Fic: Under One Roof.
Title: Under One Roof
Rating: PG-13 (for language!)
Characters/Pairings: The Marauders + Lily
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: James shoves his wand back into his right sleeve and blinks dazedly. Combined with the glasses, it has the effect of making him look like an owl. A bemused, deranged owl whose perch has just been rocked by A Storm of Sirius Proportions. Sirius has Important Information to impart to James. Also, everyone eats dinner.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: For ascenseur, possibly because she prompted the Marauders being BFFs for her holiday present or possibly just because she deserves many, many hugs and writing is one way I know of to deliver hugs via the internet. I know this is pretty much useless, but still! ♥
Possibly probably definitely inspired by this.
“JAMES,” Sirius bellows, hurtling through the front door of the Potters’ spotless, rundown flat.
“HRFLNRGHWHAAARGHT,” James says as he tumbles to the floor and then, after he has extracted himself from various blankets, sofa cushions, and other assorted couch-paraphernalia, he says, “What?”
“I-- well. Peter reckons Kingsley and Marlene McKinnon are shagging,” Sirius says, deflating rather spectacularly.
“What, right this very minute?” James asks, his glasses still slightly askew. He shoves his wand back into his right sleeve and blinks dazedly. Combined with the glasses, it has the effect of making him look like an owl. A bemused, deranged owl whose perch has just been rocked by A Storm of Sirius Proportions.
“How in the name of Merlin would I know that you perverted little bastard?” Sirius inquires.
“Well,” James says in a tone which is entirely too reasonable for Sirius’ tastes, “if they were shagging this very minute I suppose there would be a possibility, however remote, that they were doing so on the roof. And if that were true, then probability dictates that they might come crashing through the roof, and if that were to happen Lily or I might, conceivably, be crushed.”
“Kingsley Shacklebolt falling on your head would be a damnably undignified way to die,” Sirius says. “Besides which they’d both be naked, and that’d make for an awkward afterlife, wouldn’t it. Not that Marlene McKinnon’s awful to look at, but--”
“Seeing as how neither Kingsley nor Marlene is, at present, on the roof,” James says, “I cannot possibly imagine, Padfoot, that it was necessary-- or even, you know, advisable-- for you to come barging into my flat shouting like an entire contingent of Death Eaters was on your heels.”
“Just thought you should know,” Sirius says.
“That Peter thinks Kingsley and Marlene are shagging,” James says slowly, sounding as if he is genuinely trying to understand from which bit of that sentence he is meant to glean vital information. His eyes light up. “Wait, is this code? This is code, isn’t it. Merlin’s see-through socks, Padfoot, come up with a better fucking code.”
“’S not code,” Sirius grumbles. James frowns and pushes his glasses back up his nose.
“Not that it’s, you know, unusual for you to abandon sense altogether,” he says, “but frankly, you seem to have abandoned sense altogether.”
“Is it my fault you aren’t properly interested in premium gossip?”
“Call that premium gossip, do you?” James asks, flopping back down onto the couch.
“It is nothing like my fault,” Sirius sweeps on imperiously. “It is nowhere near my fault. It is not even in the vicinity of my fault.”
“Whatever it is,” Lily says as she emerges from the kitchen, “I feel quite confident in saying it’s your fault.”
“You wound me!” Sirius cries, splaying dramatically across the couch. James sighs and dumps Sirius out of his lap.
“As do you!” Sirius says from the floor.
“God, that pout ought to be illegal on anyone over the age of four,” Lily says as she wanders back toward the stove. “You have the most ridiculous puppy dog eyes, Sirius.”
James laughs and says something about the canine disposition, and Sirius grins up at him. The carpet in the Potters’ flat is rather threadbare, and it shouldn’t be particularly comfortable, but one of Sirius’ myriad talents is his ability to sleep nearly anywhere and for a while, as James mutters over The Daily Prophet and Lily makes frustrated noises from the kitchen, sleep seems a distinct possibility.
“What did you come over for anyway, Sirius?” Lily calls after a few moments of particularly inventive cursing regarding the questionable parentage of a bit of uncooperative broccoli.
There is a pause as Sirius considers the ceiling, his fingernails, and his options.
Then: “Peter reckons Kingsley and Marlene are shagging,” he says.
There is another pause.
“And that’s why you came slamming through the front door, was it?” Lily says, her voice oddly gentle.
