Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 4—Semi-Finals

Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Captain
Task: Write from the point of view of a given object (the Marauders Map)

Word Count: 2,455

Thanks to my wonderful beta, Nasim (natida)!

Names

Rose Weasley was not a blood relative of my dear creators—I could sense that immediately. I always sensed the touch of the hands of those who handled me, feeling a special affinity towards those with a connection to either Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, or Prongs. But when I fell into Rose Weasley's hands for the first time, I immediately knew she didn't have such a connection.

But that wasn't to say, blood relative or not, that she didn't immediately matter to me. Her hands may have lacked that connection to the past—that connection I so loved and craved—but her name… Oh, her name…

Names are one the most powerful forces in my world. Names are everything. Besides that rare touch, it's all I ever have. And this name filled me with delight and (as much as a map can really feel these things) nostalgia.

After all, this was not my first Weasley.

I had been surprised by how prominently the Potters had come to play a role in my life. Well, life was a bit of a push—more a mere existence, I suppose. Unlike the Blacks, who were always plenty in number, only one Potter had roamed the castle during the time of my creation.

But things had changed a lot since then; out of my four creators, Potter was the only name that seemed to linger. Where, amongst the new generations that lived in my dear castle, were the Pettigrews? The Lupins? The Blacks?

Master Prongs was a Potter, you see. My first Potter. And he was the first person to ever touch me. As life seemingly poured into me, my existence buzzing for the first time, my entire being tingling, it was his hands I was held in, and his touch that therefore always resonated most strongly.

After years of unexplained and abrupt solitude, when my creators had seemingly disappeared, and I'd all but given up hope that I might ever be reactivated, young hands found me once more. And these were my first Weasleys. And oh, didn't we have some fun over the years.

Only for me to end back up, to my great shock, in the hands of a Potter. A Potter! I couldn't help but leap to conclusions. Could this be my Potter, my Prongs? And though this was not him—I could sense it immediately—I certainly felt him. Somewhere in that touch... And that was how I knew that this Potter, sure enough, had the blood of my Potter flowing through his veins.

And he was certainly not my last. Another James Potter became dear to me, but it was not my creator, as I had so briefly thought when we first made contact. Nevertheless, I felt Prongs in him too. Albus and Lily, too—familiar names to me, but Potters this time, which made it even more exciting!

When Prongs' dot had disappeared out of my boundaries all those years ago, he had never once returned. And yet all three of my other creators did.

Wormtail returned to the castle for years, never straying too far from the Weasleys—a family I quickly grew to love, that seemed to be so intertwined with the lives of my creators, and with Prongs' descendants. And yet, Wormtail never touched me… Twelve years roaming the castle, and he never once sought me out? It was so discouraging.

Then, to my even greater shock, Master Moony returned. And ever so briefly, Master Padfoot!

But Master Padfoot never lingered in the castle for long, only briefly visiting places that had been dear to him—Gryffindor Tower, the Quidditch Pitch… And Master Wormtail was even more elusive, always leaving the Weasley whose side he'd been at for the past three years, darting around the grounds all by himself for whatever reason. Master Moony even held me. Not only did he hold me, he used me! I had never felt so powerful, I had never felt so alive. Harry Potter's touch was powerful, yes, but oh, my master, my creator, my Moony! We were reunited at last.

But I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. Like Prongs—like Wormtail and Padfoot—Moony left me too. And that was the last time I was ever held by one of my creators.

I enjoyed life with the Potters, of course, but it did always baffle me how many of them there were—along with the Weasleys—compared to the names of my other creators. Not a single Pettigrew wandered into my boundaries after Wormtail left for good, but it was the Blacks that shocked me most. There had been so many of them back when I was newly created, and I couldn't comprehend how they had all just… disappeared. A few of them even returned but bearing different names. Why? Why did Narcissa no longer bear the name Black? Nor Bellatrix? Instead, they were now a Malfoy and a Lestrange? These name changes always confused me.

Now, the Malfoys were always coming and going—they didn't need any more!—but the Blacks dwindled completely.

Only one Lupin returned. Edward. He was close to the Potters, and the Weasleys, too. It was pleasant indeed for another Lupin to grace my parchment, even if I never got to feel his touch.

And now—Rose Weasley. Oh, yes, I tingled at Rose Weasley's touch! Not because I sensed the blood of my creators, but because that name had become so very dear to me. Weasley. For what it was worth, that name might as well have been one of my creators too. It had surely stuck around for longer than Black, Pettigrew, and up until now, Lupin had.

Her hands were so soft, so gentle. She smoothed me out against a table in her dormitory whilst the other dots in there remained motionless. Other than a few wanderers, all the dots in the castle became motionless within the same period of time every day. Peculiar, but I had become used to it.

Rose Weasley was not motionless, though. Far from it. Her hands stroked me with an urgency. "Come on," I felt her whisper, as though to me, and me alone. "I know how you work. I've seen James use you before." Her words felt so desperate. "Please, please, please, please!"

I felt the sharp jab of a wand tip.

I knew what I was supposed to do. I knew my protocol—what my creators had ingrained within me. Rose Weasley had not spoken the words, but was attempting to use magic to get me to reveal my secrets. When my creators had granted me sentience (though I don't think they ever suspected how much they had granted me), I had been given the power to communicate—via my own writing. I was to channel my creators' personas, to detect whether the intruder was friend or foe, and speak to them accordingly.

Twice, I had detected foes. Their hands had been cold and violent and rough, but truth be told, I wasn't that smart. I may not have favoured their touch to that of my creators or those I considered 'friends', but I simply could not detect a person's thoughts or intentions. The only reason I considered these two particular names to be foes was that I had seen my creators' dots interact with them throughout the years.

