Oh, Tuesday
Oh, Tuesday
Sirius/Remus
PG13ish?
A week in the life. Fluffy as the day is long. 1085 words.
Written for raelala's 1001 Places Remus and Sirius Defiled Hogwarts in Many Interesting and Complicated Ways. A Comedy ficathon. :D
:::
It takes Sirius four-and-a-half seconds to cross the dorm to Remus's bed.
Wholly unaware he's broken his own record by two milliseconds, Sirius begins the early morning niceties, a sort of reverse lullaby. This means lazy, stupid smiles and fingers brushing Remus's ribs, his spine, his neck. A string of kisses across his collarbone. Remus is awake and for a while everything is quiet, all hazy morning yellow. Even the bed, normally suspicious, relishes the peace. It's better that it doesn't know.
However much time later it will sway and heave, upsetting dust from the walls, and it will be drifting gold, and they won't even notice. Meanwhile the bed is thinking it's too old for this sort of thing; its springs are shot to hell and the frame is cracked. Will there ever be a reprieve?
(No.)
On Tuesday they slip into the Prefects' bathroom. (Sirius, who knows a thing about dedication, has taken the trouble to roll in cold mud just to give his story credence.) He likes it here very much. The soap is often pink and the taps are distractingly shiny, but as he discovers you can only ignore Remus for so long, especially when he's trying to pull you under with him. So they drown for a while, and then, later: "This foam," Sirius says, patting the creamy suds in wonder, "do you suppose it could hold us?"
It could.
Remus and Sirius have never heard the phrase, "Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it," nor any of its permutations. Maybe this is why they are lingering in the hall on a Wednesday morning, and Remus is on his knees, and Sirius is not wearing an awful lot of trousers. Remus says to keep a lookout. Then he doesn't say anything at all. Sirius tries, really he does, but most of his effort is focused on remaining conscious every time Remus does That Swirly Thing with his tongue. Unfortunately, Dewy-eyed Third Year is heading down the corridor at that very moment. What Dewy-Eyed Third Year cannot guess is that, in mere seconds, she will be the recipient of
1) profound mental anguish
2) several galleons' worth of hush money
On Thursday morning Sirius eats with one hand braced on Remus's knee and the other balancing eggs on his fork. He's thinking about tightrope walkers. On the other side Remus has taken up this mantra; sounds like don't you dare don't you dare don't you dare, but Sirius is occupied and rather unconcerned with the particulars of Remus's babble. What he likes best is looking someone straight in the eye at the same moment he wraps his fingers around Remus's erection.
People are so thick. They don't know which way is which and Remus is so fetching when he's horrified.
Friday is about a return to nature, except it's cold outside, so never mind that. The greenhouses are always good, though. There is June air, heavily perfumed with flowers and creeping vegetation and oh yes, the plants are in the constant throes of ecstasy, what with the pollination and all. Remus leads him shyly through the aisles and they lie down under the shade of a violently green fern. They sigh and pant, but it's lost in the rustle of leaves. (This is actually more beneficial than talking to your plants, but most people lack initiative and won't even bother.)
They put Alexander to shame on Saturday. Before them stretches the Vast Third Floor and all its hidden corners and seldom-used classrooms, just begging to be conquered. So: Remus bends him over a desk, and later they balance precariously against a wall (Remus will have a time of it removing the chalk stains from his cloak). The alcove framing the colored-glass window wants to be desecrated. The mops in the supply cupboard see more than they ought. Nary a room is left untouched, and every few feet down the corridors they stop to do something obscene (e.g. something with tongue), because if you're going to do these things you should do them right.
The entire third floor.
"Maybe," Sirius says thoughtfully, "maybe someone will put up a commemorative plaque in our honor."
"But what would it say?" Remus says, and frowns, and he proceeds to think about it all day because inscriptions are not something to be taken lightly; they are permanent, thank you.
On Sunday they are having a well-earned sit in the Common Room.
Upstairs, James is kneeling before an open trunk. He is looking for Sirius's legendary - but hopefully not mythical - collection of Wench Weekly when he finds the parchment.
Mister Moony presents
(in conjunction with Mister Padfoot)
DEBAUCHERY, and From Whence to Commit It
A Rough Compendium
James's smile quirks. His thoughts consist of "oh" and "er" and other halting syllables. It's sort of cute and endearing to think about it at a distance, but to have it here in front of him is another thing entirely, sort of like a wild baboon.
Completely against his will he begins to scan the rest of the document, which is written in the form of an outline. (A proper outline, with numerals and subspecies and clauses and dangling pantaloons, or whatever it is Remus is always prattling on about.) There are: Girls' toilet. The boys' and prefects' baths. A specific point in the one of the halls. The pumpkin patch. There are warnings and reminders ("avoid third stall," "the cupboard outside Filch's office is just big enough"). The detail is staggering and ridiculous, and James is not surprised. And James is impressed because these details fill holes in the already considerable hunk of Swiss cheese that is his knowledge of Hogwarts. They should do something with this knowledge; they've already got it here in their heads and -
His eyes catch on two words that will be forever seared into his brain with all their terrible glory; words he will remember as flashing neon, and smoking ominously, and underlined. Three times. In blood.
He reads:
James's bed.
Carefully he rolls up the parchment and places it in the exact spot he found it. He glances over at his bed, which glances back at him warily.
James sighs.
Then, unfailingly calm, with a certain amount of deliberation, and in less time than it takes him to pick out a shirt in the morning, James decides the time has come to kill his best friends.
