Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are proud to present the Marauders' Map.

He gasped aloud and nearly dropped the thing.

Fred thought his gasp was one of disbelieving awe. "I know, mate. Now, there are seven passages that lead straight into Hogsmeade."

Fred's hand moved over the map, pointing out the blocked-up passages, but Harry didn't hear him. His eyes were fixed on the lines at the top.

We called ourselves the Marauders.

He was quite brilliant too.

The Marauders.

The Marauders.

He was holding, in his hand, a Map that was made and used by his father, his godfather, Remus, and another dead man.

"Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs," George said solemnly as if referring to the royal family of England. Harry looked up, swallowing hard. "We owe them so much."

"Noble men, working tirelessly to aid the next generation of lawbreakers."

Lawbreakers. Well, that was one way of putting it. They liked to prank students. And they pranked Snape the most.

The Marauders. He could barely breathe. He stared down at the writing. Whose handwriting was that? It wasn't Remus', so whose was it? His dad's? His godfather's?

His hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold them. He stuffed it into his pocket and focused on breathing.

Five minutes later, he took it out again. His cheeks were tearstained but he ignored them.

Snape was in his office. Sitting, by the looks of it. That was good.

Moony—the moon. The full moon. Remus, probably. The Marauders had known that Remus was a werewolf? So Black knew?

He shook his head violently. He just had to get to Hogsmeade undetected. That was all. He would ponder on this later.

#

Hermione and Ron hurried behind him, as if they thought he would disappear if they didn't keep in step with him the entire time. It's fine, he wanted to say. I already knew about this. I already knew Black betrayed my parents. But he couldn't form the words, couldn't look them in the idea, couldn't think about it.

Back in his bed, he ran his fingers over the cover of the album Hagrid had given him. He'd stared at the picture many times before. He would not look at it now.

When he went down the next morning, a little calmer after his sleep, his friends were waiting for him in the common room.

"I'm fine," he said, sitting down with a thump in a chair.

"Harry, listen. We know you must be upset about what you heard, but the thing is, you mustn't do anything stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like going after Black," Ron said. "He's not worth dying for."

He felt tired. He'd already rehashed this argument a million times in his head already. Black would definitely kill him; Harry didn't stand a chance. End of discussion. But now—the thought of Black, sitting all calm in his cell, not even affected by the punishment of the Dementors—while he couldn't even bear them coming close without fainting and hearing his mother—

"Do you know what I hear when the Dementors get close? I can hear my mother screaming, begging Voldemort to let me go. If you heard that—you'd want to go after Black too."

"And do what? Kill him or something?"

"Don't be silly, Harry doesn't want to kill anyone—do you?"

Did he? "Malfoy knows, you know. His dad must have told him. And Black was right in Voldemort's inner circle—" But wait, Snape had said even he didn't know about Black. If Lucius knew, did that mean he'd been closer to Voldemort than Snape?

Well, he couldn't ask Snape that, that was for sure, no matter what the man said about being able to ask him anything. There had to be a line somewhere.

"Your mum and dad wouldn't want you to get hurt, would they? They'd never want you to go looking for Black!"

"Well, I don't know what they want, do I?" It felt rather pointless, right now, to tell them that he'd known all about this for a long while. But he was already keeping Snape from them, and it was burning a hole through his heart, when Snape said he knew his mum, that she was pretty and good at Potions and Charms—and this was yet another thing he was keeping from them.

He turned around to face them. "I'd known about this before, anyway." Meeting twin blank stares, he continued. "Back when I got captured by Malfoy, after I—escaped—I read all the articles about Voldemort's—oh, quiet, Ron—reign, and after. I read about this, too."

Well, that was one tiny secret off his chest.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

There was no recrimination in Hermione's voice, for which he was grateful. He shrugged. "Besides," he said out of the blue, and rushed on before he could shut up, "We don't know for certain that Black really is guilty."

There was definitely some pity in the looks they were shooting him. "I mean, look, Black didn't even get a trial. And I sued Malfoy, and even though he was guilty, he managed to get out of it, so who knows?"

