cviii. mischief maker

It took only ten minutes for the morning to descend into chaos.

Harriet woke early as she usually did and went about getting herself ready for the day, squeezing around the extra beds in Ginny's room to get her clothes and find the loo. Once clean and passably presentable, she dithered on the dim landing until she decided to head down to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley joined her there only a few moments later, taking over the tea preparation, shooing Harriet off to have a seat at the table. Then, Mrs. Weasley started waking up the house.

They were set to go to Diagon Alley that day and, according to Molly, spend the evening at the Leaky Cauldron so they could make it to the station tomorrow in a timely—and safe—manner. The Weasleys descended to the kitchen in a loud, braying mass of tired complaints and clumsy stumbling after Mrs. Weasley went and banged on more than a few doors. Breakfast got underway and trunks came whizzing down the stairs—but Ron and Neville hadn't finished packing, so they had to run back up, and then Ginny misplaced her trainers and those had to be summoned—and then Cygnus frightened the Weasley owl, Errol, so badly, the elderly bird flopped over face-first into the porridge and left a mess of molted feathers behind.

All in all, Harriet found it a relief to escape into the garden after cleaning her dishes.

"Hey, Potter! Got a second?"

She glanced over from the hedge to see Fred and George dropping their trunks with Percy's by the gate. She thought the one who'd called her name might be George, but she wasn't certain. "Yeah?"

"There's a rumor goin' round about you," George said as he and his brother wandered over to her.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Uh-oh. "Err—what're you on about?"

"Word is you can get through those Moon Mirrors like ol' Snape can."

"Oh." Harriet let out a relieved breath. She'd worried they knew about her talking to snakes—or any of the other numerous secrets she wasn't supposed to let others know about. Sometimes all the lies got muddled. "I mean—I don't know what you mean."

Fred propped his arm on her shoulder and leaned on it. Harriet had a feeling she wouldn't like what he had to say. "See, that's not what we heard. Is it, George?"

"Not at all, Freddie."

"We heard you have a bit of a…snakey talent—."

"A talent of the linguistic sort—."

"That lets you get through."

Harriet gaped—and, all at once, heat rushed into her face. "I'll kill Longbottom," she seethed, fully intending to march right back into the house and hex the blighter. What was he thinking?! In hindsight, she probably should have feigned ignorance and told the twins she didn't understand what they meant—but even if it wasn't true, they'd undoubtedly believe Neville over her!

"Oh, don't go cursing poor Neville," Fred told her.

"Because we heard it from Ronnikins."

"Ron?!"

"Who, on further thought, probably did hear it from Neville in the first place, I reckon."

Groaning, pure dread sunk through Harriet like a stone in water as she imagined the repercussions of this rumor getting out. Well, Snape would probably murder her whether or not it was her fault and Dumbledore would be disappointed—which was somehow worse. If Slytherin found out…. "You can't tell anybody," she said, deciding to ditch ignorance and emphasize the severity of the situation. "I'm serious. Longbottom wasn't supposed to go telling Ron anything!"

"Well, what are you willing to give us to stay quiet, eh?"

Again, heat blazed in Harriet's face and prickled along her neck. Bloody Gryffindors! "I'm not giving you shite!" she snapped. "I'll just go tell Snape and he'll Obliviate you both! So, bully for you!"

Fred lifted his arm off her shoulder and held up both his hands. "Whoa, hang about! We were just having a laugh!"

"Didn't mean anything by it! No need to turn us into the Dungeon Bat."

"We actually wanted to propose a trade, if you're interested." George reached into the front pocket of his jumper and pulled out a folded bit of parchment, the color of it off with age, the edges softened and a bit tattered.

Harriet narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, still peeved. "What's this, then? A spare bit of parchment?"

Fred tutted under his breath as he withdrew his wand from his trousers. "Hear that, George? 'A spare bit of parchment!' Come on, Potter, have you no faith in us at all? I'm shocked."

"Shocked and wounded, Freddie."

