hp fic: Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof

[xylodemon]

Title: Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof
Pairing: James/Remus/Sirius (and permutations)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Threesomes, wanking, voyeurism, dirty talk, and boyfumbling.
Summary: In which we discover there are three sides to every story. Except for when there are four. Except for when there are five.
A/N: For midnitemarauder, and merry_smutmas
2007. Hugs and kisses to themostepotente and wook77, for everything.

Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof


(one)

If it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it.

I'm not embarrassed, or anything -- why should I be? I mean, I'd rather everyone didn't know I once got off with a pair of blokes, but it was just the once. We're mates, the three of us. Best mates. I know one or two fellows who've helped a friend out in the shower, or whatever, so you can't say that sort of thing never happens around here. Happens more than you'd think, really. Ask Gudgeon what he was doing when the Whomping Willow kicked his arse. Go on, ask him, and if he gives you some rot about needing Niffler dung for a Herbology project, tell him to stick it in his good eye. He had a mouthful of Benjy Fenwick that night, and everybody knows it. Of course, those two have been at it since third year, so that's a completely different story.

I still don't want to talk about it. It's not your business, really, and there's not much -- all right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist.

First off, it's not what you think. Gudgeon and Fenwick can do as they please -- and the way I've heard it, they do: loudly and often -- but like I said, that's a completely different story. We hadn't done it before, and we've not done it since, so it's not the same at all. I mean, we're not gay. We're not having a go every night, or anything. Well, I don't know about Sirius and Remus, now that you mention it, but for my part, it was just the once. Yeah, just the once, and it wasn't even my idea.

They started it. Yeah, they really did. Look, I wasn't even there at the first. I had detention that night -- and don't say you're not surprised, because I really shouldn't have. I didn't deserve it, that time. Right, that time, and no I bloody well didn't. Wrong place at the wrong time, and that, and Peter's hopeless with spells involving water, and McGonagall -- well, I'm starting to think the old bird's mad for my arse, the way she's always dragging me into her office, but never mind that. My point is, I wasn't there, because I had detention. Without Peter, I might add, because the gormless git threw me over for that Hufflepuff he'd been keeping -- the tall one, you know, with the breasts -- oh, right. McGonagall. Well, she kept me late, like she always does, and I don't know what I missed while I was wearing my quill to a nub, but when I got upstairs, I caught Sirius and Remus having a grope.

On my bed, thank-you-very-much.

I rather wasn't expecting that. Well, all right. I can't say I'd never considered it. I mean, Remus is gayer than the whole Gobstones Society put together, and Sirius isn't the type to complain about a hand on his todger. He really isn't. Great prancing tosspot gets more sex than the rest of us combined -- not that Peter's holding up his end, mind -- sorry. But yeah, it was a bit of a shock. They were on my bed, for Merlin's sake, and they were starkers! Well, Sirius was starkers, but Remus was getting there.

I meant to leave them to it, but that didn't work out so well. I mean, Sirius really was starkers, and Remus -- look. I already told you. It was their brilliant idea, and I don't want to talk about it.

How about Quidditch, then? Gryffindor went up against Slytherin, last week. We won, of course. Best match I'd had in a long time.

~

James sighed, dipped his quill, and sighed again.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

A drop of ink welled on the tip of his quill. James watched as it fell to the parchment and spread, forming into something that favoured a Nogtail's backside. He blew on it, but it quickly changed direction, threatening to blot out his last line. Sitting primly on McGonagall's desk, his wand mocked him. James shook his head and began mopping up the mess with the sleeve of his shirt.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

Setting his quill aside, James flexed his hand. His wrist hurt. His fingers were starting to cramp -- unsurprising, that; McGonagall had been holding him hostage all bloody night -- and he was certain he'd have a blister on his thumb in the morning.

If he did, he would make a point of showing it to Peter. Right before he shoved his thumb up Peter's nose.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

I did not flood the Transfiguration corridor. That was Peter, and I hope he's enjoying his date. On second thought, I hope he has the lousiest date in the history of lousy dates. I hope Filch nabs him before he even gets his hands up that bint's sweater. It would serve him right, for swimming off like that, and leaving me to deal with McGonagall. I don't know what possessed him to conjure a hurricane, anyway. Been pissing down rain all week, and rats aren't meant to like water.

I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor.

"Mister Potter," McGonagall said suddenly. The clock on her desk chimed with all the authority a handful of walnut-sized bells could muster. "Are you finished?"

James blinked. "Finished?"

"With your lines," she snapped, pointing at his parchment. "Is that six full feet, as I assigned?" She approached, her eyes narrowed, and James hastily rubbed out the bit about Peter. "If you require more time, you are welcome to stay another hour. I assure you, I have not made other plans."

"No, professor," James said. "I'm finished."

"Very well. You may go."

Quickly, James stowed his quills and inkwells, and did his best to gather his parchment into a roll. As rolls went, it was rather lopsided and untidy. It also seemed desperate to spill out on one end, but there was nothing for it -- six feet of parchment wasn't going to do anything it didn't want to do. His wrist ached, and a dull throb was starting to move up his arm. He glanced at McGonagall; as soon as her back was turned, he tucked his mirror in his pocket. Fat lot of good it had done him. He'd tried to use it four different times, but Sirius hadn't bothered to answer.

"Mister Potter," McGonagall said, at the exact moment James thought he was free. His hand twitched on the door handle. "I trust you will not be flooding the Transfiguration corridor again?"

