hp fic: Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof (part 2)

[xylodemon]

(three)

They both got it wrong, really.

Gudgeon was with me the night he lost his eye, and don't bother making that face. The only thing we got up to was schoolwork, and Nifflers never came into it. We needed hellebore, for a Draught of Peace. James and Sirius wouldn't know that, because they pay attention in Potions about as often as they do in History of Magic. Niffler dung, I ask you. No, hellebore doesn't grow near the Whomping Willow, but Gudgeon wasn't interested in my opinion on the matter. Personally, I think he wanted a closer look at that tree. Well, he got his look, and the tree got his eye.

And never mind all that about Benjy Fenwick and Mahit Patil -- Gudgeon's been seeing Maleficent Parkinson for years. He tries not to let on, because she's in Slytherin, but really, it's been years, and everyone knows it.

Oh, and Peter's date? They got that all wrong, as well. You'd think, after bunking with him for all these years, that James and Sirius would know something about him. Like his middle name. Or the sort of girls he likes. Peter rarely bothers with Ravenclaws, because he's terrified of people he thinks are smarter than him. He doesn't really go in for Hufflepuffs, either. He likes them just fine, but he's territorial in his own way, and we're running short of Hufflepuffs who haven't already been seen to by Sirius or James. Or both. Peter did have a date that night, but Samantha Hopwell's in Gryffindor. Shame that didn't work out, really. She's a lovely girl, but she wanted someone more like James, and Peter -- well, I think Peter wants someone more like James, too.

As for the rest -- that's also wrong, but I'd rather just leave it at that. We're friends, you know. Best friends. I know that doesn't explain it, but some things are best left alone. Things like that, I mean. Yes, well. If James and Sirius want to rabbit on to anyone who'll listen, I can't stop them. No, I can't. I could try, but we both know that would be a grand waste of time. Nothing for it, really, and I don't much care. I wouldn't much care, if they didn't have the whole thing arse about face.

Oh, completely arse about face. It's daft, the way they're trying to lay the blame on each other, just daft. I mean, we did it together. It comes down to the three of us, so it doesn't really matter how it started. Well, it wouldn't matter, if James and Sirius weren't so keen on talking about it. I suppose they don't want anyone to think it was their idea. Of course, it was their idea. I wasn't even around when they got going.

James didn't have detention that night. Neither did Sirius, and before you ask, I don't know how they managed it. Well, I don't know how James' managed it. Sirius managed it by letting McGonagall think I set fire to that tapestry. I didn't, of course. All I did was pick the wrong moment to come around the corner. I probably should've known, once I smelled the smoke, but I wouldn't have expected Sirius to flee the scene like that. I mean, I sometimes think he tries to get into trouble. He fancies McGonagall something terrible. So does James -- it's quite sickening really -- sorry. My point is, I had detention that night. They were upstairs. Upstairs and alone, while I was downstairs polishing McGonagall's silver. She's got quite a bit of silver, really. When I got back, they were already at it. The way things looked, they'd been at it for some time.

Well, no. I wasn't all that surprised. Catching them at it was a bit much, but I can't say I'd never suspected. I'm not the only one, either -- half the school thinks they've been grabbing at each other for years. It's all that hugging, I suppose. And the hand-holding. And the whispering. They stand awfully close when they're whispering, and sometimes, Sirius will push his nose into James' neck. It might not mean anything, but it's not like he does it to anyone else. He certainly doesn't do it to me, not that I -- you know, I think I'll just leave it at that.

Peter's middle name? It's Walter. He hates it, but I don't think it's nearly as dreadful as James'.

~

Remus rather liked Sirius, all things considered. It was a shame he needed to kill him, really.

One hammered wine goblet, with a stem in the shape of a tree.

The rain regrouped after a sharp crack of thunder, and Remus listened to the odd, uneven pattern it played out on the window. His back ached, throbbing with a dull, slowly spreading pain that Remus suspected would not be content until it stretched from his neck to his arse. Across the room, McGonagall sighed from her perch in a wing-backed chair. She adjusted the book in her lap, and crisply turned a page.

Three miniature spoons, from a Muggle tourist shop in Aberdeen.

His nose itched. Sighing irritably, he rubbed at it with his hand, but that only served to make it itch worse, because his sleeve fairly reeked of smoke. It wasn't the warm and pleasant woodsy smell caused by a fire crackling in the hearth, but the sour, acrid stench that came from charring something that had been pickling in its own dust for the better part of a century.

He sneezed, and a spoon slipped from his hand, hitting the table with a soft ping. McGonagall glanced up, her face expectant. Remus shrugged and looked away, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.

A pair of bookends shaped like cats.

Really, he should've known.

In their fourth year, after the common room's curtains had randomly kindled for the third time in as many months, Remus had forced himself to face facts. Specifically, James was as mad as a box of frogs. Sirius was slightly madder, because he was never happy unless something was burning.

This afternoon, that something had been a large and incredibly overwrought tapestry of Salazar Slytherin on a fox hunt. It had depicted an idyllic -- if somewhat dusty -- scene, and Slytherin had rode proudly in the company of a pale, dark-haired woman and a Malfoy whose name had been lost to time and indifference.

It was the woman who troubled Remus. Before Sirius scorched her, she could've passed for Regulus in a skirt.

Such an odd family.

Order of Merlin, Second Class. Edward Robert McGonagall, Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Ret).

McGonagall never shouted at Remus. She shouted at Peter occasionally, and she shouted at James routinely, and she shouted at Sirius so loudly and often that Remus frequently worried she was going to pull something, but she never shouted at Remus. She sighed at Remus. She frowned at Remus. She quietly pulled Remus aside and asked him why on earth would he do such a ridiculous thing, when he was the only one of the four that had ever showed a bit of sense.

She never got angry with Remus. She simply pinched the bridge of her nose and said she was disappointed.

Medal of Recognition, for Most Bludgers Returned in a Single Season. Minerva McGonagall, Beater, Gryffindor House, 1942.

Beater?

Well, that explained a lot.

One serving dish, etched with a likeness of Finn mac Cumhaill.

He really needed to finish that Arithmancy essay. Professor Calcutront hadn't complained yet, and he probably wouldn't for a few more days, but Remus disliked tardiness as a rule.

He also disliked detention. Really, Sirius was going to die.

Matching candlesticks that rather favoured a pair of swords.