"Shocked and wounded." Fred held his wand over the parchment and said, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good!" before giving it a sharp tap.

Harriet couldn't help but lean in closer as smudges of black ink appeared on the paper and spiraled outward, forming letters and shapes. "'Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, are proud to present the Marauder's Map.' The Marauder's Map? What's this?"

"You're in for a treat!"

"And it's a secret, too! If that makes you feel better."

"We haven't shown it to anyone. Just you, our favorite Slytherin."

"You're our favorite because you beat up Ronnikins."

"I didn't—." Harriet huffed. "Just tell me what it is."

"Right you are." George pressed the parchment into Harriet's hands and she realized it was thicker than she originally thought, folded into numerous flaps and creases, the ink sprawled over the flat surfaces seeming to teem under her fingertips. After a moment of inspection, she let out a soft breath of surprise.

"That's the Transfiguration corridor," Harriet said. "This is a map of Hogwarts."

"Yup," Fred replied, popping the last letter.

"D'you two make this?"

"Nah." George wore a toothy grin as he admitted, "Nicked it in our first year out of Filch's office. Dropped a load of Dungbombs and pulled it from a drawer. It took a bit of finesse to figure out how it works—but oh, was it worth the effort. You're missing the best part. Here—it's hard to tell, given school hasn't started yet, but look." He reached out and folded a few flaps about, stopping when he found what he was looking for. Harriet had to squint slightly to see a pair of footprints in a room labeled, 'Staff Lounge.' Above the footprints hovered a tiny unfurled banner, and in the banner was the name, 'Minerva McGonagall.'

"Wait, wait," Harriet sputtered. "Does this map actually tell you where people are in the castle, too?"

"Yup!"

"That's wicked." She paused. "A bit creepy, too, if I'm being honest."

Fred and George wore mirrored chagrined expressions. "Well, it can be, I guess," Fred admitted. "But me and George here never used it to watch or—stalk anyone." The mention of stalking pricked Harriet's nerves, her mind flashing back to all those times she spotted Longbottom lurking in the corner of her eye, following her from class to class. "Like the title there says, we use it to help make a spot of mischief."

Harriet hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as she continued to inspect the map. She spotted Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick in the Charms classroom, and on the fifth floor there seemed to be a meeting going on with a bunch of people she didn't know. Board members, maybe? "Does this really have everywhere at Hogwarts on it?"

"We thought so, originally. It does have most everything, yeah—."

"Loads of secret passages in and out of school, tons of rooms we'd have never seen otherwise—."

"But there's also loads that it doesn't have, which is why we've come to you…."

Harriet wasn't listening. Blood fled her head, leaving her ghastly pale, her ears roaring as if she'd done one too many loops on her broom. She'd turned a flap and found a name she never wanted to see again. "Why…." She swallowed, her tongue dry and tacky. "Why does it say Tom Riddle?"

Fred and George peered at the map. "Oh, that's Slytherin, in his office. It always says that—see, we either think that's his real name—." Fred snorted. "—or the Map's a bit dodgy. It's old, innit? Charms can get iffy as they age. A couple of times we've seen names that aren't right—or it's shown people who're—well—dead and not there."

Harriet swallowed again, blinking, trying to shake her sudden shock. Tom Riddle. Headmaster Dumbledore told her Professor Slytherin and Gaunt and—and him, the Diadem, were all the same person, but also not, all of them some kind of magical copy of one another with disparate identities and goals. Harriet still didn't understand, but seeing the man's name on the map chilled her to her core. She felt cold despite the sunshine. "I, uh…what d'you want with me? Why show me this?"

"We want to trade." George slipped the map from her clammy hands and Fred gave it another tap with his wand, saying, "Mischief Managed!" The ink dissolved back into the parchment. "We've had the map for years, you see, so we've got most of it memorized. It'd be difficult for us to let go—but what we're really keen on is those Moon Mirrors."

Tearing her eyes away from the blank map, Harriet looked up at two fifth-years. "But you can't use them."