"I suppose they didn't bother with a trial because it was fairly obvious," Hermione said uncertainly.

Harry slumped back in his seat. Well, yes, he knew that! It did look perfectly obvious.

"I know what, let's go down to meet Hagrid…"

#

"Well, my hatred of the Malfoy household has reached new heights."

"I assume you are referring to Buckbeak? Yes, this is rather pathetic of the man."

"And the child!"

"If you say so."

"Draco Malfoy is pathetic. I can say that a thousand times."

"Two years of magical training and you still do not know how to crush something into a fine powder."

"I'll do a lot better if I make believe I'm pounding Malfoy's face with it."

"As long as I see fine powder, I will not be too particular about the method."

Harry had found it rather hard to get away from Ron and Hermione since term ended. They seemed to think that Harry would take the first opportunity alone to slip out of the castle and—and what? It wasn't as though Sirius Black was sitting patiently in Hogsmeade waiting for Harry to come and—

In the end, he'd decided on staying in the library for the entire day and then having an 'early night'.

"Why didn't you give me detention, though, when I spilled that jar of newts-eye all over the floor?"

"I did warn you I had to be a bit judicious in detentions. Else Lucius Malfoy might start to wonder what else we're getting up to, and why you don't exactly look the picture of furious indignation when I assign it."

"I do, though."

"Flared nostrils and glares rather seem to be your standard reaction."

Harry chuckled. He'd pushed aside all thought of the Map and his Hogsmeade visit to the back of his mind. Snape would heartily disapprove of both—in fact, he'd probably take away the Map and put him in proper detention for the entire term. Besides, he needed to dig out information about his mother from Snape, and putting him in a bad mood was decidedly not the way to go about it.

"My mother was in Gryffindor," he said. Subtlety was not his forte; it required patience, and he did not have that.

"Yes."

"And you were in Slytherin."

"Yes."

"She was in Gryffindor and you were in Slytherin."

"I am certain this is building up to something, but progress seems to be rather slow, wouldn't you agree?"

"She was friends with a Slytherin?"

"Is that such a foreign concept?"

"Well—yes," he said, deciding that honesty was better by far than avoidance.

Snape looked thoughtful. "Perhaps to you, with your history. Muggle-borns would not understand the importance of the distinction."

"But she must have, soon enough."

Harry was getting the distinct feeling Snape did not want to talk about his mum. He could think of a number of reasons why, but all of them required a great deal of further explanation.

"She did. Soon enough. Or rather, we did."

"You didn't know the importance?"

"I tried to ignore it. Futilely, as I found out."

"Were you friends until she—"

"No." Sharp as a sword, and wielded with all the force of one. Harry shut up.

For all of two minutes. "I really do hate Malfoy."

"Perhaps your childish repetition would cease if I told you that I have to endure such statements from both sides of the equation."

"Both sides of—wait, Malfoy complains about me? What do I do?"

"Get away with everything, apparently."

"But that's—that's completely ridiculous, I've probably lost more points in the last two years than anyone else has in their entire school life."

"As I tried pointing out to him, to no avail."

"Poor Buckbeak. He bit on the wrong arm."

"Hm."

"You don't care about Buckbeak?"

"I have enough humans to care about, about four hundred of them."

#

Of course Snape had sent him the Firebolt. There was no one else it could be. He couldn't tell Ron that, but Harry knew Remus definitely didn't have the money. In fact, if Remus had managed to buy it, Harry would simply have to give it back to him.

He didn't see why Snape could give him two gifts—the Defence textbook was quite enough, but he wasn't going to complain about having too many gifts.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting at a table set for twelve in the Great Hall. The three other students were sitting on the other side of the table, to Dumbledore's left, opposite Filch, Sprout and Flitwick. This left three seats in front of Dumbledore, and to his right, McGonagall and Snape.

Harry took the one directly opposite Snape—ever the brave Gryffindor. Ron sat sheepishly in front of the Headmaster.

