MA

It was a quiet Saturday morning around five o’clock in the famous Marauder dorm, the kind of quiet that only existed because all four boys were far too unconscious to ruin it. Remus, Sirius, James, and Y/n lay scattered across their beds like a set of mismatched, overgrown puppies. Their blankets were twisted around them in chaotic knots, as if each of them had waged a private war in their sleep and lost spectacularly. The snores ranged in pitch and volume—James’s sharp little huffs, Sirius’s dramatic growls, Remus’s soft steady breathing, and Y/n’e occasional snort—melding into one ridiculous morning symphony. Naturally, such peace never lasted long in the Marauders’ world. At precisely 5:30 a.m., James’s alarm went off with the enthusiasm of a horn at a Quidditch World Cup match. The shrill ringing sliced through the sleepy warmth of the room, signaling what James liked to call “the official start of a perfect morning.” In other words: dawn Quidditch practice for James, Sirius, and with Remus and y/n serving as their loyal—and somewhat reluctant—cheer section. But did that happen? Absolutely not. James jolted upright like a soldier summoned to battle, hair sticking up in every direction imaginable. He slapped at the clock, missed, then finally managed to silence it with a groggy mutter about “discipline” and “proper training.” Remus, ever the responsible one, pushed himself out of bed moments later, rubbing his eyes with the resigned expression of someone far too used to this nonsense. Sirius, however, was not having it. With the grace of a disgruntled cat, he groaned, rolled over, grabbed the nearest pillow, and flung it blindly toward the source of the noise. The pillow hit the wall, ricocheted off James’s trunk, and missed the alarm entirely—but the message was clear. ]Y/n, tangled in a fortress of blankets, gave an equally dramatic grunt of protest, burrowing deeper like sleep itself was a sacred mission.