The clock chimed brightly, twittering like the sort of small, fluttery birds McGonagall probably chased as a cat. She closed her book with a snap and set it aside, brushing her robes as she rose.

"Mister Lupin," she said, lingering over the candlestick he'd just polished. "I trust you are finished?"

"Yes, professor," Remus said quietly. Her mouth turned slightly, and Remus swallowed a sigh. She really was the uncanniest woman. She could send him into fits of guilt without saying a single word. "Unless you've anything else for me to polish."

"Not tonight," she replied. "You may go."

He ducked his head quickly. "Thank you, professor. Have a good evening."

She watched him gather his things and heft his rucksack, and he flushed under the scrutiny. Anger prickled up just under his embarrassment, because it was Sirius' fault he was in this mess. He rubbed his nose again, and smelled more smoke. Turning, he hurried for the door, but McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Mister Lupin, I am quite curious -- what possessed you to destroy that tapestry?"

"Oh," he said carefully. "It cheeked me."

Slowly, she arched an eyebrow. "Potter and Black cheek you constantly. Please refrain from setting them on fire, whatever the provocation."

"Yes, professor."

Remus walked out of McGonagall's office and right into something solid. Well, solid and a little bit bendy. It folded away from him and toppled over with a pained squeak. Looking down, Remus realised he was standing on a Gryffindor first year whose name he didn't quite recall. He'd sent the boy to McGonagall last week for putting Dungbombs in the toilet -- Dungbombs, Remus later discovered, James had given the boy. He quickly removed his foot from the boy's thigh.

"Sorry, Andrews," Remus said, offering him a hand up. "All right, there?"

"I'm all right," he replied, eyeing Remus in a manner that could've only been described as suspicious. "It's Anderson, and you're bloody heavier than you look."

"I might be," Remus grumbled sourly. His bones were thick, from years of breaking and mending. "And you might be out of bed after curfew." It wasn't like he'd asked for thick bones. Of course, Anderson hadn't asked to be trodden on. Remus subsided. "What brings you downstairs this late?"

"I've a message for you," Anderson explained. His hair was roughly the colour of straw. "From Potter and Black."

Brilliant. That's precisely what Remus needed -- James and Sirius striving for more detention after he just served one he hadn't really earned. "Oh?"

"They said to meet them at the witch, whatever that means."

"If they wanted you to know what it meant," Remus said slowly, "they would've told you." Remus shifted, attempting to sidestep the boy, but he followed. "Thank you for the message." Anderson blinked like an owl. "Go back upstairs, then." Anderson blinked again. Slower. His eyes were terribly small and squinty. "It really is past curfew."

"Black said I'd be paid for my trouble," Anderson noted, giving Remus a pointed look. "A whole Chocolate Frog." It was Remus' turn to blink. "He said you'd be the one to pay me."

"What?" Remus asked. The next time Sirius fell asleep as Padfoot, Remus was going to take to his arse with a rolled-up copy of the Prophet. "I haven't got a Chocolate Frog."

Anderson considered this. "What've you got?"

"I haven't got anything," Remus replied, digging quickly through his pockets. "Half a Sugar Quill, a Knut, a button, and -- well, I'm not quite sure what that is," he muttered, stuffing what appeared to be black lint wrapped around a splinter of chicken bone back into his pocket.

"Deal."

"Fine," Remus said, herding the boy down the hall. At the next intersection, he nudged him toward a corridor that would take him back to the tower. "Back upstairs, now. If I do a bed-check tonight, you'd better be in yours."

"You've not done one all term," Anderson countered.

"Yes, well. There's a first time for everything," Remus snapped. "Go on, or I'll take you back down the hall and let McGonagall sort you out."

Thunder rattled at the sky, the sound muted by the castle's heavy walls, and Remus started down the corridor, leaving Anderson to his own devices. If Remus escorted him back, he'd be stuck for sure. Evans would start giving out about James and Sirius, and Gudgeon would ask about their Potions project, and never mind his Arithmancy essay -- if he got away at all, it wouldn't be until sunrise. He turned a corner and quickened his pace. The corridor was dark, but he didn't bother with lighting his wand. The portraits tended to complain this late, and there was one of an early Werewolf Rights activist who always asked what Remus was doing for the cause.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned and slowed. The One-Eyed Witch waited patiently against the opposite wall, and she appeared to be alone.

"James?" Remus asked, peering into the shadows. "Sirius?" He turned again, and again, then realised he was chasing his tail. "You still here, then?"

The shadows were silent. Leaning close to the witch, he hissed the password, popping his head into the passage as she shuddered out of the way. He was greeted by more shadows, and he set the witch to rights with a sigh.

"Sirius?" Silence. "James?"

Sighing again, he slouched against the witch's shoulder. McGonagall had kept him later than usual; they'd likely grown tired of waiting and gone back upstairs. If they had any sense at all, they were sleeping, which automatically meant they weren't. They'd probably found some girls to pester. Or one girl, depending on their moods. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and rubbed the base of his neck. His back was fairly killing him, and McGonagall's detention had been enough nonsense for one night. He was going back upstairs, where he would finish his Arithmancy essay and go to sleep.

Halfway down the corridor, he heard something, and paused. "Sirius?"

"Excuse me, tall sir."

Remus glanced around, but he didn't see anyone, didn't see anything but more ruddy shadows. He took a step, felt a small but rather determined tug on his trousers and, looking down, found a tea-towel huddled near his ankle. It moved, and Remus gave a start.

"Pisky is sorry, sir," the house-elf began, "Pisky was not meaning to scare anyone."

"It's fine," Remus said carefully. James and Sirius thought house-elves were great fun -- mostly because they never ran out of food -- but Remus found them slightly unnerving. It was their eyes, really. And the self-punishment. And the tea-towels. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Oh no, sir!" she squeaked, spots of colour darkened her sallow cheeks. "Pisky would never be asking for favours, sir." She clutched nervously at her tea-towel, and Remus decided that the tea-towels were definitely part of the problem. "But maybe Pisky could be doing something for you."

Remus blinked. Either this conversation was taking a surreal turn, or he'd spent too much time around James and Sirius. "How's that?" he asked warily.

"Pisky sees that sir is looking for his friends," she explained brightly, "and Pisky is thinking she knows sir's friends -- Potter is being the one who likes warm milk at bedtime, and Black is being the one who tries to send Pisky for Muggle fish and chips."