"We could if you taught us. Ron said all you had to do was tell them to open in Parseltongue. We should be able to mimic it, right?"

Her brow lowered. "How much did bloody Longbottom—? Never mind. It's not that easy. I don't know if I could teach you how to open them, and I haven't had much of a chance to explore the passages. There's no telling where they go."

"Well, the offer's on the table." Fred shrugged. "If you map out the Mirrors and tell us how to use them, we'll trade the Marauder's Map."

Harriet glanced at the pocket the map had disappeared into. It would be awful handy to have that. Come to think of it, it'd be fantastic to have a map of the Moon Mirrors, too. Harriet kicked herself for not thinking of it first. How'd that map get made? It's dead useful. I bet Hermione would know. "…I'll think about it."

"Excellent."

A window clattered open and a frazzled redhead popped outside. "Fred! George!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "You get back in here and clean up your mess this instant!"

The twins glanced at one another and George waggled his brows. "We might've lit a few of Filibuster's Best Sparklers in our room."

"All in the name of creativity! And some experimenting."

"Might've singed the ceiling a bit, though."

"Just a bit."

Smirking, the twins loped back inside, leaving Harriet standing flustered by the hedge, wondering if she needed to tell the Headmaster about Fred and George. If they'd kept the Marauder's Map a secret for so long, maybe she didn't need to worry they'd blab about her being a Parselmouth—but she still had half a mind to punch Longbottom right in the gob. Where in the hell did he get off?

Two dark green cars rolled to a stop beyond the gate and Harriet would have been alarmed if she hadn't seen the familiar golden 'M' emblazoned on their doors. She didn't know what kind of cars they were—only that they were large with sharp angles, nicer than Uncle Vernon's company car had been. A wizard and a witch in maroon robes stepped out of the cars and Harriet recognized the former, though she didn't know why Neville's dad would be here.

It must be because of Sirius Black, she thought, approaching the gate. So the Ministry will send cars and Aurors for the Prat Who Lived but only loans out Lockhart when a deadly serpent's on the loose?

"Hello!" Mr. Longbottom greeted with a welcoming smile. The resemblance to Neville couldn't be mistaken; they had the same ears and soft jawline, though Mr. Longbottom appeared more genial than his son. He studied Harriet, his eyes lingering on the scarring peeking above her collar. "You must be Harriet."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Neville's dad—oh, and also part of the escort taking you lot to Diagon Alley today. It's nice to meet you!"

"It's nice to meet you too."

The Weasleys dribbled out of the house one by one, hurried on by their mother. Elara was the last to step over the threshold, looking tired and a bit short-tempered, carrying Cygnus' cage under one arm. Harriet sidled into the second car with the lady Auror and the Ministry driver, joined by Elara, Ginny, Percy, and Mr. Weasley. Elara commented on the oddity of the Ministry of Magic keeping Muggle cars—but, of course, the car hardly qualified as Muggle anymore. The backseat sat five comfortably, and the engine turned over only when the driver gave the dashboard a solid thunk with his wand. Harriet wondered if there even was an engine in there.

The journey to the Leaky Cauldron took a few hours, during which Harriet chatted with Ginny or flipped through a book on useful Charms. They settled into their rooms once they arrived, then met up in the pub before heading out into the Alley proper.

"You lot will need chaperones if we're splitting off," Mr. Weasley said, standing just outside the brick archway. Collective groans escaped the group. "Now, now. It's important we stick together. Neville, Ron, you're with Frank. Fred and George, you're with Percy—."

"Oi, what's he going to do if we're in danger?"

"Flash his Big-Head Boy badge at it—?"

"Harriet, Elara, Ginny," Mr. Weasley continued, ignoring the twins. "Stick with Auror Hopswitch."

The blond witch they'd taken the car with gave a friendly, if firm, nod of her head that Harriet returned, feeling awkward. Really, she didn't understand the need for chaperones in a place like Diagon Alley; she'd tromped over half the United Kingdom on her own at eleven and, for the most part, got on just fine. The continued restriction to her movements chaffed—and yet Harriet kept her mouth shut because if Black decided to show up, she wanted Elara to be safe.

