Chapter Text
Out of all the people at Hogwarts, Lily could never have imagined that she would be the one to bring about its destruction. Her. Picture perfect prefect. Ace student and role model. Possible future Minister of Magic according to Slughorn (so probably best not to put too much stock into that). Dame Lillian Jor-el Evans according to Sirius Black (because in addition to purposefully getting her name wrong, he one day discovered her initials and decided that her middle name was that of a muggle superhero's father). One of the three legendary Furies of Hogwarts according to Peter Pettigrew (although Lily was nintey per cent certain James Potter had put that idea in his head).
Okay, so maybe that last one suggests that she's perhaps a teensy bit capable of it. But all that does is place her a few more spots up on a very long list. A list where, might she add, she is definitely towards the bottom. That was her, cushioned between the Abbotts and the Dearborns and the Shacklebolts of world.
And it really wasn't her fault. That belonged to those right at the top of 'Likely to Destroy Hogwarts' list. Those damned Marauders (yes, she is including Remus in it too because he was part of it and it was high time he started taking responsibility), who supersede even the Peeves and Mulcibers and Averys of the world. Well, maybe (definitely) not the Mulcibers and Averys, but she was panicking and deserved to act a little theatrical.
"Crap," Lily said, taking in the sight before her. She blinked her eyes repeatedly, hoping that maybe it was just an illusionment charm or some trick of the light or that she was daydreaming. Alas, no.
There he was in all his splendour, Sirius Black, sitting obediently on a chair, back straight, hands on knees, eyes closed, hair tied back, head tilted upwards, and on his face the result of the combined arsenal and efforts of hers–Lily's, picture perfect prefect–and the rest of the sixth-year Gryffindor girls. Delicately applied blush, precariously plucked eyebrows, expensive eye-liner, smokey eyeshadow, and luscious lipstick. All of it carefully discussed and expertly applied, or as expertly as you can expect from a bunch of sixteen year old girls.
Mary's chest was already heaving with deep involuntary breaths. Emmeline's jaw was dropped, and she was turning and covering her face as though she was someone unworthy to gaze upon such a majestic sight. Marlene was deathly still and looked like she'd just discovered, lost, and rediscovered the meaning of life. Even Tina, whose acrimonious relationship with Black was notorious, looked to be witholding herself with great restraint.
Only Mavis shared Lily's look of horror. Of the girls in the room (possibly the entire school), only she and Lily had been the ones impervious to the effects of the Black family trait of looking drop dead gorgeous. Only she and Lily understood what they'd done: taken Adonis reincarnated and baptised him in amorentia brewed by Aphrodite herself.
"Crap," Lily said again.
Hogwarts was fucked.
***
It wasn't her fault. Really, it wasn't. She wasn't trying to shift blame, nor was she trying to abdicate responsibility (she's a Gryffindor, for crying out loud). It just simply wasn't her fault.
It was those stupid boys and their stupid pranks. They should have known better. They should know better. Marauder-on-Marauder Crime had been forbidden since the Great Inter-House Civil War in their fourth year, which for some bizarre fucking reason started out between Remus and Pettigrew. It still remains a mystery to this day, is unofficially listed as the eighth of the Six Mysteries of Hogwarts (seventh was Black's looks, go figure), and not even Remus and Pettigrew under the influence of veritaserum could say what started it, just that they didn't really mean for it to escalate that far. Lily was convinced regardless that Black and Potter had something to do with it, even if Potter had refused to pick a side and sat on the sidelines for the better part of the war (the school one, not the real war).
And so it was that after a three week period–in which the lead for the House Cup switched nineteen times between all four houses–half the school was serving detention and Peeves was leashed by the Bloody Baron for an indefinite period. McGonagall had docked fifty points each from Remus, Pettigrew, and Black and (to Lily's immense satisfaction) sixty-five from Potter (an extra twenty for being irresponsible, but awarded five for loyalty, she's such a softie for Potter, honestly). Needless to say, Gryffindor did not win the Cup that year.
