A/N: I'm a bit overwhelmed with work and lacking sleep. That's why it's taking so long to post. I have to beta them first and make tweaks here and there, and that takes time—and worse, mental energy and coherency— that I simply don't have. I'm sorry. I try to get an update once a week.

Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own.

As soon as the Welcoming Feast was over, Hermione went straight her quarters. The train ride had been delightfully uneventful. Hermione had patrolled the corridors and checked in on several compartments to ensure that everything was fine, and was greeted warmly by returning students who were glad to have her back. She saw gold change hands, as a few of the students who had made bets on her return gleefully collected their winnings. Malfoy gave her a solemn greeting. Everyone in Harry's compartment grinned ear from ear when she dropped by to see them. She and Tonks helped themselves to a sweet or two from the Trolley. It was not a terribly tasking job, unless you counted hunting down escaped chocolate frogs.

"No fight with a dragon this time?" her husband asked, seating himself as she lit their fireplace. It was not terribly cold, but they liked to keep it going. "I was sure you would come up with something else this year—a Nundu, perhaps, though how you would fit it onto the train is beyond me."

"Don't get your hopes up, I'm sure something else will try to get the drop on me," Hermione retorted, but her smile was warm. She leaned back on her heels as the fire sparked to life, warming the room. "It's not as though we don't have enough on our plates as it is. Isn't the Dark Lord bad enough?"

"Apparently not, as far as last year was concerned."

"Charlie was the Dark Lord's fault, mind. But it worked out in the end." Hermione got to her feet, and in two short strides, was by her husband's side. She kissed him. "And this year—some things are going to change."

"Are you still giving Draco lessons?"

Hermione chewed her lip as she considered how to answer, settling herself on the arm of his chair. "I would rather not." Severus raised an eyebrow at her, but allowed her to continue uninterrupted. "I have my—our—project to work on," she said meaningfully, "and in addition, I was thinking of working with… Harry."

He tilted his head to the side. "Do explain."

"I need to be able to study him without him knowing he's being studied."

Her husband gave her a calculating look. "Couldn't I just put him in detention with you?"

"That often?" Hermione asked skeptically.

He gave her a smirk. That familiar, trouble-promising smirk. "I can be very creative with my reasons for assigning detentions."

Hermione let out a snort of laughter, trying to imagine her husband putting Harry in detentions for the sole purpose of helping figure out how to keep him alive. But she sobered up a moment later—the idea did have some degree of merit. It would be easier for her to be able to summon Harry whenever she needed him, rather than have to devote herself to weekly plans to train him. It could work.

"I'll offer advanced lessons for anyone interested, once a week," Hermione said, resting her chin on his shoulder. "But Draco has the apprenticeship sealed, and I unfortunately have more pressing matters to attend to with my time. Tri-weekly lessons are out of the question."

"I shall inform him tomorrow. He's been anxious to find out."

"In the meantime," Hermione said, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "please do arrange for Harry to have a detention next Saturday. Eight o'clock, preferably. It can't be done too often, but often enough should serve our purposes."

He smirked at her, his hands reaching up to grab her mane. "Done," he said, and sealed his lips against hers.

~o~O~o~

The next day, Severus was among the Heads of House who went down the line of students during breakfast to consult and confirm the schedules of their OWL and NEWT students.

"Mr. Malfoy, you're clear to continue the classes you took last year," he said lazily when he was half-way through the row; he tapped a blank schedule with his wand, where it immediately filled up with the necessary time-tables. Draco, who had looked both tense yet self-assured while waiting, let out an audible sigh. "You're free to go."

"And Professor Granger, sir?" Draco asked, standing up.

"She will be offering additional tutoring once a week to any interested students. I suspect she will put up a notice on the board by the end of the day."

"No more private lessons?" Draco asked, and Severus had the impression he was scrutinizing him carefully.

"She did not feel it would be necessary, given the progress you made last year," Severus responded dismissively.

"Thank you, sir," Draco said, knowing a compliment and a subtle implication to cease questioning when he heard it.

"And you—" he said, turning to the second-year student who had wormed himself a space next to Draco. "Last I recall, Mr. Black, you were not sorted into Slytherin. Ten points from Gryffindor for occupying the wrong table."

