II. One of Them

"Wands?

"Check."

"Mirrors?"

"Check, for god's sake! We were planning to stay together anyway!"

"Anything could happen," said Remus.

"I agree with Mum, anything could happen. Now—hold on… where's the cloak?"

"You're wearing it!"

It was hard for anyone else not to notice that James currently only existed as a floating head.

"Oh, right," said James, looking sheepish. "Ready?"

"We're ready, already! We were ready five minutes ago, but Pete had to go to the loo!"

"I couldn't help it!"

"Don't yell, someone'll hear us—"

"If you're all just going to pick on me—!"

"Stop fighting, let's go!"

James kicked the portrait hole open—a yelp interrupted one of the Fat Lady's massive snores. The Marauders filed out quickly, double-checked to make sure the cloak had them hidden properly, then hurried down the corridor.

"Who's there?" the Fat Lady called out with suspicion, swinging her portrait closed.

"No one," Sirius stage-whispered.

James hit him.

Tonight would mark the first of many midnight forays into the castle for all four Marauders. At Remus' request, however, they would not attempt to go exploring together quite yet—they planned only to take a safe route to the kitchens, stay for a while, then head right back. James and Sirius had done this a dozen times already even without the help of the cloak.

"I've never even seen these kitchens you speak of," Remus whispered.

"Well of course you haven't," Sirius whispered back. "The kitchens don't exist, after all."

"What?"

"You heard me. There aren't any kitchens—this has all just been an elaborate plot to get you in trouble, of course. So sorry you had to find out this way."

"Stop trying to scare him," Peter implored. "Now you've got me worried."

"Oh right, you've never been there either, have you? To the kitchens that don't exist, I mean."

"The kitchens are just well hidden," laughed James. "Dad reckons they keep the location a secret or else you'd get people nicking food left and right—he's the one who told me how to get in, actually."

"So how'd he know?"

"Dad wouldn't say. But Sirius and I found out there's alcohol kept in the kitchens for the professors, so that's probably why he decided not to go into detail."

"Please don't tell me—"

"We didn't," said James, hastily. "Well, I didn't—"

"I spat mine out," said Sirius, hastier. "Tasted worse than week old—"

It sounded like a door had just closed somewhere far away. Remus promptly glued himself to James' arm.

"Time to shut up," James murmured, so they did.

There were no more scares to be had for the rest of the trip, however, and the Marauders had arrived at their destination soon enough: a completely unremarkable stretch of hallway which contained a single painting of a bowl of fruit. James gave the others a quick look before reaching up to tickle—quite honestly and literally tickle—a pear on the left side of the painting. A door handle appeared.

"This is it," said James, and led the way in.

Hogwarts' kitchen was just as large as the Great Hall above. There were pots and pans and utensils everywhere Remus looked, on walls and on stoves and on counters, there were five long tables set with golden plates—these were positioned just the same as those on the Great Hall's dining tables—and there was also a massive brick fireplace on the far end of the room, where the morning's porridge already simmered in black pots.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Black!"

Remus had never seen a real life house-elf before; he found it quite shocking when an entire mob of them came streaming in from a room off to the side (this must have been their sleeping quarters). They were odd-looking creatures, small enough for even Remus to dwarf them, who wore matching tea towels in place of clothing. Though Remus had long imagined house-elves to be perpetually miserable, right now they were all humming in excitement, like serving these boys would be the greatest honor they'd ever known.

"Hey everyone," Sirius greeted. He patted a house-elf on the head but had to pry another off his leg. "Doing alright?"

"Yes, yes, doing alright!" the house-elves chorused, and plates of food and butterbeers were already being passed across the sea of hands.

"We should introduce everyone," remembered James, popping off a bottle cap. "Everybody? This here next to me is Peter Pettigrew, and by Sirius is Remus Lupin. They're our friends."

"Friends of yours are friends of ours!"

"They're very brave to come here so late!"

"Very brave! Are they naughty boys just like James Potter and Sirius Black?"

"I'd like to think not," Remus answered, though he was beginning to feel uncertain about that.

"You guys seem very… dedicated," said Peter. He'd just taken a third and forth plate of food despite not actually having any more hands.

"Kind people deserve kind treatment!" said one of the house-elves warmly, and it ushered the boys over to the tables to sit at some recently conjured chairs.

"Now eat! Eat, eat!"

"Young boys need lots of food to grow up big!"

"Well if you insist," said Sirius, grinning—he'd already bitten into a turkey leg.

Remus was the only one who suddenly couldn't bring himself to eat. He felt undeserving of such enthusiastic kindness, and it was worse to know that nothing a house-elf did was completely voluntary.

"We shouldn't," said Remus, in a very small voice.

"Why not?" asked Peter.

"Moral considerations, I imagine. Just find him something chocolate and he'll change his tune," James instructed, pointing with his fork.

"Chocolate! Chocolate! Something chocolate!"

"I'm being grossly misrepresented here," Remus insisted. "I'm not in love with chocolate, I just never used to—"

"You're about to be in love with chocolate," breathed Peter, eyes widening.

Remus may have had strict ethical standards that he adhered to at one point, but the simple existence of chocolate cake was apparently more than enough to compromise them. Before Remus was an enormous slab of what could only be described as the Holy Grail of chocolate cake, oozing with chocolate syrup, and with thick chocolate frosting and so many chocolate shavings garnishing on top it was a miracle the whole thing didn't collapse from the weight of its own chocolatey goodness.

