyebrow, which prompted Sirius to make a vague attempt at looking sheepish, but it didn't go over so well. Sirius' sheepish wasn't a patch on James'. "Not a complete stick, anyway," Sirius went on, tugging Remus' sleeve. "Just, you worry about McGonagall too much."

"Well, one of us has to," Remus insisted. "Peter's properly terrified of her, but you and James can't seem to be bothered."

Sirius abandoned him when they reached the bottom of the stairs, throwing him over for a passing Hufflepuff with platinum curls and curves that could only be described as architectural. Remus tried to remember her name as he watched Sirius' hand navigate the swell of her hip, but he couldn't place it. Not that it mattered, of course. Sirius probably didn't remember her name, either. He was worse than James, and James was quickly becoming a Ravenclaw legend, in spite of his allegedly undying love for Evans.

Remus blanched at that unpleasant reminder; Evans had apparently taken her snit to breakfast, but he could do without running into her unaware. She really was a lovely girl, but she could go on. At length. She almost never ran out of opinions, particularly when it came to James, and it wasn't like Remus didn't know his friends were somewhat deficient. He paused and glanced about, hoping to spot Evans before she spotted him, but he found James and Peter, instead. He immediately wished he hadn't; they were just up ahead, loitering in front of a suit of armour that was mostly minding its own business, and James had a rather suspicious look on his face.

"James," Remus warned.

"Moony!" James replied merrily. He aimed his wand with a smile. "Canto!"

There was a strange and foreboding metallic-tinged silence. The suit of armour convulsed, possessed with a nervous twitch that rippled up from its greaves to its breastplate, then quivered across its lobstered arms. Its visor opened with a pained and rusty shriek, and to Remus' horror, it started to sing.

The Kneazle jockeys sing this song, doo-dah, doo-dah!
The Kneazle race-track's five miles long, oh the doo-dah day!
I went down there with my Galleons changed in, doo-dah, doo-dah!
I came back home with my pockets full of tin, oh the doo-dah day!

"Merlin's spotty arse," Remus snapped. His mother blamed the lycanthropy for all the grey in his hair, but his mother had never met James Potter. "You're bloody unbelievable."

"I try." James grinned brightly, then succumbed to a fit of incredibly juvenile snickers. Peter was positively gasping; his face was so red Remus almost expected him to explode. "Where'd Sirius get to? I thought you had him."

"Scorned for a Hufflepuff," Remus explained, covering his ears. At least the Squid hadn't been tone deaf. "Clearly, I should wear tighter jumpers."

"Clearly," James agreed, advancing on his next victim. "Canto!"

Going to run all night!
Going to run all day!
I bet my money on a bandy-legged tom,
Somebody bet on the spay!

A second suit of armour joined the first, shaking as its dull voice clanged down the hallway, and they both attempted to dance, by dint of flailing their plated limbs in jerky, stilted motions that failed to capture the song's miserable excuse for a beat. James smiled like a total madman, and a third quickly joined the fray, not that it was any better at it. They stumbled toward each other, formed a circle and, despite the fact that they couldn't have found which verse they were on with the assistance of a map, began swaying together -- with less regard to rhythm than before -- in the manner of a Muggle church choir.

James flicked his wand. The suit in the centre gave a violent jolt, slung its arms across its compatriots' spaulders, and launched into a rousing and off-key encore of the chorus, with background vocals by a pair of goblin statuettes and a portrait of Pontus the Potbellied on percussion. A crowd had gathered, and Peter was nearly in fits. The flanking suits dropped to their squeaky knees, gauntlets fanned at their leader, who began gyrating its hips in a way even Sirius would've considered untoward. A horrible creak pierced the hallway, and Remus quickly added indecent exposure to James' growing list of crimes as the soloist's codpiece broke away and clattered loudly to the floor.

Predictably, the crowd went wild. Those not in danger of wetting themselves offered tribute in the form of wolf-whistles and applause, and James replied with a deep bow and a winning smile. Remus caught sight of Evans, lurking near the edge of the throng with a face that could've curdled fresh cream, but Remus immediately averted his eyes. He could already hear what McGonagall would have to say -- he did a fair impression of her, particularly inside his own head -- and a confrontation with Evans would only put him off his meals. Remus glanced at Peter, mainly because Peter was yanking on his sleeve with the dogged persistence of a rabid lethifold, and discovered that Peter quite looked like he'd been slapped in the face.