"That's them," Remus muttered darkly. "Have you seen them?"

"Pisky was seeing them, some hours ago. In the kitchens, Pisky was giving them sandwiches and treacle and pumpkin juice they were wanting to take up to their rooms."

"All right," Remus said, mostly to himself. "Whatever they're up to, they're not doing it here."

"Pisky is sorry, sir." Releasing her tea-towel, she recaptured two small handfuls of Remus' trousers. "Pisky was not wanting to make sir angry. Is sir wanting to step on Pisky's toes?"

"No."

"Is sir wanting to beat Pisky with his own hands?" she asked, turning to offer him a clear swing at her arse.

"No!" Remus sputtered, inching away slowly. "Really, I'm not angry." He took a few stumbling, backward steps, but she followed, her hands spread. "I'm glad, actually, because this means I can go back upstairs and get some sleep."

"Oh, is sir wanting warm milk?" she asked, frowning slightly when Remus shook his head. "Is sir wanting some food, in case sir's friends have eaten it all?"

He was a bit peckish, now that she mentioned it. "Well," he said slowly, giving careful thought to the idea of a hot corned-beef on rye. "No. I'm fine," he said finally. If he ate, he'd fall directly asleep, and he'd never see to that Arithmancy essay. "Thank you. Just -- I mean, if you wouldn't mind, just go back to the kitchens."

She disappeared as soon as the words were out of his mouth, leaving Remus to blink at the suddenly empty space near his ankle. He wandered down the hall a bit, paused, then wandered a bit further. Lightning flashed passed the row of tiny, square windows near the top of the wall, and Remus studied the shadows for anything resembling a tea-towel. When he didn't see one, and she didn't reappear, he waved the whole thing off and started making his way back to Gryffindor.

Three corridors, two staircases, and a rather argumentative and bloody-minded suit of armour later, Remus turned a corner and walked right into Peter, in the same way he'd walked into Anderson roughly an hour early. Only Peter, who was a bit taller than Anderson, and considerably heavier, grunted and swayed, rather than falling arse over teakettle.

"Moony," Peter said quietly. His nose twitched. "Funny I should run into you, really."

"I believe I ran into you," Remus replied, wondering if anyone in the castle was actually asleep at this hour. "What are you up to, then?"

"Oh, you know. No good, and all that," Peter said, and Remus frowned. Something wasn't quite right. "You?"

Well, I got detention I didn't deserve, got cheeked by a first year, then robbed in payment for a message I didn't want, took a long walk for no reason, and I may have been propositioned by a house-elf.

"Nothing much, really. I was just heading upstairs."

Peter's mouth opened, then closed. His nose twitched again. "Listen, since you're here and everything, can I have the password to the Prefects' loo?"

"Why?" Remus asked cautiously.

Peter's nose twitched again. "I fancy a bath, is all."

"Right now?" Remus asked. It was rather late, and something about Peter really wasn't right. Peter shrugged, and Remus suddenly realised what it was; his left arm stopped just below the elbow. Remus narrowed his eyes at the seemingly empty space. "Who's that, then?"

"Who's what?"

"Who's whoever you've got under the Cloak!"

"Oh," Peter mumbled, his cheeks pinking. "There's nobody under the Cloak."

Sighing, Remus rubbed a hand over his face. He was far too tired for this, and much like the chat with the house-elf, he'd apparently lost control of this conversation well before it started.

"If there's no one under it," Remus began slowly, "how is it not puddled on the floor?" Peter shifted from foot to foot and chewed at his thumbnail. "Did you ask James, at least?"

"Oh, well -- um, not quite," Peter said. "I didn't find him." He shifted a bit more and rubbed at his face. "I left him a note," he offered. Remus, who could already hear James' long and vehement rant on things like ownership, thieving, and the need to remove any and all revolting stains prior to return, simply shook his head. "Well, I'll ask him when I get back."

Remus was tempted to launch into an explanation on the differences between before and after, but decided to save it for another night. "Right, then. Who's under the Cloak?"

"You won't take points?"

"Yes, because I'm not out after curfew," Remus snapped. He grabbed Peter's arm, followed it until it stopped, and pulled when his fingers met cloth. It swirled away, hanging limply between Peter and Remus' arms, and Remus lifted an eyebrow at the blushing, mortified face of Samantha Hopwell. The colour spreading across her cheeks clashed horribly with her fiery hair, and Remus threw up his hands. "Dungbeetle."

"What?"

"Dungbeetle," Remus said, as he started to walk away. "The password is Dungbeetle. Go on, then," he added, as he reached the end of the corridor. "If it means I can get some sleep, I hope you have a fabulous time."

The stairs to Gryffindor seemed steeper than usual, and halfway up, Remus began to suspect they'd multiplied when no one was looking. His legs were on fire by the time he reached the top and, considering the time he'd spent hunched over McGonagall's silver, and the time he'd wasted having conversations with people considerably shorter than him, his back wasn't doing much better. To say the very least, he was not best pleased to find the dormitory door locked.

"Oh, for -- Alohomora!"

The door jerked, swinging open with a hiss. The lamps were dimly lit; a soft triangle of light crept out into the hallway, wavering as it spread under Remus' feet. Remus took a step, then froze, his fingers curling around the jamb.

Ah.

Really, he should've known.

His shadow sneaked into the room, stretching into a long thin point that faded just before reaching James' foot. He was naked, his long legs shaking and his back pressed against the opposite wall. Sirius held him there, one large hand pinning his hip and the other resting on his thigh. James moaned, his head tipping forward then back and the light catching and playing along the lines of his throat. He reached for Sirius, his hands snagging in Sirius' hair, and Remus watched as James' cock disappeared into Sirius' mouth.

"Fuck. Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

The room was stuffy and warm, but Remus shivered, a chill sweeping over his skin. This explained so much -- why Sirius had set fire to that tapestry and let Remus take the fall, why James had arranged for Anderson to send him on a fool's errand.

Why on some nights, Sirius would crawl into James' bed grumbling about insomnia and nightmares, and why on those nights, James would cast a Silencing Charm, when he rarely bothered on the nights he slept alone.

Sirius pulled back, tracing his tongue along the length of James' cock before swirling it around the head, and James hissed, his chest hitching and his hips snapping forward. His hands tightened in Sirius' hair, his fingers curling in the strands, and Sirius' hand slipped from his thigh and disappeared between his legs. James moaned again, his back arching away from the wall, and Remus watched as James twitched and shuddered and came down Sirius' throat.

