A/N: The rating of this fic changes with this chapter (and last chapter, frankly) but as of right now, I can't say how often the rating adjustment will apply. It took us 48 chapters to get to more mature themed content.

Some sleep is better than none, I suppose. Tom's familiar green inked script crawled across the page as Hermione unpacked her books. The semi-secluded library table she shared with Harry was one of the larger ones, spacious enough to accommodate the sizable group of friends that'd soon be joining them. I'm not as tired as I have been, at least.

That's good, she penned. I'm sorry I had to wake you this morning when Harry and I left.

It's fine, Dove, I barely remember waking up. What are you and Potter up to now? Classes are finished for the day, aren't they?

Yeah. We just got to the library. Draco and the others should be here soon. What about you? What's on your agenda, Mr. Prefect?

I'm going to make my necessary public appearances so St. Dumbles doesn't pay me any more attention than usual, then I'll probably hole up in the common room with the Knights for most of the day. Sundays are boring when you're busy.

I'd be in two places at once if I could, she wrote. Before she could pen the next line, a shadow fell over their work table, drawing her attention away from Tom's diary.

Fred and George Weasley grinned at the befuddled pair of third years as if there was nothing odd whatsoever about their sudden looming presence.

"Hello, Harry!" Fred mock-whispered.

"Hello, Hermione!" George echoed.

"Well, this is unexpected," Hermione muttered. "Hello, gents."

"I really hope you guys aren't here as messengers for your brother," Harry said, the words were quiet but still held an edge. "I'm getting really tired of him whinging about Crookshanks and Scabbers."

"As are we," the twins chorused with widening grins.

"No tidings from ickle Ronnikins, thankfully," said Fred. "We came to congratulate you!"

"That we did, Fred," confirmed George. "Giving our baby brother what he deserves and choosing much better company is worth celebrating."

Hermione felt her eyebrows raise. "You're encouraging us to maintain our Slytherin friendships?" she summarized, disbelief coloring her words.

"Well, yeah," Fred concluded simply.

"We'd be hypocrites if we didn't!" George continued.

"Tossers, really."

"Liars, even."

Harry and Hermione shared a glance.

"Hypocrites, how?" Harry asked. "Do you two have friends in Sly—"

The pair cut him off with a sharp, joint shushing.

"Honestly, Fred, and they think themselves missorted," George sighed dramatically.

"Been in Gryffindor too long, George, just like Avery said," Fred agreed.

"It's a shame really, they make for fun housemates."

"Not like Slytherin needs another house cup winning streak anyway, do they?"

"But oh well," they finished together. "Can't be helped."

"They know Floren?" Harry whispered to Hermione.

"They're all in the same year," she shrugged.

"Now they're getting it," Fred said.

"Took them long enough, didn't it?" George quipped.

Harry's stare turned indignant. "Oi."

"Easy there, Harry," said George.

"We're here to celebrate, remember?"

"We even brought a gift!" they chorused together.

Fred produced an intricately folded mass of parchment. It was entirely blank and in mostly good condition, though Hermione got the sense it was older than it looked. She could barely detect a faint undercurrent of magic from the parchment as well, just enough that she gave them both a suspicious glance.

"What's this rubbish?" Harry asked.

"'What's this rubbish', he says," Fred echoed, glancing at his twin. "This rubbish is the secret to our success."

"It's a wrench giving it to you two, believe me," said George.

"But we've decided that your needs are greater than ours," Fred finished. They both glanced around to verify that they hadn't gained Madame Pince's notice before partially unfolding the parchment atop the study table. "George, if you will."

George pulled his wand from his robes with an almost regal flourish, holding the tip against the parchment. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Harry and Hermione both leaned forward as ink started to bleed into the parchment's surface, steadily revealing the stylized front cover, seemingly foreshadowing the intricacies inscribed within its layers.

"Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present The Marauder's Map," Harry read quietly, his gaze quickly cutting to Hermione. "Mates, where did you get this?"

"Nicked it from Filch's office first year," said Fred.

"We owe them so much," George added.

Hermione flipped the map open, her eyes immediately catching Dumbledore's name and noticing the anxious pacing traced by the footprints in his office. "This is a map of Hogwarts," she said.

"So you mean this map shows—" Harry asked.

"Everyone," the twins said.

"Everyone?"

"Everyone," Forge repeated. "Where they are—"

"What they're doing," said Gred.

"Every minute—"

"—of every day."

"Brilliant!" Harry said, grinning as he flipped the map open further.

"This is really advanced magic," said Hermione.

"Helpful too," George agreed. "And just remember, when you're done, give it a tap and say 'Mischief Managed'."

"Otherwise anyone can read it," the twins said together.

"Though we trust Hermione can keep it safe," Fred added, eyeing her satchel and its many zipper pockets pointedly.