Oh, he would be. He definitely would be. And when he did, McGonagall would have every reason to suspect Peter.

"No, professor."

James escaped into the hall, where he was greeted by a stiff chill and more darkness than he thought was strictly necessary. Bloody Filch, always complaining that torches weren't free -- it wasn't like he paid the bills, or anything. Muttering a Lumos, James inched along, guided by the light from his wand and a strong desire to kick Peter in the arse. Thunder rumbled outside, rattling insistently at the windows. A few long shadows stretched across the floor; the first rather looked like Sirius in a skirt, and James stepped squarely on its head. Some best mate, Sirius was. James landed a detention he hadn't earned or deserved and, forgetting his promises of pity, entertainment, and possibly rescue, Sirius had left him to languish.

"Sirius," James hissed, pulling the mirror from his pocket. "Sirius."

In the weak light, the mirror winked balefully. Sirius did not deign to reply.

"Padfoot?" James asked, his voice souring. "Padfoot?"

James shuffled to a halt, weighted with a strange sense of loneliness. He hoped Sirius wasn't out pranking. It was unpatriotic, to manage your mischief when your best mate was rotting in the gaol.

"Here, where've you got to?" He gave the mirror a poke. "Hello?"

The silence was broken, but not by Sirius. Footsteps rang through the hall, followed shortly by a small legion of Ravenclaws armed with a large stack of books. Fourth years, unless James missed his guess, and fresh from the library's trenches. James smiled as they passed, noting that Margaret Ploughshot was finally beginning to fill out her robes. One of them giggled. The others favoured him with bemused, somewhat indulgent expressions -- of the type that politely suggested they thought he was off his box -- and James realised a bit belatedly that, to the casual observer, it looked like he'd been having a conversation with his hand.

Well, why not? Between Peter and McGonagall and the bloody hurricane -- and now Sirius, who'd apparently run off -- it only followed that he'd introduce himself to next year's dating pool by acting like a ruddy barmpot.

Really, it had been that sort of day.

The girls giggled again, hips swaying as they rounded the corner, and James abruptly had a fair idea of what Sirius was up to. Peter had been avoiding their dorm all evening, out of a concern for his personal safety and well-being, and when James left for detention, Remus had been muttering over an Arithmancy essay that was three days late because of the moon. Right now, things would be quiet, and Sirius couldn't hold with quiet. He also couldn't hold with watching Remus study -- something about Remus chewing at his quills. Without James around, Sirius had likely found himself a bit of fluff and carried her off to the Astronomy Tower. James could only hope he hadn't carried off the cloak as well. If James discovered just one revolting stain -- just one -- he would see to Sirius' arse as soon as he was finished with Peter's.

"Sirius?" James asked hopefully. "Oi, Sirius!" He peered at the mirror with one cautious, half-closed eye. "Are you -- uh, busy?"

"Clearly, he is ignoring you," observed a portrait of a hag James thought could do with a Depilatory Charm. Or a glamour the size of the Quidditch pitch. "I'd be ignoring you too, if I had the option." She slouched down her frame, frowning at James more closely, and James was in the position to notice that a dragon could've been driven through the gap between her two front teeth. "Now, bugger off, there's a good lad."

James sputtered, his eyebrows racing for his hairline. "Excuse me?"

"You must be deaf, because I'm not known for stuttering," the portrait replied. "I said bugger off. I'm trying to have a kip."

James obliged, but slowly, offering her two fingers in lieu of a bow and proper farewell. Predictably, she took offence; she began shrieking like an eagle-owl in heat, whipping herself into such a frenzy that the tapestries started to flutter, but James put paid to that with a quick and well-aimed Silencing Charm. Her displeasure faded to an echo, then died. Everything went still. The suit of armour opposite lifted a squeaky gauntlet in salute -- it'd probably endured the old bat's griping for centuries -- and James replied in kind.

Merlin's balls, he was tired. The pain in his arm had finally reached his elbow, and a stiffness was slowly settling in his shoulders. Suddenly, a kip sounded like a cracking idea, and as things stood, he just might manage it. With Remus shagging his books and Sirius tongue-deep in some bird, James would mostly have the dorm to himself. He didn't much care if Remus chewed at his quills, as long as he did it quietly.

Heartened, James hurried down the corridor, intent on crawling into bed and sleeping well past breakfast. This burst of relative good cheer continued, until he caught sight of something suspicious scurrying across the intersection up ahead. Specifically, two clasped hands, one familiar pudding face, and a cascade of platinum curls James suspected had been subjected to every Bleaching Charm and Lightening Serum known to wizardkind.

Bloody fucking Peter.

James gave chase, bolting forward so quickly he stumbled and slipped, his feet skidding on the polished marble floor. He reached for the closest thing at hand -- a statue of a goblin wearing a hairpiece as unfortunate as his bow-tie -- his fingers skittering uselessly over the stone as he tried and failed to find purchase. He caught the statue around the wrist and pulled; it rocked on its stand and James heaved toward the wall. Once steady, he whirled and tore down the hall after Peter, and Peter, who was slumped against the wall and gasping for air, grabbed his bird by the arm and dragged her around the corner.

The torches sputtered, casting long shadows that striped the floor and danced along the walls. James slowed at the intersection of two corridors and tried to decide which way Peter had gone. Footsteps sounded to the left, and James turned immediately. He found Peter in the centre of the hallway, the blonde girl standing just behind him. He spotted James and froze, throwing up his hands.

"Come on, James. Don't be sore."