Argus Filch, and Severus Snape.

My creators had never favoured them, I knew. They were always purposefully avoiding the Filch, and though they always seemed to seek out the Snape, it almost always led to them being separated and led away to an office by either a Dumbledore, or a McGonagall, or some other such dot that seemed to commandeer authority over the others. Harry Potter always avoided them both.

So I took a chance, and I did as I was programmed to do. I channelled my creators' personas and let these intruders know exactly what I thought of them and their attempts to read me without the words.

I admit, when I was seized by the Weasley boys after such a long and dreary period of time without interaction, I was perhaps a little too quick to offer up my secret. But the words I gave them, they used with discretion. They kept me safe, used me for fun and adventures, and I knew I'd made the right choice.

And here I was, decades later, with yet another choice. It was clear, from her urgent hands and her incessant jabbing, that Rose Weasley wanted to read me. She had a purpose in mind, clearly. But was her intention honest? True, she was a Weasley, and the Weasleys had always been dear to me and my creators' descendants, but a name was all I had to go on.

I decided to take a chance.

Mr Wormtail would like to politely request that Miss Weasley stop jabbing at our map with such force.

I was sure I felt a gasp emit from Rose.

Mr Padfoot would like to point out that, in all his experience of magic, jabbing things without much thought has never led to a sophisticated result.

Mr Prongs would first like to point out the irony of Mr Padfoot thinking anything he does warrants 'sophistication', whether jabbing is involved or not; and secondly, would suggest to Miss Weasley that she is likely a smart girl and should, therefore, act accordingly.

"What the—?"

Mr Moony would like to add that, if Miss Weasley is indeed a smart girl, she must be aware that certain magical objects only reveal their secrets when proper etiquette is conducted.

"Well, I said please," I was sure Rose mumbled.

I made the text disappear in order to start again.

Mr Moony would like to enquire as to what exactly Miss Weasley's intentions are.

I felt Rose's hands suddenly heat up. She began to tap her fingers in a jittery manner. "I…" She hesitated. "I, err…"

Mr Wormtail would like to point out that as far as explanations for intentions go, Miss Weasley's is sorely lacking.

"It's none of your business!" Rose said in an angry whisper. "I don't have to explain myself to you. You're a map! I know you're a map. You're supposed to… show me things."

Mr Prongs would like to enquire as to what 'things' it is Miss Weasley is so intent on finding at so late an hour?

I felt the heat in her hands once more. "The castle," she whispered. "The… people"—she gulped—"in the castle."

Mr Padfoot would like to point out that spying on people, though great fun, sounds like an incredibly dishonest intention.

"Not spying!" Rose insisted, struggling to keep her voice hushed. "I'm… I'm meeting someone, alright? But the note he sent me was torn. All I know is that he asked me to meet him at midnight, but I don't know where." The desperation in her voice was evident. I wondered how close we were to midnight.

I admit, my curiosity at the situation may have overridden my logic. I wanted to help Rose. I could sense her desperation, and she was a Weasley after all. They had proven to be nothing but friends. Rose's touch was soft, and soothing, and gentle.

I wiped my parchment blank and paused. I could feel her holding her breath.

The Marauders would like to enquire whether Rose Weasley can solemnly swear that she is up to no good

"What? No, of course I am! I'm a prefect," Rose said desperately. "I promise—I swear my intentions are good."

If I could sigh, I would have.

The Marauders would suggest that, if that's the case, perhaps their map isn't for you…

"What? But I—! Are you saying that… that I should be up to no good? A minute ago you told me off for having 'dishonest intentions'!"

I said nothing. She was going to have to figure it out on her own, I decided. Let's see how smart you are, Rose Weasley.

"Alright, fine," she said angrily, after I revealed nothing more to her. "I'm up to no good," she declared.

I tingled, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't the words. Not quite.

"I promise!" Rose declared, desperate again. "I already stole you from James—doesn't that prove it? I swear I'm up to no good! I—what was it? I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Like a jolt of electricity, power coursed through me. It was like I was erupting in light, my existence tingling, my magic bursting from me as I revealed my secrets to Rose Weasley.

I could feel her awe long before her shrill gasp of "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Her delicate fingers ran over my surface, so very soothing for me, the most intimate connection I would ever feel. I wondered who Rose was meeting so late at night in the castle. Could this stranger be to her what Lily Evans had been to my Prongs? What Ginevra Weasley had been to Harry Potter? Hermione Granger to Ronald Weasley? Nymphadora Tonks to Master Moony?

Map I may be, but I understood a lot about these humans—these dots on my parchment. Perhaps I could not quite comprehend love, or even friendship, but I certainly understood loyalty. And there could be no doubt that certain dots showed certain loyalty to other dots, in whatever form that may take. Certain names meant something—in much the same way that they did to me.

And as Rose Weasley formed one lingering name on her lips, a whispered plea from deep within her, I knew what it meant to her. I was surprised by the name she chose, as in my history with those who used me, they'd never particularly favoured this family, not once. And yet, from the way Rose's feather-light fingers skimmed my parchment in search of him, his name lingering long after she spoke it, I could sense the importance he held within her life, even if it was just the beginning.

So I helped her. A burst of magic on my behalf drew her attention to the Quidditch Pitch where, sure enough, the person she was seeking was waiting for her. And in the same way that I always tingled at the touch of a human, I felt the energy rush through her as she found the name she was looking for.

Names were important. Like Potter, or Pettigrew, or Black, or Lupin was to me, like Lily Evans had been to James Potter, or Ginevra Weasley to Harry Potter, and now, apparently, like Scorpius Malfoy was to Rose Weasley, it had always been clear to me that yes, names were important.