They'd been trying to one-up each other, his parents, as to who was more mischievous and would therefore take credit for the first spot of trouble Harry would surely get into. He, Harry, didn't have any intention of getting into trouble—not in his first week, anyway—but between Mum's "smart mouth" and Dad's "talent for trouble" it seemed he might not have much choice in the matter.

"Oi, Harry," Mum said, grabbing his attention from across the table. "I got into a fair bit of mischief in my Hogwarts days too, you know."

"Nothing compared to us, though, Evans," Padfoot said, so sure of himself that Harry didn't believe anyone would dare contradict him. Except Mum. Uncle Sirius always sounded sure of himself, though, and he always called Harry's Mum 'Evans' when he wanted to get her goat.

"I didn't have as many detentionsas you lot, true," Mum said, sipping her drink, which Harry was definitely not allowed to sample, "but that only means I was intelligent enough to escape detection."

Uncle Remus snorted and pointed an accusatory finger at her. "February, sixth year."

A moment of collective silence, and then his father and uncles burst into laughter. Uncle Pete had tears streaming down his face, and Moony pounded the table with his fist. Padfoot nearly fell backwards off his chair.

He like he'd traveled in a Police Box through a weird time-space rift, and everything was just a little bit…off. They—he, his parents, and his uncles—were gathered 'round the Potters' kitchen table eating Harry's going away cake with forks, straight from the pan. Crumbs and bottles littered the table; he'd been allowed three Butterbeers. Mum had sent to bed like usual, along with his sisters, but his Dad had let him come back down, once they were asleep. He'd been allowed to stay up so late, it was nearly tomorrow.

All because he was going to Hogwarts in less than twelve hours.

"That was one incident, thank you very much, Mister Lupin." She sounded as prim as Aunt Petunia, but saying as much might get him sent to bed.

James looked at Harry gravely. "You'll be shocked to know, Mate, that your deviant mother served eight detentions in her sixth year for attempting putting fireworks in Greenhouse Four. Nearly cost her her swotty Prefect's badge."

"Your dad is telling gross, exaggerated lies, Harry, and he's neglecting to mention that he the one who landed us knee deep in manure, quite unable to escape." She grinned at Harry's dad. "You served those eight detentions right alongside me, no?"

"I did indeed. And that's where you fell in love with me, isn't it?" Dad replied, a wide, lazy grin splitting his face.

Harry was grateful for his Uncles' presence and the table, because that grin usually preceded a snog.

"Ah yes," she said wistfully, "scrubbing bedpans. Terribly romantic."

"Not that," his father said, casting a meaningful look at her, "the other thing—"

"What other thing?" Harry asked loudly, but his mother turned read, and ignored his question.

"Well, I suppose I did fall in love with you then," she said, and looked around the table. "What about Halloween, then, gentlemen. Seventh year? You've got to admit that was impressive, no?"

They did this sometimes—his parents and uncles—the five of them talking at once, or going back and forth faster than Dudley's computer game. Harry hardly knew what they were going on about, but did his best to keep up, even if it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

"That—that was you?" Wormy asked.

His mum nodded proudly, as if she were showing off a rare batch of biscuits that hadn't got the bottoms burnt.

The Marauders—his uncles, and father—stared at each other in stunned silence, recalling whatever it was that had happened on Halloween, seventh year, before starting another round of laughter, even louder than before.

Harry took advantage of their distraction and fetched another Butterbeer.

"That was impressive," Dad admitted, once they'd calmed down, "but if it's a matter of being impressive, the Map takes all."

Mum's forehead wrinkled. "All right," she conceded, "the Map was impressive."

"What map?" Harry asked. The table erupted around him.

"What Map?" Wormy said, disbelieving, "'What Map?' he asks.

Dad groaned, "I am a failure as a parent. I have utterly failed you, Mate."

Moony and Mum both asked, "We've never told you?"

Padfoot muttered "sodding fuck" under his breath, but Harry still heard him.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Prongs, calling yourself a Marauder," Uncle Pete said.

Indignation swelled in Harry on his father's behalf—impugning a Marauder's honor was grounds for a duel. But when Harry looked to his dad, to offer his sympathy, and to offer his services as a second, now he had a wand, he was hunched over, his head hung in shame.