More importantly, and more relevant to the problem at hand here, Lily herself had chewed all of them out (Potter mainly, which meant Black too by default) and after an extended period of furious vexations, she also forbade them from pranking each other in the future. To them, of course, that meant the caveat of being allowed to prank the rest of the school. Sometimes, one must pick the lesser of the two evils.
Except now, it seems that they'd broken that deal, the filthy traitors.
Don't get her wrong, Lily too laughed at the sight that greeted the Great Hall the morning before. Hell, even the thought that enough time has passed, so why does it matter and Potter really wasn't that bad anymore had crossed her mind. But that was before she'd ended up with this catastrophe in her hands.
Really, she was going to chew them out this time–like proper chew them out. James Potter mainly, because she knew it was James Potter's fault and yelling at James Potter meant yelling at Remus and Pettigrew by proxy (she really couldn't bring herself to do it to them directly. There was also the added satisfaction of yelling at James Potter, though Lily couldn't say why that was the case).
Lily also knew for a fact that it was Potter's idea. Just a week earlier, Potter had taken advantage of her sparkling polite and unassuming nature and asked her about make-up and perfume and high heels and skirts and shampoos and conditioners. She had answered, bemused, of course, perplexed most certainly. Above all, completely none-the-wiser.
How was she supposed to know that the following week, it would not be Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs walking down the Marble Staircase into the Great Hall.
How was she supposed to know that instead, it would be Mesdames Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
Really, it just wasn't her fault.
***
It is important to understand that there's a special kind of something when it comes to Marauder pranks.
That wasn't Lily praising them or anything, but rather, it was her simply acknowledging that, yes, their pranks were different to the say, the typical mysteriously lost item that's been bewitched to stay in your blindspot. That's also not her speaking from experience because it definitely wasn't her that spent three hours in Second Year looking for her Charms essay, and it definitely wasn't her that showed up to Charms late, bawling her eyes out about having lost it only for Flitwick to cough and quietly summon it from behind her. And even though it was a Marauder that had played that particular prank, it didn't count because that was just James Potter on his own, acting like a shit and what does it matter anyway, it was four years ago, and who even cares or remembers. Certainly not Lily.
But that's besides the point.
The point was that Marauder pranks are never cut and dry. The Second Year prank (that didn't happen to Lily) was a begrudgingly brilliant but inappropriate use of magic on an innocent, unassuming student (that by the way, does in fact have a sense of humour, but cried in spite of it, not a lack thereof). At its most fundamental, the prank was simple cause and effect. A spell was cast (two in tandem, actually, but honestly, it wasn't that impressive), and chaos ensued. Simple.
Marauder pranks, on the other hand, while not necessarily complex, are always layered.
Argus Filch, spiritely fellow that he is, had been the first to find that out.
Late in their First Year, after a series of late night corridor skirmishes, the Marauders had decided to finally declare open war on the caretaker. It came in the form of trapping Filch's cat, Nanny Desmond, into a levitated cage on the fourth floor corridor. Filch was beyond incandescent, specks of venomous fury flying from his mouth as he swore oathes of merciless wrath. Being a squib, it was impossible for him to reach the cage, but so beside himself with rage was he, that the thought to grab a ladder or even a chair from a nearby classroom never seemed to have occurred to him.
Instead, he had jumped up and down in the hallway, coming agonisingly close to rescuing his aged beloved but never fully reaching her. The Marauders, who had been hiding in a nearby alcove, had been counting on this and thus had taken the opportunity to apply the second layer of their prank: a jinx to Filch's loafers to squelch and fart every time he landed after a failed attempt. Unfortunately for the caretaker, his desperate state had left him completely unaware of what had taken place. He had been completely oblivious to the four boys hidden behind the statue of Lachlan the Lankey, clutching at their sides and cackling uncontrollably to themselves, because to the minds of a group of twelve year old boys, there is nothing funnier than the sound of flatulence.