"Oh god," said Remus, extremely disheartened. "I'm the worst person alive. That looks delicious."

"The absolute worst," agreed Sirius. "You'll be sharing that, I'll have you know."

"We shall gladly share the burden of your sins," said James.

"Eat it before they kill you for it," Peter advised.

"Literally the worst," Remus groaned, but the house-elves gave a triumphant cheer as he fell to temptation and ate.

There were few things—few lawful things—that the Marauders all enjoyed doing quite as much as throwing themselves down under their favorite beech tree and chatting away their afternoons. They gathered here so habitually, in fact, that James' sudden absence felt like a terrible loss.

"I'm starting to hate the very concept of practice," complained Sirius. "James is never going to have free time ever again at this rate."

Peter appeared thoughtful as he plucked at the grass instead of doing his Astronomy homework.

"What if it's all part of McCormack's strategy? Thin out the weak ones early all that."

"I could definitely get behind that theory." Sirius squinted over at the Quidditch pitch like he expected the tiny, soaring figures to start dropping out of the air at any moment. "I swear, I wouldn't be surprised if we end up with some dead Gryffindors at this rate..."

"Even sunshine doesn't kept you from your morbid thoughts, does it," Remus sighed.

"My mind is a terrifying place, we've been through this already. What's your theory then?"

"Mine? I think McCormack's just been a bit overenthusiastic is all."

"A bit?"

"More than half the team graduated last year, didn't they? She obviously just wants all the new players trained up."

"Yeah, but I think I'd quit sooner than put up with twenty hours in one week, wouldn't you?"

"Well, knowing James, I'd say he's thick enough to stay on the team no matter what he's put through. Remember the look on his face when he got to tell us he got on?"

"He looked like he wet himself, I swear."

"He probably did wet himself."

"It was pretty obvious they'd let him on, though. We all saw him—clearly the best Chaser there for try-outs, wasn't he? Probably would have let him on last year, too, if it wasn't for that arbitrary rule about first years not getting to bring their own broomsticks."

"Sorry—what's arbitrary mean again?"

"He means it's a rule because first years suck at everything," Sirius answered.

"Come off it," laughed Remus. "We've been second years for all of three weeks, you know."

"Well," said Peter, "I've always reckoned they've only got that rule because they don't want anyone's mum crying because her kid broke an arm barely a week into their Hogwarts' career, you know? Stupid parents, I tell you, thinking Quidditch is a dangerous sport..."

"It's not the only dangerous sport around here," said Remus, darkly. He could see a gathering of students near the Whomping Willow in the distance—once again, it appeared they were taking turns to see if anyone could make it to the Willow's trunk before they found themselves knocked unconscious.

"Lord. Are those idiots back at it already?"

"Looks like it. Wow—look at that tiny one go. She's made it more than half way already, wonder if she might actually do it? Going—still going—oof! Full points on that landing!"

Indebted to the Whomping Willow though he may have been, Remus still winced with sympathy as a branch finally caught the girl in the stomach and chucked her into the lake with an enormous splash.

"And yet another challenger approaches!" Sirius continued to narrate. "No strategy yet from the looks of it, but let's see how far pure guts can take him—"

"He's running—dodging—woo, just made it past that one!"

"Watch out for that other branch—!"

"Knocked flat! Ouch!"

"Can we stop with the running commentary?" said Remus, crabbily. "Both of you?"

"Killjoy," Sirius accused, but both tore his attention away from the spectacle obligingly enough. "Actually, Pete, speaking of killjoy—did you bring your homework out just for the illusion of productivity or what?"

"Something like that, I guess." Peter sighed as he picked up his homework. "Honestly though—who even cares why the moon's got cycles?"

"Probably only Professor Sinistra," Remus assured him.

"You're still working on that lunar phase essay? Just say all you know is the moon looks different some nights and be done with it, why don't you?"

"I didn't actually do the reading yet so that's kind of depressingly close to the truth. What did you write for yours, then?"

"I don't remember now, exactly. But it was something like, 'there are many unexplained phenomena in our universe, the mystery of the moon's phases being greatest among them…'"

Remus snorted.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"I thought you got good marks in Astronomy?"

"Of course I do, O Ye of Little Faith. Not only am I named after a star," Sirius impressed upon them, "but I also happen to know Professor Sinistra doesn't even read the homework she assigns. I forgot to finish an essay one time back in first year, see, and then even after I handed in a bunch of rubbish I still got it back with full points. So why would I bother, knowing I can get away with it?"

Remus hummed thoughtfully.

"Well—I know I get points marked off occasionally. Maybe she's just too amused by your nonsense to stop you?"

"No way. You're having me on."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Sirius' mouth opened a little.

"Oh god. What if she really—"

"Hold on," said Peter.

Remus and Sirius looked up and saw Peter holding out his lunar calendar at an arm's length.

"What?" Remus said.

"Last month," Peter began. "And the month before that."

But Peter never finished what he meant to say. Each of them had become momentarily distracted by an eruption of screams coming from around the Whomping Willow—one of the boys now lay face down on a bloodied patch of grass, not moving.

"Er—I think someone actually died just now."

Remus, not for the first time, thought this would be a very good time to go find an adult.