Wow…thank you so much for your fabulous comments! It was amazing reading them; you're all wonderful :)

Anyway, sixth chapter up. And just to let you know, I won't be able to update at all next week, as I shall be away at summer camp. But it's just one week—although a week after that, I'll be zipping off to Washington for about a week and a half. I know, I'm horrible :)

This chapter will be quite long (I think…). The first part is nice, harmful fun and the second part a bit more serious—okay, much more. And perhaps not something to read for the delicately squeamish. Eh…paranoid now, are we?

This chapter is brought to you by Niffler Chow, the number one most recommended healthy food for your loving Niffler. Contents of Niffler Chow include bits of shiny Rolex watches and sparkly tinfoil.

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The House of Wolves

Peter blinked bemusedly at the complicated potions chart before him. James, Sirius, and Remus were looking at him expectantly; Blotter with fervent eagerness and Remus a sort of strained disbelief that he was going along with this, which roughly as fatheaded as sticking an arm glossed with tartar sauce into the mouth of a starved Hungarian Horntail.

James had lied to Sirius and Remus for the first time in his life. It was the weirdest feeling he had ever encountered, and never wanted to repeat it again. Remus had lied before, about his strange absences once every month, but that was understandable. James had lied to cover up the mistake of someone else—but that was all it was, a mistake. Sirius would blow it way out of proportion, and Remus would get that strange, tired look in his eyes again.

James had told them that Peter was going to give into Magar and agree to rejoin (very reluctantly, so as not to arouse suspicion) Lupi—a sort of spy, James had said. Nearly before the words exited his mouth, Sirius had seized Peter's hand and gave it a jolly shake.

"Well done!" he'd said giddily. "And a good thing too, 'cause have we got a great idea…"

And now Peter was sitting in front of them, staring at the parchment. Complicated squiggles, diagrams and instructions were hastily scribbled there, half in James' tiny, wild scrawl and the other half in Sirius' spidery handwriting. Both of them had at one point doodled crude drawings of Darby Magar and Daniel Vargas in frilly dresses and bonnets, holding teacups with their little fingers out.

"So," said James after a moment of reckoning, "think you can sneak it in?"

"Maybe," Peter said doubtfully. "Um, can you make it? It looks pretty hard, and I don't think most of this stuff is in the student supply cupboards…"

"We can get them," Sirius said confidently. "Piece of cake—we never use the student cupboards anymore; we always just nick what we need from Blatterby's office." He casually picked off a bit of fluff from his sweater. "I don't know why the old bat's so broken up about it—all in the name of education, I always say—"

"You never say that," Remus pointed out mildly. "At least it won't take an entire month to make, like the Polyjuice Potion did—"

James scowled. "And even after all that work we did, we still didn't get to catch a look at the knickers—" He stopped and cleared his throat. "In any case, we can do it. You need to find a way to slip the solution in."

"Won't they think I did it?"

"Not if you frame somebody else," Sirius said helpfully. "Pick any one of them, they're all on my hit list."

"You've got a hit list?" Remus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I do now. Wormtail, who can you pin it on?"

Peter thought for a moment, weighing the possibilities. A thought occurred. "Micker Linguini," he said.

"Small Fry?" Sirius laughed. "The Midget? Four foot eight with an ego as big as Chesty Butlock's assets?"

James grinned, eyes bright. "I forgot about him," he said. "Looked right over him." He sniggered and gave Sirius a high five. "I remember him trying to hex me 'accidentally on purpose'. He overdid it and ended up hiccupping raucous leprechauns for four hours. I don't know how a moron like that got into Lupi." He peered critically at Peter. "How come you want to put it on him? Not that I'm complaining, of course—the runt's got it coming."

"He hexed me when I wasn't looking and turned my knees backward."

Sirius winced. "Ouch."

"Micker Lasagna—"

"Linguini…"

"Whatever," James said. "Micker it is. But how to blame?" he wondered.

The boys sat in silent thought. Across the common room, Lily Evans was playing a game of wizard's chess with one of her friends. The other girl was egging on a particularly violent rook when Lily looked up and locked gazes with James. Her eyes darted significantly to Peter and James winked, smiling wryly.

"It's okay," he mouthed. Lily seemed a bit doubtful, but her attention was torn back to the game when her opponent's rook finally managed to decapitate Lily's bishop. She winced and moved her other bishop to take a pawn, cringing when that little battle was also lost.

"Maybe," Remus mused. "Maybe…"

"Maybe we'll rot sitting here waiting, Moonshine. Spit it out."

"Peter, do they serve refreshments at the meetings?"

"Er—I think so."

"Alright…what you could do is slip some of the Gender Bender Solution in there. They'll know it has to be one of their own that did it, so they'll have everybody turn out their pockets—and we'll plant some on Micker."

