Well. This was sort of meant as a joke, as a reward for those lovely and faithful reviewers. It seems to have blossomed into something more, as so many people swore they'd string me up by my own innards if I didn't write it.

Ah well.

Meant as a seventh year, after-they-get-together sort of story.

Pretty sure I've just insulted the Irish and French communities in horrendous amounts. I'm a little bit of both – and have friends who, between us all, seem to have spanned most of every country in the world, so I'm hoping that makes it alright, as it's all meant in a joking manner.

"I May Be A Tiny Chimney Sweep But I've Got An Enormous Broom" and all it's lyrics belong solely to the wonder of this world known as Cassandra Claire.

Love, not war, people. Reviews, not flames.

As decided by one Sirius Black and one James Potter, St. Patrick's Day was the one and only day of the year it was acceptable to adorn oneself in the hated color of Slytherin. Unless, maintained James, 'oneself' was Lily Evans, in which case any color at any time was permissible because oneself would remain forever uncorrupt by the evil so blatantly represented by Slytherin House.

Sirius maintained that James needed to shut his mouth and find something more fulfilling in life than Lily Evans. Like Quidditch. Or worshipping Sirius' collection of toe-socks.

Worshipping Sirius while wearing toe-socks was also acceptable.

It was to this conversation that Remus' exited the bathroom on his Sixth Year St. Patrick's Day, amidst a room full of twining four-leaf clovers. He forced himself to keep walking – not to stare, not to blink rapidly, not to declare a state of mental insanity – and reach for his shirt and tie.

He couldn't, however, repress a tiny sigh of exasperation at his best friend. "Sirius, what are you wearing?"

The dog animagus had positioned himself – one might even say he had effectively posed himself – atop James' trunk, allowing the rest of the dorm an amazing view of his highly whitened English legs, cut off at knee length by horribly patterned kilt.

Remus could almost hear the legion of Black fangirls clawing down the door to defend Sirius' legs from such an inadequate description – adding words like 'toned' and 'muscular' and 'eye candy'. Remus didn't hear those voices trying to defend the sheer translucency of Sirius' skin. He didn't think anyone could. The sun wasn't high enough in the sky, nor the weather warm enough, for any of the school's students to have acquired a believable tan as of yet.

Sirius flashed him a smile – a girl on the other side of the castle experienced an orgasm and wasn't quite sure why – and jumped down from the trunk. His bare torso was painted with a lewdly smiling four-leaf clover that turned a different shade of green depending on the viewing angle. "Isn't it amazing?" He poked his chest with his forefinger, and the words "Kiss me, I'm Irish!" blossomed across his cheeks in a feaux-blush. "It's like a robe, only shorter, and pants, only better!"

Remus raised his eyebrows. "You're not Irish."

"Am too! Granted, it's bastard Irish from my grandfather's side way up there –"

Remus shook his head with conviction. "You're not Irish, you're the verifiable mutt of northern Europe. That makes it a skirt, Sirius. It's only a kilt if your family was Irish enough to have actually been affected by a potato famine. Or if you're Scottish, but that would defeat the purpose of St. Patrick's Day, as he's Irish."

James nodded sagely from his post near the dresser. "I second that."

Sirius' eyes flashed. "It is not a skirt, you wankers! It's a kilt because –"

"Sirius, I'm French and I'm telling you it's a skirt. Doesn't that tell you something?" Remus rolled his eyes and went back to his own trunk, coming up with a pair of woolen socks. "At least put these on, will you? Your whiteness is blinding to the rest of the population."

Sirius huffed, grabbed the socks, and put them on in such a way that would make most ladies cringe. However, as ladies wear skirts, not kilts, it didn't particularly matter.

"Good," said Remus. "We're halfway there. Shoes. Shirt. Now."

"No," pouted Sirius, channeling the spirit of a five year old child, "I don't want to."

Remus sighed, watching his black-haired friend march proudly out the door, immediately swarmed by his normal hoard of fangirls. Their high-pitched giggling pierced his ears and he shuddered, turning to James instead. "I suppose we should follow him?"

"For breakfast? Absolutely. As a source of protection?" James rolled his eyes and grabbed a spare 'Kiss me, I'm Irish!' button. "I don't think we'd be much help. Nothing'll penetrate through that crowd, and he's already too deep in for us to save him from the crowd itself."

Remus pursed his lips and looked at James' button as they headed down the stairs. "You're not Irish either."

"Actually, I am."

"You weren't wearing one of those last year."

James looked sour at the memory. "Yeah, and wouldn't you know it? The one year I forget to put the damn thing on is same year our Headmaster decides to charm the buttons same as he charms the mistletoe at Christmas. Just my luck."

"Yes, so of course you think–" Remus pushed at the door to the Great Hall, then jumped back as if he'd been burned. "James, there's giggling."

James pushed his ear to the keyhole, though it was hardly necessary to hear the noise. "You are correct, my occasionally furry friend. Didn't Mister Wormtail arrive before us?"

Remus smiled, feeling better that this was only Marauder induced chaos. "I believe he did, Mister Prongs."

They found Peter just on the other side of the door, trying to keep from shaking with laughter as he held his wand aloft in the air. Puppet strings descended from the ceiling, tied to each of Sirius' limbs, jerking him into a sort of inaccurate jig on the Head Table.

Sirius, of course, was taking it all in stride. He passed a quick wink to Professor McGonagall before breaking into a song of his own formulation entitled, "I May Be A Tiny Chimney Sweep But I've Got An Enormous Broom."

It had taken him a quarter bottle of firewhiskey for each of the eighteen verses, and he had threatened once to sing it at James' wedding. Lily, perhaps more irate than she should have been, had hit him over the head with her Arithmancy book for the suggestion.

As the laughter finally began to die down, Peter cut the cords attached to Sirius. The dog animagus made a quick leap from the table, sketching a quick bow and shook Peter's hand.

"Bloody good work there," he said. "I didn't expect it in the least."

Peter beamed. "My pleasure."

"That being said, if you ever do that again, I will personally shove something slimy and unpleasant into your bed every night for a week. Got it?"

Peter nodded, still smiling as they went to regain their seats at the Gryffindor table.

"So," began Remus as they took their seats, "What exactly do the Scots hide beneath their kilts?"

Sirius stared straight at the beautiful Beaumont twins of Ravenclaw House and gave them a roguish wink, though his voice was obviously meant for Remus. "If you're so interested, I'll show you when we get back to the dorms."

Remus bit his tongue and blushed. Rising from his seat, he announced to his friends, "I seem to have forgotten something up on my shelf. Save me something for breakfast, would you?" He strode quickly out the door.

Sirius followed.

The fangirls wept.

Short. Meant to be. Meant to be small and one-shot-ish. Meant to be a way to get me writing the other thing of evil.