"I was just asking about chess," Selenius said, looking rather guilty. Several of the students along the table laughed unkindly at this; seeing Professor Snape pick on Gryffindor never failed to entertain them.

"Five points for cheek." His lips twitched, though whether in a sneer or a smirk, it was hard to say. "Leave."

He saw Selenius open his mouth, and then bite down on his tongue just as quickly. He got up and left, casting a quick glance back at Draco, who gave him a covert nod. He could have sworn he saw Selenius throw a smirk behind his back as Severus turned around, but he did not do himself the indignity of wheeling around to double-check.

As he moved onto the next student, he heard Nott lean forward and mutter, "Private lessons?"

The schedules were sorted out in good order, and he made his way to the dungeons to prepare for his first class. He had already dropped a rose in the vase Hermione kept on her desk, long before she had ever opened the classroom. He smirked at this bit of impertinence, a gesture that was not lost on the students who were already waiting by the classroom door.

He pulled it open.

"Inside."

They filed in, and he shut it behind him with a satisfying slam.

~o~O~o~

"As seventh years, this will be the last formal preparation you will ever receive for defending yourself against the Dark Arts," Hermione said, her words echoing in the classroom, clear and crisp. She tapped the chalk board by her desk, and it immediately began filling up with the details of the syllabus. There was a flutter of parchment and quills as the students got the hint and began copying it down. "The work load will be an enormous leap from last year's—no, don't look at me like that," she said, her eyes narrowing as groans and grumbles echoed throughout the room. "This is also an opportunity for it to be fun. You should be endowed with a healthy amount of familiarity and respect for the subject by now, which means we can move onto the more interesting aspects…"

Harry looked around the room. Almost four-fifths of the available desks were empty. Only seven other people had made it to this level. He supposed some of his classmates from last year hadn't scored high enough on their final exam. Ernie Macmillian had somehow managed to scrape by along with Terry Boot and Seamus Finnegan. Neville had passed with flying colors, though Harry had no doubt he'd put in considerable effort to do so. Ron, just barely. Theordore Nott of Slytherin had also passed and—much to Harry's displeasure—Draco Malfoy.

"I'd almost forgotten how much she loves the start of the year," Ron muttered in an undertone only Harry could hear.

"Seventh-year Defense is an opportunity for you to embrace challenge," Hermione continued.

Harry saw Ron's head slowly sink onto his desk at this declaration.

"So we will be working with a wide variety of subjects all at once, at their most advanced level—dark creatures, cursed objects, dangerous spells, debilitating enchantments…"

"We're going to die," Ron said, his voice muffled by the wood.

"Mr. Weasley?" Professor Granger's voice rang out. "Do you have something to add?"

Harry quickly leapt in to cover for him. "Ah, no—we were just wondering how you were going to…" he quickly cast about for a question, and grasped at Hermione's earlier statement, "teach all of this… at… once?"

Hermione nodded. "Good question," she said, but the glint in her eye told Harry she wasn't fooled by his quick cover. Ron hastily sat up. "And an excellent opportunity to segue into today's lesson."

The tension in the room rose at this, thick and palpable. Professor Granger smiled at them, and reached into her desk to pull out a book.

"How many of you brought your books with you?"

All hands slowly came up. Harry had not yet taken a look at this, though he now wondered if he ought to have; he didn't like the look Hermione was giving them. It bordered on gleefully malicious.

"How many of you tried to… read it?"

Two hands came up. Draco Malfoy and Terry Boot.

"Were either of you successful?"

Harry slowly glanced down at his bookbag, as though worried something might leap out and bite him.

Both students eyed Professor Granger sullenly, and at last, Terry Boot muttered, "No, Professor."

"Why ever not?" Hermione asked, in the most falsely innocent tone Harry had ever heard her use.

"Well it—because it attacked me, that's what!" Terry's face was turning redder by the minute. "It hit me with a Bat-Boogey Hex. And then a Jelly-Legs Jinx, when I opened it a second time. And then a third time—"

He broke off, his face flushed with humiliation. Harry had to wonder if Terry had bribed the Hat into putting him into Ravenclaw.

"Take your books out," Hermione instructed, and there was the sound of rustling as bags were pried apart and their contents searched. She was grinning, Harry could see, like an older child who knew something the younger ones didn't. The books came down on their desks, and Hermione held hers up for all to see.