"Your father and his mates, Harry," Mum began, but a chorus of objections cut her off.

"The map was a Marauder endeavor, Evans," Uncle Sirius said, "and a Marauder legacy, and this is a Marauder disgrace." He scowled at Dad. "Let Prongs fix it."

Mum rolled her eyes, but tipped her bottle at Dad.

Dad's countenance changed immediately as he switched to storyteller mode—Harry's favorite version of his father. His father leaned back in his chair, relaxing, and draped an arm over the back of Harry's; the shameful grimace was gone, replaced with another easy grin. Harry settled in for what was sure to be a good story.

"The Marauder's Map, Harry, Mate, my son, Mini-Marauder-In-Training, was the second-greatest achievement of our school days, and the glory of sixth year—"

"What was the first?" Harry asked, interrupting.

His dad winced, looked genuinely apologetic. "Ah. Would tell you, but I could, Mate. You're a bit young, yet."

"Soon, Sprong." Padfoot promised, and Wormy and Moony nodded reassuringly.

"Swear?"

"Solemnly," all four men replied, hands to hearts, without a trace of jest. Harry was satisfied, and nodded at his dad to continue. His mother did her best to hide her grin in her drink.

"Right, so, fourth year. Was it fourth year, lads?" His uncles all nodded. "Well, fourth year, we got into a spot of bother with Filch. Nothing unusual there, but we found a map in a drawer in his office. It was—"

"Inadequate," Uncle Sirius said.

"And that's being generous, Mate," his dad continued. "But the idea struck us, , then, about a map. A proper map, of Hogwarts. Of course, as with all good things, the idea—"

"—was the easy part," Harry said—that was one of his dad's trademark expressions.

"Exactly. We spent—a swotty amount of time in the library, between you and me—looking up charms. Took us a year and a half, to properly map every nook, secret passageway, staircase, hidden door. Your Uncle Wormtail was—uniquely qualified—to help out in that respect. Indispensable to the entire project, really. It took, what?" He glanced at Uncle Remus. "Eight revisions, I think, to get the schematics right?"

"Nine," Uncle Remus supplied.

"Nine revisions, then."

Harry felt…cheated. This was just a map of the school? "What was so great about that, though? Anyone could make a map."

"Well, I'll tell you, Mate, if you'll stop interrupting," his dad said, peering down over his glasses. But he ruffed Harry's hair, and grinned, and Harry batted his hand away. "The map, in the end, was comprehensive—every corner of the Hogwarts grounds. The most comprehensive map that had ever been made, if I'm correct. Useful, but as you said, anyone could make a map. So, we spent another several months placing a charm to track everyone's movements."

"Track them?"

"Their whereabouts. Showed the precise location of whoever was on the grounds, whether or not they were students, or staff, or wearing an Invisibility Cloak. Dead useful for keeping away from teachers, you see. We used it for shenanigans, the occasional bout of mischief, nothing serious," his father said, his self-satisfied grin betraying the lie. "Oi! You'll like this—we charmed it to hurl out insults, should it fall into enemy hands."

That—now that was something. A world of possibilities opened up for Harry. He could—go to Hogsmeade. The kitchens. The Pitch, and nick a broomstick from the shed to have a late-night fly. One thing bothered him.

"Say it did fall into enemy hands?" he asked. "Did it have a password? You wouldn't leave a Map like that out all the time. How'd you turn it on and off? And how'd you fit it all on one piece of paper?"

"See, Prongs," Uncle Sirius said, a look of fierce pride on his face. "You're raising the boy properly after all."

James patted Harry on the head. "That's the kind of thinking you need, son. To your first question, we used 'I solemnly swear I am up to no good' to reveal the map and 'Mischief Managed' to wipe it clean. And to your second—magic."

He'd heard those phrases his entire life, and had never known where they'd come from. He'd never even thought to ask. It was cert: this Map would make him the coolest kid in the Gryffindor first years' dormitory.

"Aren't you lot going to do the whole bit?" his mum asked.

His father backtracked, ears turning pink. "Now, Lil, I'm not that's entirely necessary."

"Oh, no," she said sweetly. "I think it is. You've been waxing poetic like she's our bloody ex-girlfriend. And you lot subjected me to the entire thing when we were young. Harry'll get a kick out of it."

