James wakes Saturday morning from a nightmare of cocks and arses and faggots and Slytherins.
The worst part of it, though, is the fact that he's hard. Harder than steel. Harder than Sirius' idiot head.
James Potter is not a fucking faggot.
His prick begs to differ.
Finding Remus' dirty mags is far more difficult than James' thought it'd be. A lost cause, almost.
Lady Luck is on his side, that is for sure: Sirius and Remus are pleasantly absent from the dormitory, and Peter's hippogriff snores ring from behind the scarlet curtains of his bed. James slips from his quilt and creeps over to Remus' bed. He really shouldn't bother – nothing on this planet could possible awake Wormy – but it is better to be safe than sorry.
Beneath Moony's bed is spotless. Not a speck of dust, let alone smut. The drawers are orderly, too: socks only slightly ruffled; underwear orderly and folded in neat triangles (James sniggers); collared shirts, an extra tie or two. Nothing of particular interest, really.
He is about to give up when he hears Peter stirring, his snores dying down every few minutes. That is until he spots it, something peeking from beneath – no, inside Remus' pillowcase.
James never really took Remus as the pin-up sort of type, but there it is, pages upon pages of that Muggle Yvonne Craig. James' Jr. twitches. He must've gotten it from his dad; each magazine is from the 60s.
This means Remus isn't queer then, doesn't it? Well, damn.
James finds a picture of Remus' mum. A major babe, that one.
He finds a camera, too. He wonders if Remus took the picture. He wonders where the other pictures are.