"Why would I be sore?" James asked sharply. "I've only been writing lines all night because you turned the Transfiguration corridor into a lake!"

"That was you?" the blonde asked, her mouth curving with a smile. "I never would've thought."

"It was more of a river, really," Peter replied, mostly to her. James made a harsh, strangled sound in the back of his throat, and Peter's head whipped back around. "James? I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't mean for you to get caught in it."

"I didn't mind the swim so much," James snapped. "It's the ruddy detention I'm hacked off about."

"Well," Peter said quietly, "I'm sorry about that, too." He took a step back, then another. The blonde dropped a protective hand on his shoulder. "I'd've told McGonagall it was me. I would've. Only, I had a date."

James pulled his wand. "Boils or spots, Peter? Boils or spots?"

Peter turned, wrapped one arm around the bird, and bloody well disappeared.

Oh.

"My Cloak!" James shouted. "You've got my Cloak! You didn't even ask, you wanker!"

The torches winked out, plunging the hallway into darkness. James heard whispers and the soft shuffle of feet, but it took him a full minute to get the torches sorted, and by that time, Peter was gone.

James' skin prickled, flushing hot and cold. He was seething -- positively seething -- filled with the explosive, irrational fury he generally saved for Slytherin solidarity and Prophet articles on the Werewolf Registry. He stalked back to Gryffindor, muttering rather murderous imprecations under his breath and turning each corner savagely. He ignored perfectly polite attempts at conversation from three different portraits -- one asked the time, one inquired about the weather, and one demanded to know where the fire was -- and when he reached the stairs, he took all seven flights at a dead run. His legs started to shake, and a slow ache began spreading through his chest, but he pushed on, fuelled not by thoughts of his own bed, but by what he planned to do with Peter's as soon as he had it within spitting distance of his wand.

He banged inside the dorm, several ghastly hexes vying for space on the tip of his tongue, then promptly wished he hadn't.

"WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?"

He dropped his wand. Silence crashed into the room, hitting James like an unexpected jinx. The air was horribly thick, weighted with the sharp smells of sweat and spit and boy. James wrinkled his nose, worked his mouth, and tried to remember how to breathe. He rubbed at his face, but it didn't help. He blinked. Nothing changed. Reddened and flushed, Remus made a small, soft noise. A strange warmth rushed to James' face, and he shivered, struck by the queasy, uncomfortable feeling of having landed badly in his own skin.

Leave, he thought distantly. I should leave. I should -- um, go. Somewhere. Oh, God. I should, yeah -- Moony made that noise again -- Um. Right.

Slowly, Sirius stirred, twisting around to look at James over his shoulder. His mouth curved with a soft smile. He seemed unconcerned that both of Remus' hands were resting on the curve of his arse -- possibly because one of his was inside Remus' trousers.

"Close the door, Prongs."

James had a reply to that, he really did. If it would just leave the back of his throat.

Fuck.

"Prongs?"

Salazar's skirt. Sirius is naked.

"Right -- I was, yeah," James managed finally. "I'll just -- I was, you know, Peter -- yeah, Peter. And I -- well, I -- just. Well, fuck."

Defeated, James looked down at the floor, studying a pumpkin juice splatter that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ursa Major, listening as a second round of silence crashed and roared in his ears. His face was burning. The bed creaked and groaned as one of them moved; James looked up cautiously and found Sirius standing at the foot. Running a hand through his hair, he considered James openly; a purplish bruise was blooming on the side of his neck. He approached, his footsteps soft and careful.

He really was naked. James had seen Sirius naked many, many times, but this wasn't the shower, or the changing rooms, or Sirius streaking through the Great Hall for a dare. This was different -- very, very different -- like Quidditch, and how scoring a goal wasn't the same as breaking a tie. Like a bird's bra, and how taking it off her somehow meant more than nicking it from her drawer. Sirius was hard. The bite on his neck seemed to darken the longer James stared at it. A faint, pink line curved around Sirius' side; James thought of Remus' short, bitten nails, wondered if he'd made that noise as he dragged them over Sirius' skin.

Sirius stepped around James, passing so close his arm brushed James' sleeve. James felt another rush of warmth, and he resumed his study of the would-be Ursa Major, grinding at the spot that passed for Alkaid with the toe of his shoe. The door closed with a sigh. He could hear Remus breathing.

"James." Sirius was behind him, not quite touching, but standing close -- so close. "All right?"

"Yeah," James mumbled, daring a glance up. On the bed -- wait, that's my bed! Oh, my God, that's my bed! -- Remus watched, his mouth slightly open. His hands waited on his chest, fingers splayed, and his skin seemed very dark compared to the loose folds of his unbuttoned shirt. "Yeah. You two can -- I'll just be off, then."

Sirius smiled into the curl of James' ear. "If you like."

What?

"Or, you could stay," Sirius continued. His tone was light; it was an offer, not a request. "We've shared all sorts of things. Everything, really." He rested his chin on James' shoulder, his breath ghosting over James' neck. "Might be like that one time," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, "with Jezebel McQuinn. You remember, yeah?"

"Yeah," James breathed, his cheeks colouring at the memory of that slip of a Ravenclaw gasping and twisting between them. She'd tasted like Firewhisky, and Sirius had smelled like cigarettes and moonlight. "I remember." He didn't think he'd ever forget, but he also didn't think this was the same. McQuinn was a girl. McQuinn wasn't Moony, and James and Sirius hadn't touched each other that night, aside from a few accidental brushes that had come from the two of them trying to share the same space. "Might not be."