It took the intervention of Frank Longbottom, the then Head Boy, to calm Filch down enough to a state to be aware of the sounds his shoes were making. The realisation had left him burgundy-faced in equal parts fury and embarrassment, but with enough clarity to recognise that the culprits were nearby. Sensing they'd been found out, the Marauders had promptly dispersed, Longbottom in pursuit. One would assume at this stage that there was where the prank ended, but it was not to be the case.
There was still the matter of the trapped Maine Coone, and as much as Filch would have loved to capture and punish those who'd wronged him, Nanny Desmond was always going to be his priority. Filch returned to setting free her, this time with the aid of a chair, and that was when he discovered the third layer of the Marauders' prank.
Zonko's Illustrious Laxative, experimented upon and altered to be sensitive to the touch, coated all over Nanny Desmond's prison. Its effects were not instantaneous but had allowed enough time for three of the four boys to reconvene at the other side of the corridor and revel in their success. What followed was said to have been described as like 'the slow breaking of a beaver dam'. A few twigs, some spraying of liquid, and then ultimately, an avalanche of thick branches.
And then, the final layer of the prank: Nanny Desmond had never been in the cage because, apparantly, the Marauders have "standards" and would never risk harm to an innocent pet. Filch had stood there on a chair in the corridor, broken beaver dam beneath him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the empty cage. Inside had been a startling accurate portrait of Nanny Desmond, charmed to look three-dimensional, an extraordinary deception at the elevated height the cage was at. The cat in question had actually been in the dungeons outside the kitchen, having been indirectly trained to feed there at that specific time in the weeks prior by none other than one Peter Pettigrew. Sensing her masters distress, she had finally come up to meet him, but only after, in a manner of speaking, everything had passed.
Tales of the prank had spread like fiendfyre through the school; of the impressive feats of magic a bunch of First Years had put on display, of how thoroughly outmatched the caretaker had been, and of how severe the punishment was for the four boys.
Above all, it had cemented the Marauders as bona-fide mischief makers and that a prank by them, a true Marauders' prank, was something to be wary of.
Thus, it was no surprise that amidst the laughter when Mesdames Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs entered the Great Hall, there was a slight undercurrent of foreboding. Since Remus Lupin had been made prefect, true Marauder pranks had become fewer and farther between, a master stroke by the professors if you asked Lily. There were still the pranks by Potter, Black, and even Pettigrew, but ones reaching the heights of the Great Inter-House Civil War or the complexity of the (non) Trapping of Nanny Desmond had all but seemed a thing of the past. There was the amusing theory floating about that Lupin was, in fact, the chief architect of the Marauders' most chaotic pranks, hence why those things no longer happened.
In Lily's opinion it was simply because the student body had wisened up to their antics, the prefects and teachers had become more vigilant, and since the (n)TOND, Filch had obsessively turned himself into a one-man Inquisition. And maybe, just maybe, there was a small part of her that liked to think that James Potter had grown up a little, but that was neither here nor there.
It had been some time since the Marauders had openly flaunted the four of them partaking in a prank together. Their tactics had become more covert, more guerilla-like over the years, with the aim to blindside their would-be victims, making sure that they'd only know they'd been hit by a true marauder prank until after the fact. The presence of Lily's fellow prefect was a bold enough statement on its own. It was like seeing the dramatic reappearance of a character on one of those Soaps Tuney loved to watch. Lily hummed.
On the surface, there was no way to discern if there was anything else at play, but that was always the case when it came to those four. For now, she could only appreciate the sight of them walking down the Great Hall to take a seat at Gryffindor Table. Wolf whistles called out to them as they filed forward, and Lily had to admit, much to her chagrin, that they did look rather good, James Potter infuriatingly so.
They seemed to be treating the middle of the Hall like a catwalk, with Potter in the lead, followed by his loyal companion, then Remus, and finally Pettigrew. Potter's well practised feet stepped one in front of the other so that the outline of his hips below his robes swayed dramatically with each movement. Black was matching him step for step, but Remus' efforts were stiff, and Pettigrew's even worse. In fact, it occurred to Lily that the watery eyed boy wasn't even trying to do the same walk as his peers. His posture wasn't upright (he was slightly hunched over), his hands weren't gliding beside him (they were nervously fiddling with each other) and steps weren't long and purposefully (they were small pitter patters). There was no other way for Lily to describe it.