They found Luna loitering outside of Florean Fortescue's, enjoying a fig flavored scoop of sherbet as she hummed along to the wireless. "Daddy's at Wiseacre's," she informed them as she hopped off the iron fence separating the patio from the path. She wore a pair of hoop earrings with what looked like stuffed canaries perched inside. "But I told him you'd be here soon enough. Hello!"

From there, they popped by Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment to see Mr. Lovegood—who shook Harriet's hand like a man trying to strangle a chicken—then hurried on to Gringotts. Hermione was there with the Malfoys, Mr. Malfoy meeting with an account manager or something—Harriet didn't much care where he went off to, so long as she didn't have to see him—and Draco stood deep in conversation with Goyle and Crabbe. Mrs. Malfoy pursed her lips when they asked if Hermione could come with them and Harriet thought she'd say no—until her gray eyes swept over the Auror. She agreed, so long as Hermione returned to the bank before they left for home.

"Oh, I've missed you both terribly," Hermione exclaimed once they'd come outside onto the marble steps. She hugged Harriet and Elara, squeezing tight. "Draco's been driving me spare these last few days. Hello, Luna! Ginny! How have your summers been? Have you finished all your homework?"

"Good enough, I suppose."

"Just lovely, Hermione, thanks."

Hermione looked at the older witch. "And, um…?"

"Auror Hopswitch."

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Hermione Granger."

The witches made quick work of buying the things they needed for school. Hermione had the lists for both third and second years memorized and Harriet knew the layout of Diagon Alley better than most people, so they didn't get lost or turned around on their way. Hermione asked Ginny dozens of questions concerning Egypt, and Luna chattered on about astrology with Elara—who didn't chatter so much as respond with "Mmm" and "Ah" in the appropriate places. The group had to drag Harriet away from Quality Quidditch Supplies when she stopped to stare at the Firebolt displayed in the window again. They happened upon Gilderoy Lockhart outside Obscurus Books—his publisher—and the wizard bought them all lunch at the nearest cafe just so he could talk Harriet's ear off about his latest story idea.

"A quartet of singing trolls. Ballerinas! No? Swimming hippogriffs and a pygmy giant rider racing kelpies to his inevitable doom! No…? Well, how about this…."

Harriet imagined she'd have half a dozen owls from him by the time she reached Hogwarts tomorrow.

"Where else do you lot want to go?" she asked as they left Flourish and Blotts, their school books shrunken and tucked away in their pockets. The afternoon had worn thin during their time inside the shop and soon they'd have to head their separate ways. "I think we can make it to one more place."

"Well…." Hermione said, fidgeting with the front of her blouse. "I asked the Malfoys if I could get a familiar and they agreed. I say asked, but badgered would be a better word for it, really."

"That's brilliant," Harriet laughed. "What were you thinking about getting?"

"An owl, maybe. Or a toad would be nice."

"A toad?" Elara wrinkled her nose and scoffed.

"The secretions from some breeds have exceptional magical value!"

"It's still gross, Hermione."

The pair continued their bickering until they reached the Magical Menagerie—which Harriet entered with a feeling of profound guilt, anxious sweat warming her palms. Missing posters still speckled the windows.

"You needn't be so nervous," Luna said, speaking too loud for Harriet's comfort. "No one would recognize your snake as the one that went missing, you know."

"Shh! Bloody hell, Luna…."

Her nerves took a further beating when they came upon Neville and Ron haggling with the shop keeper by the main register. Neville had a glamor on that tweaked his features just enough to make him unrecognizable, and his dad hung back by the entrance, half-hidden behind an open Daily Prophet bearing yet another reprint of Sirius Black's mugshot. Elara's eye ticked every time she saw it and she purposefully turned away.

"Potter," Longbottom acknowledged.

"Prat," she replied. He snorted.