"Might be better."

James closed his eyes. Sirius' lips fluttered against his neck, and more of that strange, shivery heat crawled across his skin. The room was far too hot. He was far too hot, and he could still hear Remus breathing. The bed creaked again, but Sirius hadn't moved; Sirius was still behind him, curved around him like a shadow. James' eyes snapped open, and Remus made that noise. His hand had sneaked inside his trousers, and James watched as Remus' palm pushed against his cock.

"Quite the little tart, our Moony," Sirius murmured, slipping into that slow, silky tone he usually reserved for luring Hufflepuffs behind the greenhouses. "He tries not to let on. Thinks no one will notice because he's so quiet."

Remus smiled, just slightly, his mouth parting and his lips curving, and his tongue darted out, wet and pink. His trousers were pushed down now, bunched up heavily around his knees, and James stared openly, following the silvery scars that scored Remus' thighs, watching the measured slide and pull of Remus' hand. He twisted his wrist, his hips lifting and his breath hitching, and a broken noise caught and died in the back of James' throat.

"He likes to watch, likes to be watched," Sirius whispered. He smoothed a hand over James's shoulder, and his mouth dipped behind James' ear. "If you keep watching, he'll keep touching, keep touching until he comes all over himself." A flicker of tongue, just at the lobe, and James bit down on his lip. "He's gonna come in your bed."

"Fuck."

James was hard, and he shouldn't have been -- not from listening to Sirius talk or watching Remus wank, but Sirius was naked, and Remus' hips were snapping up to meet his hand, and James' face was on fire. Sirius wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, grinding his cock against James' arse as his hand slid down James' body, and James moaned, shaking as Sirius rubbed and stroked and squeezed his cock through his trousers. Sirius was touching him, and Remus was watching Sirius touch him, and James was going to come if Sirius didn't stop. He was going to come in his trousers, just like Remus was going to come on his bed and Sirius was going to come on him, and for a single, twisted fuck of a moment, James was sure he wanted just that -- wanted to see watch Remus come while he twisted and gasped in his sheets, wanted to feel Sirius' come hot and wet all over his arse.

He'd seen Sirius come once, he'd watched Sirius come once, just like he was watching Remus now, and why why why had Sirius brought McQuinn into this? They'd been drunk that night, they'd lost their minds that night, and James had nearly fallen apart that night, because Sirius' hand had bumped his cock on its way to McQuinn's hip, and --

Oh.

Oh.

Sirius' lips traced the line of James' jaw, and James remembered, remembered McQuinn asking them to kiss -- Just the once, I promise I won't tell -- remembered how that had been what pushed him over the edge, not McQuinn's hands or her helpless, breathy sighs, but Sirius' mouth pressed hard against his and Sirius' tongue pushing slickly at his lips.

James twisted around, his hands catching in Sirius' hair, and their mouths crashed together, lips and tongues and teeth, and it was perfect, absolutely perfect, and then it was better, because Remus made that bloody fucking noise again, and James opened his eyes just in time to see Remus' hips arch off the bed and his cock pulse and twitch in his hand.

"Bed," Sirius gasped, his fingers bruising James' hips. "Now."

James hesitated just long enough to grab his wand and lock the door.

(two)

Well, that's the biggest load of bollocks I've heard in my life.

James is a mate, but he's got Quidditch on the brain. The way he tells it, every match's the best he's had in a long time, and usually, the other six blokes never come into it. I'm sure he didn't tell you that Carter set him up for half his goals, or that I saved him from a Bludger that would've broken his arm. Of course he didn't. He's a one man team, our James. Ask Evans -- she'll tell you how he goes on. Well, hang on. Might not want to ask her just yet. If she's still sore about those Acromantulas, she's like to hex you between the eyes.

Oh, that. Yeah, well. I'd rather not get into it. Nosy git. Don't know why you're interested, really -- it was just one of those things, yeah? We didn't plan it, if that's what you think. We didn't up and decide to strip down and have a toss, or anything. It was just one of those things. Seemed like a good idea at the time, and that. I don't regret it, or anything -- why would I? I mean, it was James and Remus, and that's all right. I don't care what James says, I may pull more birds than the lot, but I don't let just anyone touch my knob. And I'd never gone in for a bloke before, but James and Remus are my best mates, so I'm not fussed. I'm really not. I just don't want to get into it, and really, I don't need to. James' version should be enough to keep you warm, even if it's a bloody pile of rubbish.

Yeah, rubbish. Peter did have a date, but I don't know where James got the Hufflepuff. She's from Ravenclaw, wossname -- short, brown hair, plays Quidditch -- Knopf, maybe? Or Hapkirk. No tits, but fabulous legs. I'm sure you've seen her going about the place. Oh, right. My point is, Peter did have a date, but James buggered the rest. He didn't even have detention that night. No, he didn't -- I did, and before you start in, I shouldn't have. I really shouldn't have, and I know I'm supposed to say that, but it's true. I didn't do anything that night, except leave Remus alone with a cauldron when I know he's pants at Potions. It wasn't my fault he made such a sodding mess. I wasn't anywhere near that broom cupboard.

Not that McGonagall cared, mind. Pinned the whole thing on me, she did, and I got stuck sorting hairpins from matchsticks while Remus got to lie around upstairs. Got to lie around with James, more like. Yeah, it was those two. James can blame me all he wants, but I wasn't even there. McGonagall kept me late -- mad for my arse, that one -- so they had hours to themselves. Hours, and they apparently put it to good use. They were snogging when I walked in.