Snape glared at Harry, who realized too late his mistake, before deliberately looking down at his plate as if the being in front of him were a mere phantom.

He tried not to grin when the cracker exploded to reveal a hat in an admirable approximation of Neville's Gran's, but it was a near thing. When Snape's lips thinned and he glanced Harry's way, he felt rather more amused than less.

Again, when Trelawney entered the Hall and hesitated, Harry watched Snape, and had to hold back a chuckle. He'd rolled his eyes; Harry was sure of it.

When Snape looked up at him, he quickly turned his gaze to the Divination professor. He was probably staring a bit too openly.

"Do sit down, Sybil—" A chair appeared, rotating, in the gap between Snape and McGonagall and landed there. Snape's hands tightened on his spoon. Harry briefly wondered if Dumbledore was deliberately placing her between the two most likely to chew her out—he doubted Flitwick and Sprout minded her as much. McGonagall looked quite peeved.

"When thirteen sit together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"

Snape closed his eyes and his face twisted. Harry hurriedly stuffed his mouth with roast potato. Snape, he was sure, had not taken Divination in his Hogwarts years.

"But where is dear Professor Lupin?"

This time, Harry didn't have to look up to know Snape's reaction to the question. He had looked up the moon phases. The full moon was today.

"The poor fellow is ill again. Most unfortunate that it had to happen on Christmas Day. You made the potion for him, Severus?"

"Yes, Headmaster." In turning to Dumbledore, Snape's eyes met Harry's for a brief moment. Harry knew now what the smoking goblet was. Wolfsbane potion, notoriously hard—and expensive—to make. He'd read a full three pages on the subject and added a mention to his essay.

Snape had been making it since Remus had come to stay in Privet Drive, then. Granted, it was more out of concern for Harry's own safety than Remus' well-being and comfort, but it was still an incredibly magnanimous gesture.

Not that Snape would ever allow him to say that to his face. But Harry still smiled down at his plate.

He'd wanted to ask about the Firebolt, but he didn't see how he'd get a chance. He ate his meal in silence, trying and almost always succeeding in not glancing up at Snape every second he could get. In the absence of much distraction, though, every sound at the table was magnified. Harry could hear the clink of the cutlery in Snape's hands, and knew how much wine he was drinking.

It was ridiculous, really. He was ridiculous.

"My dears!" Trelawney shrieked as he and Ron got up, and they froze. Ron indeed nearly dropped his hat. "Which of you left his seat first, which?"

Snape's lips mouthed the word Merlin. "I hardly doubt that it matters," he said in a tone as frigid as the North pole, "unless a mad axe-man is waiting to slaughter the first into the hall."

Harry chuckled despite himself. Ron looked mildly surprised—he wasn't sure if it was at him or Snape—but Dumbledore laughed almost immediately after and soon everyone but Trelawney herself was smiling.

"Golly, Snape said a joke," Ron said with wonder as they made their way back up to the common-room. "It's a Christmas miracle."

Harry bit back an acerbic retort. He couldn't quite muster up joy at the fact that Snape played his part so convincingly, but he supposed he had a reason to be relieved, at least.

When Hermione came in with McGonagall, for a moment, Harry was certain it had something to do with Black. Perhaps he'd been caught! But McGonagall's face was set and stern as she eyed the broomstick.

"And there was no card, no note of any kind?"

Harry shook his head. But it was Snape's gift, he wanted to say, except he couldn't in front of Hermione and Ron, but also he realized something he hadn't before—why would Snape give him a gift without writing his own name on it? He hadn't had a problem before.

McGonagall turned and moved out of the common room, carrying the Firebolt with her. After a moment of frozen hesitation, he scrambled after her.

"Professor?"

McGonagall turned, looking rather exasperated. "Potter, I will not give it back without testing it, so you can save your breath."

"No, I mean—I think Snape might have given it to me. I can't be sure, since there was no note—but—"

McGonagall looked thoughtful, and not at all startled, Harry thought, at the possibility that Harry might have been given a very expensive Christmas gift from a Head of another House. "We might as well ask. I need to consult with him, anyway. Come along, Potter."