“Yes,” Sirius says, “it absolutely fucking was. You don’t think that’s important news?”
“On the contrary,” Lily says. “It is information of stunning import.”
“Now there, Prongsie, is someone who appreciates a sterling bit of intel,” Sirius says.
James sighs and sets to the business of cleaning his glasses, apparently calculating that success in this endeavor is rather more likely than success in understanding Lily’s sudden fit of Sirius-centered benevolence.
Lily insists that Sirius stay for dinner (and what is that going to be, exactly, Sirius wants to know, and gets a smack upside the head for his trouble), and then someone points out that Remus and Peter are missing from what would otherwise by a perfect (or, Lily says, perfectly terrifying) picture.
Remus turns up at half-past six with a new scar just under his jaw and saves Lily’s chicken stew from ruin by fiddling around with basil and turning the heat down on the stovetop. Peter skids into the flat just after everyone else has started eating and breathes out an apology about being kept late at work as he serves himself.
“You're dripping into the soup, Wormtail,” James says as he scarfs down his own bowlful.
“Hmm? Oh,” Peter says and casts a quick drying charm which sticks his hair straight up in the air. “The weather’s turned nasty.”
“Oh, well,” Remus says quietly, “we’re all inside, anyway.”
“Moony you big girl,” Sirius says, which is probably not entirely warranted. But then, that’s a warning Sirius ought to come with: Probably Not Entirely Warranted.
“Observations about the weather are hardly confined to women,” Remus says mildly, and Lily says, “Like you can say anything about it, anyway, Sirius.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius declares, stuffing half of a roll into his mouth. Lily scoffs.
“Oh really? Well next time you’re struck by the sudden urge to make sure James is still alive you and your atrocious table manners can just owl, because I won’t let you in the door,” she says.
“Oh was that it?” James says. “I thought maybe you’d committed a felony, Padfoot, but then I thought this’d be a stupid hideout, wouldn’t it? First place they’d think to look.”
“Ah, but that’s what gives it the element of surprise,” Sirius says and then stuffs the other half of the roll in his mouth so that he won’t have to talk any more.
“Wait,” James says, oblivious, “is that why you turned up in my office last week to tell me about the latest advances in niffler breeding?”
Remus sighs and reminds himself to stop feeding Sirius’ hunger for trivia; Sirius kicks James in the shins, hard. There is a brief silence.
“I suppose it does make sense to check every once in a while,” Peter says into it. “I mean, to be worried. It’s not-- you know. It’s probably the most sensible thing you’ve ever actually done, Sirius.”
“Shut it,” Sirius says, his deliciously starchy defense against conversation having been chewed and swallowed. “Anyway, I wasn’t worried. I was just-- I was just displaying a bit of friendly concern, that’s all.”
“That only makes it sound like you were trying to sleep with him,” Remus says helpfully. “I think some new terminology would be best.”
“God, you’re all hopeless,” Lily says, standing up to clear the table.
“It’s not as if I don’t, you know,” James says quietly. “I mean, it’s not-- I worry. There’s no friendly concern involved. Just because I haven’t yet barged into your flat shouting about Kingsley's sex life--"
“Right, yeah, obviously,” Sirius says, and then a silence descends which the four men seated at the table have become rather accustomed to: it’s a patented Marauders, ‘We Shall Never Speak of This Again’ silence, made infamous by such incidents as the Purple Pants Hullabaloo of ’75 and A That Rather Nasty Predicament Involving Singing Fireworks, Ghost Pirates, And Feathers.
“Excellent stew, Lily, thanks,” Peter says. “Who fancies a game of Exploding Snap?”
They play until Remus starts to refer to the wee hours of the morning as “the wee hours of the morning,” at which point Sirius accuses him of becoming overly literary, James tries to say “overly literary” ten times fast, Peter develops an inexplicable case of the hiccups, and Lily orders three of them out of the flat, whilst delivering dire warnings to the fourth as to what will happen if the tongue twisters do not cease and desist forthwith.
(James’ eyes absolutely do not light up with forbidden, tongue-twister-related glee at the phrase “cease and desist forthwith.”)
It rains all night, and the wind doesn’t let up even once, but Remus is right (as he so often is): they’re all inside, and since no one-- Kingsley Shacklebolt and Marlene McKinnon included-- have put any holes in the roof, inside is an indisputably Good Place To Be.