Yeah, snogging. You know, with their mouths. Tongues, and that. Well, James' tongue, mostly -- it was bloody everywhere. And he wonders why Evans won't give him a date.

I was gobsmacked, really. Never would've thought them for that sort of thing. James is always on about some skirt or another, and if he was itching to have one off with another bloke -- well, I guess I figured he'd have come to me first. No reason to bother Remus with it. I mean, Remus isn't all that bent. James just thinks he is, because he likes books and that, but that doesn't mean anything. My brother likes books, and I'm sure he's shagging at least one of our cousins. Not that I envy him, mind. Mad birds, the lot. Shrieking mad.

Of course, I hung around. Didn't much see the point in running off -- I'd already seen what they were up to, and James' tongue -- right. I thought I said I didn't want to get into it.

Oh, and Gudgeon? James cocked that up, too. He was with Mahit Patil that night, and everyone knows it.

~

At breakfast, the Prophet had predicted the rain would let up, but if anything, it had only worsened over the course of the day. Sirius watched the water smash into the window, and tapped a hairpin on the table until the point bent and broke. His face split with a yawn so violent and wide his jaw very nearly came unhinged. McGonagall turned, frowning sharply; Sirius straightened, his hands twitching toward the rubbish in front of him, and did his level best to look industrious.

Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin. Matchstick.

Bloody McGonagall. If she hadn't taken his wand, he would've had this mess sorted hours ago.

Matchstick. Hairpin. Matchstick. Matchstick.

Lightning streaked passed the window, causing the stained-glass depiction of Godric Gryffindor's fourth marriage to flare in a flash of red and gold and white. A rumble of thunder followed shortly, and McGonagall frowned at Sirius again -- a frown so pointed and deep it suggested that Sirius had done her a personal wrong. Sirius countered with a smile -- one part sheepish, two parts abashed, and one part handsome and dishonoured pureblood cast-off with no real prospects but a winning personality -- but she parried with flared nostrils and a tightly set jaw and, beating a hasty retreat, Sirius returned to his work with a sigh.

Hairpin. Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin.

He might've won that round, if he'd attacked with tossed hair or a coyly arched eyebrow -- or the twist to his mouth that forced his dimple to deepen, a move he privately considered his secret weapon -- but Sirius preferred not to gamble when he knew the odds were not in his favour. McGonagall had been stroppier than usual all day, and the last thing he needed was another hour of detention, because he rather wasn't in the mood.

Not that he ever was in the mood, really, but right now, another hour would only be adding insult to injury. It was bad enough she had him sifting through a pile of first-year cock-ups when he didn't deserve to be in detention in the first place.

Hairpin. Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick.

Stretching, he sighed again, and his stomach grumbled. Bloody Hell, he was hungry. He could've murdered a plate of fish and chips. Not the sad, soggy affair the house-elves believed to be fish and chips, but the solid, crisp, and terribly greasy stuff found at the Muggle place by Moony's Aunt Mildred's house.

Oh, right.

Bloody Moony.

Matchstick. Hairpin. Hairpin. Matchstick.

Frowning, Sirius wondered if that wretched orange dreck was still in his hair. A few lingering drops spotted his tie and the cuffs of his shirt, and there was a rather unsightly splatter across the front of his trousers, arranged in a pattern and concentration that suggested he had attempted and succeeded in rogering a pumpkin.

No one -- no one -- exploded a cauldron like Remus. Under normal circumstances, Sirius found this amusing, but under normal circumstances, Remus was only allowed near a cauldron during Potions, when Sirius was on the other side of the room and safely partnered with James, and while Sluggy waited at Remus' elbow with a sour expression and a Shield Charm at the ready. This, however, had been the furthest thing from normal. He had been minding his own business when he opened that broom cupboard, and the last thing he could've expected was to be greeted by a thick, pulsing sheet of slime the exact colour of a bloody Satsuma.

Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick.

He still didn't know what Remus had been trying to accomplish. He didn't much care, either -- some mischief was best managed alone -- but he was rather curious as to why Remus had even bothered. He rarely caused trouble without James pulling on his sleeve and Sirius whispering in his ear, and on the handful of occasions he'd acted on his own, he'd showed enough sense to leave Potions alone.

Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin. Bowtruckle.

Sirius paused, a slow smile spreading across his face as the small, brown thing fought and struggled to escape his fist. He spared a quick glance at McGonagall, who was still hunched over the stack of essays she'd been marking all night, and quickly tucked it into his pocket. Great fun, Bowtruckles were, and after she'd shrieked at him at lunch for no bloody reason -- really, he hadn't touched that statue -- Evans was due for an unpleasant surprise in her bag.

Matchstick. Matchstick. Hairpin. Hairpin

The clock on McGonagall's desk announced the hour with a series of bright jangles, and Sirius wondered if she was frowning at the hour or the clock's apparent enthusiasm. Her eyes ticked from the clock to Sirius, then to the clock, then back to Sirius, and Sirius took exception to her sigh -- it was Remus' fault he was even here, and this entire waste of time had been her idea.

"Mister Black," McGonagall said finally. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, professor," Sirius replied, flipping a stray matchstick into the appropriate box. He rather liked Muggle matchsticks, because he could light them on his teeth, but Remus insisted it was horribly flash, and James whinged on like a girl when he smoked. "I finished just now."