"Two baby not-quite snakes should be able to stay out of trouble with it," George agreed.

"Well," Hermione said, frowning as she glanced around the map and spotted their Slytherin friends walking together, heading towards the library. "Thanks, you two. This will certainly be helpful, I think. Even if we mostly use it to avoid your brother."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Thanks. Truly."

The twins flashed them matching cheeky grins. "Don't do anything we wouldn't do!"

Hermione waited until they'd been gone for ten seconds before turning to Harry. "Sirius helped make this?"

"Well, they all did, didn't they?" Harry said, looking at the map in wonder. "Dad, my birth dad, Professor Lupin, and…and Pettigrew."

Hermione frowned. "Not that I think the twins are playing a prank on us this time, though that's always a possibility, but…you think Sirius should give it a once over?"

Harry worried his bottom lip. "Yeah, if this thing has Pettigrew's magic in it and he does get into the school somehow, he might go looking for it."

"Or try to tamper with it to trick you somehow," Hermione added anxiously.

Harry's frown deepened. "Think I should send it home to dad with my next letter? Won't that make me seem…paranoid? Or…I don't know. I don't want him to think I'm worrying about Pettigrew all the time. Ever since the hospital…I believe him when he says he'd do anything to protect me. He means it."

Hermione grabbed his nearest hand and threaded their fingers. "I do too, Harry. And I don't think you'd be conveying distrust by sending the map to him. I think you'd actually be proving that you trust him by asking him to help with this, you know?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think I know what you mean." He pulled his wand from his robes just long enough to mutter mischief managed, then carefully refolded the map and handed it to Hermione. "After dinner, remind me to finish writing to him, would you?"

She put the map in between two of her textbooks so it'd stay flat. "Of course. I hope he can look it over quickly, I have a theory I want to verify."

"What's that?" Harry asked. They spotted their Slytherin friends a moment before Draco dropped into the seat beside Hermione with a heavy sigh.

"I think Professor Lupin might be a werewolf," she whispered in Harry's ear. "I'll tell you later." Turning to Draco, she said, "You lot look tired."

Draco leaned back in his chair, glaring daggers at the worktable's surface as he rolled his shoulders. Tension radiated from all three Slytherins, but Draco and Theo especially.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"They have detention," Tracey said softly, sitting on Harry's other side. "A week's worth, at least. Potentially more, Snape hasn't decided yet."

Hermione returned her attention to Draco and Theo with concern, the latter of whom had yet to take the remaining seat, standing behind it instead. His grip on the chair made his knuckles white.

"I'm not above brewing something moderately poisonous to lace their food with," Theodore said, his voice low. "Father might be proud, even. If I'm clever about it."

"We can't," Draco replied. There was a hollowness to his voice that made Hermione lightly touch his shoulder. "Poppy said to lay as low as possible. We're hardly paragons of Slytherin perfection losing house points and serving detention."

"We're not the ones tainting our house image!" Theo spat. "Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Flint, all of them. They're all pathetic, bigoted, inbred, fucking wastes of magic—"

"I know, Theodore," Draco said tiredly, he reached up to thread his fingers with Hermione's, bringing the back of her hand to his lips in gratitude and assurance. "Shut up before Pince notices, you tosser, and sit down."

"What happened?" Harry repeated, worry in his tone now.

Draco, Tracey, and Theo shared a weighted glance amongst themselves.

"They started shite about us being friends with you two again," Tracey said carefully, her wide eyes flicking between Draco and Theo. "It…got out of hand."

"Why?" Hermione asked. "I thought you'd changed tactics with that issue?"

"We did," Theo muttered.

"So what changed?" she asked.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself. "Flint and Parkinson called you a mudblood," he bit out through gritted teeth. "I may have lost my composure for a few moments."

"I may have chosen to lose my composure out of spite," Theo muttered. "Ignorant fucks."

"Maybe hiding is a better idea," Hermione said softly. "To spare you guys the headache."

Draco's gray eyes were stony when they met hers. "I'm not hiding my friends like I'm ashamed of them when I'm not," he said. The words were smooth and unyielding, like tumbled stones. "I'm a Malfoy. I was born with better judgment than theirs. They can kiss my pureblood arse."

Theo made a bitter sound low in his throat. "They can suck my pureblood c-"

Tracey smacked him with a roll of parchment and hissed, "Theodore!"

"You're right, Davis," Theo said, his tone appeasing. "I wouldn't want either of their mouths near me. Pugface might think she's meant to play fetch with it and lord, have you seen Flint's teeth? No thank you."

Tracey's cheeks were bright red as she hid her face in her hands with a groan of embarrassment. Theo's echoing grin of triumph made Hermione roll her eyes.