"Everyone has their copy of The Darkest Arte? Good. Yes, Mr. Boot, I'm not surprised to hear that it had a go at you," Hermione said warmly, setting her book down. "You see, you need to be careful when you start opening books that offer up information on the Dark Arts—the more advanced ones tend to have a bit of bite to them."

She was enjoying this, Harry could tell.

"What do you mean, 'bite'?" Ron interjected. "They're not like The Monster Book of Monsters, are they? Those nutty books from Care of Magical Creatures…"

"As a matter of fact, they are," Hermione said, beaming at him. "Only worse."

There were a few muttered groans, but everyone snapped to attention at this.

"I would have assigned you that very book, Mr. Weasley, except it offers nothing on the Dark Arts themselves," Hermione said, tracing the letters on the cover of her book with a single finger. The Gaunt Ring flashed at them as she did so, glinting in the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the window above her. "But I'm glad you brought it up. It's a perfect example of a rather unique and interesting sort of magical artifact that you might come across. You lot are familiar with cursed objects, but that book is an example of an enchanted object. You'll be writing me a six-inch essay on that for tomorrow—assuming you can get the book to open without being attacked."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances with each other and then with Neville, and all three of them shook their heads ever so slightly in trepidation.

"You see, some writers give objects a life of their own," Hermione said, now quite warmed up on the subject. "Books are the most commonly enchanted example you will ever find. Socks, too, though they tend to be much more benign—they might scream at you if they go too long without a wash. Unlike cursed objects, which can be rendered harmless, enchanted objects are a bit more tricky—and often have to be bargained with."

She grinned at them.

"Now, why don't you try to figure out what your book wants as payment?"

Apprehensive gazes were thrown around the room as they began molesting their books. Ron began stroking the spine, as though hoping that might tame it the way it did with the fur-covered book they had dealt with in third year, to no avail. Ernie Macmillian threw his teacher a surreptitious glance before pulling the book under his desk and smacking it against the leg of his chair, as though trying to quietly beat it into submission. Terry Boot was knocked out of his chair with a Jelly-Legs Jinx five minutes into the attempt after trying to forcefully open it, and had to wriggle over to where his wand had fallen before he could reverse the hex.

"None of the curses in these books are permanently damaging, of course, but they do give you an idea of what to expect regarding their behavior," Hermione called, once the laughter had subsided. "This should be a bit of a challenge, but if you paid attention in class at all last year and managed to pass your sixth-year exam, then you should be fully capable of this."

Ron turned to look at Harry, giving him a pleading look that clearly said help me.

Harry pursed his lips and stared at the unyielding cover of his book, thinking. But he was not contemplating how to open it, oh no—rather, he was thinking about his father's map. The Marauder's Map. Was that enchanted, then? It certainly seemed to have a life of its own—it required a password to operate, but when improperly addressed—as Snape had found out in Harry's third year—the personalities of its creators appeared instead with plenty of pointed insults.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," Harry whispered under his breath, tapping the book with his wand.

"What?" Ron asked blankly.

"Nothing," Harry said, fingering his wand. He recalled how Snape had tried to address the Marauder's Map at first, and decided to subtly follow his lead with The Darkest Arte—he had nothing to lose. He tapped the cover again, with a muttered, "Reveal your secret!"

The cover shuddered for a moment, and then flopped open with obvious reluctance. It was subdued by his command. Harry blinked. Ron's jaw dropped.

Professor Granger said nothing for a moment, and appeared to be struck speechless. The entire class was staring at Harry in obvious astonishment. And then she rallied at once.

"Fifteen points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," she said, looking rather composed despite her obvious surprise and delight. "Excellent."

"You know what this means?" Harry said to Ron, as soon as they were out of the classroom.

"It means you're a bloody genius," Ron said, kissing the cover of his book before stuffing it back into his bag. "Now I'll be able to do that essay."

"No—listen," Harry said, as they ascended the stairs. "The Marauder's Map. When Snape tried to catch me sneaking out to Hogsmeade in third year, he used the same opening phrase as I did in class just now—'reveal your secret'."

"That just means he already read the book and decided to try bullying the Map with the same order. No surprises there, right?"

"But remember what I told you?" Harry persisted. "After that, he tried something else, and instead of revealing itself, the Map—"

"Started insulting him, yeah, I remember," Ron said, slowly drawing to a halt. "What's your point?"