"You're all right," James said shakily, pulling Sirius up for a kiss. "Maybe better, yeah?"

"I'm sure," Sirius pressed into James, rubbing his cock against James' hip as James licked and bit at his mouth. "You're just saying that 'cause you like the way you taste."

James snickered into Sirius' neck and wrapped his hand around Sirius' cock. "Oh, yeah. You've found me out," he said, stroking Sirius hard and fast. "I only keep you around because I can't suck myself off."

"Fuck." Sirius hissed, and James smiled against his ear. "You can't say that kind of shite."

"Why not?" James asked, coaxing a moan from Sirius as he twisted his wrist. "You like it too much? You gonna lose it like you did back when we were fourteen?"

Gasping, Sirius ran his tongue along James' jaw. "You remember that, yeah?" he asked, pushing himself into James' hand. "Groping in the dark -- wetting our trousers 'cause we were afraid to take off our clothes?"

"Yeah," James said, ducking his head for a kiss. "Yeah."

He stroked Sirius harder, smoothing his other hand down Sirius' back, then over the curve of his arse, and Sirius stilled, shivering as James pushed a finger inside. He snapped his teeth at James' neck, and Remus watched as Sirius came between their bodies.

"Come on, let's find a bed," James said. "I don't fancy shagging you against a wall."

"What's that, Potter? Afraid you can't hold me up?" Sirius stepped back, his legs shaking. "I know -- you just want to look at my pretty face."

James snorted. "Hardly," he said, heading for his bed. "You've a face like a Nogtail's backside. I plan to put a pillow over it, and pretend you're as pretty as Remus."

He doesn't mean that. He's just trying to wind Sirius up.

"Close the door, Moony."

Remus closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. He could hear the wind, the soft flutter of the lamps, and a blanket being torn away from the sheets. His skin was alive, flushing hot and cold at once. When he finally forced himself to look, they were curled together in James' bed and watching him with wide eyes.

"He said you're prettier than I am," Sirius said lightly, his head pillowed on James' arm. "We'll need to duel, as soon as you're done standing in the hallway."

Remus didn't have a response to that. He really didn't.

"Moony?" James asked quietly.

"You could've told me," Remus said finally. "I would've slept downstairs, if you wanted the place to yourselves." He frowned at the carpet, then the window. "You didn't need to get me detention and send me walking all over the castle."

"That was an accident, that detention," Sirius said. "I was trying to get Peter. I owed him one, for the pink underpants. I didn't realise McGonagall'd nabbed you until it was too late."

Remus sighed. "And the witch?"

"We were gonna meet you, really," James said. "Sirius wanted to buy you a Butterbeer, for that detention, but you were gone hours, and I got hungry, and we came back up here and -- well, we got distracted."

"I'll just bet."

"Moony," Sirius said, his mouth curving with a smile. "Close the door and come to bed."

What?

"In there? With you?"

Sirius nodded. "If you like."

"We won't touch you, or anything," James promised.

Really, I should've known.

"Colloportus," Remus said, pulling at his tie. "And you'd just better. After the night I've had, you'd just better."

(four)

Oh, for the love of toast.

Those three are positively barmy, and it's quite clear they wouldn't know the truth if it slapped them in the face. I'm not surprised, mind. The way they go on, sometimes -- Potter and Black, especially -- I've always known it was all hot air and delusions. Definitely delusions, and this is no different -- smacks of their usual fare, really. Of course, you're rather sticking your nose in a place it doesn't belong. I mean, they can't expect too much privacy, not when they're always shouting and flashing about and banging off walls. If you were poking around in anyone else's business, I'd say it serves you right they fed you a steaming pile of tripe.

Yes, tripe. Nearly all of it, really. Lupin was right on one score -- two, if you count what he said about Davy Gudgeon and Maleficent Parkinson, but everyone knows that -- Potter's middle name really is ridiculous. He'd deny having one at wandpoint, but I suppose that's understandable. Not that there's much about James Potter I care to understand, but if my middle name was Archibald, I wouldn't want anyone to know, either.

Oh, and Pettigrew? His middle name is Winchester. I don't know where Lupin got Walter. Of course, I don't know where any of them get anything, really. Mad fancies just fall out of their ears. Take Pettigrew's date -- whomever he's meant to have been with. He didn't have one. No, he didn't, and honestly, I find it a bit odd that the other three are insisting he did. I haven't known them to give Pettigrew credit when it's due, and never mind when it isn't. Potter and Black are the worst, always treating him like he's simple -- right. My point is, he didn't have a date. He was in the library, revising with Mahit Patil. Yes, that Mahit Patil. The one who's not involved with Davy Gudgeon. I saw them, of course. Pettigrew and Patil, I mean. I stopped in the library that night, to tidy up a Transfiguration assignment.

I was there about an hour or so. Well, I don't know what Pettigrew had planned after, and I'm not sure it matters, since he slept in the library. He nodded off in his Charms book, and Patil just left him there, because he didn't fancy carrying twelve stone of boy up six flights of stairs. I know, I know. Waking him would've solved it, or a spot of Wingardium Leviosa, but that's a boy for you. Can't see past their next meal, and always thinking with the wrong wand.

Yes, well. Have you a better reason? For what they got up to, I mean. Oh, I'm quite sure they're best mates. That doesn't explain why they decided to crawl in one another's trousers that night. I don't care what Potter says about the shower -- that sort of thing doesn't happen around here. Well, it happened to Gordon Bagshot and Caradoc Dearborn, but they've a lovely flat in Milton Keynes now. Best mates, indeed. Either those three are mad for each other, or they had so much to drink that their bits took over their brains.

Oh, they were in a right state. I don't know, really. They faffed off straight after dinner that night, and wherever they landed, they came back drunker than those monks in the Charms corridor. They were shouting and stumbling, and Potter was squawking out that insipid song he favours -- you know the one, about pointy hats and big feet -- and then they collapsed, right onto the floor. Well, they didn't do much of anything, at first, other than lie there in a heap. Then Black kissed Potter. After that, they made very short work of each other.

They really did. I know they did, because I saw the whole thing, vulgar display that it was. I hate to disappoint you, but the stories they're putting about are a magnificent pack of lies.

