The Marauder's Map

Harry Potter was lying on his bed in his dormitory at Hogwarts, studying the Marauder's map. It was the beginning of his fifth year at school, but he was not contemplating new ways to cause trouble with it, as might originally have been the appropriate use for such a map at the dawn of a new term. No, Harry was mulling over how he came to have possession of such an extraordinary object. Given to him by Fred and George to help him go to Hogsmeade, confiscated and then returned by Professor Lupin - who he still couldn't get into the habit of calling 'Remus' - and then taken away again by the imposter Moody. He had found it on his bed upon returning to Hogwarts this year, and strongly suspected that Dumbledore had put it there. Again, his eyes flickered to the writing at the head of the parchment:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present THE MARAUDER'S MAP

He had recognised the handwriting after a while: it was nearly the same as that which had marked his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework the year before last, except perhaps a little less orderly and more cluttered. It stayed static, almost defying him. There was no sign that it was anything except an inanimate object; a clever bit of magic, but nothing more.

And yet those words, which had sprung out of the map in his third year, kept coming back to him.

"Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep
his abnormally large nose out of other people's business."

"Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony and would like to add that Professor
Snape is an ugly git."

"Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever
became a professor."

"Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his
hair , the slimeball."

Those words were the only sign he had ever had that this ragged piece of parchment was something more than just a map. Once again, he dwelled on the first and last comments. Had the map merely sensed Snape's physical characteristics? That would explain Moony and Wormtail's remarks, but what about Sirius's? "Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor." Was that merely a random insult, perhaps based on Snape's use of the word 'professor'? If not - and Harry hoped it was not - then did that mean, could that mean, that the Marauder's memories, their personalities, were locked up in the map, somehow?

How else could Fred and George have learned the password? Harry seriously doubted that they had randomly hit on the right phrase whilst tapping the map with a wand, especially when to them it must have seemed like a blank bit of parchment. They must have talked to the Marauders, as Snape had, and then were judged worthy of being given the password. But who had judged them worthy? One of the four must have made the decision somewhere - it was too much that there would merely be an automatic mechanism to do so built in. Again, all the signs seemed to point to them having some aspect of their personalities locked up in the map.

Harry, though, was still hesitant. He had only ever had one experience with someone locking their personalities and memories inside parchment - Riddle's diary. And he was not sure whether to be discouraged or motivated by his experience with that. On one hand, Harry could feel an enormous sense of anticipation: Riddle had escaped from his diary, becoming a material being, an exact copy of the person who had written it.

On the other hand, to be born out of the diary, to become living, and breathing, had needed someone else to die. He had needed to use someone else's life energy in lieu of his own.

As much as Harry wanted to see his father again, he would not kill someone to do it.

He read through the headings again. He decided it was worth asking. After all, what harm could asking do?

It was the middle of the night. He did not want anyone to wake up; he did not at the moment want to share this with anyone. Would writing work? He muttered a quick "Mischief Managed," erasing the map to reveal the original blank sheet of parchment, and retrieved a quill and a bottle of ink from his bedside table. Dipping the former into the latter, he spent a few seconds pondering what he would say, eventually deciding that a mere 'Hello' could not be beaten for its simplicity. He paused over the parchment, and wrote it quickly.

A moment later, writing appeared underneath.

"Mr. Moony welcomes you to the wonder of Mischief-making, Misbehaviour, and Monkey business that is the Marauder's Map, and wonders how he, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs may be able to assist you? "

Harry felt slightly dizzy. He took a few deep breaths, and dipping his quill in the ink bottle frantically - nearly knocking it over - he wrote back.

"Hi. My name is Harry Potter."

"Any relation to Prongs?"

The younger Professor Lupin's handwriting appeared quickly below his own.

"Yes. I'm his son."

There was a pause of a few seconds before any more writing appeared, but to Harry, it felt like an age. Finally, in handwriting that was almost an image of his own, appeared:

"You are my son? Then who the hell is your mother?"

Harry, however, didn't have the chance to reply before more writing appeared.

"Mr. Moony would like to remind Mr. Prongs to tone down his language, and--"

He did not get to finish his rebuke, however, as handwriting that reminded Harry of Sirius's letters appeared very messily and at a slant, as though he had snatched the quill and was trying to finish before it was taken back:

"Who would possibly want to marry HIM?"