Rating: PG-13 (for language!)
Characters/Pairings: The Marauders + Lily
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: James shoves his wand back into his right sleeve and blinks dazedly. Combined with the glasses, it has the effect of making him look like an owl. A bemused, deranged owl whose perch has just been rocked by A Storm of Sirius Proportions. Sirius has Important Information to impart to James. Also, everyone eats dinner.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Notes: For ascenseur, possibly because she prompted the Marauders being BFFs for her holiday present or possibly just because she deserves many, many hugs and writing is one way I know of to deliver hugs via the internet. I know this is pretty much useless, but still! ♥
Possibly probably definitely inspired by this.
“JAMES,” Sirius bellows, hurtling through the front door of the Potters’ spotless, rundown flat.
“HRFLNRGHWHAAARGHT,” James says as he tumbles to the floor and then, after he has extracted himself from various blankets, sofa cushions, and other assorted couch-paraphernalia, he says, “What?”
“I-- well. Peter reckons Kingsley and Marlene McKinnon are shagging,” Sirius says, deflating rather spectacularly.
“What, right this very minute?” James asks, his glasses still slightly askew. He shoves his wand back into his right sleeve and blinks dazedly. Combined with the glasses, it has the effect of making him look like an owl. A bemused, deranged owl whose perch has just been rocked by A Storm of Sirius Proportions.
“How in the name of Merlin would I know that you perverted little bastard?” Sirius inquires.
“Well,” James says in a tone which is entirely too reasonable for Sirius’ tastes, “if they were shagging this very minute I suppose there would be a possibility, however remote, that they were doing so on the roof. And if that were true, then probability dictates that they might come crashing through the roof, and if that were to happen Lily or I might, conceivably, be crushed.”
“Kingsley Shacklebolt falling on your head would be a damnably undignified way to die,” Sirius says. “Besides which they’d both be naked, and that’d make for an awkward afterlife, wouldn’t it. Not that Marlene McKinnon’s awful to look at, but--”
“Seeing as how neither Kingsley nor Marlene is, at present, on the roof,” James says, “I cannot possibly imagine, Padfoot, that it was necessary-- or even, you know, advisable-- for you to come barging into my flat shouting like an entire contingent of Death Eaters was on your heels.”
“Just thought you should know,” Sirius says.
“That Peter thinks Kingsley and Marlene are shagging,” James says slowly, sounding as if he is genuinely trying to understand from which bit of that sentence he is meant to glean vital information. His eyes light up. “Wait, is this code? This is code, isn’t it. Merlin’s see-through socks, Padfoot, come up with a better fucking code.”
“’S not code,” Sirius grumbles. James frowns and pushes his glasses back up his nose.
“Not that it’s, you know, unusual for you to abandon sense altogether,” he says, “but frankly, you seem to have abandoned sense altogether.”
“Is it my fault you aren’t properly interested in premium gossip?”
“Call that premium gossip, do you?” James asks, flopping back down onto the couch.
“It is nothing like my fault,” Sirius sweeps on imperiously. “It is nowhere near my fault. It is not even in the vicinity of my fault.”
“Whatever it is,” Lily says as she emerges from the kitchen, “I feel quite confident in saying it’s your fault.”
“You wound me!” Sirius cries, splaying dramatically across the couch. James sighs and dumps Sirius out of his lap.
“As do you!” Sirius says from the floor.
“God, that pout ought to be illegal on anyone over the age of four,” Lily says as she wanders back toward the stove. “You have the most ridiculous puppy dog eyes, Sirius.”
James laughs and says something about the canine disposition, and Sirius grins up at him. The carpet in the Potters’ flat is rather threadbare, and it shouldn’t be particularly comfortable, but one of Sirius’ myriad talents is his ability to sleep nearly anywhere and for a while, as James mutters over The Daily Prophet and Lily makes frustrated noises from the kitchen, sleep seems a distinct possibility.
“What did you come over for anyway, Sirius?” Lily calls after a few moments of particularly inventive cursing regarding the questionable parentage of a bit of uncooperative broccoli.
There is a pause as Sirius considers the ceiling, his fingernails, and his options.
Then: “Peter reckons Kingsley and Marlene are shagging,” he says.
There is another pause.
“And that’s why you came slamming through the front door, was it?” Lily says, her voice oddly gentle.