His father exchanged glance with his uncles, and they all looked at Harry; he was watching them, eager.

They put their hands over their hearts.

"Messrs," they began in unison.

"Moony."

"Wormtail."

"Padfoot."

"And Prongs."

And chorused, growing steadier with each word, "Purveyors to Aids of Magical Mischief-Makers, are proudto present: The Marauder's Map!"

The Marauders leaned forward and clinked their glasses together. Part of the ritual, apparently. He was going to Hogwarts, and he wanted a group of friends exactly like this. He and Ron would be the start, obviously, but they'd recruit more. They couldn't call themselves the Marauders, but they'd think of something.

Dad looked so relaxed in that moment that Harry decided it'd be criminal not to press his advantage.

"Can I have it then, Dad?"

The Marauders' smiles wiped off their faces, much like Harry imagined the Map would wipe clean. His dad's expression turned sour.

"Well, son, it fell into enemy hands, seventh year. Filch." He said "Filch' like a curse word, and even Mum wrinkled her nose. "You can blame your Uncle Padfoot for squandering your Marauder inheritance, all for a Ravenclaw with a ni—"

But Harry didn't get to hear the rest, because his mum cleared her throat menacingly, cutting his dad off. Harry felt hollowed out, and he felt a bit silly for feeling so. The loss of something he'd never had and that he only learned about ten minutes ago shouldn't feel so heavy, but he couldn't help it.

He yawned widely, then, and Mum shooed him off to bed, against his Uncles' strong objections. Harry didn't object—he'd just realized exactly how tired he was, and headed off to bed.

It was tomorrow already, and he was going to Hogwarts in ten hours.

Still, that Map would've been nice.

Next morning, they arrived an hour early at Harry's insistence.

Because his parents knew everyone and were compulsive, serial chatters, a real issue, when they needed to get somewhere quickly. True to form, they stopped every few feet to chat with someone new, catch up, exchange handshakes. He was too excited to feel properly tired, drinking in the platform, and the occasional familiar face. His sisters chased each other through the station. Harry kept piss-poor watch over them and kept a lookout for Ron.

Quarter till, and the Weasleys came rushing through the barrier.

Ten till, and Dad realized he'd never loaded Harry's trunk. He disappeared onto the train to load both boys' trunks into a compartment.

Harry was subjected to one final, bone-crushing hug from his mum. He was relieved—extremely relieved—that she wasn't crying, but she seemed reluctant to let him go.

At her insistence, he gave each of his wailing sisters, who suddenly realized he was getting on the train, and they were not, a sympathetic pat on the back.

Five till, and his dad returned. Harry subjected him to one final, bone-crushing hug. And his dad whispered, so no one could hear, "I slipped the Cloak into your trunk as compensation, yeah? Maybe can use it and try to get that Map back from Filch."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The lads and I agreed—you get the Map, we'll tell you the whole story."

"About the crowning achievement?"

"The whole bit. Now off you go—I daresay Ron's waiting to hear all about it."

Harry grinned widely, high-fived his father, and scrambled aboard the train."

"I don't understand," Ron said. "Where in the bloody hell could the Map have gone?

"Keep quiet," Harry said in a hiss worthy of Hermione. The Common Room had thinned, but he didn't want to be overhead.

She'd been utterly unimpressed with their antics, said it had served them right, and stormed off to bed. Denied them the Transfiguration answers, and everything.

"Do you think he chucked it?" Ron asked in an undertone.

"Nah, Padfoot—Uncle Sirius—reckoned Filch knew what it was."

Two and a half years, he and Ron had spent trying to get in, each scraping a handful of detentions for the effort. Nothing to his father, of course, but a respectable showing, given that Hermione was less inclined to break the rules than his father's friends had been.

They'd gotten into trouble for other things, too—that duel with Malfoy, the car, but his singular focus had been Filch's office. Even with the Cloak, he hadn't properly managed it before last night.

The diversion had been by any other standard a complete success, a thing of beauty. Manure from Greenhouse 4—he'd have to thank Mum for that particular bit of inspiration—a firework he'd bartered from George, and three Dungbombs, had been sufficient to lure Filch away.