"We'll only want to 'poison' about half of them," James said reasonably. "And we'll especially make sure that Micker isn't one of the afflicted—just so it seems more suspicious that way. Peter, add the potion near the end of the meeting after you plant a second vial in Micker's robes. If we're lucky, they'll find it."

"And if we're not?"

"Then we bluff and dish out B.S.," James replied, shrugging. "Even if they find the stuff on Magar, they may believe him when he says he didn't do it. We have to make sure we don't leave fingerprints."

Remus nodded knowledgably. "We might want to plant some papers on him, too," he said. "Instructions for the solution. They wouldn't believe that he memorized it from heart. He's"—Remus delicately searched for the right words—"he's not that intelligent."

"He's dumb as a baboon as twice as ugly," Sirius offered. "He writes down every smart little wisecrack he thinks up in a book, so he can look up one when he needs to come up with a clever insult."

"Most of which are ripped off of Fizzing Whizbee wrappers," James added.

"Which are written by monkeys."

"With epilepsy."

Remus sighed. "Right. So, later tonight we should get the ingredients. You two know what Linguini's handwriting looks like?" he addressed Blotter.

"A troll's," James answered promptly.

"With epilepsy."

"…Right. Make a set of instructions that look like he scribbled them."

Sirius grinned sardonically. "Yes, Mum. We're big boys, we know what to do." He glanced at his watch. The hands were little broomsticks that swiveled around the numbers, which were tiny Snitches, Bludgers and Quaffles. He'd gotten it at the Sickle Store out of a candy machine. "It's eight o'clock right now," he said. "Maybe we'll go around midnight?" The others nodded. Remus was looking over the ingredients critically.

"Where do we make it?" he asked.

"There's a closed bathroom down on the third floor next to the suits of armor."

"It's always a bathroom," Sirius said. "We live the glamorous life, don't we?"

Later that night, when all had gone to sleep and the common room was dark and silent, save for the loud snores of various students filtering from behind closed doors, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs slipped out under the cover of the Invisibility Cloak. Although an uncomfortable fit, the cloak managed to cover them securely.

The group moved silently through the halls, an art they had perfected years before. Mrs. Norris came sniffing around the corner and sniffed at the strange air that suddenly smelt of Chocoballs, but flicked her tail and continued prowling as the presence quickly left. Sirius dearly wanted to give her a swift kick, but Remus yanked his collar and dragged him back.

Professor Blatterby's office was two floors down but easy enough to reach. The crotchety old man was by now so paranoid that someone was going to steal more of his supplies that he installed no fewer than ten locks and half a dozen warding charms. These were all broken easily enough; after all, he wasn't a Charms teacher.

They slunk stealthily in, careful not to remove the cloak quite yet. James quietly unlocked a cabinet, which was protected with the same flimsy spells as the door, and rummaged around inside. Remus whispered the necessary ingredients to him.

"Crystallized dragon blood," he hissed. "Diluted cockroach bile."

One by one, James grabbed them all and they snuck back out. James and Sirius replaced the locks and charms on the door, making them considerably stronger than they had been when Blatterby had feebly attempted to cast them; hopefully, the miserable bat would be locked out of his office that morning.

It had taken less then ten minutes. They next crept to the bathroom on the third floor. The sinks were cracked and dirty, lines of slime lining the mirrors and stalls. Remus wrinkled his nose at the smell, and Sirius grinned at him. "Not good enough for your groomed senses?" he asked. Remus shrugged, fighting to keep his eyes from watering at the strong smell. James was casting a Silencing Charm on the door of the bathroom.

"We can hear them coming, but they can't hear us," he explained, pocketing his wand. The others nodded. Remus set down the ingredients on a vanity table on the far side of the room that was spider-webbed with cracks and fissures. He pulled out a collapsible cauldron from inside of his robes and set it up.

They set to work.

It took them all night to get the potion made. By the time they crept back into their dormitory, unnoticed, their eyes were bloodshot and bags hung under. But each one wore a satisfied grin. Peter patted his pocket, where two vials of the potion waited patiently.

The operation stage had gone much more smoothly than he had thought it would, Peter reflected. So much easier. Micker Linguini, who had been bossing Peter around since the day he'd met him, was continually content to leave his cloak lying around just anywhere he damn well pleased, confident that Peter would pick it up for him and hang it on the ornately designed stone coat rack. Peter did so, but slipped an incriminating vial inside one of the inner pockets.

During the whole meeting, Peter had sat and watched others practice dueling. Now that his eyes were finally open, it seemed obvious what Lupi was really about. Everywhere he looked, boys were practicing dark spells with gruesome effects. Nobody seemed to want to duel with little Pettigrew, and the boy was just fine with that. He was content to sit, watch, and wait for an opportunity.

