A Literal Scrapbook

by Claire Whitmore

A scrapbook is messy, it's full of everything, an essence of what was. It has the smiles, the sadness and the moments when you laugh for no good reason and just want to be with someone loved. This is the Marauder's scrapbook, literally. It's a big bundle of warm fuzzy blankets, cheap wine and the comic section of the paper on a rainy day, just in the form of drabbles. R/S and J/L

54. Drag Queen

"Ho. Ly. Shit." Gaped James.

Remus spattered on his cup of tea.

Peter was howling with laughter.

This was, because, of the sudden elephant in the room. There wasn't really an elephant, it's just an expression. The "elephant" was Sirius, for he had just strutted into the common room.

And my, was it a sight.

Sirius had donned a pair of Mary MacDonald's freightingly high positioned heels in an even more awful shade of what could neither be identified as pink or orange, it was more of a shade of somewhere in the middle. He had bathed in Lily's beloved perfume as if it were nectar of the Gods, this alerted his whereabouts to anyone within a hundred metre radius. He wore one of Lily's regrated purchases, a canary yellow strapless sundress that dipped in at the waist, highlighting all (or rather none) or Sirius's womanly curves. Around his neck was almost every necklace Lily's dorm owned and a glittering feather boa draped over his neck and down his back, brushing and tickling his claves lightly with every step he took. A good thick coat of royal blue eye shadow covered the area between his waterline and his brow. His hair was charmed platinum white and was set into a four inch high quiff.

"THE ACTUAL LIVING ALL THAT IS GOOD AND PURE FUCK, SIRIUS BLACK?" Choked Remus.