Harry looked at him expectantly. Ron frowned.

"You're not—you're not saying you think the Map's enchanted, are you?"

"It makes sense," Harry insisted. "It's not just a magical map of Hogwarts—it has part of the creators' personalities in them. Those insults weren't just for anybody, they were specifically what they would have called Snape, if they'd been there. They—I don't know," he admitted. "I'm going to have to actually read the chapter she assigned to make sure I'm not off my broomstick on this, but makes me think that the Map is just like the Monster Book of Monsters. It's got a life of its own."

Ron's eyebrows had risen so far that they were blending into his hair. He was grinning from ear to ear.

"It's more than just a piece of parchment with a magical password," Harry said firmly.

"Wicked," Ron breathed. "But what do you think you're going to get out of it?"

Harry hesitated, reluctant to admit it. It seemed like such a foolish dream—wild, beyond wild, simply impossible—but Ron was his best mate, and he knew that with something serious like his, he wouldn't laugh.

"It—it occurred to me that I might find a way to talk to my dad," Harry admitted quietly. "Since he was one of the creators."

To Ron's credence, he didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile. His expression was perfectly serious.

"We should ask Hermione," he said in an undertone, as several fourth-year Ravenclaws marched past them. "She'd know, wouldn't she?"

"She became a Marauder long after the Map was made," Harry said, but he glanced back in the direction of the classroom, wondering if there was enough time to double-back and ask her. "It might not have occurred to her."

"But she's still the expert, isn't she?"

"We'll ask her after class," Harry said decisively, checking his watch. "Come on—it's Potions next— we don't want to be late."

"Two Snapes in the morning," Ron muttered as they made their way down to the dungeons. "I love this year's schedule already."

The dungeons were as cold as ever, and the classroom's primary occupant was as uninviting as always. Still, Harry and Ron found a table next to Ernie, and sat quietly as Snape began. There was the expected lecture about final exams, the all-important, all-encompassing NEWTs they would be taking at the end of the year, and then Snape set them to work. He appeared to be in an especially foul mood, and Harry ducked his head and tried to make himself as invisible as possible.

Snape had set them a rather tricky potion that would take weeks to brew, but it was only by strong self-preservative instinct that none of them had laughed when it had been assigned. There had been a few snorts from the Slytherins in the room, but Snape had ignored them. Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in the world, according to Snape, and one of the most dangerous potions they would ever brew. Harry believed him. He knew Snape would hardly expound upon the complex nature of desire, but Harry had to admit one thing: aside from his previous encounters with love—regarding his mother's protection, for instance—Harry had to admit that seeing what love did to Hermione and Snape was pretty terrifying.

Snape was watching them all like a hawk, and Harry found himself hovering almost protectively over his potion when the Potions Master passed by. Snape was not in a visibly foul mood, but there was something about him that had Harry on edge, as though Snape was waiting for Harry to make a mistake so that he could swoop down and take house points. Harry had been somewhat mediocre at Potions in previous years, but in the last two years, he'd had to give it his full effort with his goal of being an Auror in mind. He was much more competent now. He could do this.

Ten minutes later, he discovered he could not. His potion, which was supposed to be teal, was instead an ugly purple. He stared down at it in dismay, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong, when Snape appeared behind him.

"Potter, did you or did you not check to see if the Ashwinder Eggs were expired before you chucked them into your cauldron?"

Harry had not. He did now, apprehensively picking one up and squeezing it slightly; the shell gave way, and raw, yucky goo spilled out between his fingers. He groaned in despair. They had gone sour.

"You're all seventh-year students now—it is now your undeniably delightful task to make sure that the materials are all in satisfactory condition before using them." Snape was sneering down at him, but Harry detected a trace of cruel amusement in his cold eyes, and he knew. He knew that somehow, Snape had found a way to sabotage him. "Detention, Potter, for ruining perfectly good ingredients along with the bad due to your lack of diligence. Professor Granger will supervise your detention. Eight o'clock." A flick of his wand, and Harry's ruined potion vanished. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor. Again."

Harry sourly noted that there was a slight spring in Snape's step as he moved away.

