Chapter Text
Welcome to Hogwarts, your typical school in Anywhere, England. I will take you to the courtyard, where two sixth years sit and pretend to be studying. Really, they’re listening to pop music. No need to know their names; these girls are unimportant to our plot.
And thus arrives our main character, one Remus John Lupin. He slows to a walk to go past the girls, shaking his head slightly at their frankly horrid taste in music. Remus listens to indie, which is, in his humble opinion, much better music.
He runs into the great hall, seeing the poster on the wall announcing the upcoming Yule Ball. Remus promptly tears it down. Disgusting. A girl shouts a protest at his behavior, but he pays her no mind and keeps walking down the hall to his class. Shit. He’s gonna be late, and McGonagall doesn’t appreciate tardiness.
Now, here in the Headmaster’s Office, we will meet our next player in this game—James Potter. He stands in front of Headmaster Dumbledore’s desk.
But Headmaster Dumbledore does not realize that James is standing there. In fact, he continues to furiously scribble at his parchment, a document in which omniscient narrators (such as yours truly) will recognize as the gay erotica novel that he is writing (and hoping to publish within the year). As Adrian’s hand slid up his lover’s creamy white thigh, he could feel his huge member pulsating with desire… I’ll spare you further details.
Eventually, Dumbledore realizes that he has company. “So, James, here you go.” Or perhaps he had known James was there the whole time, and he just didn’t want to forget the salacious lines he had thought of for his novel. He handed James a piece of parchment, this one with James’ class schedule on it (and not the erotica novel). “Nine different schools in ten years…” Dumbledore says. “Army brat?”
“No,” James says, “my dad’s a—”
Dumbledore cuts him off, rudely. “That’s enough. I’m sure you won’t find Hogwarts any different than any of your old schools.” Something brown, thick, and sticky hits the window behind Dumbledore, even though they are a few stories up in the air. It oozes down the glass, and Dumbledore spares nary a glance at it. “Same little asswipe shit-for-brains everywhere.”
James takes a step back. “Pardon? Did you just say…? Am I in the right place?” He looks around, but he is indeed at Hogwarts. Dumbledore is just like that.
Dumbledore clicks his tongue. “Not anymore, you’re not. Out of my office. I’ve got deviants to see and a novel to finish. Now scoot.” He shakes his hand at James in a fleeing motion. “Scoot!”
James is still stunned. “Okay, thanks.” He leaves the office, scuttling down the stairs and out to the rest of the school.
And now, dear readers, we are introduced to our next main character (and he’s a fan-favorite ‘round these parts). None other than Sirius Black, of course! He has a smirk on his face. Dumbledore looks up at him from his half-filled parchment.
“Sirius Black,” Dumbledore says as he continues to scribble on his paper, searching for the perfect wording. “I see we’re making our visits a weekly ritual.” He narrows his eyes at the seventh year, who merely gives the headmaster a charming smile in return.
“Ah, only so we can have these moments together. Should I dim the lights?” Sirius asks, taking a single step toward the candles that encircle the exit to Dumbledore’s office. Maybe he can make a quick getaway…
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, very clever,” he muses. “My messages here say you exposed yourself in the Great Hall?”
Sirius, despite his valiant efforts and all-around cool-guy exterior, gets slightly red-faced. “I was just joking with Nearly-Headless Nick. It was a bratwurst.”
The corners of Dumbledore’s eyes crinkle with laughter, but he doesn’t verbalize his amusement. “Bratwurst? Aren’t we the optimist? Next time, keep it in your pants, okay? Scoot!”
As Sirius swaggers out of his office, Dumbledore returns to his novel. He scratches out the last sentence he was working on and rewrites it: As Adrian’s hand slid up his lover’s creamy white thigh, he could feel his huge bratwurst pulsating with desire...
Our next character, Peter Pettigrew, a geeky-looking, rather short boy, hurries up to James in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office.
“Peter Pettigrew,” he introduces himself. “I’m supposed to show you around.”
“Oh, hello,” James says, rather relieved. “Thank Merlin! You know, they normally send down one of those weirdos who pretend they’re one of your best friends for a decade or so and then actually end up betraying you and joining the dark side! Glad that’s not you!”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees. “Guys like that are fucking assholes.” Mentally, he crosses “Secret Keeper turned Voldemort’s minion” off of his list of possible future occupations. He hears that it didn’t offer good health benefits anyway.
The pair continues through the halls, finally coming to the Great Hall, where students are seated at their respective House tables, eating lunch.
“So here’s the rundown. First, you got your stoners.” He points to the Hufflepuff table. “Then, you got your jocks.” The Gryffindors. “Then, you got your nerds.” Ravenclaw. “Then, you got the best people you’ll ever meet.” He points to himself, of course. “And finally, the worst.” He points to the Slytherins.
“Does that even mean anything?” James asks. “Isn’t defining your entire personality based on what House you’re sorted into kind of reductive?”
“What does reductive mean?”
Just then, a tall girl with fiery red hair walks past Peter and James with her friend. James’ eyes are glued to her retreating back. “Woah,” he says.
“No. I’m adding a new group, and that’s the ‘don’t even fucking think about it’ group. That’s Lily Lupin .”
“Lily,” James repeats. “I burn, I pine, I perish!” He puts a hand to his heart as he pretends to faint.
“Of course you do,” Peter deadpans. “You know, she’s beautiful and deep. Pure.” James and Peter overhear a snippet of the conversation between Lily and her best friend, Dorcas Meadowes.
“Yup, see, there’s a subtle difference between ‘like’ and ‘love’,” Lily says. “Because I like my Converse, but I love my Prada robes.” Don’t worry, dear readers. Lily only plays dumb for popularity. She doesn’t want to be disliked like her pretentious brother, Remus. And plus, Prada is so last year. Or whatever.
“But I love my Converse,” Dorcas says.
“Well, that’s because you don’t have Prada robes.” It is better, Lily thinks, to be shallow and well-liked than smart and disliked. Ask anyone and they’ll agree. Perhaps a bit Machiavellian, but at least she has friends.
“Oh!” Dorcas says in understanding.
“Listen,” Peter whispers, turning to James. “Forget her. Incredibly uptight father, and it’s a widely-known fact that the Lupin siblings aren’t allowed to date.”
“Oh, but what if?” James wonders.