"Very well," she said, pushing away from her desk. Lightning flashed again as she approached, and the window glowed behind her in warning. "I will ask again, since you were unwilling to provide a satisfactory answer before -- for what purpose were you brewing a Babbling Beverage?"

"What? Oh, right." Pausing, Sirius ran a hand through his hair. His fingers caught in a bit of leftover evidence, and he quickly decided that Remus was as hopeless as they came. A first year could brew a Babbling Beverage with his cauldron tied behind his back. "It was nothing, really -- just a bit of a joke."

"Intended for whom?"

"Remus." It was the second name that came to mind. Snape had been the first, but Sirius was fairly certain McGonagall hadn't forgotten about that business with the Erumpet horns and the sparkly body paint. Of course, it was a gamble either way; McGonagall could be a soft touch for Remus, depending on the time of day, the size and contents of her last meal, and the current astrological significance of Venus. "I was returning a favour. The other night he hexed my underpants pink."

McGonagall's mouth twitched. "I see." She considered him for a moment, then waved him off. "You may go."

"Thank you, Professor," Sirius said quickly. "Have a good evening."

"Oh, Mister Black," she said, just as reached the door. "Leave the Bowtruckle on the desk."

"Right."

Sirius stepped out into the hall, pulling his mirror from his pocket before McGonagall's door was properly closed. He separated it from a few other bits and bats -- two Knuts, an inch's worth of dirty string, a half-sucked Sherbet Lemon, and a suspiciously tan Every Flavour Bean Sirius was fairly convinced was vomit -- and dusted the glass with the sleeve of his shirt.

"James," he whispered, as he started for Gryffindor Tower. "James."

In spite of the flickering torches lining the walls, the corridor was fairly dark. Sirius held the mirror up to his face and peered at it until his eyes crossed.

"Oi, James!" Sirius said, a bit louder. "You're not sore, are you? About earlier?" James had tried to contact him twice, but it hadn't seemed safe to reply. McGonagall was quicker on the uptake than Filch; she would've noticed if he'd started talking into his lap. "James?"

James' stubborn silence continued. Sirius gave the mirror a few good hard shakes, but finally decided the James was asleep. Sighing, he turned another corner and tucked the mirror away. It wasn't all that late -- in fact, Sirius thought it was still early enough for a last-minute spot of pranking -- but James could be a lazy sod. As far as James' favourite hobbies went, sleeping ranked just below wanking, Quidditch, and dodging hexes from Evans.

The last was always good for a laugh. James liked to think he was going to give as good as he got, but the soul-curdling, banshee-like wail Evans favoured when she was really worked up never failed to shut off James' brain. He mostly just stood there and blinked at her wand, so things usually ended with James twitching, gurgling, and -- on one very memorable occasion -- foaming at the mouth. James would be in a right state, if Remus wasn't brilliant in Defence, and if Sirius hadn't grown up in a house full of bloody-minded Slytherins. Between the two of them, they could counter a wide variety of spots, rashes, boils, fungi, protrusions, discolourations, and infestations of vermin.

Cauliflower-ears and hammer-toes were still a bit of a stick, but Remus insisted they were getting closer every day.

"Ah. The abomination returns."

This corridor was the long way back to Gryffindor, but Sirius always used it. He never passed on an opportunity to needle his family.

"I have," Sirius said brightly, smiling up at the portrait of some long-dead relation. Vindimatrix Black, according to the tarnished nameplate nailed to her frame. "You look absolutely dreadful this evening." She lifted her chin, a gesture that reminded Sirius strongly of his mother. "Did you miss me?"

"I hardly notice your absences or arrivals," Vindimatrix replied. Sirius had seen her name on the family tapestry, but he couldn't remember if she came from his mother's side or his father's side. "You are beneath my notice." Of course, if you went far enough back, his mother's side was his father's side. "You are a disgrace."

"I aim to please," Sirius commented. Leaning closer, he surveyed her features in detail. Long nose, thin lips, close-set eyes -- it would be difficult making things worse. Her face hardened under his scrutiny, which only served to deepen the wrinkles around her mouth, and Sirius grinned. When all else failed, it was best to go with an undisputed classic. He hefted his wand. "You know, I've been thinking -- your face could do with a bit of work."

"Filth!" she snapped, jerking her shoulders. Her chin disappeared into the high collar of her dress, which rather made her look like a withered, inbred turtle. "You wouldn't dare!"

Sirius lifted an eyebrow. "Try me."

In the end, it was the longest, most glorious moustache Sirius had ever seen. As expected, it didn't do much for her general appearance, but it was long and glorious and striped in Gryffindor colours that glowed in the dark, and her howls of rage were still assaulting his ears when he was a flight of stairs and three corridors away.

"BLOOD TRAITOR! DISREPUTABLE CUR! I DEMAND YOU REMOVE THIS MONSTROSITY AT ONCE!"

Delighted, Sirius ran and laughed until his sides burned and his stomach ached. Detention was inevitable -- he could already see the look on McGonagall's face -- but the memory of his great-great-great-great-great-great-great aunt's eyes widening and rolling in fury would make every moment of trophy-polishing more than worth it. Shaking, he slumped against a statue of Bartholomew the Bloody and tried to catch his breath. Merlin's pants, that had been beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, he was tempted to go back and have another look.

"Go on," the statue grumbled, slapping Sirius' thigh with the flat of his scimitar. "I'll not be groped by the likes of you."

Sirius straightened, choking back another round of snickers. He moved a bit further down the corridor, and came face to toe with an extremely odd pair of feet.