Snape appeared to have just entered his office when they knocked. He opened the door himself, which Harry was rather surprised at, since Snape usually called out to him to enter when he came here for detentions. Did he have a way of knowing who was standing on the other side of the door?

He greeted her with a formal, "Minerva," even as his eyes rested on Harry and the Firebolt by turns before returning to McGonagall. Then he stood aside and they entered.

"Potter received this broomstick as a Christmas gift. Anonymously."

"Ah." Harry watched Snape's face for any recognition, but he merely nodded. "Anti-jinxing tests, then."

McGonagall might have opened her mouth to speak. Harry didn't know, because he burst out with, "Wait, you didn't send me that?"

"Clearly not."

"But—but who else would send me something like this?"

"Without a note, I'm afraid we have no way of knowing," Snape replied. "If that is all, I believe it is nearing curfew."

McGonagall nodded. "I'll drop you off at the common room, Potter."

"I can go by myself!" Snape's eyes turned on him, and he weakly added, "I want to talk to you. Sir."

McGonagall sighed. "Unless it's something urgent, Potter, I suggest you wait till tomorrow."

Harry looked beseechingly at Snape, who smoothly said, "He can Floo to his common room, Minerva. It's fine."

Mollified, she left the room.

Harry opened his mouth, but Snape beat him to it. "I'd known your survival instincts were rather deplorable, but now I wonder if they are, in fact, non-existent." Harry blinked in blank confusion. "I should be thankful Granger has some common sense, if entirely too much of it. You get an expensive broomstick without any indication as to who gave it to you, and you do not even wonder who it might have been?"

"Well, I sort of assumed it was you," he said in what he thought was a reasonable voice.

Snape didn't look pleased in the least. "If I gave you a gift, I would sign my name on it. As I did to the actual gift I sent."

"Which was nice, by the way, thanks."

"As was yours—" a year's subscription to the Wizarding world's foremost Potions journal, because Harry was terrible at thinking up appropriate gifts "—but that is not the point."

"I thought perhaps you didn't want Ron and Hermione to know, and they'd definitely ask."

Snape grunted in obvious dissatisfaction, but he didn't respond to that, instead going for, "Next time, at the very least, consider the possibility that an anonymous gift might be dangerous. I hope you recall your first year, where Quirrell's efforts to harm you were just barely thwarted by me. If the broomstick itself is enchanted, protecting you becomes that much harder."

"You really think Black sent it to me?"

Snape gave an irritated lift of his shoulders. "I can't be certain, can I? For all I know, it could be Malfoy. The whole school knows you lost your broomstick. He definitely can afford it. As can you," he added, in a considerably more casual tone, "if you wish to, if the Firebolt really is jinxed, which it most likely is."

Harry shuffled his feet. "It's not cheap," he muttered.

Snape gave a bark of a laugh. "The Potter vault could probably pay for a thousand Firebolts, Harry."

"I don't want to burn through all of it all at once," he argued. "Besides—I can do just fine with something cheaper. I don't need it," he finished, with a shrinking feeling in his chest.

"Far be it from me to compel you to be obnoxiously lavish," Snape murmured with what sounded like amusement. "I suppose it must be hard, managing your financial affairs yourself." Harry shrugged. "Have you ever looked at your bank account statements to know how much you're worth?"

"Don't say it like that!"

Snape lowered his head. "How much you own, then. I believe there is a villa in France, somewhere; I recall it being mentioned in my school years. And the goblins invested the money in a great many ventures, I imagine. Dumbledore is currently in charge of your vault, but you can ask for a statement."

"Um, how?"

"A letter. To Gringotts, with your name and sign. I shall ask Dumbledore to handle it." Harry nodded, not quite comfortable with the idea of having his assets spelled out in black and white—or blue in cream, technically. It was bad enough seeing the mounds of gold in his vault, fighting the guilt churning in his stomach as he looked at the sparse gold in the Weasley vault.