Sirius/Remus
PG13ish?
A week in the life. Fluffy as the day is long. 1085 words.
Written for raelala's 1001 Places Remus and Sirius Defiled Hogwarts in Many Interesting and Complicated Ways. A Comedy ficathon. :D
:::
It takes Sirius four-and-a-half seconds to cross the dorm to Remus's bed.
Wholly unaware he's broken his own record by two milliseconds, Sirius begins the early morning niceties, a sort of reverse lullaby. This means lazy, stupid smiles and fingers brushing Remus's ribs, his spine, his neck. A string of kisses across his collarbone. Remus is awake and for a while everything is quiet, all hazy morning yellow. Even the bed, normally suspicious, relishes the peace. It's better that it doesn't know.
However much time later it will sway and heave, upsetting dust from the walls, and it will be drifting gold, and they won't even notice. Meanwhile the bed is thinking it's too old for this sort of thing; its springs are shot to hell and the frame is cracked. Will there ever be a reprieve?
(No.)
On Tuesday they slip into the Prefects' bathroom. (Sirius, who knows a thing about dedication, has taken the trouble to roll in cold mud just to give his story credence.) He likes it here very much. The soap is often pink and the taps are distractingly shiny, but as he discovers you can only ignore Remus for so long, especially when he's trying to pull you under with him. So they drown for a while, and then, later: "This foam," Sirius says, patting the creamy suds in wonder, "do you suppose it could hold us?"
It could.
Remus and Sirius have never heard the phrase, "Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it," nor any of its permutations. Maybe this is why they are lingering in the hall on a Wednesday morning, and Remus is on his knees, and Sirius is not wearing an awful lot of trousers. Remus says to keep a lookout. Then he doesn't say anything at all. Sirius tries, really he does, but most of his effort is focused on remaining conscious every time Remus does That Swirly Thing with his tongue. Unfortunately, Dewy-eyed Third Year is heading down the corridor at that very moment. What Dewy-Eyed Third Year cannot guess is that, in mere seconds, she will be the recipient of
1) profound mental anguish
2) several galleons' worth of hush money
On Thursday morning Sirius eats with one hand braced on Remus's knee and the other balancing eggs on his fork. He's thinking about tightrope walkers. On the other side Remus has taken up this mantra; sounds like don't you dare don't you dare don't you dare, but Sirius is occupied and rather unconcerned with the particulars of Remus's babble. What he likes best is looking someone straight in the eye at the same moment he wraps his fingers around Remus's erection.
People are so thick. They don't know which way is which and Remus is so fetching when he's horrified.
Friday is about a return to nature, except it's cold outside, so never mind that. The greenhouses are always good, though. There is June air, heavily perfumed with flowers and creeping vegetation and oh yes, the plants are in the constant throes of ecstasy, what with the pollination and all. Remus leads him shyly through the aisles and they lie down under the shade of a violently green fern. They sigh and pant, but it's lost in the rustle of leaves. (This is actually more beneficial than talking to your plants, but most people lack initiative and won't even bother.)
They put Alexander to shame on Saturday. Before them stretches the Vast Third Floor and all its hidden corners and seldom-used classrooms, just begging to be conquered. So: Remus bends him over a desk, and later they balance precariously against a wall (Remus will have a time of it removing the chalk stains from his cloak). The alcove framing the colored-glass window wants to be desecrated. The mops in the supply cupboard see more than they ought. Nary a room is left untouched, and every few feet down the corridors they stop to do something obscene (e.g. something with tongue), because if you're going to do these things you should do them right.
The entire third floor.
"Maybe," Sirius says thoughtfully, "maybe someone will put up a commemorative plaque in our honor."
"But what would it say?" Remus says, and frowns, and he proceeds to think about it all day because inscriptions are not something to be taken lightly; they are permanent, thank you.
On Sunday they are having a well-earned sit in the Common Room.
Upstairs, James is kneeling before an open trunk. He is looking for Sirius's legendary - but hopefully not mythical - collection of Wench Weekly when he finds the parchment.
Mister Moony presents
(in conjunction with Mister Padfoot)
DEBAUCHERY, and From Whence to Commit It
A Rough Compendium
James's smile quirks. His thoughts consist of "oh" and "er" and other halting syllables. It's sort of cute and endearing to think about it at a distance, but to have it here in front of him is another thing entirely, sort of like a wild baboon.
Completely against his will he begins to scan the rest of the document, which is written in the form of an outline. (A proper outline, with numerals and subspecies and clauses and dangling pantaloons, or whatever it is Remus is always prattling on about.) There are: Girls' toilet. The boys' and prefects' baths. A specific point in the one of the halls. The pumpkin patch. There are warnings and reminders ("avoid third stall," "the cupboard outside Filch's office is just big enough"). The detail is staggering and ridiculous, and James is not surprised. And James is impressed because these details fill holes in the already considerable hunk of Swiss cheese that is his knowledge of Hogwarts. They should do something with this knowledge; they've already got it here in their heads and -
His eyes catch on two words that will be forever seared into his brain with all their terrible glory; words he will remember as flashing neon, and smoking ominously, and underlined. Three times. In blood.
He reads:
James's bed.
Carefully he rolls up the parchment and places it in the exact spot he found it. He glances over at his bed, which glances back at him warily.
James sighs.
Then, unfailingly calm, with a certain amount of deliberation, and in less time than it takes him to pick out a shirt in the morning, James decides the time has come to kill his best friends.