Well, they were normal-looking feet, except that they didn't seem to be attached to anything. They cut off precisely at the ankle, and Sirius thought he recognised those shoes. They were grotty enough to be James', but they looked a bit too small. They were also too small to be Remus', and Sirius doubted Remus would be hanging around the halls. He'd had his knickers in a twist over an Arithmancy essay for the last three days, and as far as Sirius knew, he planned to mope around the dorm until he got it finished.

"Peter?" Sirius asked.

"Bugger off."

Sirius snorted. Six years, they'd been friends, and Peter still hadn't learned that it was never that easy. Sirius reached out, aiming at where the feet suggested the rest of Peter would be, and grabbed a large handful of nothing.

Well. This was awkward.

"Sirius," Peter said thinly. His hair was mussed, sticking up at several strange and impossible angles. He carefully removed his hands from his companion's sweater. "I'm sure you know Miranda."

Sirius blinked. He didn't remember the name, but he did remember the time and place -- under the Quidditch stands, after Ravenclaw had beaten Hufflepuff. It had been his fourth year and her fifth, and they hadn't got much done because Filch's cat had come nosing around. She narrowed her eyes, and Sirius smiled. He hoped she'd learned a nail-filing spell since then, otherwise Peter would have marks in the morning, marks he wouldn't want to account for if her boyfriend came asking questions. Sirius didn't remember his name, either, but he was a burly, foul-tempered fellow with rather hairy arms and legs.

"Sirius," Peter repeated, in a voice that suggested he very badly wanted to wring his hands. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, right. I was just passing through," Sirius said. "I only stopped because your feet looked lonely."

Peter made that face -- the one he made when he thought his Ancient Runes book was playing tricks on him. Sirius maintained they weren't tricks; they were perfectly legitimate dirty words. "My feet?"

"Yes, your feet," Sirius said, dangling the Cloak in Peter's face. "What's the first rule, then?"

Peter considered this. "Always ask James."

"Yeah, all right." Sirius waved that off, since it was the one he habitually broke. "What's the second?"

"Oh, I -- um." Peter shifted uncomfortably and chewed at his lip. "Cover everything?"

Sirius nodded. "That's the one." Nudging Peter toward Miranda, he unfurled the Cloak and tossed it over their heads. "There we are," he continued, adjusting the folds until Peter's legs and feet disappeared. "Can't see a thing." He fumbled around, catching them by a shoulder each, and turned them until they were placed just so. "Hang on." He twitched up one end and folded it around. "All right. Carry on."

"Thanks, Sirius."

Sirius stepped back and smiled. Bartholomew the Bloody had a perfect view of Miranda's arse, and Peter's hand was already there.

"Any time."

After one last look, Sirius hurried away; being caught at the scene of the crime was an amateur's mistake and a very bad show. He went up the Gryffindor stairs as quickly as he could, with just a short break at each landing to laugh and catch his breath. That hadn't been half bad. It hadn't been as beautiful as the portraits glowing, Gryffindor, handlebar moustache, but it would do. It was enough to be going on with, until he could wake James and get something done properly. And Peter -- Peter was unbelievable. Six years, and he still hadn't learned that hallways were no good for that sort of thing. Sirius wondered why he hadn't gone for one of the usual places, like the greenhouses, or the Astronomy Tower, or that funny room that only opened when it wanted to.

He also wondered why he was locked out of his dorm.

"Alohomora," he muttered.

The door -- which was prone to stick, due to a never-discussed incident involving a Quaffle, a uniform skirt, and a fairly ridiculous amount of water -- sighed to a stop after opening less than an inch. The lamps were lit; a small finger of yellowish light painted Sirius' arm as it pushed through the crack. He heard the soft rustle of cloth, and a short, nervous chuckle. Sirius gave the door a push, his palm flat against the warped and weathered wood. It sighed again, but didn't bother to move.

"Yeah. Do that again."

Sirius froze, his mouth falling open, and a quick shiver ran up his spine.

Sleeping, indeed -- James is with a girl!

Holding his breath, Sirius leaned nearer and peered into the room. He shivered again. A good mate would go downstairs and sleep on the couch. Of course, a better mate would've remembered what the ruddy mirrors were for, and given Sirius some warning. The door hissed, and gritting his teeth, Sirius snatched his hand away. Right. He was leaving. He really was. Just as soon as he saw who James had pulled. If she was a minger, he'd be back up the stairs first thing in the morning, ready to take the piss. If she was fit -- well, maybe he'd go inside and invite himself to stay.

James probably wouldn't mind. They'd split a bird between them a few months back, and it was something Sirius would definitely do again.

Sirius moved closer to the door, his shoulder pressed against the jamb. He caught a glimpse of James, who was sitting cross-legged on the dormitory floor. His bent knees made sharp and sudden angles, and the heavy silence was peppered with short, hitched breaths and the slick, wet sounds of kissing. Sirius shifted, turning a bit more to the left, but he could only see the back of James' head. A hand was tangled in his hair, long fingers twisting through the strands. James made a thin, breathy noise as they pulled apart, and the hand slipped down, curving at the base of his neck. They paused, gasping for air. James cocked his head to the side, and Sirius very nearly swallowed his tongue.

Bloody Hell.