The parchment finally stopped writing. Harry stared at it, dumbfounded, for at least ten seconds, until, in Sirius's handwriting, the word "Well?" appeared below his previous remarks. Harry quickly pulled himself together, and wrote, "Lily" next to it.

There was a pause, and suddenly, the top half of the writing disappeared, as though wiped from a chalkboard. In his father's handwriting, somewhat messier than before, appeared:

"Lily? Lily Evans? Really?"

And in small letters and the bottom right, in Sirius's handwriting appeared, simply:

"Oh No."

Harry ignored him, in favour of his father. "I didn't know her maiden name was Evans. The only thing I know about her is that she's got green eyes." This seemed slightly inadequate, but Harry didn't care, waiting quickly for the answer. It appeared quickly:

"YES! I knew it! Didn't I tell you, Padfoot? Did I not say--"

The writing stopped suddenly, and there was a hiatus of a few seconds where nothing materialized - but then, in much smaller letters, came Moony's handwriting. It sent a small frisson down his spine.

"If she is your mother, why do you not know her maiden name?"

Harry froze. He wondered how he could possibly explain. Nothing else appeared on the parchment, as if they were waiting with baited breath for his answer, and finally, he decided that he would have to tell the truth. To do any less would be an insult to them.

"She's dead".

There was a long pause. At last, his Dad's handwriting appeared, though it was unsteady.

"How?"

"Voldemort."

The map lay for about a minute, silent. Abruptly, unfamiliar handwriting appeared. It was narrow and spiky, with a left slant. Harry realised that this must be Wormtail's scrawl.

"What about the rest of us?"

Harry felt slightly sick. Why did he have to do this? How could he possibly explain? He lay down on his bed, going over his options. No more writing appeared. At length, Harry realised that he had to answer, and he had to tell the truth.

"My Dad is dead, he died to defend my and my Mum from Voldemort. Remus and Sirius are still alive."

It was not the whole truth, but it was not a lie either. He hoped and prayed that no-one would ask about Wormtail; he did not think he could bear to describe what had happened to him. The next writing to appear, however, was his father's.

"How did you survive?"

At least this was something he could answer.

"My Mum died to save me. Voldemort could not kill me."

No-one said anything. Harry guessed what they were going through: it would be the same as when he found out that he was a wizard in that hut, five years ago; the need to assimilate the information that his whole life had been re-written (or in their case, merely lived out), and come to terms with it. Only for them it would be worse. How could someone deal with the knowledge that they would die, and there was nothing they could do about it? But with an abrupt jolt, he remembered why he had done this, and realised that, if he did not act soon, questions would be asked that he could not answer, not with Sirius and Wormtail listening. If he was going to try to resurrect his father, he needed to do it soon.

"Dad, is there any way I can talk to you face-to-face?," he wrote.

There was still silence from the parchment, but the atmosphere of the silence had subtly changed, from that of shock to that of surprise - and anticipation. To his surprise, it was Remus whose writing appeared next.

"Yes, there is. When we made the map, we each put a fourth of our magical power into the map; not enough to seriously hinder us, but enough to create one of us from the map, from the four quarters. The map would then be rendered useless (it only worked by having our combined magical power in it), and the rest of our personalities and memories would be lost. But this is just the situation that would make that worthwhile. If the rest of us are still alive and Prongs is dead, then you, as his son, need him."

At first, Harry felt elation. He would see his Dad again! He lifted his quill to agree - but then what he had read sunk in.

By bringing his Father back, he would be condemning the others in the map to oblivion. He would be asking them to kill themselves. And instead of the agreement he was going to write, he found himself writing:

"But I cannot ask you to do that. The rest of you would die."

Sirius's handwriting materialised.

"The rest of us would not die, Harry. We are still alive in out real bodies. Prongs, however, is dead. By doing this, we would be creating a life, without killing anyone."

And much as it pained him to condemn three conscious personalities to oblivion, Harry had to agree.

But he was not going to let Sirius know that.

"Is there no other way?"

"No, except by taking the life-energy from a living person. And that would kill them."

"But if a couple of friends and I each contribute a third, then would that not do it?"

There was a pause, and Remus's handwriting appeared again.

"It would. But we can't ask you to do that when we have already done it. We contributed it knowing that this could someday happen. To take more life energy would be not only pointless, but senseless. Please let us do this."

Harry stared, not knowing what to say. Could he? Should he? Was it even his decision to make? More writing appeared, back in Sirius's handwriting.

"For Prongs."

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.

"OK".