Very short work. And Potter wonders why I won't give him a date.

~

Lily didn't much care what the Prophet had to say about things. The weather was positively dreadful, and it looked like it meant to stay that way.

The Animagus transformation is the most difficult and dangerous form of Transfiguration. It is heavily monitored by the Ministry of Magic; all Animagi must register with the Ministry, and people under the age of twenty-five are prohibited from attempting to transform.

It also looked like the cold and wet wished to come inside the castle. Everything felt damp, and a persistent chill had settled over the library. Lily shivered. If only her robes were a bit thicker. She'd come straight from the common room -- which had been reasonably warm, thanks to a large, well-tended hearth and Sirius Black's unholy obsession with fire -- and she hadn't realised she'd need her cloak just for a quick trip to the library.

The Animagus transformation can only be achieved through diligent study and practise. Those wishing to become an Animagus cannot chose their animal form, nor can they manipulate the spell toward a particular result. The animal form comes from within, and those wishing to transform must first learn to submit to it.

It was Hogsmeade next weekend; Lily supposed she ought to find herself a date before Potter looked at a calender and realised it was time to start hanging around again. Not that he ever stopped pestering her entirely. If she already had a date, he simply pestered her less. Insufferable toerag. He never gave her any peace.

She could ask Williams, maybe. Or Finnegan. He was younger than her, but he was nice enough, and he wasn't afraid to buy a girl a cup of tea. There was always Carter, of course; he was quite fit. He also played Quidditch, and that would irritate Potter terribly.

It is believed that the animal form is a representation of the Animagus' true personality. Critical opinion differs on the connection -- if any -- to Animagus form and Patronus form.

The wind picked up, whipping restlessly through the trees. The branches swayed and knocked together, tapping impatiently at the windows, twigs and leaves pressing strange patterns into the water sheeting down the panes.

She hoped the weather cleared up by Hogsmeade. She hadn't been outside in days.

An Animagus may find that their Patronus corresponds with their animal form, but according to Vinethrise, this is merely coincidence. A Patronus is malleable whereas an animal form is not. Vinethrise considers the Patronus to be a representation of superficial personality, or mood.

This morning, she'd found baby Acromantulas in her rucksack.

Again.

Perhaps she'd ask Lupin to Hogsmeade. They got on fairly well, and Potter would have fits.

The Animagus transformation is a long and arduous process. While a select few Animagi have managed it in less, proper mastery of the spell generally takes between five and seven years.

Five years, or more. That rather seemed like a long time for just one spell; she could scarcely imagine anyone having the patience for it. And it was a bit of a gamble, really, not having any say about the animal form. What if it was terrifying? Or embarrassing? She suddenly had a vision of Potter, grinning insipidly as he sprouted fur and shrank into a stoat. She covered her mouth, choking quietly as she swallowed her giggles. Pince would go spare if she burst out laughing, but it was far too funny. Steadying herself, she reached for her essay and began folding it up. Just as she tucked it in her rucksack, a crumpled bit of parchment hit her in the shoulder.

Glancing up, she frowned at Peter Pettigrew. He was leaned across his table, smiling in a way she supposed he considered hopeful.

"What?" she whispered. Standing, she tossed her hair over her shoulder with an irritated flick of her wrist. He chewed at his lip. "Well, what?"

He flushed, his face twitching into something apologetic. "Would you have a quill?" he hissed. His tone was slightly too loud for the library, and Pince narrowed her eyes at him menacingly. "Only, I just broke mine."

"Well, I suppose," Lily replied, balancing her rucksack on her hip. She offered him a choice of two -- one black and one mottled brown -- and he opted for the latter. "Charms, is it?" she asked, nodding at his open textbook as he tested the quill's nib against the tip of his finger. "We've an exam, Monday. You'd best brush up on your Locomotion Charms."

"Right."

Ducking his head, Pettigrew returned to his book and flipped slowly through the pages. His rucksack was slumped at his elbow, yawning to reveal several Chocolate Frog wrappers and what appeared to be the gnawed remains of a blueberry scone. Lily wondered at that; food wasn't allowed in the library, and Pince was known for her ability to smell a stash at fifty feet. Pettigrew sighed, smoothing his hand over an illustration depicting the proper wand motion for Mobilicorpus, and Lily considered his revising partner. Mahit Patil was at Pettigrew's left, dividing his time between chewing at this thumb and doodling in the margins of his book, and Lily silently wished them the best of luck as she stepped into the hall.

It should've been Potter helping him. They were friends, and Potter was -- well, Potter was a wonder at Charms, much to Lily's constant irritation. It also confused her, because Potter never seemed to study. Of course, he never seemed to do much of anything, except fly around on that ridiculous broom and prowl the halls with Black after curfew. He wasn't exactly the most helpful sort, either, which explained why Pettigrew was studying with a boy who, on most days, was lucky to locate the business end of his wand. If Pettigrew had bothered with asking Potter in the first place, Potter had probably refused because he and Black had plans to make something go off bang.

Boys. They really were quite useless.

Lily hurried toward Gryffindor, her quick footsteps echoing off the walls. The rain was quieter here, muted to a dull hum, but the chill was more pronounced, and Lily hid her hands inside her robes. A suit of armour jumped to attention as she approached, its visor flapping as it whistled rudely, and Lily rapped it smartly with her wand. The portrait opposite gave an affronted huff, muttering about behaviour unbecoming of young ladies and the decline of Wizarding society, and Lily offered her a smile. It was a sour old bat in a horribly naff dress, and she didn't like Lily very much, but she liked Black even less. She shrieked at him whenever the opportunity presented itself, so Lily figured she couldn't be all that bad.

She rounded the corner, stopping short a few paces into the hall. Two lower form Slytherin boys loitered at the other end, huddled in front of a statue of Gormlach the Gargantuan. They were lost in hushed conversation, their heads bent close and their muffled whispers buzzing through the air. Guilt rolled off them in waves. Lily took a careful step, then another, hoping to catch them unaware. The statue betrayed her, bellowing out a greeting at a volume not at all suitable for -- well, for anything, really. Jerking apart, the taller boy cast about for a means of escape while the shorter tucked his hand behind his back in a manner he likely believed was subtle.

"Hang on," Lily called, as they started to slink away. Together. Even Potter and Black had the sense to flee Prefects and furious professors in different directions. "Stop right there."