"Oh, no," Peter whispered, his eyes impossibly wide. "We're in it now."

Remus turned, and his stomach -- the sour, fickle thing -- gave up the ghost in a completely spectacular fashion. Rather than sink, it dropped out of his body entirely. He decided that when looking for it later, the best place to start would be the Slytherin dungeons. Or the bottom of the lake.

"Gentlemen," Dumbledore said brightly. His robes were an eye-watering shade of blue. "I had hoped I would run into you, and as luck would have it, here you are."

James tucked his wand behind his back. "We didn't do it!"

"Of course not." Dumbledore peered at James over the rims of his spectacles and politely ignored the dented rondel that rolled into James' foot. "But, as I am not your Head of House, I dare say it is not my opinion that matters."





Well, the prank had gone off all right.

Sirius supposed that was something, but considering that the day now seemed to be headed straight down the pipes, he also supposed he should've stayed in bed.

He almost had. When James had kicked him to the floor at arse o'clock in the morning -- for snoring, of all things, the complete fucking girl -- his second instinct had been to crawl in with one of the others and go right back to sleep. His first had been to hex James into next week, and he'd mostly succeeded at that. His aim wasn't the best when his eyes were still closed and his brain was still slightly fogged, but James would be afraid of his school tie until Tuesday at the very least, and a four poster convulsing with a Jelly-Legs Jinx was never not funny. Once he'd got James sorted, he'd stumbled toward Remus' bed with the singular idea of sleeping through breakfast, and possibly well into Divination, but Remus had looked far too peaceful and content, and Sirius had never seen the point of suffering alone. If he was up, the Remus bloody well ought to be up, as well. Besides, Sirius rarely passed on an opportunity to sit on Remus' head.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and that.

If Sirius had stayed in bed, he wouldn't have stubbed his toe on the dustbin in the loo. If he hadn't done that, he wouldn't have shouted, and that meant he wouldn't have seen Peter naked for the fifth time in three days, because Peter -- under the mistaken impression that someone had been murdering a landed merperson in the toilet -- wouldn't have dashed out of the shower without bothering to grab a towel. Sirius wouldn't have run down to the common room in horror, where he'd been forced to listen to Evans shriek at James for a better part of an hour. He also wouldn't have seen his gormless, mincing knob of a brother walking to breakfast with Hectate Hettledown -- who was still avoiding him, but given the way she'd been curled around Regulus, he no longer had to guess at why -- and he wouldn't have been ripped away from Violet Bagshot just as things had started to get interesting.

Violet bloody Bagshot.

Sirius mostly liked birds however they came, but with those legs and hips and breasts, Violet Bagshot was nothing short of brilliant. Unfortunately, she was also incredibly prudish; Sirius had been negotiating the terms of her surrender for weeks. After judicious application of compliments, poetry copied from a book he'd nicked from Evans, and a box of sweets he'd find a way to deny purchasing while under Veritaserum, Sirius had finally -- finally -- convinced her to accompany him to his favourite supply cupboard.

Only for the door to bang open before his hand had properly been up her jumper, and for Dumbledore to greet him with an I am afraid you will need to come with me and a disturbingly twinkly bit early for that sort of thing, anyway.

It had been early, but Sirius didn't see anything wrong with starting the day with a good, solid grope. Besides, Remus had threatened him with kippers.

"Mister Black!"

Sirius blinked. In spite of his thoughts -- which had returned to the supply cupboard, where he had Violet's jumper on the floor, her freckled skin under his mouth and, most importantly, a door that was hexed to maim on contact -- he gradually became aware of pursed lips, a tightly set jaw, and a familiar pair of square-rimmed spectacles. He blinked again and found himself on the business end of what was quite possibly the frostiest glare he'd ever seen.

"Professor?" Sirius offered, in a voice he hoped would suggest he'd been there the whole time.

"I suspect I lack your full and undivided attention," McGonagall accused crisply. That was likely the understatement of the term, but Sirius figured it would be best if he didn't mention it. He smiled, but McGonagall simply adjusted her glare into something that made him wish for an overcoat "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

Not a one, he thought happily. He smiled again, and Remus promptly kicked him in the foot.