"It's a real shame about that snake, isn't it?" he said with a short, jerky nod to the wall behind the counter. One of the posters had been tacked up there, the print beginning to fade from age. "The reward for information is quite tempting…."

"It's going to be a real shame when someone uses a Permanent Sticking Charm to seal your mouth shut. It'd probably be an improvement, though."

"—That's bloody robbery!"

Ron had been the one to speak, and the clerk—the same mustachioed wizard who once told Harriet off for looking at Livius in his tank—scowled. He had a little bottle in his wizened hand, and Harriet noticed for the first time that Ron had laid his rat out of the counter between them.

"What's wrong with his familiar?" she asked Longbottom. It didn't have anything to do with Livi, did it? Did her snake actually manage to scare the poor thing to death?

"Dunno," Neville said, shrugging one shoulder. "I guess Scabbers has been off since they came back from Egypt. Honestly, the trip was probably a bit much for him."

"Oh." Harriet looked again at the creature, its fur patchy and lackluster. She didn't much care for rats—she fed enough of them to her snake, after all, and dismembered them in Potions for ingredients when the recipe called for it. Still, she sympathized with Weasley worrying over his familiar. She'd be heartbroken if anything happened to one of her snakes.

A flash of orange barreled toward them from one of the upper shelves, and Ron let out a howl as a huge ginger cat landed on his head. It made a go for the rat—Scabbers—and the rodent squealed in terror.

"No, Crookshanks!" the clerk cried, grabbing the bandy-legged feline. "Bad!"

Neville dove for the rat as it leapt from the counter, but it was Harriet who managed to catch Scabbers, snagging him mid-jump. It turned beady little black eyes on her and stared, thrashing in her hand. Its nose twitched.

Meanwhile, the cat hadn't given up the hunt quite yet, and only the clerk's strangling grip around its middle kept the feline from leaping at Harriet. The bespectacled witch thought it best for all parties involved if she went outside, Longbottom and Ron following behind her.

"Scabbers!" Weasley said, relief in his voice as he accepted the wriggling rat from Harriet. "Are you all right?! Thanks for the help, Potter."

"No problem." She wiped her hand off on her robes. "I'm sorry your familiar's not feeling well."

"He just got a bit too much sun is all!" Ron tucked the quivering rodent into the front pocket of his shirt. Longbottom and Harriet shared a glance and a rare moment of understanding, because Scabbers looked more than a bit fatigued by too much sun. How long did rats live? And how long had Ron had it? "And the bastard wants three Galleons for rat tonic! Three! I bet there's nothing in the stupid bottle other than water and bloody fairy farts!"

The door opened, the bell clanging above the sill, and out came the remainder of Harriet's group—including Hermione, now cradling the ugliest ginger fur ball Harriet had ever laid eyes on.

"Did you buy that thing?!" Ron sputtered as he clutched his hands over his shirt pocket, covering the lump. "It's a menace!"

"I think he's quite clever. Isn't that right, Crookshanks?" Hermione ran her fingers through the cat's thick coat and it purred, its face squashed as if it'd collided with a brick wall at considerable speed, its fur sprouting like a lion's mane around its thick neck. "The clerk said he's been there for ages and no one would adopt him. Poor baby. I couldn't leave him behind after hearing that."

"Poor—?! That thing has it out for Scabbers! You keep it away from me, Granger!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and didn't give Ron another thought. Crookshanks certainly did, because it—he—didn't let his yellow eyes waver from Weasley for a second, not until Ron had all but sprinted away. Aggravated, Neville was quick to get his dad and go after the berk.

"It's not Crookshanks' fault he wanted to eat that yummy rat, is it?" Hermione rubbed the cat's ears as she hiked him higher against her chest. They turned and started back toward Gringotts where the Malfoys would be waiting for her. "You're such a clever boy!"

