Presented as the contents of an old shoebox under Remus Lupin's bed, The Shoebox Project tells the story of Marauders-era Hogwarts through letters, photographs, and diary entries.
"This story will lift you up and make your life a little better, and...
Part Four Halloween, 1975 An old chocolate frog trading card.
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"D'you know," James says, tugging at the white curls sprouting from beneath his nostrils for the umpteenth time, "it's a marvel old Dumbledore gets anything done with all the itching and the tangling and the getting caught on things."
"Well, maybe he uses something other than spirit gum to keep his whiskers on," Sirius suggests. "Also, you know, he is Ageless and Wise. These may be obstacles he's learned to master. Hurry up, lad, we're going to be late for our own party."
"Well, whatever. I am trying, you know. This is -- ah -- ah--" James sneezes emphatically. He sniffs, wipes his nose on the elaborate sleeve of his costume, and regards it with disgust. "I think maybe I'm allergic -- gnuhh."
"Well, if it makes you feel better, you look terribly handsome." Sirius favors his best friend with a winning smile, pulls down his immense hat and flutters his eyelashes. "I've always had a thing for older men."
"Oh my, Minerva," James says, in a passable imitation of Dumbledore's sparkling baritone, "I don't know that that's appropriate intra-staff conversation." Sirius cackles lecherously and slaps his bum, and then--
"On the contrary," says a faintly amused and much richer version from in front of them. "I encourage all forms of flattery from my underlings."
Albus Dumbledore has an uncanny habit of appearing for the tail ends of the bawdiest conversations, or manages to be standing just behind you the minute you mention his name. Behind the half-moons of his glasses his eyes are very blue. James attempts to scoop his jaw up from the floor and hopes against hope that's another McGonagall costume and not actually McGonagall with her arm in the headmaster's.
The stern cough and well-concealed flicker of amusement signal the worst has, indeed, happened. "They do say," Professor McGonagall murmurs, "that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."
James' eyes dart to Sirius. They've known each other for long enough to communicate wordlessly, eyebrow twitches, lip quirks, a flash of teeth, a nervous tug of the earlobe, a scratch to the side of the nose. To anyone else they're just fidgety boys. To James and Sirius they have just had a lengthy conversation extending far beyond their current dilemma.
James rubs underneath his nose, disturbing the silvery-white whiskers: Don't do anything stupid, Sirius.
Sirius scratches behind his ear: What could possibly make things worse than right now?
James presses his teeth to his lower lip, beard shifting ticklishly over his chest: Just don't do anything stupid, Sirius, and don't say anything stupid, either.