"Irresponsible." That was fairly safe; she normally said it at least once. "Careless." Another standard. "Thoughtless." Her glare was unmoved; the Mandrakes in Greenhouse Four would have frostbite within the hour. "Reckless." James shifted in his chair, and Peter seemed extremely interested in the carpet. Remus kicked Sirius again, closer to the ankle, this time. "Wilful."

McGonagall chiselled her mouth into a frown. "It seems you are ahead of me, Mister Black. I had not yet arrived at 'wilful.'"

"Of course you hadn't," Sirius replied smoothly. He let his smile widen, a gesture McGonagall pointedly ignored. She really was the most alarming woman. It was bloody unnatural, the way she patently refused to be swayed by his obvious charms. "I was only trying to help you along."

"I can assure you, I do not require your assistance."

McGonagall's expression changed, a subtle shift in her eyebrows and chin that strongly suggested she was capable of quadruple murder. It also hinted that she had no shortage of people willing to help her hide bodies. Sirius reined in his smile just slightly and favoured his friends with a sidelong glance.

Remus mostly looked nauseated. Peter had opted for horribly apologetic, his face squashed into the type of penitent expression Sirius had never really mastered -- he suspected his bloodlines were to blame; his hatred for his family didn't change the fact that Blacks simply were not bred to say 'I'm sorry' -- but James seemed somewhat twitchy. He was also suspiciously pink around the edges in a way that screamed 'I'm terribly guilty' at an ear-splitting volume, and Sirius wasted a full minute of what McGonagall undoubtedly though was precious time wishing he had the power to explode things with his mind.

Preferably James' head, because James was an utter plank.

This was entirely James' fault. In fact, this was more James' fault than anything else in the long and often awkward history of Things That Were James' Fault. Sirius was all for singing and dancing artefacts, but there was a time and place for that, and as far as Sirius was concerned, the entry hall a few short hours after a prank of epic proportions was definitely not it. Granted, McGonagall would've taken them to task about the beds eventually, but if James hadn't started a ruddy parade, they might've made it to breakfast, and Sirius might've made it up Violet Bagshot's skirt.

If those knickers had been pink, James would've owed him a Galleon.

"Professor," Sirius said, swallowing a grimace. Remus had given up on kicking and was now grinding the heel of his foot into Sirius' toes. Sirius tried for another winning smile, as it was quite clear that any hope of salvaging this situation rested solely with him. "We didn't--"

"Enough," McGonagall snapped, disregarding him with a wave. Sirius wondered if she was somehow related to Evans. "I have no interest in what I am sure would be an entertaining collection of tall tales, pointed fingers, and well-rehearsed excuses."

She narrowed her eyes at each of them in turn -- beginning with Peter, who quietly turned the colour of good wine, and ending with Remus, who shrank down in his chair in a way that said he hoped his robes would do him a favour and strangle him -- and made a terribly Scottish noise in the back of her throat.

"I shall not waste time pondering the question of guilt," she announced, sounding very much like the verdict had been handed down long before they'd even been sent for. "I suppose I should be relieved that no students were physically injured as a result of your activities."

The silence was short and sudden; Sirius pointedly did not think about that unfortunate business with Davy Gudgeon and the Sneakoscope, but the twist to McGonagall's mouth implied she was reliving the whole poxy affair in clear and livid detail.

"However, a large number of students are complaining of emotional distress," she continued. "They feel that by hexing their beds, you violated their personal effects."

"Violated!" James yelped, in a manner Sirius found terribly girly. "Violated?" His hands crept toward his hair, and his fringe was rather thoroughly assaulted, not that it needed it. "We didn't violate anything! It's not like we rolled around in their beds starkers, or--"

McGonagall patted her bun. "That will do, Mister Potter."

Another silence, and Sirius thought -- quite deliberately -- about the time James ran down the North Tower stairs wearing nothing but his glasses and a Gryffindor scarf.

"It is not your opinion that is at issue, but your behaviour. Through the casting of complex and dangerous spells, you caused a serious disturbance and upset many of your fellow students."

Sirius bit down on the inside of his cheek. A spot of preening was in order, but he was fairly certain that now was not the time.

"Detention," McGonagall pronounced, almost cheerfully. "For the rest of this week, and all of the next. You will report to Mister Filch each day, thirty minutes after dinner, and you will perform the tasks he sets out for you quickly and without complaint. Particularly tomorrow, and this coming Tuesday." Her frown lingered on Sirius and James. "We're up against Ravenclaw next week. While I'd rather you didn't miss any practice between now and then, I will not interfere if Mister Filch decides to keep you longer than the hour I've proscribed."