"Evening, Evans," the taller one said, a bit too quickly. He had mousy brown hair and an unfortunate number of spots. "What brings you out?" Gormlach snorted with all the delicacy available to a large chunk of stone, and the boy reddened, which did nothing for his skin. "Ghastly weather we're having."

"It's been ghastly," Lily replied shortly. He offered her a thin smile. Lily waved him off and pursed her lips at his companion, who was pudgy and slightly whey-faced. "What are your names?"

"Duncan Nott," the taller one said. His friend mumbled something unintelligible, and Nott sighed. "This here's Nigel Spencer."

"What brings you out?" Lily asked.

"Well," Nott said slowly, "we were just having a walk." Lily arched an eyebrow. "Haven't walked much, with the rain and all."

"Yes, the rain." She frowned at Spencer; he flushed under her scrutiny, and tried to shrink into a wide shadow cast by Gormlach's arm. "What've you got, then?"

Spencer looked at Nott; when no help was forthcoming, he blinked and swallowed thickly. "Nothing," he croaked. Lily stepped closer. He squeaked, and a small, cloth bag dropped to the floor, landing neatly between his feet. "It's nothing."

"Accio," she murmured.

The bag lifted from the floor and sailed gracefully into her waiting hand. Noting the boys' discomfort, she opened it carefully. The handful of white powder inside looked fairly benign, but it smelled strongly of rose hips, and her nose immediately began to tingle.

"Itching powder," she declared. Nott and Spencer both became terribly interested in the floor. "What were you planning to do with it?"

Scratching his ear, Nott glanced down the hallway. Spencer shuffled his feet.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Potter an' Black," Gormlach boomed, his heavy voice rattling Lily's ears. "I 'eard 'em. They said they woz after Potter an' Black." Nott froze, and Spencer shuffled a bit more. Lily crossed her arms, the bag of itching powder dangling from one finger by the strings. "The spotty one, 'ere -- 'e's sore at 'em. Black, mostly. Said Black 'exed him wiv boils, or summat."

"Tentacles!" Nott snapped. "It was tentacles! Useless oik was naffed off at his brother, but his brother ducked and I took the jinx. He put me in bloody tentacles" -- he wiggled his fingers under his chin to better illustrate his point -- "and it was a whole day before Pomfrey sorted me out."

"Report to Slughorn, the both of you," Lily said, jabbing an accusatory finger in the direction of the dungeons. "And the next time you find yourself on the wrong side of a jinx, get a Prefect. Or your Head of House."

"What about my powder?" Nott asked stiffly.

Lily shivered and bit back a smile. "Confiscated," she said lightly. "It's evidence."

It was perfect. It was absolutely perfect, and the best part was, no one would ever suspect.

Well, Potter and Black would never suspect. Lupin was brighter than he let on -- even if he refused to realise his friends were contemptible, blustering louts -- but Pettigrew rarely had a thought without asking Potter for permission first, and Potter and Black could be incredibly thick. She was just one name on their long list of enemies, and really, they didn't give her nearly enough credit. They both thought she was a complete stick without a sense of humour or a scrap of imagination.

She tied the pouch tightly and tucked it into her pocket.

We'll see about that.

It would be best if she did it now, if she was going to do it at all. Pettigrew was safely out of the way; the library was open for another hour, and he'd need to stay the course if he hoped to learn Locomotion Charms from Mahit Patil. She didn't know what Potter, Black, and Lupin were up to, but it probably didn't matter. They'd dashed off after dinner in a terrible hurry, which probably meant they had plans of some sort, and it had been a relatively quiet evening, which made her think they'd somehow escaped the castle.

After the chill lurking in the halls, the sudden warmth of the common room was almost uncomfortable. The fire roared like a furnace, and the long, yellowish flames blackened the hearth as they licked brightly at the bricks. She watched it for a moment, then considered the charred bit of carpet badly hidden by her favourite couch, and decided -- not for the first time -- that Black was completely hatstand. Unfortunately, no one else had bothered to notice, and she doubted they would until the morning after he finally succeeded in burning down the castle.

She hesitated at the door to their room, her fingers brushing over the bumps and grains in the wood. She'd been in there once before -- when the task of waking Potter in the wee hours had fallen to her, because McGonagall and Slughorn were pulling Snape from the lake, and Dumbledore was trying to placate a small army of enraged merpeople -- and as she'd pushed a sleepy, stumbling, and half-dressed Potter out into the hall, she'd sworn she'd never set foot in there again. Lupin and Pettigrew had been kipping in a fairly normal fashion, but there'd been a girl in bed with Black, and Potter apparently slept with his hand down his pants.

Oh, well. Means to an end, and all that.

Creaking, the door inched open, and Lily wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of boys and socks and bed linens in desperate need of a wash, and it was positively filthy. Clothes littered the carpet, mixed liberally with shoes, books, parchments, and sweet wrappers. Potter's broom watched her from the corner, a stolen Quaffle hidden behind its bristles. Black's broom -- for reasons on which Lily did not dare speculate -- was lashed to his bedpost with a school tie. She stepped further inside, toeing a grass-stained school shirt aside as the door snicked closed behind her. Pettigrew's owl hooted balefully in its cage; Lily suspected the papers needed changing.

Lily glanced around the mess, feeling a bit at loose ends. Her plan had been to sprinkle the itching powder in Potter's trunk, but it didn't appear that he used it.

Hearing a creak, she whirled around, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was still closed. Slowly, she forced herself to breathe. It had only been the wardrobe; its door was ajar, and hanging at a jaunty angle. As she tried to relax, she cast about the room for another option. Their school things would never do; Lupin was the only one she'd ever seen open a book. The beds, perhaps. Or their towels, if she could bring herself to set foot in their toilet. She frowned at Potter's trunk and the detritus piled around it until something familiar caught her attention.

She looked down, curling her lip at a scrap of green and white cloth. With the tip of her wand, she unearthed it from a stack of Quidditch quarterlies, eyeing it with disgust as it hung rather limply and fluttered like a flag. Potter's pants. Those pants. The pants his hand had been tucked inside the morning McGonagall had told Lily to rouse him.

There was another creak, but this one was louder, more determined, and followed shortly by footsteps shuffling up the stairs.

Lily froze, her stomach knotting in panic, and the pouch of itching powder slipped from her fingers.

"Look, s'our door -- wait. Moony, s'that our door?"

