Disclaimer: I do not own HP

Any spelling errors are intentional. The Marauders, in the midst of some drunken revelry at the end of the Christmas holidays, discuss anarchy, homework, songbirds, cannibalism, socks and wossnames.

Whisky, Remus decided, was an excellent thing. Muggle Scotch had been occupying his and the other three Marauders' attention for the past few hours. It was an excellent beverage, supplied by Peter, who'd smuggled it from his father's spirits cabinet during the Christmas holidays in what he described as a daring and heroic rescue. This noble action had been rewarded with the raising of glasses and, of course, several toasts. At first, the burning bite of the strong spirit had caused them all to cough and splutter, but relentless repeated testing had found that it improved with persistent continued use.

Remus squinted at his drink and reached out to pick it up. This simple action was causing him some trouble- the glass seemed to be sliding away from his fingers every time his hand neared. After a few fruitless attempts, he decided a new approach was required to foil the container's plan. He rested his chin on the table and tilted the glass so the spirit sloshed into his mouth. Also in his hair, down his robes and all over the floor. Not important, he thought. Some of the spirit had entered his body, that was the main thing. He looked at the amber puddle at his feet. Casualties were to be expected in a campaign like this one.

Remembering his fellow combatants, Remus looked muzzily at the Marauders- they seemed to be in a similar state of slightly incompetent benign happiness. They sat together in companionable quiet reflection- earlier, when speaking had seemed a lot easier, there had been a lot of talking and laughing. He vaguely recalled a song about broccoli and Sirius dancing on a table, but that could have been his imagination. The banter had slowly faded away as the whisky bottle emptied. They were each down to their last measures.

James attempted to kick-start the conversation. "The thing is," he began. "The thing is…the thing is," he trailed off. The other Marauders turned to him, nodding and smiling encouragingly.

After a short pause, he was hit by a brainwave. "…homework…" he ventured, cautiously. The heads nodded again. "The thing…homework is… the thing about homework, right, is…" he stopped, his mind blank.

Sirius took a gulp of his drink and thumped him on the arm. "Come on, Prongs!" he whined. "Get on with it!"

Touched by this immense display of support, James went to throw a comradely arm around his best friend's shoulders. What he actually did was push him off his chair and into a crumpled heap on the floor. Unperturbed, he gathered his scrambled thoughts and once again struck deeply into the wild no-man's-land that was The Conversation. "Homework is…a bugger," he concluded, triumphantly.

Peter blinked slowly at him and stood up, weaving slightly. "I," he announced, grandly. "Am going to get a Chocolate Frog." With that, he headed for the deserted and litter-strewn corner of the room that held the guilty evidence of the earlier sweet-fest.

Ignoring the chubby blond, Sirius looked around himself dazedly. "Where's me chair gone? More impotently, where's me drink?" Remus, in a moment of extraordinary dextrous ability, grabbed aforementioned drink and plonked it on the floor next to the black-haired boy.

"Ta," Sirius said, taking it and hugging it to his chest. "So," his face contracted with concentration as a thought struck him. "What're they called then?"

James blinked at him owlishly. "What?"

"Them things…you know…them thing that…eat stuff," Sirius replied, gazing vacantly at the empty space in front of him.

"Oh well done Padfoot," Remus snorted, sarcastically. "Could you be a tad more spek…scept…spiffec…precise?"

"They're like, things that like...kill stuff and cook in it huge pots," Sirius gesticulated wildly to get his point across, unintentionally wacking Remus in the side. "An'…an' they like, sing before they eat and have huge stone heads."

"Warrior songbirds?" James suggested.

Sirius shook his head. "Nonononono, they're madder than that- bigger too, really bloodthirsty, you know."

"Really really angry warrior songbirds?"

The small group lapsed into silence as Sirius pondered his memory predicament. Peter wandered back to the table, decapitated Frog in clutched in is hand. He took in the solemn faces and carefully sat down, twisting to make sure his rear hit the intended target. "Wha's goin' down in Groovetown?" he asked, taking a slurp from his glass.

"Songbirds," Remus replied as James nodded knowingly.

"Ah. Bastards."

"Yeah."

More drinking ensued. The last few drops of the whisky were emptied down eagerly awaiting throats.

Peter broke the silence. "They're like lesbians, aren't they?" he said, looking forlornly at his now empty glass.

"Howzat?" James replied, confused.

"Worl, birds, they like, wanna take over th' world- th' whole country even, yeah? An' lesbians, right, bomb the Houses of Purl…Parn…Parlin…Thing."

Remus thumped Peter's shoulder and burst into laughter. "That's anarchists, idiot!"

"Yeah," James sniffed. "Like my socks. They take over stuff, kill people, hate the Prime Minister, smell, you know?"

Peter's face scrunched up. "So, what're lesbians then?"

Sirius suddenly sat up straight and raised his arm into the air, his eyes alight with pure victory. "Cannibals!" he yelled.

"Sirius!" Remus fell off his chair in shock, landing on top of the black-haired boy. "Lesbians don't eat people!"

"S'right," said James sagely. "That's songbirds, Padfoot. Got the wrong wossname, there."

Sirius, making no move to push Remus off him, turned imploring eyes on his werewolf friend. "Moony, 'f you were 'n angry can'bal songbird an' I was a sock, would you eat me?"

"Course I would, Padfoot," Remus answered, his reply muffled by Sirius' robes.

Sirius' eyes filled with tears. "Oh Moony!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around him. "You're th' best sockbird a bloke c'd ask for!"

Peter, having been somewhat out of it for the past few minutes, looked at James with questioning eyes. "What're we talkin' 'bout?"

"Er…homework," James lied, having forgotten.

"Right. So…what is it?"

"Homework," said James, his voice steady and confident, and without a hint of a slur. "Is a cannibal anarchist lesbian."

Aren't we all?