Sirius and James mumbled in agreement. Peter nodded silently, and Remus, who'd mostly succeeded in disappearing inside his robes, merely twitched.

"Now," she went on, consulting a new sheet of parchment. "It is time we discussed the reason why Professor Slughorn was beset upon by a small army of Chocolate Frogs."

Behind McGonagall, a portrait of Jehoshaphat Zonko -- famous for his attempted domestication of the Kneazle, and the time he ended a Centaur rebellion with a plate of spotted dick and a smile, feats which paled in comparison with his true act of greatness: lending his nephew the money required to open a novelty shop -- stopped receiving his Order of Merlin long enough to drop Sirius a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, that's easy," Sirius said, his thoughts straying in the direction of Hectate Hettledown's waist. "My brother did that."





It wasn't that bad, all things considered.

"Here," Remus muttered, shoving a haversack in his general direction.

Peter could've done without the dung, of course, but that went without saying.

He sighed and picked up his spade. "Sorry."

At least Mooncalf dung didn't stink something terrible. It was smelly enough in its own way, but it didn't make his eyes water, and Peter knew better than to complain while he was ahead of things. Mooncalf dung brought dead flowers to mind, or a bowl of trifle left out to sour, but it wasn't nearly as horrid as dragon compost, which was so acrid and foul it made Peter cough, or Hippogriff droppings, which were pungent in a way Peter did not care to identify.

"You ready, then?" Remus asked, shaking another haversack in his face.

Peter also could've done without Remus growling at him, but Peter supposed it was only to be expected.

"Yes, almost," Peter promised, adding a bit more dung to the sack he was still working on. "There."

Remus opened the sack in his hands with more anger than Peter felt the situation warranted. Of course, Peter wasn't a Prefect; McGonagall had kept Remus for nearly a full hour longer than the others, holding a private meeting from which Remus had returned white-lipped and furious. When asked, Remus usually said that Prefecting was just a shiny badge and a whole lot of bother for nothing, but Peter secretly suspected it also involved McGonagall frowning quite sternly and using words like 'disappointed.' Remus had barely said anything to Sirius all afternoon, and Peter didn't think he was speaking to James at all.

"I wonder what they look like," Peter said, because Remus' stony silence was making him uncomfortable. "Mooncalves, I mean."

Remus' mouth twisted sourly. "I wouldn't know, would I? They only come out on the full moon."

"Oh. Right."

Whatever was eating Remus right now, Peter hoped he got over it by Monday night. His transformations were always worse when he went to meet the moon in a strop; he ran too fast for Peter to keep pace, he often got himself tangled in bushes or trees, and he howled loud enough to bring the castle rattling to the ground. A few months ago, Remus had got himself worked up about an hour after sundown -- something James had said, something Sirius had done, something about a nest of Horkalumps in the wardrobe, Peter really couldn't remember the details -- and during a game of chase that night, Remus had smacked Padfoot so hard Peter had had to change back and drag him to the Shack.

"They're grey or silver," Remus said, subsiding slightly.

"What? Oh, right. The mooncalves."

"Yes, and about this tall." Remus released one side of the haversack to wave his hand near his hip. The clod of dung Peter was in the process of shovelling fell to the ground, and Remus wrinkled his nose as it plopped next to his shoe. "Very flat feet."

Peter frowned. "I thought you'd never seen one."

"I haven't, but we had a lesson on them last year," Remus said. "I missed the practical bit, of course, but I took notes on Kettleburn's lecture."

"I guess." Peter shrugged and tossed another lump of dung in the sack. "I never paid much attention in that class."

"They've got big eyes," Remus continued, reaching for a new sack. "Big and round, on the tops of their heads."

Peter hefted his spade, jabbing it at Remus like a spear. "No thanks. I don't like things with big eyes."

He set a full sack aside and glanced at James and Sirius while he waited for Remus to ready another. They were meant to be sealing the finished sacks, sewing them closed with a large Muggle needle and thread Charmed to repel insects and vermin, but they mostly seemed to be whispering excitedly while trying to sneak handfuls of dung inside each other's clothes.

"James has big eyes," Remus noted.

