A/N: So, really late epilogue, but at least I wrote one, right? I'm not really sure if this qualifies as one, but oh well. This chapter was somewhat inspired by my love of scones, cultivated during my trip to London a few months ago.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Or scones (unfortunately, in both cases).

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"...ten, eleven, twelve," Remus finishes. "We made nineteen Galleons, six Sickles, and twelve Knuts in total."

"That's good, right?" Peter asks hopefully. "How many tickets to the Cup can we buy with that? Four? Five?"

"Try half a ticket," Remus replies grimly. "We'll need to get about a hundred forty more Galleons somehow to sit in the worst seats where you'll probably get knocked out by a Bludger."

"That actually doesn't sound too bad," James says. "I heard you get to keep the Bludgers since the league can't use any items with blood on them in official games again."

"Really?" Sirius leans in eagerly. He makes a mental note to buy all the cheapest tickets to Quidditch games from now on.

"Oi," Remus says, annoyed. "We can't buy any tickets at this point. I think we should just reconsider going to the 1982 Cup instead—"

"No," James says forcefully. "No, we are going to the Cup, and we will get enough money to go to it. We just have to brainstorm more fundraising ideas, that's all."

"No more kissing booths," Sirius says quickly. He's probably going to come down with mono in a week already.

Peter and Remus voice their agreement, and James gives a long-suffering sigh. "Well, do you have any better ideas?"

A long silence follows, with occasional yawns from Peter and chewing sounds from Sirius's direction, which James notices after a few minutes, despite Sirius's attempts to hide them.

"You're eating something!" He cries gleefully. "You know the rules, Siri! One Marauder's food is every Marauder's food!"

James practically jumps onto Sirius to get to the aforementioned piece of food, and a brief wrestling match commences, with Sirius eventually gaining the upper hand.

"Sirius's food is his food only! Say it!" Sirius says, sitting on top of James. "Say it or I'll hex you!"

"Siriusfoodsonly," James mumbles. "Now gerroff me."

"Close enough," Sirius shrugs, picking up the scone, which had fallen onto the floor during the scuffle, and taking a large bite out of it. "Mmm, strawberry."

"Wait," Peter says, peering at the scone. "Where did you get that?"

"Nowhere," Sirius replies, attempting to hide Peter's open trunk behind his body.

"You can't get food from 'nowhere'," Remus says, being completely unhelpful. "It's a complete violation of Gamp's Law of Transfiguration."

Sirius glares at him. "Don't be so literal."

"No, I recognize that scone," Peter says, ignoring both of them. "Strawberry and cream, nicked from my trunk, made by my mother."

"Scones are everywhere," Sirius tries. "Maybe I got a scone that looks exactly like the one you had."

"No, no, the house elves stopped making scones after you and James started throwing them at each other last March," Peter says. Bugger. Sirius had forgotten about that (he snickers as an image of a stunned James with clotted cream in his hair comes to mind). "That is my scone."

"Peter, are you sure you want that scone?" James asks. "I mean, it's been in Sirius's mouth, and I don't think he's brushed his teeth in a week."

You didn't seem to mind when you were practically mauling me for it, Sirius thinks. And he has brushed his teeth; he just doesn't carry around breath mints like James does (something Sirius doesn't understand, because they aren't even the good kind that taste like lemons).

"That scone was sent to me, from my mother, who only makes them once every six months, and the scones have to last me at least two months, which isn't going to happen if you eat all of them! And you aren't even eating them the right way, with tea!"

Sirius gulps. Peter looks downright scary right now, which he hadn't known was possible. Still, if he didn't give it to James, he's not going to give it Peter, even if it was his in the first place. He clutches the scone a little closer to him, and gives Peter his best do you want to die look.

"Wait, wait," James says, interrupting Sirius and Peter's impromptu glaring contest (Sirius can't be sure who's winning, but since his own glare is scarier and more intense, he'll put a tally mark on his side of the chart). "You said you have scones? Like, multiple ones?"

"Yes," Peter replies warily. "Why?"

"And they can last you months? Which means you have a lot?"

"Yes?..." Catching James's expression, Peter adds, "You're not getting any of them. They're my breakfast for the next few months."

"Peter, my dear friend, help a brother, a Marauder out..."

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"Strawberry and cream scones, handmade by Peter's dear mother! Only nine Knuts each! Folks, you won't see a deal like that anywhere else!"

"Sirius, quit eating those scones, they're for sale! And they aren't even supposed to be!"

"Peter, I thought we resolved this already! I gave you all my Fudge Flies, remember?"

"Those scones had sentimental value, James!"

"And they'll mean even more when Evans falls in love with me after she takes a bite out of one."

"Sirius, I don't think that we should be selling Firewhiskey at a bake sale."

"Come on, Moony, lighten up! I've mixed it with Butterbeer, you can't even tell the difference!"

"That just makes it more alcoholic! You won't even drink it yourself! And you're trying to sell it to first years, do you want to get us expelled?"

"Fine, fine. Don't buy this, Mister Prefect here says it's dangerous!"

"I'm just trying to make a point that we shouldn't be selling Firewhiskey!"

"Hmm? Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sheer volume of your killjoy-ness."

"Both of you, shut up. Evans is coming."

"Looking forward to another slap, Jam—mmph!"

"Hello, my fair lady. Scone?"

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