The end of the meeting came quickly. Peter discreetly slipped the potion into the punch at one of the tables, relieved to see that it did not change the drink's color. Then he joined the other boys for a few enlightening words from Daniel Vargas, who was still wearing his hood. Now that the truth had been revealed, Peter personally thought that he looked rather silly, hopping up and down like a hyperactive child.

To Peter's relief, half the boys, before filing out, took swigs of the punch—Vargas, Shanks and Magar included. Micker Linguini did not, but instead grabbed his cloak and left before any of them. Peter was relieved—Micker was practically setting himself up: leaving before anyone else, not drinking the spiked punch; he was raising suspicion on himself before anything even happened.

The potion was set to take effect just as the Lupi boys were traipsing into breakfast.

And when that moment finally came, the Marauders howled louder then they ever had—along with hundreds of other students, most crying with mirth. Lupi members dropped their forks as they realized that their robes had become suddenly tight around the chest, and they were missing the familiar weight of certain somethings between their legs. They stared down in horror, and then touched their faces, feeling the hard jaw lines smoothen and round, curving lips, and lengthened eyelashes.

Peter did his absolute best to look horrified and bewildered, and pulled it off quite well—his expression mirrored the earnest ones of unaffected Lupi members. Magar met Peter's eyes for a moment, and his gaze was completely astonished. Peter widened his eyes in feigned innocence, and Magar turned to look at the others that were still their original sex, his eyes finally setting on Micker Linguini.

Peter followed the look and nearly burst out laughing. Micker really was digging his own grave; he was laughing hysterically, tears streaming down his face and fists pounding on the table. James and the others laughed even harder when they saw this.

"We didn't even have to plant anything!" Sirius hissed gleefully. "He's doing it all for us! Look at Vargas and Magar—they're furious at him!" He cackled with delight. "This is perfect!"

He and James gave each other high fives. Remus really was an amazing sight just then—naturally quiet and sensible, he had never been particularly prone to bursts of laughter, usually just chuckling along with the joke and making sardonic replies.

But now, he was laughing just as hard as anyone else, peals of laughter erupting, and tears storming from his eyes.

The whole day was like that—the potion was set to last for at least a dozen hours, and McGonagall, forcibly hiding a smile, reminded the afflicted that by no means were they allowed skipping class. The boys addressed were forced to endure taunting and teasing for that day and many to come, each shooting murderous looks at Micker Linguini as they passed him. Micker finally realized that something was wrong when they stomped up to him, brandishing a vial and papers they had found in Micker's coat. The boy's face had paled, and he'd sputtered that it wasn't him—come on, he said, don't give me enough credit for something like that…

They did, and Micker was sporting serious bruises later. He alone seemed to suspect the real culprits and glared daggers at the Marauders, who winked cheekily back and cheerfully gave rude gestures—well, James and Sirius gave rude gestures, and Remus was content to smile.

Micker sent an equally offensive gesture back, and turned fiercely in the other direction. Remus stared after him, his smile slightly faded.

"What if he tells them it was us, and they believe it?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

"Then we make do," said Sirius, shrugging. "It was worth it." He held up several photos. "I took the liberty of snapping a few, by the way. I've got copies for all."

The next week or so passed without much event, save for thinly veiled glares sent their way by Micker Linguini, who was now bearing evidence of a few scars. But apparently some of his fellow Lupi members seemed to take him seriously, for they were now staring hatefully at the quartet. Vargas and Magar, who were the first ones to recover from the humiliation of the prank, were two of the believers. Their stony stares proved proof enough—although their gazes, strangely enough, never lingered on Peter. It seemed as though they didn't believe he had done anything; in fact, Magar passed by Peter in the hallway and discreetly whispered that Peter could help Lupi's retaliation, as though Peter had also been hit.

This suited him just fine—they hadn't charmed the door to recognize him yet; it was still a few more meetings before they did. Peter needed to keep their trust at least until then. So he pretended to shoot the other Marauders with glares that were as loaded with hate as Magar's. Vargas and Magar seemed satisfied with that.

The Marauders were striding down to Care of Magical Creatures that sunny day, out to a paddock on the far side of the grounds. This class they shared with the Slytherins—Micker Linguini and Shiloh Shanks were lounging there on rocks when they arrived, giving venomous looks to James, Sirius and Remus, who crossed their eyes and stuck out their tongues (well, James and Sirius did, anyway).

Professor Kettleburn came bumbling towards them, ready to start the class. He was an anxious old warlock whose nerves were completely shot from having worked for so long with dangerous creatures that his hands shook whenever he handled one in the class. He didn't look particularly pleased with the subject they would be starting just that day, but there was nothing he could really do—the sixth years obviously had to contend with some of the more dangerous beasts, while the younger students were kept easily amused by nifflers and the like.

