"Vitae sentiens," James mutters under his breath, flicking his wand and nearly smacking Sirius in the face. Remus shoots him a look but doesn't comment, casting his own spell as the parchment is passed around.
The first things I sense are soft, yet gently calloused hands... the swish of a wand, the inkling of a breeze... voices murmuring, muttering... bodies tense and on-edge, heads huddled together...
The longer I sit on that table, watching them, the more I learn. Four boys sitting in a circle. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
Over the years, I observe and acquire knowledge. This Hogwarts—this School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—is filled with both wonderful and magical things. I am always stowed safely in a trunk or under layers of robes, hidden from view, but I see all—from Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black's illicit meetings late at night to Professor Kettleburn prowling the darkened corridors.
Eventually, I must leave the hands of my four young creators, and I spend years locked away, hidden in a drawer marked "Confiscated and Highly Dangerous". But still, I see all. I watch Quidditch games as they are being played, and I find that I have been designed to support Gryffindor, watching Oliver Wood hover in front of three golden-bronze goalposts.
The rain pelts against the windows the night two new pairs of hands pick me up, and discover how to use me. Fred and George Weasley, renowned pranksters and troublemakers, always sneaking around after curfew. I save them countless times.
I keep watch again, as I did with their predecessors. McGonagall, purposeful strides, covering distance quickly and effectively. Filch, uneven lilt reflecting even in paper. Mrs. Norris's soft paws padding lightly on the floor. Snape…he almost drifts, like a shadow or a ghost, and he is the hardest to avoid. A few times, when the twins forget me in Gryffindor Tower, hidden under a heap of dirty Quidditch robes, I can only watch as the dots labeled Fred Weasley and George Weasley turn a corner only to collide straight into the ink blot that is Severus Snape.
I almost think it's him when my favorite Weasley boys hand me over. Prongs. But he's Harry Potter, though his hands are almost familiar as they skim lightly over my parchment. Vivid splash of black hair, but green eyes, so much like Lily Evans's. I remember the droplets of her bright eyes when James would recline beneath the shadows of the trees with her by his side.
He's just as much a troublemaker as his father once was, but his trouble leads him to war, and I am always there, concealed, sneaking around under the cover of darkness.
War changes all of us. Harry watches his friends as we hide in a forest, keeping me away from Ron and Hermione's eyes. Ginevra Weasley is a constant point of interest for him, though he never seems to panic when her footprints vanish. When he returns to the castle, I follow him on a mysterious hunt for a lost object; he finds it in a room I have only ever witnessed in person.
I save many lives, but cause countless more.
Unbeknownst to the world, I have another user. Draco Malfoy's hands are like soft silk when they glide over rough parchment, even though the war has left scars on us all. He finds me on Harry's desk at the Ministry, and figures out the special words frighteningly quickly. He only uses me once, making sure his son is safe within the walls of Hogwarts.
Edward Lupin's hands are heavy with the weight of so many deaths, mind clouded by shadows from the war. Nightmares flutter through his mind; voices calling, "Teddy! Teddy! Teddy!"
The Hufflepuff eventually does become Head Boy; perfect student, perfect friend. He is not so perfect on the inside. He is scarred, alone, and frighteningly empty. He cannot stand me for long, though I have been quite useful for his meetings with yet another Weasley.
Maybe the memory of his father is just too much.
When Lily Potter's hands lift me from my hiding spot, I am overwhelmed with a sense of home. She keeps me with her, and I am treated to a life of nearly extreme luxury that I have only felt once. I am never crinkled nor crumpled, never stuffed away or left out in the rain. She is nearly invincible, strong and stubborn, and full of life.
When one day I am handed over to Scorpius Malfoy, his hands are familiar, so much like his father's. Years later, Lily's name morphs into Lily Malfoy and I am almost glad.
I allow my memories to fade into a gray blur and keep only the names.
Lyra Malfoy.
Hermione Malfoy II.
Cassiopeia Zabini.
Leo Bréanainn.
Augustus Bréanainn.
Jensen Bréanainn.
Misha Bréanainn.
Holly Bréanainn.
Ophelia Loxias.
James Loxias.
Eventually, I am abandoned, tucked away. I have grown impossibly wise over the span of so many generations, and as I look back at the castle I was created for, and all the descendants of my creators, battling furiously by the light of the flickering flames for a castle I no longer recognize, I wonder if I have done enough.
I have long forgotten the touch of human hands. And as my castle burns around me, I can only fade, fade, fade.
Quidditch League Fanfiction Contest
Season 4, Semi-Finals, A Different Point of View
Holyhead Harpies, Keeper
Prompt: The Marauder's Map
Word Count (Grammarly): 915
Special thanks to my amazing betas, Naism (natida), Ever (HP-Forever-XX), and Buttercat (Slytherin Buttercat).