Snape didn't seem to notice his discomfort. Or maybe he did, because he asked, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"What?" Harry said, suddenly panicking, wondering if Snape maybe knew about his Hogsmeade visit. Or the Map. The Map!

"From the way you behaved with Minerva, I assumed you had something to tell me in private."

"Oh—that—I just thought maybe you didn't want to tell Minerva you bought me a broomstick."

Snape sent him a look that clearly said, well you're an idiot. "Why would I do that? Minerva already suspects the truth, and she might even have been told by Albus. I have not asked. Even so, I do believe telling her would be preferable to the alternative of stripping it down."

"Well, I don't know, do I? You told me not to tell my friends about you."

"Minerva is a Head of House and trustworthy and an adult. Your friends are teenagers. I do not doubt their loyalty to you," he added sternly as Harry opened his mouth for a protest, "just their ability to keep secrets under duress. I do believe the hug rather gave it away, though."

Harry ducked his head to hide the blush that spread over his cheeks. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"No matter," he said with an air of absolute indifference. "The truth will come out soon enough, I imagine."

Harry was tempted to ask what he meant by that, but he was suddenly struck by another, more pressing thought. "What does stripping it down mean, anyway? Will it mess with the flying charms? Ron was worried." And I am, quite terrified.

"It will not. And if it does, I'm sure the makers will be more than pleased to repair any damages caused as a result of the Boy-Who-Lived's rather dangerous life."

"I'd rather not do that."

"Have the damages repaired?"

"No, take advantage of my—whatever it is."

"Celebrity status," he said. "Fame. Popularity. Renown—"

Harry had the distinct impression Snape was mocking him, if in a gentle, non-Potions-master kind of way, but he didn't like it. "Yeah, that. Anyway, I don't think it's jinxed so if you guys could all be nice to it, I'd appreciate that."

"We shall deck it in silk robes and sing lullabies," he said solemnly. Harry rolled his eyes again, but he was grinning. And Ron said the man joking was a Christmas miracle. "Is there anything else?"

"Are you up to another rant on how horrible Malfoy is?"

"At ten in the night? No."

"Then no. We are working on the trial for Buckbeak, though."

"I hope it goes better than last time."

Harry swallowed rather painfully. That was what he was worried about, wasn't it? Even his 'celebrity status' didn't help him in the trial. Buckbeak was a hippogriff, what chance would he have?

Snape was watching him. After a moment, he said, "It's not the same, Harry." He nodded, as if he did agree with that. But, he wanted to say, Buckbeak would probably die if he lost. Harry didn't have such high stakes in his trial.

Snape pointed at the fireplace. "Gryffindor common room."

Harry took a step toward it. I'd really rather like to tell my friends you knew my mum, he wanted to say. I'd like them to know we're friends.

"Good night, Harry."

"Good night, Severus." Again, just because he could, to remind himself he wasn't in potions class.

Snape nodded in reply.

Seating arrangement at the Hall (because I like to be meticulous), L to R:

Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Sprout, Flitwick, Filch

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Slytherin, first year, Derek

I do wish this dinner scene had been kept in in the movies because I find it absolutely delicious.

And I stole McGonagall's line and gave it to Snape. #sorrynotsorry. I did try to think up an original Snape-line, but alas, nothing lived up to JKR's own quip.

Small niggle: Initially, based on my viewing of the movies, I thought that the entrance to the Great Hall is at the far end of the room, opposite to the wall where the staff sits at the high table (remember the first movie, when the first years enter the Hall, and Quirrell during the troll incident).

However, from my most recent book reading, I've realized that it is actually located between the students' tables and the staff table. There is a line in a book, I forget which, where Professor McGonagall and Harry walk together to the Great Hall, and Harry moves down to the Gryffindor table and the professor moves up to the staff table. I then updated the seating position to reflect this. Why all this hair-splitting, you ask? Mainly to explain why the Slytherins do not sit opposite to Snape—as he is farthest from the door, and they simply sit in the first few chairs.