It was cute.
Her jaw dropped in shock and amazement, and she almost threw her head back and laughed. They'd actually developed a matching gait for Pettigrew's personality. She leaned forward on the table, chin resting on her hand, unable to contain her smile. Maybe there wasn't anything more to it. Maybe it was just a harmless prank designed to make everyone laugh.
And they looked good. Potter, especially now that they were getting closer, although she swore an oath under her breath to never tell him that. His once messy hair now shone with signs of Sleakeazy's, and it had been lengthened into a sidepart, swept enticingly over one shoulder so that it cascaded down the right side of what she could (hilariously) tell was a stuffed bra beneath the chest of his shirt. A criminally short plaited skirt wrapped around his waist and the pantihose he wore over his toned and slender legs could rival even the sexiest of the girls in the school. His rounded spectacles had been replaced by gold pointed wirey frames that brought out his hazel eyes as he looked over the top of them while he strutted.
"It's got to be some kind of magic," said Mary from next to her, looking at the Marauders in awe. "Please, tell me it's magic or some kind of potion. Polyjuice?"
Lily shook her head, grinning, "Transfigured their hair, I'm guessing. Or maybe there's a hex for that, but everything else is au naturale, I'm afraid. Look," Lily pointed, "stuffed bras."
Mary made a high-pitched whine, "It isn't fair, Lily. Even Peter looks–," Mary paused, and Lily peered at her friend to see that she was wearing that expression one typically wears when they see something they perhaps shouldn't have, "–oh my..." Mary said, "oh dear, oh my..."
Lily straightened up and looked around, a sense of dread crawling up her neck, "What is it?" Lily asked, prefect instincts taking over. And then she saw it.
All of the Mesdames indeed looked good, even Pettigrew. That is, all of them except for one.
When she was fifteen, Lily's mother had taken Petunia and her shopping. Petunia, having completed her growth spurt, had whined for months about needing new clothes for school. Lily had not wanted to go, but her father had insisted on some female binding time in the family, a not so quiet wish to mend the growing rift between his two daughters. Lily had relented, but only on the pretence that Petunia would meet her halfway. To Lily's surprise, her sister had acquiesced, and the shopping trip turned out to be one of the most joyous moments Lily had had with her sister since she received 'the Letter'. For a brief period it seemed like the sisters were on their way to re-establishing their close relationship.
That was until they'd crossed a bunch of teenaged muggle boys in a food court who had made no effort to conceal their attraction to Lily. It wouldn't have been too bad if they weren't obviously well-off pampered brats. Not because it reminded Lily of a certain well-off pampered brat, but because arrogant preppy rich boys had clearly become Petunia's type, and Petunia was clearly getting irate that Lily was getting their attention and not her. Still, if it had kept to that, it wouldn't have been too bad. Lily might even hazard a guess that her and Petunia would at least be on amicable terms.
Instead, as her mother sheparded them away from the leering and the stares, one of the boys had said something about Petunia to the rest of his friends. Something that both Lily and Petunia had overheard and ultimately had rendered the day a waste in sisterly bonding and doomed them to being forever estranged.
Lily had never thought of that word since that day. It was a crude, horrible world, so typical of the nonchalant cruelty teenaged boys were unaware they're capable of. Petunia had blamed Lily for it, even though Lily would never wish it to be used on any girl, let alone her sister.
And yet, as she looked at the Mesdames, at Potter with his sexy, side swept librarian look, at Pettigrew with his cutesie, shy femininity, at Remus with this hagged overworked pull to him that was somehow working, it was the one word that came to Lily's mind when she looked at Sirius Black, arguably the most attractive being in the entire school.
"Butter-face."
After two years, the boys had finally committed Marauder-on-Marauder Crime.