“Yes,” Sirius says, “it absolutely fucking was. You don’t think that’s important news?”
“On the contrary,” Lily says. “It is information of stunning import.”
“Now there, Prongsie, is someone who appreciates a sterling bit of intel,” Sirius says.
James sighs and sets to the business of cleaning his glasses, apparently calculating that success in this endeavor is rather more likely than success in understanding Lily’s sudden fit of Sirius-centered benevolence.
Lily insists that Sirius stay for dinner (and what is that going to be, exactly, Sirius wants to know, and gets a smack upside the head for his trouble), and then someone points out that Remus and Peter are missing from what would otherwise by a perfect (or, Lily says, perfectly terrifying) picture.
Remus turns up at half-past six with a new scar just under his jaw and saves Lily’s chicken stew from ruin by fiddling around with basil and turning the heat down on the stovetop. Peter skids into the flat just after everyone else has started eating and breathes out an apology about being kept late at work as he serves himself.
“You're dripping into the soup, Wormtail,” James says as he scarfs down his own bowlful.
“Hmm? Oh,” Peter says and casts a quick drying charm which sticks his hair straight up in the air. “The weather’s turned nasty.”
“Oh, well,” Remus says quietly, “we’re all inside, anyway.”
“Moony you big girl,” Sirius says, which is probably not entirely warranted. But then, that’s a warning Sirius ought to come with: Probably Not Entirely Warranted.
“Observations about the weather are hardly confined to women,” Remus says mildly, and Lily says, “Like you can say anything about it, anyway, Sirius.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius declares, stuffing half of a roll into his mouth. Lily scoffs.
“Oh really? Well next time you’re struck by the sudden urge to make sure James is still alive you and your atrocious table manners can just owl, because I won’t let you in the door,” she says.
“Oh was that it?” James says. “I thought maybe you’d committed a felony, Padfoot, but then I thought this’d be a stupid hideout, wouldn’t it? First place they’d think to look.”
“Ah, but that’s what gives it the element of surprise,” Sirius says and then stuffs the other half of the roll in his mouth so that he won’t have to talk any more.
“Wait,” James says, oblivious, “is that why you turned up in my office last week to tell me about the latest advances in niffler breeding?”
Remus sighs and reminds himself to stop feeding Sirius’ hunger for trivia; Sirius kicks James in the shins, hard. There is a brief silence.
“I suppose it does make sense to check every once in a while,” Peter says into it. “I mean, to be worried. It’s not-- you know. It’s probably the most sensible thing you’ve ever actually done, Sirius.”
“Shut it,” Sirius says, his deliciously starchy defense against conversation having been chewed and swallowed. “Anyway, I wasn’t worried. I was just-- I was just displaying a bit of friendly concern, that’s all.”
“That only makes it sound like you were trying to sleep with him,” Remus says helpfully. “I think some new terminology would be best.”
“God, you’re all hopeless,” Lily says, standing up to clear the table.
“It’s not as if I don’t, you know,” James says quietly. “I mean, it’s not-- I worry. There’s no friendly concern involved. Just because I haven’t yet barged into your flat shouting about Kingsley's sex life--"
“Right, yeah, obviously,” Sirius says, and then a silence descends which the four men seated at the table have become rather accustomed to: it’s a patented Marauders, ‘We Shall Never Speak of This Again’ silence, made infamous by such incidents as the Purple Pants Hullabaloo of ’75 and A That Rather Nasty Predicament Involving Singing Fireworks, Ghost Pirates, And Feathers.
“Excellent stew, Lily, thanks,” Peter says. “Who fancies a game of Exploding Snap?”
They play until Remus starts to refer to the wee hours of the morning as “the wee hours of the morning,” at which point Sirius accuses him of becoming overly literary, James tries to say “overly literary” ten times fast, Peter develops an inexplicable case of the hiccups, and Lily orders three of them out of the flat, whilst delivering dire warnings to the fourth as to what will happen if the tongue twisters do not cease and desist forthwith.
(James’ eyes absolutely do not light up with forbidden, tongue-twister-related glee at the phrase “cease and desist forthwith.”)
It rains all night, and the wind doesn’t let up even once, but Remus is right (as he so often is): they’re all inside, and since no one-- Kingsley Shacklebolt and Marlene McKinnon included-- have put any holes in the roof, inside is an indisputably Good Place To Be.