"No, his eyes are all right," Peter said thoughtfully. "It's the glasses that make them look buggy, and that."

Remus snorted with all the delicacy of an enraged mountain troll, dropping his sack as his hands twitched to cover his mouth.

"Hey," James shouted, a good deal louder than Peter thought was prudent -- Sprout had already been in twice, asking if they were working or cavorting -- and waved his Muggle needle in the air. "What are you lot up to, over there?"

"We're planning your messy and untimely demise," Remus replied dramatically.

This apparently called for a handful of dung to be tossed in Remus' direction, but Remus wholly ignored it. Peter suspected this had less to do with Remus being the better person and more to do with the fact that it had missed Remus by a good four feet.

"Is McGonagall really angry?" Peter asked quietly, once James and Sirius had returned to their alleged work. "Really?"

"Of course she is." Remus paused then, tilting his head, and came very close to smiling. "I mean... well -- oh, never mind."

"What?"

"All right, but don't tell those two," Remus insisted, nodding at James and Sirius. "She's terribly angry, but I think she's also a little proud."

Peter blinked slowly and waited for Remus to laugh, because he had to be joking. He just had to be. Peter had never seen McGonagall so furious; he'd almost expected her to flay them alive, or beat them with her bare hands. Or let Filch dust off the manacles he was always on about.

"After you lot left... she yelled some more, and that, but then she made me go over everything in detail," Remus continued quietly. "Every spell, how we cast it and where, all of it. She said the Anti-Theft Jinx was N.E.W.T level, at least."

"I don't believe it," Peter argued. "Maybe she really is mad for Sirius' arse."

Remus snorted again, a bit softer this time. "Don't let Sirius hear you say that. His head is already so big I don't know how he holds it up."

"My ears are burning," Sirius said.

"That's just the fleas."

Another clod of dung sailed in their direction, but Peter barely noticed it. He was too preoccupied with the freckled, apple-cheeked face peering at him from the doorway.

"Peter?" Myrna Bones asked quietly.

A strange and rather awkward silence curled through the Greenhouse, during which Peter stared at Myrna, Remus stared at Peter, and Myrna stared at James and Sirius. Out of everyone, James and Sirius were probably getting the worst of it, since Myrna's expression politely suggested that dung beetles were falling out of their ears, but Peter barely noticed that, either. James and Sirius ignored it as well; they leaned close and began whispering in a manner that could only be considered lascivious, and Peter concentrated on keeping all the blood in his body from rushing to his face until Remus interrupted him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Um, Peter?"

"We had a date tonight, but I kind of forgot, what with -- " Peter flapped his hand expansively " -- well, you know. Everything. McGonagall and detention, and that."

Remus sighed and gave Peter a nudge. "Go on, then."

"What?" Peter asked shrilly.

"Go on, I said. We'll probably be here when you get back."

"What?" James shrieked, just as Sirius shouted, "No fucking way!"

"It's in the treaty," Remus said primly. "You can check when we get back, if you like."

"Which treaty?" Sirius demanded.

"The Secrecy of Goods and Services Act," Remus explained, adopting the tone he saved for jolly boring lectures and pointless attempts at getting James and Sirius to do their homework. "Whereby, each and every Marauder has the unalienable right to make private mischief, with any girl of his choosing, provided the aforementioned girl is not a member of Slytherin House, in which case the matter will be decided by popular vote. Under--"

"Moony."

"--the law, private mischief may take place whenever the opportunity arises, even in direct conflict with previously-laid plans, inasmuch as those previously-laid plans do not directly relate to the creation of public mischiefs," Remus continued smoothly. "No Marauder may stop another Marauder from engaging in private mischief, under any circumstances, as long as said private mischief meets the criteria as noted above."

The Greenhouse was silent.

"I could go on," Remus threatened. "The next bit is a section on Sirius' nocturnal habits that Miss Bones probably doesn't want to hear."

James opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap, then blinked. "What?"

"Miss Bones is not a Slytherin and we're not pranking," Remus said slowly, ticking each off on his fingers. "Under the treaty, Peter is free to go."

"Really?"

"Really."

Peter frowned down at his robes; he hoped Myrna knew a good Cleansing Charm or two.

"You're barmy," he told Remus as he headed for the door.

"Well, I've earned it," Remus agreed quietly. "I've lived in the Janus Thickey Ward for the last five years."