But now, he and Ron were trying to sort out their sorely neglected homework. He didn't have anything for Christmas for his Dad, and Hermione wasn't speaking to them. It was all for nothing, because the Map hadn't been there.

"Maybe someone else got it, then. From his office."

The unpleasant possibility had occurred to Harry, too. He ruffed his hair.

"If that's the case," he said. "There's nothing for it."

They'd spent so much effort into reconnaissance, diversions—to getting in—that Harry had never even entertained the possibility that the Map wouldn't be there.

"It'll be all right, mate," said Ron bracingly. "We can always try again. Maybe we missed a spot."

"Let's not think about it, all right? We've got to finish this essay or Snape'll skin us alive."

Harry, still glum the next morning, and exhausted from his late night homework session, barely muddled his way through early practice. Oliver hadn't been best pleased with his performance, advised him to train long and hard over the holidays.

Harry lingered, afterward, in no hurry to return to Ron's speculations, or Hermione's glares.

"Psst—Harry!"

The twins had lingered, too. They motioned for him, and he followed them to the far bench.

"We've come to give you a bit of cheer this morning, Harry," Fred said, giving Harry a mysterious wink.

"Early Christmas present, if you will," George explained. "We didn't mean to overhear you last night, but these things happen."

"How?" Harry wanted to know. They'd been on the other side of the common room.

"Trade secret, Harry," Fred said, and Harry knew he'd get nothing more.

"We thoughtwe heard you mention the name Padfoot," George said gravely. It wasn't a question. "Were you, perhaps, seeking something specific from Filch's office last night?"

With that, Fred spread a large, blank piece of parchment on the bench. Harry suspected a prank—it wouldn't be their first, would it? On the other hand, if anyone had nicked it from Filch, he'd wager it would be Fred and George.

Well, in for a Knut, as Bathilda would say.

"Padfoot's my uncle," Harry explained. The twins exchanged a significant look.

"You know what this is, don't you?" Fred asked.

"Yes," Harry said, his heart racing. "How did you get it?"

"We—got into a spot of bother, with Filch," George said. "A Dungbomb, you see."

Harry was suddenly reminded of his father three years before, and started to grin.

"—and we couldn't help but noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous," Fred said.

"Don't tell me—"Harry said.

"Well, what would you've done?" Fred asked. "Actually, I know what you would've done, because you did it last night. Diversion. Drawer."

Harry nodded. "How'd you get it to work?"

"Tricky business," George said, "but she helped us along."

"Oh yes," said Fred, smirking. "This beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."

Harry didn't doubt it, knowing what it was.

"Go on, then," George said.

Harry took out is wand, anticipation humming pleasantly in his veins. He lightly tapped the center of the parchment and said, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

It was, if possible, cooler than he'd spent the last three years imagining: the map erupted to life, ink spiraling from the center, crisscrossing, until a mini Hogwarts appeared, every nook, cranny, and secret passage, just as they'd said. Harry wondered that it only took them nine revisions. The same words his father and uncles had recited spread across the top in green. Harry laughed. They were noble idiots, the Marauders, and Harry had never been prouder of them.

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," George said. "We owe them so much."

"Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers," Fred added.

"Prongs is my dad," Harry explained, grinning at them.

"Your dad—glasses, hair, horrible jokes—is Prongs?" Fred asked. "The Prongs?"

Harry nodded.

"Nothing for it, then," said Fred, clapping Harry on the back. "It's a wrench, giving it to you, but we decided, after last night, we couldn't rightfully keep it."

"Anyway, we know it by heart," George said.

"You didn't have to do this," Harry started, but Fred cut him off.

"It's the decent thing to do, Mate. Just remember us, should you ever win a load of prize money, yeah?"

Harry laughed. "I will."

"Off we go, Fred," George said, "our kippers are waiting."

"See you at Christmas," Fred called over his shoulder. "Mum will want to give you your sweater in person, we reckon."

Harry waved goodbye to the twins, and scanned the map, trying to locate Ron's dot. Even Hermione would have to forgive them when she saw it.

He couldn't wait to see the look on his father's face, when he presented the map. He'd get to hear the full Marauder story—the bits they'd kept out, until he'd earned them. Technically, yes, he'd been given the Map, but he suspected they'd be forgiving of the details, once it was spread out before them.

Christmas was going to be excellent.