"No, ours's there. Go on, that's a -- that's a -- you know, for t'linens and that."

"Cupboard?"

"That's him."

"MY FEET ARE BIG BIG BIG AND MY HAT IS POINTY POINTY POINTY!"

"Leave it out, Prongs. Shite, he's -- Sirius, get his arm, yeah?

"WITCHES LOVE MY HAT BECAUSE IT'S GOT A--"

"--Silencioso!"

"Y'buggered the spell."

"Shut him up, didn't I? Get the -- get t'door."

The door creaked again, the handle rattling loudly, and Lily jolted back into herself. She couldn't escape, and she couldn't get caught up here, she just couldn't. Snatching up the itching powder, she darted for the wardrobe. It groaned as she climbed inside, and she settled herself on a pile of robes, closing the door as best she could. It swung back open a good inch, but there was nothing for it. It was too squeaky to be mucked around with, and someone had just stumbled into the room.

Potter's pants were in her lap.

"Close the door, yeah?"

"Pollocortus!"

"Hang on, y've got it all wrong."

"Wanker. Y'do it, then."

Good Lord, they're drunk.

"Fuck, he's heavy," Black complained, shuffling past her tiny field of vision. His cheeks were red and his hair was mussed, and Potter was tucked against his side, still singing silently. "Why's he so bloody heavy?"

"Dunno," Lupin replied slowly. He leaned toward them, steadying himself with a handful of Black's shirt, and peered at Potter's face. "Maybe it's the antlers."

What?

"Could be that." Black swayed, and Potter swayed with him. "Here, y'take him." He carefully pried Lupin's fingers away from his shirt and wrapped around a fold in Potter's sleeve. "Yeah. Y'take him."

Lupin waved Black off. "Don't want him. He'll only start singin' again."

"--POINTY POINTY POINTY!" Potter croaked. He startled himself and stumbled, landing squarely on his arse. "Pointy. Pointy?" The wardrobe door shuddered and sighed, and Lily shrank away from it. "Pointy!"

"Moony, please."

"Yeah, just -- where's my wand got to?

"Oh, no! Y'tossers aren't stealin' m'voice again," Potter declared, waving his arms around wildly. "I'll give y'spots! Boils!" He slouched, then straightened. "Spots and boils."

Black reached down and smacked the back of Potter's head. "Y'won't. Y'can't, 'cause I've got your wand."

"What? Where?" Potter's hand shot out and glanced off Black's knee. "Give it here, y'knob." He grabbed at Black's trousers and pulled.

Cursing, Black toppled and fell, landing sprawled on top of Potter. Lupin caught him by the arm and yanked, but Black's legs were too tangled with Potter's, and the extra weight sent Lupin crashing to the floor. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, pillowing his head on Potter's shoulder. Potter sighed. Black shifted until he was spread about equally between Potter and Lupin, tucking his head under Potter's chin and resting a hand on Lupin's chest.

Lily leaned forward, wincing as the wardrobe groaned. From what she could see, Potter's eyes were closed, and his breathing had started to shallow. In this state, it wouldn't take them long to fall asleep. The moment they did, Lily would sneak out of the room, run down the stairs, and pretend this never happened. She'd need a shower, of course. The wardrobe fairly reeked of dirty laundry, and Potter's pants were still in her lap.

"Y'awake, Padfoot?" Potter asked suddenly.

"I wasn't, 'til y'started shoutin'," Black mumbled, mostly to Potter's neck. "Shut your face."

Potter huffed and pinched Black's arm. "Y'shut your face."

"Moony. James s'being mean t'me."

Yawning, Lupin rubbed at his eyes. "Hex him, then. Spots and boils."

"Fuck your spots," Potter grumbled. Laughing, Black stretched up and snuffled at Potter's face like a dog. "And fuck you," Potter added, batting at Black's head. "Geroff! If I wanted your tongue in m'ear, I'd ask."

"No, y'wouldn't," Black said, his nose on Potter's chin. "Wouldn't ask me, anyway. Y'd ask Evans."

He won't if he knows what's good for him.

"Wouldn't." Potter's voice was sour. "She'd just take on." He sighed and twisted a lock of Black's hair around his finger. "She hates me, y'know."

"We know."

"No, she hates me. She really fuckin' hates me. Told Eleanor Applewaite she wished I'd fall off m'broom."

Lily frowned and smoothed her hands over her skirt. They were horribly sweaty. She had said that, one morning when Potter was flouncing around before a Quidditch match, but she hadn't expected Eleanor to tell him, and she hadn't meant it to sound quite that awful.

"Merlin's balls, Sirius," Lupin groused, giving Black a poke in the ribs. "Why'd y'have t'get him goin' about Evans, again?"

"He'd've started givin' out in a minute anyway," Black replied. Lupin poked him again; Black caught his hand and tucked it between Potter's chest and his own. "It'd been an hour already."

Lupin tried to twist his hand away, kicking Potter in the shin in the process. "If he starts singin' that song -- you know, with the soft mouths and lonely hearts and everything -- I'll eat y'both next month."

"Y'd break your teeth on his bloody heavy antlers."

What?

"Shut up 'bout m'antlers. M'antlers are crackin'. I've got t'most crackin' antlers anyone's ever seen."

Black thumped Potter in the forehead. "Your antlers aren't nearly as crackin' as m'arse."

"Your arse s'not crackin'," Potter mumbled.

"Get your hand off it, then."

"Well, stop breathin' in m'mouth."

Oh, my.

Lily leaned as close to the wardrobe's door as she dared, shifting until they were spread out before her. The shadows played over them, darkening the place where Black's hand fit against Potter's side, where Potter's arm stretched across Lupin's shoulders, where Lupin's hair brushed Black's arm. She shivered, her eyes widening and a gasp catching in the back of her throat.

Black's face was less than an inch away from Potter's, and Potter's hand was resting neatly on the curve of Black's arse.

"Go on," Lupin said slowly, "kiss him if y'want to." He turned his body a bit, and Black's breath snagged, his mouth dipping closer to Potter's. "I won't look."

"You won't?" Black asked.

Lupin shrugged. Black's shoulder's sagged, his mouth glancing off Potter's jaw. "Don't care to."

"Say's t'bloke with his hand on m'knob."

"Your knob is on m'hand. That's not t'same at all."