James skidded to a halt and glanced around for a decent hiding place. There wasn't much to work with; this particular corridor suffered from a sorry lack of anything remotely useful in terms of cover -- no pillars or flowing tapestries, not one sodding broom cupboard, and the Gobstones Club was hogging the only classroom on offer -- but James wasn't in a position to be picky. If he went back the way he came he'd run directly into Filch, and the staircase at the other end of the hall would take him right back to the scene of the crime. Voices rang out in the distance, peppered by the sort of disgruntled and fairly baleful yowls that made James' skin crawl, and James wedged himself into a niche created by a statue of Ethelred the Egregious and a sudden jut in the wall.

He hated that blasted cat. He hated her with a seething, churning flash of heat in his gut that Remus would insist was simply indigestion, and come that fateful day in the future, when James finally snapped and turned that furry little shit into the winter hat she so desperately deserved to be, the entire student body would weep with gratitude and joy, and James would go down in history as a hero and a slayer of shrill, foul beasts.

Another yowl ripped through the hallway, piercing James' eardrums like a sharpened Probity-Probe, and James forced his breathing into something he hoped approached stealthy and silent. It rather sounded like the cat was still one floor below him, but James had learned the hard way never to be fooled by something as fiddly as acoustics. Not in this castle, anyway. Things at Hogwarts were never how they seemed, and it didn't help that Mrs Norris had probably been a ventriloquist in a previous life.

The voices grew louder, and James flattened himself against the wall, sinking deeper into the shadows cast by Ethelred's enormous shoulder. Professor Sprout waddled by a few moments later, carrying a potted Flitterbloom at arm's length and prattling on to a boy who looked as bored to tears as a Hufflepuff could manage. They were just so nice, Hufflepuffs were. James almost felt bad when they wandered into an area he'd just made dangerous or smelly, or when they inadvertently came down with spots or boils, because Sirius and his berk brother were duelling in the middle of a bloody hallway and they'd somehow blundered into the crossfire.

Unless that Hufflepuff was Wilfred Bones, because Bones was a puffed-up swot with more hair than wit, and the rumours of his Quidditch talent were greatly exaggerated. James maintained that he had to tie himself to his broom just to keep from falling off, because he flew with all the agility and grace of a drunken turkey with two broken wings. Infuriatingly, Bones firmly believed his own press; he was constantly giving out about the match Hufflepuff won against Gryffindor like it hadn't happened two bloody years ago. That match had rather been a nightmare, anyway, what with one thing or another -- Sirius taking a Bludger to the head, Chesterton getting hopelessly entangled in the hoops, the freak lightning storm that had somehow resulted in the twig-end of Longbottom's broom bursting into flames -- at least on Gryffindor's end. James was still surprised they'd only lost by ten points.

Last month, when Bones had ended up on the wrong side of a hex Snape had meant for Remus, James had nearly wet himself laughing. Justice had been served, if belatedly and somewhat indirectly, and the unicorn horn protruding from the centre of Bones' forehead had been nothing short of hilarious.

James peeked cautiously around Ethelred's elbow, drawing back as he spotted Flitwick hurrying toward the staircase. He hadn't looked particularly upset, but it was difficult to tell, with Flitwick. Even when he was well and bloody furious, he hiccupped and peeped in a way that made him sound like maddened bird squabbling over breadcrumbs. James slowly counted to one hundred, then started reciting the ingredients for a Draught of Peace, but he lost track of things after the powdered moonstone and gave it up as a bad job. He dared another glance down the hallway and found it empty from end to end. Mrs Norris had finally stopped complaining, but James had also learned the hard way never to be fooled by something as deceptive as that. She was often deadly silent right before she went for the ankles.

"Prongs?"

James stepped out of the niche and walked right into Sirius. Swaying slightly, Sirius grunted. He had his wand in one hand, the Map in the other, and a vaguely harried look on his face.

"All right, there?" James asked.

Sirius peered down the corridor in both directions, a crease appearing on his forehead. "Yeah, I'm all right. Just on my way to collect Peter. Have you seen Moony?"

"No. I thought you had him."

"I did, but I lost him going past the trophy room," Sirius admitted. "Filch's familiar came sniffing around, and we got split up. I didn't see which way he went, and this -- " he gave the Map a stern shake " -- this ruddy thing's got a bag on tonight. I asked it where he was, and it told me to piss off."