James leaned in again, his open mouth glancing clumsily off Remus' jaw. James' hands were folded in his lap, but they were anxious, restless; they pulled and knotted at the tails of his shirt, as if desperate to go somewhere, or do something, but unsure of how to get started. Their noses bumped. Remus ducked his head, and James snickered softly as his glasses slid down and hit Remus' cheek. Remus smiled, his face flushed, his mouth shining and wet and very, very red. James darted forward, steadying Remus with a hand on his shoulder, and his tongue sneaked out, swiping across Remus' lips and pushing messily into his mouth.

The floor creaked, and Sirius realised he'd walked inside the room.

He was standing over them, and he was close -- so close -- with just a thin stretch of carpet and one of Peter's socks separating his foot from Remus' thigh. James' hand twitched up toward Sirius' leg, then jerked back and returned to the safety of his lap. His face was pink, and heat coloured Remus' ears. Their knees were touching, and Sirius' shadow cut a dark stripe between their bodies.

"Close the door, Padfoot."

Sirius blinked, trying and failing to move his feet. He fumbled for his wand, but it felt odd in his hand, like it didn't belong there, and the spell he needed quickly skittered away.

"Colloportus," Remus said quietly.

Sirius watched his mouth move. It looked softer, redder, and Sirius thought he could see the wet paths left behind by James' tongue.

"What's this, then?" he asked finally. His voice was even, but slightly clipped. "Having fun without me?"

"Look, Sirius," James said quickly. "It's not -- I mean, we were just -- you know, it was -- we're not, oh fuck it all." He sighed and rubbed at his mouth. "We got to talking, and that, and--"

"--talking?" Sirius asked loudly. "Talking?"

"Yes, talking," James replied. "About -- well, I don't really know, any more -- about Gudgeon, or something." He hunched over a little, and picked at a snag in the carpet. "Yeah, it was. Gudgeon, I mean. Because he's -- well, you know, he's bent and that -- and then Remus, Remus said he'd never kissed a bloke, and I said I hadn't either, so."

Sirius chewed at his lip. "Only, you have."

"I have, what?"

"You've kissed a bloke," Sirius muttered.

James looked startled, his mouth working silently, and Sirius wondered sourly if James had forgotten -- but no, his face was colouring, flushing darker as heat and embarrassment burned across his cheeks. His eyes flicked back to the carpet, and he began pulling at the snag in earnest. Remus studied James and Sirius in turns, then stilled. His mouth tugged with a curious smile, like he'd lost something, and it turned up in the last place he remembered to look and the first place he should've thought it would be.

"It was just the once," James admitted quietly. "There was a bird -- that Ravenclaw, McQuinn." He waved a hand between himself and Sirius, as if the empty space contained the explanation his mouth couldn't find. "Turned out, we'd both been seeing her, and we figured -- I mean, we were already sharing her, yeah?" The loose fibre on the carpet pulled free with a snap. "She asked. Wanted to see us kiss, so we did."

Remus considered this, his face carefully blank as he studied James and fiddled absently with his wand. Slowly, he looked up at Sirius, regarding him with wide eyes. His tongue passed over his lower lip, sweeping slickly from one corner of his mouth to the other, and Sirius watched it -- watched it so intently that he didn't see the Trip Jinx coming, didn't realise Remus had spoken until his legs deserted him and the floor came up to meet him.

He landed between them, sprawled on top of them with James' knee digging into his side and Remus' thigh pressed against his back. He struggled to right himself, searching for leverage somewhere between James' leg and Remus' sleeve, but Remus caught him and held him still, first with his hands, warm and firm in the centre of his chest, and then with his mouth, hard and hot and fast.

"Moony," Sirius gasped. "What--"

Remus kissed him again, bringing their mouths together roughly, and Remus' was open and wet and hungry. His tongue pushed against Sirius' lips, slick and quick and insistent, and Sirius' hands came up, his fingers snaring Remus' shirt as their tongues twined and tangled. I'm kissing Moony. I'm bloody kissing Moony. A noise caught in Remus' throat, so dark and low it was almost a growl, his teeth grazing Sirius' lip, and hands snagged in Sirius' hair, but Remus' were cradling Sirius' face. James. James is touching me. I'm bloody kissing Moony, and James is touching me. He shivered, gasping into Remus' mouth. Remus was hard, his cock pressed neatly against Sirius' thigh, and when Sirius reached a blind, fumbling hand into James' lap his fingers tightened in Sirius' hair and his legs twisted under Sirius' body.

"Go on," Remus murmured, pulling away slightly. "Kiss him. You let the girl see." He brushed his thumb over Sirius' mouth. "I want to see."

Sirius reached up as James leaned down, and their mouths met clumsily, his lips sliding over James' cheek and James' tongue wet against his jaw. Sirius righted them quickly, his hands slipping up to James' neck, and James gasped, pushing down, choking on Sirius' name as his cock dragged against Sirius'. Fuck. James. Sirius deepened the kiss, nipping at James' lips and sucking James' tongue into his mouth. He remembered this -- the way James tasted, the way their mouths seemed to just fit -- but it was better than before, because that silly bird wasn't watching and whispering and worming her way between them just as James' cock twitched against his thigh.

It had twitched against his thigh, hot and hard and perfect, and he might've touched it, if McQuinn hadn't beat him to it.

Fuck.

Moony's hand was in his trousers.

"Come on," Sirius said, pulling Remus down for a kiss. He curled a hand around Remus' neck, felt James' tongue flicker over his fingers as he mouthed Remus' skin. "Yeah."

He wasn't exactly sure how this was going to work, but they were bright lads. They'd figure something out.

[continued]