"Bloody Hell," Potter murmured. He squirmed, then suddenly stilled, his chest hitching. "You're in m'lap, and his hand's on your knob."

"It's on yours, too."

"Yeah, I know."

The silence was strange and very, very thick. She could hear them breathing, and the short, staggered rhythm seemed to crawl across her skin. Black's tongue darted out, pink and wet as flicked over Potter's lips. Potter pressed Black closer, his hand still splayed on Black's arse. His mouth fell open. When the kiss came it was stilted and clumsy; Black's mouth slipped too low, and Potter arched up to meet him at an angle that put his nose against Black's cheek. They snickered, foreheads touching as they laughed into each other's mouths, then Black stilled Potter's face with his hand and pushed his tongue into Potter's mouth. A shiver ran up Black's body, and Lily realised he was moving his hips just slightly, rocking forward and pushing down, and for strange moment Lily wished she could see what Lupin was doing with his hand.

No, I don't. I really don't.

Potter's hips started to move, just like Black's, and if Lily looked closely -- and she didn't want to, but she couldn't not -- she could see where their bodies pressed and fit together, see the sliver of space left for Lupin's hand. Black pulled back and twisted away, his tongue waiting on the curve of his lip as he leaned into Lupin for a kiss. Lupin moaned quietly -- a low, deep, throaty sound that made Black smile against his mouth. Lily's eyes fluttered closed, because she couldn't watch this, couldn't watch this any more, but another moan curled through the room, and listening was even worse. It was Potter, with his head tipped back against the carpet and his hand lost in Black's hair while Black licked and sucked at Lupin's mouth, and Black shifted enough -- enough to show Lily Lupin's hand, and how it was curved around the bulge in Potter's trousers, how Potter hand slid over Lupin's and pressed down harder, how Potter's hips were straining to meet him, and how Black's fingers were tugging at Lupin's flies.

"Kits off, now," Black said. "Both of you."

Potter's hands flew to his trousers, working his zip as Lupin and Black worked theirs, but it wasn't off, it was just down enough to be out of the way. Potter kissed Lupin, a rough wet slide of lips and tongue that Lily could hear, and Lupin laughed, because Potter's glasses had slid into his cheek, and Potter sucked in a sharp, startled breath because Black's hand had sneaked passed Lupin's hip and curled around his cock.

They pressed together, all fumbling hands and open mouths and trousers bunched around their knees, their wrists bumping awkwardly and their fingers snagging in each other's shirts. Black gasped, his face hidden in Lupin's neck and Potter's cock sliding against his thigh, and Lupin shuttered, his fingernails scoring Black's skin and his mouth trailing up Potter's jaw, and Potter reached, his hand brushing over his own cock before smoothing down Black's and wrapping around Lupin's.

Potter's mouth dropped open, his eyes wide and dark, and Lily stared, her hand over her mouth and his pants still in her lap.

Oh, my.

She closed her eyes and breathed.

"Fuck."

"Don't. Don't move."

"Yeah. That's -- yeah."

When she forced herself to look, they were gasping and spent and curled together, Potter's head on Lupin's chest and Lupin's hand on Black's side and Black's mouth on Potter's skin. The room was silent and still. Lupin began to snore, soft whiffs of breath that ruffled Potter's hair. Lily counted to one thousand, recited the ingredients required for a Draught of Peace, and counted to one thousand again. Potter's face was turned toward the wardrobe, but his eyes were closed. Lily nudged the door. It creaked; Black stirred briefly, then rolled and buried his face in the crook of Lupin's arm.

Lily picked a slow, careful path to the dormitory door, and eased it open with her teeth creasing her lip.

"Padfoot?"

"What?"

"Scratch my arse, yeah? It itches like anything."

(five)

It's funny, how things get twisted around over time. Ten years from now, they'll have shagged above the Quidditch pitch. On the back of a dragon, and while playing 'My Feet are Big and My Hat is Pointy' on a set of bagpipes. Wossname's bagpipes -- that Irish bloke, you know, I think he's a fourth year -- Flannigan, innit? Or Flannery. Something like that. Of course, this wasn't all that long ago. I mean, those three are at it all the time, but the night everyone's on about was just last month.

For my part, I was in the library for a bit, but I left right after Evans did. Well, I had a date -- I'm sure the boys mentioned it. Oh, right. I never did tell them who I was meeting. I wasn't embarrassed, or anything, but Maleficent Parkinson's in Slytherin, and you know how James and Sirius get about Slytherins. Sirius, mostly. Something about his sad act of a brother. And never mind all that about Gudgeon. He wouldn't touch Parkinson with someone else's kit. A few people think they're dating, and he lets them. Saves him from admitting he's been having it off with Remus since fourth year. James doesn't know, of course -- he probably wouldn't like it. He swears they're not gay if it's just the three of them.

Finnegan. Cillian Finnegan. That's the kid with the bagpipes. He's nice enough, but he plays them at all hours.

Right. My date was fine. Parkinson's a lovely girl. We'd have had a grand time, if Filch hadn't nabbed us for lewd and lascivious conduct in a hallway. Whatever lascivious means. A portrait ratted on us -- some hag in a sheet. I didn't realise she was a Vestal Virgin until she started shrieking like a fishwife. Anyway, that put me in detention, and I spent the rest of the night shining trophies. Probably for the best. If I'd gone up any earlier, I might've walked in while the boys were on the job, and that's just not something I want to see.

I don't much care what they get up to, really. It's not like they're leaving me out, or anything. I mean, they've never invited me, but I'd rather they didn't. James' gets stroppy when I disagree with him, and other blokes aren't really my thing. Oh, they like girls. Well, James and Sirius like girls. With Remus, it depends on Gudgeon, and if they're on or off that week. But yeah, they like girls, and girls like them. Girls like me, too. I've been around a bit more than Remus realises.

Oh, Remus was mostly right -- James and Sirius don't know all that much about me. I'm too quiet, I suppose, but that's all right, because I know plenty about them. All three of them. I know that James is serious about Evans. He says he's just messing her about, but that's just -- how did Evans put it? -- a magnificent pack of lies. I also know that Remus doesn't like Gudgeon all that well. He'd shack up with Sirius in a heartbeat. He just doesn't mention it, because Sirius averages a girlfriend a week, and sleeps with James every other night besides.

And Evans? She doesn't hate James as much as she'd like you to believe. If she did, she wouldn't have kept his pants.