Griffins stood tethered in the paddock, restlessly pawing at the ground and grunting impatiently. Their eagle heads were cocked to one side, staring at the apprehensively approaching students with dazzling opal-colored eyes. Their lion tails flicked predatorily. Kettleburn rummaged around a small locker at the end of the paddock and drew out a slab of raw, red meat that was still dripping blood. Several students wrinkled their noses in disgust. James looked on in interest.

Kettleburn tossed the slab out to one of the griffins, which pounced on it eagerly and began tearing shreds from the piece. A girl groaned and turned away. Kettleburn kept tossing out chunks to the beasts, all of which devoured them with as much fervor as the first.

"Best to feed a griffin before working with it," said Kettleburn in a strained voice, apparently having found that out the hard way before. "It sedates them and renders them a bit more docile, as giving meat is a sign of goodwill."

The rest of the class stared in fascination. Kettleburn cleared his throat.

"One thing," he said, "that you, ah, do not want to do is provoke them by attacking in any way. Don't even pull your wands out—they immediately sense danger and will not hesitate to strike. Just slow and gentle there." He gingerly approached the first griffin, which had quickly finished its meat and was staring at Kettleburn with an almost superior, self-possessed look. The professor inched forward and slowly raised his hand. The griffin hesitated, and then stepped forward and allowed Kettleburn to pat its beak.

The class murmured approvingly. Shiloh Shanks was giving James a measuring look, but the teenager didn't notice.

The students were divided into groups of four, each group being assigned a griffin. One by one, the students stepped forward and waited for the griffin to come forward. The one the Marauders were assigned to was a handsome beast, with subtle metal tones embedded in the feathers. James was the last to go up. The griffin barely hesitated before stepping forward with a bored air.

James patted the head and the griffin's tail flicked lazily, enjoying the pet. James was just about to turn and go back to allow Sirius another go when he saw Shiloh Shanks twirling his wand idly, giving James a sardonic, mocking look. Shanks raised his wand, and James froze. The other whispered something, and a blue light streaked out from the tip of his wand. James whirled around just as it hit the griffin.

It seemed to all happen in slow motion. The first widening of the griffin's eyes as it felt the sharp pain piercing its side, and the fury quickly clouding them as it narrowed its focus on James. The teenager barely took a step back when the griffin's muscles coiled and sprang in the fraction of a second.

The griffin leapt instantly, muscles rippling with streamlined, liquid power under the glossy coat. James turned his head just in time, and the griffin's beak missed his throat and instead clamped into his shoulder.

James cried out and fell to the ground with the immense weight of the griffin bearing on him, trying to reach for his wand and crying out in shock and pain when a blinding heat stabbed through his left arm, and part of it went numb. His wand flew several feet away as the griffin's tail whacked it loose from James' grip, talons tearing and ripping at his shoulders. Claws tore into his legs and the griffin's beak bore heavily down on James' throat…

"STUPEFY!" Several voices rang out. No fewer than four red streaks of light lanced at the griffin, which twitched and went limp, falling sluggishly on James. He tried to shove it off, gritting his teeth, but his left arm didn't want to work and his right had a serious gash running through it.

Several people heaved the beast off and James gasped for air as the weight was lifted off his chest. He coughed, spasms racking his chest. He felt the worried cries of his peers hush suddenly, morphing into silences of horror.

Kettleburn was there in a flash, helping James sit up with shaking hands. James glanced down bemusedly and barely registered what he saw.

His left arm was a bloody mess—and it wasn't just numb.

It was completely detached from his body.

Girls screamed.

James couldn't comprehend—what happened?

He barely felt anything as they magicked a stretcher and hefted him up on it. He felt like he was outside of his own body; weightless and unaware, watching with interest as some strange, unfamiliar raven-haired boy was born away on a stretcher. He peered keenly at the stump where the arm should have been, and where there was now blood pouring out like a waterfall; a barrage of sticky red fluid, with white bone sticking out and tasting fresh air.

James felt no pain, only a dazed numbness. He barely even felt Sirius grabbing his shoulder and stuffing his overshirt against the stump, trying to keep more blood from gushing out. His eyes were wide with fear—what was he scared of? James didn't feel anything, nothing at all. He vaguely registered the shrieks coming from several of the girls watching. They were sobbing—why? Who the hell's dying?

He watched as his own body was hurried down to the hospital wing, watching through windows that were slowly dimming. One image remained until the very end—Shiloh Shanks, standing there with his wand raised, smirking.

Then everything went black.

Cliffhanger!!! Oh, I'm so sorry, but I have to cut it off there. I know, I'm horrible, but it was the best place to do it. Sorry!

The next chapter will have a bit of a confrontation between James and—well, you'll find out.

Speaking of the next chapter, I may not be able to update for a while—next week I'll be at camp, without computers and essentially any technology whatsoever except showers and flushing toilets. If I type like the wind, however, I may be able to get a (short) one up by Saturday. No promises.

Please review, and tell me what you think!