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005. january 1976.
Jan. 5th, 2011 03:45 pmJanuary, 1976 — 12:00 hours.
Hogwarts, Scotland.
The dormitories, the kitchens, the Great Hall.
"Right. So we're good, then?"
Sirius nods, saluting his best friend with an expression of utmost seriousness that eventually melts from his face and becomes one of his trademark shit-eating grins.
Remus looks a little uncomfortable, muttering something about this 'breaking about a thousand rules, and I'm a bloody prefect — I shouldn't even be doing this —' while Peter grins, nodding enthusiastically.
"We're golden, Prongs," he says.
James nods. "Brilliant. Let's go."
---
James would never admit it to himself, but his ego had suffered a small bit of bruising upon his last conversation with Lily Evans (particularly in light of his conversation with Cliona, some of the advice from his Happy Hour, and Peter's apology), and that had only made him angry. And his frustrations had to be relieved, otherwise he was sure it would eventually interfere with important things like playing appropriate jokes on people, Quidditch, and — oh yeah, schoolwork.
Sirius suggested they go out for drinks, but James had a better idea.
"It's been a while since we reminded Snape who rules this school," he said.
"You're right," Sirius agreed. "We've been getting soft. It's not right."
"No, not right at all," chimed in Peter.
"I'm not listening!" Remus cried, sticking his head under his pillow.
"You're a Marauder," James reminded him.
"You're either with us or against us," Sirius added.
"And that means you'd be on Snivellus' side —"
"— which is just about the worst place you could possibly be."
"Well, yeah. For one, his nose doesn't allow much breathing space."
Sirius started to laugh. "Except his own, of course."
James nodded. "And secondly, there's the grease."
"Oh, blimey. No one can forget the grease."
"You'd be slipping all over the place in that filth!"
"Never catch a bloody break, you won't," Sirius added solemnly.
Peter perked up. "Right, right! And Snape's great big —"
"All fucking right!" Remus burst, throwing his pillow aside with obvious frustration. "All right. Just — just stop talking about Snape's nose and whatever else."
James and Sirius exchanged grins.
---
The plan is thus.
At approximately eleven hundred thirty-five hours, Peter would enter the Great Hall with a small container of Alistair Iop's All Clear, Always Itch itching powder. Sprinkling a thin layer of it upon Snape's usual seat of choice, knowing he was rather particular about keeping the same seat during lunch, would ensure good ol' Snivellus having a rather uncomfortable bottom during his meal.
It would be nothing dramatic, nothing but an incessant tickling, really — the only purpose being just to see the bloke squirm for a bit.
Ignoring his discomfort for his hungry stomach (because no other meal would be provided until dinner and Snape was hardly the sort to be storing anything in his dormitory in between), Snivellus Snape would remain seated with his fellow Slytherins, awaiting the magical plates to appear before them.
Before that occurs, of course, James and Sirius would steal into the kitchens where the house-elves dwelled, and make a few requests about lunch that day. Due to James' rather good repertoire with the house-elves, they would gracefully accept these changes — but not before James and Sirius add a rather sizable amount of dungbombs into Severus' shepherd's pie, and hiccough sweet-powder into his pumpkin juice for when he attempts to wash his pie down.
Outside the Great Hall, Remus would wait, looking important and business-like, guarding the doors from any trespassers, which included students and teachers alike.
---
"Is it done, then?" Remus gasps, exasperatedly.
James nods.
Sirius grins.
Peter whoops.
---
Lunch is as it always is.
Students, famished from early morning classes, practices, and spare periods, quickly fill the Great Hall. Gryffindors go to the Gryffindor table; Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherin to theirs.
With their backs to the wall, allowing them the best seat in the Great Hall to oversee their accomplishments, the Marauders await Snape & Company.
It's not one of their more original pranks, certainly, but there's a reason the classics are called classics.
"Here he comes!" Peter hisses, rushing towards them and grabbing a seat to Sirius' left.