"I love you both," Hermione said to the boys, "but seriously, please don't get in trouble for my sake."

"Floren decked Flint for you before anyone else showed up to see," Theo told her, his grin taking on a malicious edge again. "Broke his nose by the looks of it. Floren lied and said he rebounded a jinx Flint aimed at him. Marcus was too embarrassed to correct him, especially considering we still managed to lose the first match even though someone caught the snitch just before dementors started to suck his face."

Harry shrugged sheepishly. "We've already established that Hermione and I had our priorities woefully out of order that afternoon."

That tricked a snort out of Draco. "You think? Gryffindors, honestly."

"I think we're meant to take offense," Hermione murmured.

"Pity we know he doesn't mean it," Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Why did I defend you two again?"

"We like them," Theo offered.

"I love them," Tracey said. "But you boys don't want to admit that because you think it makes you soft."

"Flint and Parkinson make me soft," Theo deadpanned. "But thank you for stating the emotionally obvious, Davis. They're only half-stupid, they know we hold them in high regard."

Draco and Harry both wound up hiding their faces in their arms against the table, trying in vain to stifle their laughter. Hermione's features twisted with begrudging amusement, but she refused to give Theo the satisfaction of actually laughing. Tracey just glared at him.

"You're extra crass today," she noted. "You don't even play quidditch but you sound like the boy's locker room."

Theo shrugged. "Dick jokes are funny and they annoy you. I need no further encouragement."

"I like you less by the day," Tracey said.

Theo beamed at her. "Thank merlin."

Hermione kicked him under the table, which prevented him from noticing the flash of genuine hurt in Tracey's eyes before the blonde flicked her hair over her shoulder and resolved to ignore him. Theo silently conveyed his confusion to Hermione, who mouthed behave before returning to Tom's diary.

Being in two places at once would certainly require the use of something like a time turner, which would only serve to give you the chance to run yourself entirely ragged faster than you're already currently attempting to do so. Nevermind how much of a mess it would be to give a third year a time turner in the first place.

Then, below, he'd written, Where'd you disappear to?

Sorry, she wrote. I told you Ron had a set of twin older brothers right? Fred and George?

The troublemakers? Tom asked.

Yep. They dropped by our table before the others got here and gave us a magic map. Sirius, Professor Lupin, Harry's biological father, and Peter Pettigrew made a map of the school that shows you where people are in real-time. It's really cool, but Harry's going to send it home to Sirius, just in case Pettigrew can alter it or something somehow. Or use it as a way to get to Harry. We don't know what all it's capable of, but it seems best to play it safe.

Do me a small favor, Dove. Don't mention this in front of Abraxas until you know if it's safe or not, he wrote. Then again, the mere idea of it might make him smitten with you. So it depends on where your aspirations lie, really.

I can't date Abraxas, I'm friends with his grandson, she retorted. And we know I'm not his grandmum anyway. Also I'm smacking you for saying that next time I see you.

Yes, because your assaults on my person are so very inconvenient and not at all amusing. I'm trembling, Dove. Perfectly terrified, I assure you. Just like you are in the dark.

I'm going to hex you again.

If you can land one again, you're welcome to try. I reserve the right to retaliate, however.

I think I've just decided Flynn's my favorite.

Your favoritism was up for debate before?

Her cheeks flushed. I thought my favorite was obvious.

You've known me longer. Besides, duration of acquaintance and personal preference aren't necessarily correlated, Dove.

Now you're fishing for compliments.

Hardly. I already know I'm the better wizard between the three of us, but if your judgement is lacking worse than I thought, go ahead and inform me now. I'll make a note to come check your head again. Maybe Nott didn't heal you properly after all.

Hermione rubbed her eyes in frustration and annoyance, shaking her head as she fixed the journal's pages with a glare. You really are bored, aren't you?

What gave it away?

You're being more of an arse than usual.

You wound me, Dove.

No I didn't.

Not really, no.

"Arsehole," she muttered under her breath, deciding he could very well remain bored if that's the attitude he was choosing today. She flipped his diary shut and dug out her astronomy homework instead.

It took fifteen minutes for the insistent hum of the journal to annoy Hermione enough that she flipped it open again.

First, Dove? You're not actually cross are you? Then, Hermione, and, Dove, you're better than this.

That one made her snort.

Lastly, Name your price, stubborn witch.

Her lips fought to form a grin as she remembered what present day Flynn and Abraxas had told her. Could it be that Tom had already started to dislike her being cross with him? Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. But it was possible.

Are you done being a prat? she asked.

His response was immediate: If I must be.

A small smile tugged at her lips. Thank you.

She was a perfect distraction up until the point where she had to sleep.