~o~O~o~

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," Harry muttered, tapping the Map with his wand. It immediately unfolded, and he and Ron were huddled on the floor by Ron's bed, perusing it. The Darkest Arte lay open on the carpet beside them. Harry found himself reflecting that if Hermione were here—not Professor Granger, but the Hermione who had gone to school with them—this would be what she would be doing instead of them. They would be doing homework, or off playing Quidditch, if given half a chance.

"Alright, let's try to figure this out," Harry said, scanning the map. "I've got half an hour before my detention, and everyone else is at dinner."

"Except Hermione. She's in the classroom," Ron said, surveying the classroom. "And—"

He broke off suddenly, and it was immediately apparent why.

"Snape's with her."

There was a moment of silence as they saw the footprints. Snape had just walked in; Hermione's footprints hurried over to his, and then they both walked over to the window at the front of the classroom, footprints overlapping against the wall. And then Hermione's footprint moved over the desk, facing away from the wall; they were closely followed by Snape's, and then they both stayed there.

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

Ron cleared his throat.

"Well—okay. The book gives a pretty good description. Does the Map fit?"

Harry deactivated the Map, and then tapped it with his wand.

"Prongs?" he asked.

The paper remained blank.

"Moony?" he said, rapping it again. Nothing. "Padfoot?"

The Map remained quiescent. Ron chortled next to him.

"I am Harry James Potter, and—er—ask that you reveal your secret!"

For a moment, Harry thought this too would yield nothing. And then his eyes slowly widened as writing began to scribble itself across the otherwise blank, yellowing parchment.

Mr. Moony would like to present his compliments to Mr. Potter on successfully using the Map, and recommends you use it to achieve as much pranking as humanly possible.

"Whoa…" Ron said.

Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony and would like to convey his great pride in having his son carry on the tradition of using the Map for the purpose of making mischief.

Ron was doubled over in silent laughter.

Mr. Padfoot would like to extend his compliments to Mr. Potter, and suggests that he ditch his detention in favor of unscheduled mayhem.

"Unbelievable," Ron chortled.

"It could be worse," Harry said baldly. "I thought Snape was going to have a fit when he saw what they wrote about him."

Mr. Wormtail would like to wisely add that Mr. Potter ought to look into tickling the pear in the corridor outside the kitchens, should he ever find himself in need of food.

"Well," Harry said blankly. He wasn't sure what to think. Part of him was elated, but another part was equally disappointed. He had expected something more, something along the lines of the rapport he'd had in the short time he had used Riddle's Diary. "What d'you think? Is it enchanted or what?"

"It's certainly got personality," Ron said, grinning. And then his face fell. "It's almost like how it was with that diary, the one that got Ginny. It talks back to you, doesn't it?"

"But the Map isn't Riddle's Diary," Harry said, a bit defensively.

"No, it's not, but that's cause it's just a tool for making mischief, isn't it?" Ron said. "The principle's still the same. Put a piece of personality into the page so that people can talk to you after you're gone."

"Voldemort split his soul and stuck it into the diary," Harry argued, and then his face fell. "This is more like a ghost—they're just… imprints."

"Just not imprints of a departed soul."

"Yeah."

They both sat there in silence. Harry felt his heart clench. He had so been hoping that there was a tiny piece of his father left that he could contact. And yet, that piece, that tiny scrap—it was less than a shadow of the man.

But a niggling part of his mind also pointed out that the map was, apparently, also gifted with the ability to understand what was happening around it. A faint level of awareness, probably the same kind as a Sneakoscope. It knew Harry had a detention. It knew Harry was Prong's son. And it was also capable of dispensing advice, though whether it was sound advice was an entirely different matter.

"You should go," Ron said, glancing down at Harry's watch, trying to read it upside-down. "Your detention's in ten minutes."

Harry checked the map once more, just to make sure the coast was clear—Snape had thankfully retreated to his office in the dungeons and Hermione was pacing her classroom—and then got up to leave.

He passed by Selenius, who was sitting in a corner of the common room, nursing his left hand.

"Everything all right?" Harry asked, stopping before the portrait hole to look at him.

"Got bitten by a fanged frisbee," Selenius mumbled. "I'm fine."

"Well, tell them to put it up next time or Ron'll confiscate it," Harry suggested.

"I said I'm fine!"

Harry shrugged, and then left.

Please review!

~Anubis Ankh