Sure enough, Snape (in all his thin, wiry, greasiness) billows in, his Hogwarts robes looking as though they weigh him down. Mulciber and Avery lead the pack, taking their usual seats.
Snape takes his.
Sirius starts to snicker to James' left. James says, from the corner of his mouth, "Calm, gentlemen. We don't want to alert them to anything."
They wait.
James pours himself a glass of pumpkin juice — casual, nonchalant.
"There."
Despite his disapproval for their antics, as would only be right, Remus glances up from his Arithmancy textbook.
Snape looks highly uncomfortable in his seat, squirming and jiggling about like he's sitting atop a gigantic flobberworm. He glances down at his lap, then back up.
Mulciber and Avery appear not to notice anything, engaged in their own conversations.
Snape reaches over for his glass of pumpkin juice, hesitates, and puts it back down — much to James' chagrin. He can hear Sirius let out a breath beside him.
"Well, there goes that one," Sirius says. "That was my last hiccough sweet, too."
"Tough luck, mate," Peter starts, before James interrupts.
"Oh, god — there he goes!"
Snape — still squirming — picks up his fork and takes a stab into his pie.
It suddenly explodes in a cloud of deep, murky brown that sends Slytherin students bolting from their seats. Students sitting near Snape suddenly cry out in surprise and disgust. There are shouts of "What the —" and "Blimey!" and "Bugger!" and other less savoury words.
Snape looks astounded, his hand still frozen in mid-air, fork in his grasp.
Nearly everyone from Slytherin has gotten up except for Snape, who glances up and across at the Gryffindor table.
His narrow-eyed glare is utterly murderous.
The Marauders (sans Remus) wave, friendly smiles on their faces.
"Well, boys," says James, as they continue to watch the Slytherin scramble around in panic before a couple professors finally step in to calm the situation, "I'd say that went well, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, very well, James," says Sirius. "Very well, indeed."
"It's going to take at least until tomorrow to clear out this godawful smell though," Remus says, waving a hand across his nose. The stench is starting to crawl their way.
"Yeah," Peter says, "but it was so worth it."
Hogwarts, Scotland.
The dormitories, the kitchens, the Great Hall.
"Right. So we're good, then?"
Sirius nods, saluting his best friend with an expression of utmost seriousness that eventually melts from his face and becomes one of his trademark shit-eating grins.
Remus looks a little uncomfortable, muttering something about this 'breaking about a thousand rules, and I'm a bloody prefect — I shouldn't even be doing this —' while Peter grins, nodding enthusiastically.
"We're golden, Prongs," he says.
James nods. "Brilliant. Let's go."
---
James would never admit it to himself, but his ego had suffered a small bit of bruising upon his last conversation with Lily Evans (particularly in light of his conversation with Cliona, some of the advice from his Happy Hour, and Peter's apology), and that had only made him angry. And his frustrations had to be relieved, otherwise he was sure it would eventually interfere with important things like playing appropriate jokes on people, Quidditch, and — oh yeah, schoolwork.
Sirius suggested they go out for drinks, but James had a better idea.
"It's been a while since we reminded Snape who rules this school," he said.
"You're right," Sirius agreed. "We've been getting soft. It's not right."
"No, not right at all," chimed in Peter.
"I'm not listening!" Remus cried, sticking his head under his pillow.
"You're a Marauder," James reminded him.
"You're either with us or against us," Sirius added.
"And that means you'd be on Snivellus' side —"
"— which is just about the worst place you could possibly be."
"Well, yeah. For one, his nose doesn't allow much breathing space."
Sirius started to laugh. "Except his own, of course."
James nodded. "And secondly, there's the grease."
"Oh, blimey. No one can forget the grease."
"You'd be slipping all over the place in that filth!"
"Never catch a bloody break, you won't," Sirius added solemnly.
Peter perked up. "Right, right! And Snape's great big —"
"All fucking right!" Remus burst, throwing his pillow aside with obvious frustration. "All right. Just — just stop talking about Snape's nose and whatever else."