"I said this would happen, when you were so keen on teaching it to talk," James pointed out. He reached for the Map, but Sirius snatched it away with a huff. James rolled his eyes. "And stop worrying like a soppy girlfriend. Moony'll turn up. He always does."

"Tosser."

"Wanker. So, how'd you like my Bat-Bogey Hex back there?"

Sirius curled his lip like he'd just been asked to smell someone's manky feet. "It was all right, I guess."

"All right?" James made a mental note to stick a pair of dirty socks under Sirius' nose the next time he fell asleep on the common room couch. The socks would soak up the drool, if nothing else. "Those bats were bloody huge!"

"Mine are bigger," Sirius noted, his mouth twitching. "I've never got them to screech, though. That was a nice touch."

James preened a little. "What about you, then? Did you do your brother?"

"No." Sirius sighed. "I never did find him. Bloody coward ran off as soon as he saw the mongoose."

"Mongoose?" James asked slowly. If James remembered correctly, their long and extremely detailed plan had not included a mongoose. "I thought you were doing a manatee."

"Yes, well. So did I, but what I got was a mongoose," Sirius explained, shrugging. "Probably for the best. Manatees need water, I think, and I'm pants at Atmospheric Charms."

"Right," James said, as a strange, dull noise sounded from somewhere behind Sirius. James angled around to have a look, but it turned out to be a suit of armour getting his spaulders in joint. "What's Peter's story, then?"

"He's on the fourth floor," Sirius replied, consulting the Map. "Been there nearly an hour."

James paused thoughtfully. "Fourth floor... just down from the Library, like?"

"Um." Sirius gave the Map another shake, offering it a few dire and physically impossible suggestions under his breath. "Yeah."

"Oh. He probably just looked at that portrait of Medusa again."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Merlin on a ginger biscuit! How many times do we have to tell him?"

"I don't know. He obviously didn't listen the first twenty-five."

Footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, followed by an incredibly loud bang James was fairly certain he hadn't caused. Explosions hadn't been part of the plan, either, but the plan had clearly gone rogue somewhere after the mongoose.

"Balls," Sirius snapped, running his hand through his hair. "I didn't... that wasn't supposed to happen yet."

A strange odour began wafting up the staircase, the kind of heavy, pungent stench common to dead flowers and large piles of rotting fruit. James wrinkled his nose, and Sirius' eyes widened in a way that made him look slightly deranged.

"Oh, bugger. I thought we'd have more time." Sirius grabbed James' sleeve and tugged. "Come on!"

"What?" James demanded, digging in his heels. "Why?"

"We've got to go. The Fanged Geraniums are coming."

James felt that deserved an explanation -- the plan really had gone rogue, if Fanged Geraniums were now involved -- but Sirius didn't offer, and James wasn't given an opportunity to ask. Sirius spun James around and shoved him into motion, aiming him away from the smelly staircase and toward the other end of the hall. James staggered around a bit, his shoes squeaking on the polished flagstones as his feet tried to get away from him, but Sirius caught him by the arm and hauled him up, dragging James along when James failed to match his pace. Sirius skittered to a stop as they turned a corner, which sent James spinning into a dusty and ill-tempered bust of Agamemnon. James righted himself with a handful of Agamemnon's nose; the bust bellowed a few imprecations that were not at all polite, then frowned, a gesture deepened into something sinister by the spidery crack that followed the line of his mouth.

Sirius yanked James free and steered him toward an intersection halfway down the corridor, slowing as a small bevy of students scurried across their path. Evans was at the head of the pack, her eyes quite red and her hands clamped over her nose and mouth.

"Dramatic little tart," Sirius observed. "I mean, it stinks and everything, but that's a bit much."

"Allergic," James murmured, remembering what had been the first of his many romantic blunders in Evans' general direction. "She's allergic to geraniums."

"Ah... ah... ah-choo!"

Of course.

The Hayfever Jinx might work; he'd need to borrow Peter's copy of Ready Spells for Retribution and Revenge. If he attached it to something common, like the doors to the Great Hall, he could hit half the school at once, and if he planted a few sneezeworts in the area as decoys, there'd be no reason for McGonagall to trace it back to him.

"Padfoot," James said, with a slow smile. "I have an idea."



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mischief managed