Crookshanks continued to purr, his fat tail flicking back and forth, totally pleased with himself.

x X x

The village was quiet, drawn, the cobbled streets caught in summer's waning grasp. The station, too, was quiet, the empty husk of the scarlet train waiting idle on the tracks. There it'd remain until tomorrow, when it would journey south and gather Hogwarts' students for the start of the autumn term. At the station's end, Albus Dumbledore stood and gazed across the lake, glimpsing the high wall of the castle's West Tower, the roof cast like gold in the fading light of day. From somewhere farther east came the echo of young children playing in their gardens.

"Bonsoir, Albus."

A shorter wizard joined the Headmaster, hopping onto the platform the dirt path, his hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed. He went without robes and could have passed for a Muggle had his waistcoat and trousers not been of such a dated design.

Dumbledore turned his head and smiled. "Bonsoir to you as well, Nicolas."

Nicolas Flamel stood by Dumbledore and looked everywhere but at the younger wizard. Something weighed upon him, Albus knew. It resided there in lines about his eyes and the deepening furrow between his dark brows. "Hmm. It is nice weather tonight, yes? A rarity here!" Flamel shivered. "It is still too cold for my taste."

"I've always been fond of it. Though these old bones of mine prefer the warmer climes."

They said nothing more for a time, two friends sharing an amicable moment while Hogsmeade readied itself for the night. They had not met here by chance. The impending conversation lay upon their shoulders with all the weight of a physical mantle, and Albus had opted to not speak within the castle itself. Not where Slytherin or his spies might be lurking.

At length, Flamel drew in a breath, his chest swelling. "Ah. I know you are hoping for good news, but I have none to give." He exhaled. "I studied the curse mark, I studied her, but—. It is a magic…sans précédent. I….I do not think it can be removed."

The levity in the air slipped, dimming like the sun did as it eased deeper into the trees. There was an ache in the alchemist's voice. "I must admit, I'd hoped you would know what to do. My own search has been fruitless."

"Horcruxes are horrid magique. Few have ever attempted their creation, let alone something this…monstrous."

Albus thought of Harriet Potter, of that slight flicker of red in her emerald eyes, shouting, "Why haven't you done anything?!"

"Much of everything Tom Riddle has ever done can be described as monstrous."

"What do you plan to do, Albus?"

Before, in his youth, when he trusted the word of a charismatic Durmstrang boy and believed himself so much more than he really was, Dumbledore would have done the unspeakable. He would have said, "The girl must die," because it was for the greater good, because it was crueler to have hope when there was no light—but that was before. He had watched so many people die to Tom's avarice, his cruelty, and he could not bear to think of those they would still lose. The war had been lost, for all that it appeared to have been won. Albus and the Order had lost. He could not decide if saying the girl must die so Tom Riddle could follow was cowardice or bravery, but at some point, the greater good no longer means anything at all. It was just—words.

Albus and the Order had lost, and yet…and yet people like Harriet Potter persevered. People who came from adversity, children growing up in these dark, perverse times—and they did not bow or bend or break as Albus and the Order had. They did not compromise with the likes of Tom Riddle. They flourished in the places that Dumbledore had once considered fallow ground—and, Merlin, if only he could go back, seize his younger self by the shoulders, and shake him until he saw sense.

"Albus?"

"Nothing has changed," he said, sighing. "Voldemort must be trapped, subdued, and held. There are ways to make a man—or a monster—sleep as if dead."

"Oui. Though it is a fate too good for the likes of him." Flamel scuffed the heel of his boot against the stone platform. "She is a good kid, Harriet. Miss Black as well. Perenelle is heartbroken to 'ave the house so empty again."

"They are remarkable children." Dumbledore's gaze turned to the lake and the hint of Hogwarts' silhouette on the darkening sky. "They all are."

"I will help you in whatever way I can." Mr. Flamel turned away. "For as long as I can."

After he Disapparated, the Headmaster remained there at the station's end. He repeated the words, "For as long as I can," too quietly for anyone but himself to hear.

A/N: The Marauder's Map has always sounded neat to me in concept, but also really…invasive. Like how Harry used it to stalk Malfoy in HBP. We can argue he was doing it for the "greater good," but that there is the most slippery of slippery slopes.