James and Sirius exchanged grins.
---
The plan is thus.
At approximately eleven hundred thirty-five hours, Peter would enter the Great Hall with a small container of Alistair Iop's All Clear, Always Itch itching powder. Sprinkling a thin layer of it upon Snape's usual seat of choice, knowing he was rather particular about keeping the same seat during lunch, would ensure good ol' Snivellus having a rather uncomfortable bottom during his meal.
It would be nothing dramatic, nothing but an incessant tickling, really — the only purpose being just to see the bloke squirm for a bit.
Ignoring his discomfort for his hungry stomach (because no other meal would be provided until dinner and Snape was hardly the sort to be storing anything in his dormitory in between), Snivellus Snape would remain seated with his fellow Slytherins, awaiting the magical plates to appear before them.
Before that occurs, of course, James and Sirius would steal into the kitchens where the house-elves dwelled, and make a few requests about lunch that day. Due to James' rather good repertoire with the house-elves, they would gracefully accept these changes — but not before James and Sirius add a rather sizable amount of dungbombs into Severus' shepherd's pie, and hiccough sweet-powder into his pumpkin juice for when he attempts to wash his pie down.
Outside the Great Hall, Remus would wait, looking important and business-like, guarding the doors from any trespassers, which included students and teachers alike.
---
"Is it done, then?" Remus gasps, exasperatedly.
James nods.
Sirius grins.
Peter whoops.
---
Lunch is as it always is.
Students, famished from early morning classes, practices, and spare periods, quickly fill the Great Hall. Gryffindors go to the Gryffindor table; Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherin to theirs.
With their backs to the wall, allowing them the best seat in the Great Hall to oversee their accomplishments, the Marauders await Snape & Company.
It's not one of their more original pranks, certainly, but there's a reason the classics are called classics.
"Here he comes!" Peter hisses, rushing towards them and grabbing a seat to Sirius' left.
Sure enough, Snape (in all his thin, wiry, greasiness) billows in, his Hogwarts robes looking as though they weigh him down. Mulciber and Avery lead the pack, taking their usual seats.
Snape takes his.
Sirius starts to snicker to James' left. James says, from the corner of his mouth, "Calm, gentlemen. We don't want to alert them to anything."
They wait.
James pours himself a glass of pumpkin juice — casual, nonchalant.
"There."
Despite his disapproval for their antics, as would only be right, Remus glances up from his Arithmancy textbook.
Snape looks highly uncomfortable in his seat, squirming and jiggling about like he's sitting atop a gigantic flobberworm. He glances down at his lap, then back up.
Mulciber and Avery appear not to notice anything, engaged in their own conversations.
Snape reaches over for his glass of pumpkin juice, hesitates, and puts it back down — much to James' chagrin. He can hear Sirius let out a breath beside him.
"Well, there goes that one," Sirius says. "That was my last hiccough sweet, too."
"Tough luck, mate," Peter starts, before James interrupts.
"Oh, god — there he goes!"
Snape — still squirming — picks up his fork and takes a stab into his pie.
It suddenly explodes in a cloud of deep, murky brown that sends Slytherin students bolting from their seats. Students sitting near Snape suddenly cry out in surprise and disgust. There are shouts of "What the —" and "Blimey!" and "Bugger!" and other less savoury words.
Snape looks astounded, his hand still frozen in mid-air, fork in his grasp.
Nearly everyone from Slytherin has gotten up except for Snape, who glances up and across at the Gryffindor table.
His narrow-eyed glare is utterly murderous.
The Marauders (sans Remus) wave, friendly smiles on their faces.
"Well, boys," says James, as they continue to watch the Slytherin scramble around in panic before a couple professors finally step in to calm the situation, "I'd say that went well, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, very well, James," says Sirius. "Very well, indeed."
"It's going to take at least until tomorrow to clear out this godawful smell though," Remus says, waving a hand across his nose. The stench is starting to crawl their way.
"Yeah," Peter says, "but it was so worth it."
