If he were asked, Harry Potter could probably draw a map, to scale, of the Hogwarts grounds after dark. At least, what could be seen from the small window in his dorm room. His nightly sessions generally included; staring out into the inky black of night, brooding, muttering under his breath, and massaging his aching hand. He hadn't intended for it to become a routine, but the comfort and silence of the night wrapping itself around him was a much better alternative to the terrifying dreams that had been haunting him.

Thus far, he had successfully kept his routine from his dorm mates. Several times he had been tempted, though, to wake up Ron or Neville. At least then he would have someone to talk to. Ultimately though, he knew they would ask why he wasn't sleeping. Or worse, tell Hermione of his plight. He didn't think he could deal with the pitying looks from them or the overbearing nature of his bookish friend.

On this particular evening Harry had removed himself from his perch by the window in favor of burying himself in his duvet. The late October chill hanging in the air had won their battle of wills and forced him to retreat. To stave off boredom he had pulled out the Marauder's Map and was trailing Mrs. Norris as the she did her rounds. Occasionally he would amuse himself by poking the cat's dot with his wand, imagining terrible "accidents" befalling the dreadful feline each time he did. As he was creating an imaginary bottomless pit to trap his feline rival in, he noticed something odd rounding the edge of the map.

'One might wonder what this individual has done to deserve such ire from you? Your extreme prejudice in executing your torture suggests a terrible wrong. – Mr. Moony.'

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. None of the Map's Marauders had ever spoken—or was it written—to him. As he was trying to decipher what the map meant, another message scrawled across the page.

'What Mr. Moony means, and is far too nice to say, is STOP POKING THE MAP'.
– Mr. Padfoot

Harry had never considered the map might be sentient. Maybe it was kind of like one of the many paintings that lined the walls of the castle? Now he felt bad about poking the paper so many times. His mind wandered to the many times he had shoved the map into his bag or his trunk and he grimaced.

Harry wasn't sure what drove his next actions. Maybe it was guilt over all the times he had stuffed the map next to his socks (in a questionable state of cleanliness). Or quite possibly it was the chance to talk to someone during his late-night soirees. Then there was a small part of him that got out before he could trap it: Maybe, just maybe, he could talk to his dad.

He raced from his four-poster to the desk that sat net to the window. He had to search through the detritus that had collected from the desk's lack of use to find a quill and pot of ink. Buried underneath one of Ron's old robes and nestled next to a potted plant of Neville's was a singular inkwell. Harry snatched it up and set his quill to the aged parchment. Now, what to write?

The only other experience similar to this he had was Tom Riddle's diary when he was twelve. Harry quickly shoved that thought out of his brain. This was nothing like that. Probably.
Ultimately, he decided on something simple, something that could keep the conversation going.

'Sorry'

There, that wasn't too bad, was it? Harry found himself anxiously nibbling on the end of his quill as he awaited a response. What if they didn't want to answer now that he had stopped poking the map? Maybe they hated him now? Slowly, he watched as large, looping lettering scrawled itself across the page.

'Apology accepted, of course.
- Mr. Moony'

'Yeah, that stupid cat deserves it anyway.

-Mr. Padfoot'

Harry felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he grinned at Sirius' response. At least they didn't hate him.

'Maybe you should save your sleuthing for a more reasonable hour? Some of us enjoy sleeping. – Mr. Wormtail

A frown marred Harry's face as he read the last name. It was so easy to forget that Pettigrew was one of the Marauders.

'Well some of us aren't boring. Ignore him. What are we planning? Something good I hope, being stuck in a piece of parchment gets dreadfully boring. – Mr. Prongs'

Harry stopped. He read and re-read this simple message. Maybe he was overreacting. It was just a couple sentences, nothing monumental. However, he couldn't help but note that his father's teenage handwriting was gorgeous. Probably, Harry reasoned, due to his pureblood aristocratic upbringing. His own handwringing, on the other hand, could be likened to chicken scratch.

'Well?'

Harry quickly scratched out an answer, 'I don't know. I was just thinking.'

'Well if you find yourself in need of ideas, you have come to the right place.
- Mr. Prongs'

'INDEED! We are filled with wonderful Slytherin torturing ideas!
-Mr. Padfoot'

'Unless you happen to be a Slytherin?
- Mr. Prongs'

Harry grinned and responded, 'Nope, Gryffindor.'

'Excellent, this is most ideal.
-Mr. Prongs'

Harry knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help but think that his dad was proud that he was in Gryffindor. Sirius and Remus had told him as much, but it was different hearing it directly from the source. Or, at least, as close as Harry would ever get.

'So, unnamed Gryffindor, what do we call you?
- The illustrious Mr. Padfoot'

'Just Harry.' Harry thought about signing his name after that line, but also thought it might be a little redundant.

'Well then, "Just Harry", we are going have such fun.
- The amazing Mr. Prongs'

'Harry, how comfortable are you with potions brewing? It might be crucial to the plan.
- Mr. Moony'

Harry didn't recall agreeing to any such plan in the first place. Thusly, he replied, 'I don't think torturing Slytherins was really on my to-do list.'

'Well, that's boring. NEXT!
-Mr. Padfoot

Harry rolled his eyes, 'I'm not really the pranking type, sorry.'

'Shame, we could have made you great. My plans never fail.
-Mr. Moony'

Harry hurried to respond, hoping they wouldn't stop talking to him now. 'I thought that maybe, instead, we could just talk?'
Immediately afterwards, Harry thought that was a stupid thing to say, and scribbled over the words.

'Oi! What's with the intense quill use? Just writing it once works, Mate.

Mr. Prongs'

They saw it, just brilliant. Harry thought that maybe he should hide in embarrassment instead. He started closing up the inkwell as more words scrolled across the page.

'What did you want to talk about?
- Mr. Prongs'

Harry felt the grin return to his face.

The next morning Harry Potter was noticeably happier at breakfast, much to his friends' delight. They would wonder and guess as to why his change of mood happened so suddenly.

Hermione thought he finally was getting enough sleep.

Seamus suggested he'd finally shagged whoever it was he was pining over.

Ron guessed that he'd had a good dream in which he killed Umbridge in a satisfying way.

Dean and Neville agreed that it had to be because he'd finished his lesson plan for the next DA meeting.

The twins chorused their opinion. That he was clearly planning an epic prank and they were offended that they weren't involved.

Ginny scoffed at all of them and suggested that maybe he just got another letter from Snuffles.

Harry let them all guess. He didn't see any need to let them in on his little secret. In a way, Ginny was the closest to being correct. He had, after all, spent most of the night talking with Sirius, Remus, and James. It had been one of the best nights of his life so far. He couldn't wait to do it again.

A/N: Just a short little something I wrote to get back in the swing of things. Thanks for reading! - Ninja