Sundays were often the only day where Tom had enough time to really think about the fact that she experienced two days for every single day he lived through. It threw him when, nearly two whole hours before lunch, she was telling him goodnight and would be going quiet for several hours. She wouldn't wake up until well into his Sunday afternoon, and even then, they hadn't discussed any plans for meeting in the room that evening, once she was free of classes.

Without her, his thoughts were left with nothing but the insufficient stimulus of O.W.L.s revision, the unsatisfactory company of his Knights, and the unwanted memories of his nightmare. His reading nook in the common room was the only sanctuary at his disposal, but even letting his attention wander to the dark water beyond the window panes wasn't enough to wash away the memories —real and dreamt— of a bleeding Hermione.

Tom spent hours sitting in his window seat trying and failing to bring his mind to order. Even the brief moment when Hermione returned, writing to him until she had to focus on her double potions period, wasn't quite enough to undo the tension caused by hours of her silence. He needed something tangible to take his mind away from the images of blood against her skin, to let the echo of her choking on his name fade, to stop the burning that coursed through his chest every time he accidentally remembered her plummeting towards the quidditch pitch.

"I'm going to the prefects' bath," he murmured after leaving his perch. The information was given almost solely for Abraxas and Flynn, in the event that anyone came looking for him, though it was unlikely. "Keep an eye on things while I'm gone."

They quietly chorused "Yes, Tom" as the others bid him more socially acceptable farewells, and Tom made quick work of the steps to his dorm. His books and satchel could stay in his trunk, but his diary, towels, and a change of clothes were necessities.

If a bath, or shower perhaps, couldn't fix him, then Tom's only other plan of action would be to go roaming the Forbidden Forest, perhaps letting Cherie join him for her company and added protection. He doubted the basilisk's counsel would help with his current predicament, but he wasn't sure what else to do if the bath didn't help.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the prefects' bath empty, warding the doors behind him as he set the taps to start filling. Once he set his bundle of belonging a safe distance from the bath's edge, and because magic was glorious, he moved towards one of the shower stalls, turning the spray to a comfortable heat.

Tom didn't like taking a bath before getting clean, finding it much harder to relax when he knew he was soaking in his own filth. Especially when taking a shower usually didn't take longer than the giant tub took to fill, anyhow.

There was a counter of sinks along the back wall near the toilet stalls, and near the showers there was a similar counter space intended for school books and robes -anything that needed sat down somewhere safe from water splashes. Tom made quick work of his robes and uniform, leaving the articles folded on the counter before he backtracked to his waiting shower.

The water was just shy of burning hot as it raced over his head and down his back. The muscles in his shoulders were slow to loosen, so he braced his arms against the opposite wall and let the spray pelt his skin. He stood that way for several moments, willing his thoughts to slow. Occlumency had been minimally helpful, in part because of how fresh the memories were, but controlling his breathing might help get some of his thoughts under control too.

Tom rolled his shoulders and let his head fall, letting the water run through his hair, though the angle kept the water out of his eyes. For a few blissful seconds, he finally cleared his mind enough to only be aware of the water against his skin and the breaths leaving his lungs.

A familiar twinge in his lower stomach pulled him back out of his peace, reminding him that there were other ways to force himself to relax.

Assuming, of course, that he could ignore his hatred of those methods long enough to reap the benefits.

Physical pleasure had never been worth his interest. Wanking was a habit that plagued his peers, worsening their distracted tendencies every time a witch walked into the room, while sex itself was underwhelming in his limited experience. He'd only made the effort to lose his virginity to figure out if all the fuss was worth it, then tried the act again to verify that his dissatisfaction wasn't merely a result of it being his first time.

His disappointment prevailed and Tom had blissfully gone back to ignoring witches entirely until his diary connected to a brilliant headache of one in the future.

As it happened, only part of Tom's brief foray into his sexual preferences had truly sparked his interest. Of course, before picking a witch for the task, Tom consumed all the research he could get his hands on. Every book that shouldn't have remained in the Hogwarts library collection had been scoured, he'd even found a few bodice rippers and trudged through those, unremarkable though they were. All that research, and the little bit of hands-on experimentation, made one thing very clear: his tastes were a bit too much for most witches.

He'd only enjoyed Adalaide Selwyn's company when the witch had been on her knees and he could pretend she wasn't even there. Unfortunately, she'd protested when he was rougher with her, chasing away the little bit of a rush he'd started to get from the interaction in an instant.

Still, if he was considering going through the motions, then this was one of the rare circumstances in which he would allow himself such liberties. The lack of sleep, the nightmares, O.W.L.s preparation, the stress of watching Dove get attacked twice, having to pretend he knew nothing of the future despite vigilio being at his fingertips — it was starting to overwhelm him. All of it would've been manageable had he been able to rest in peace, but his control was slipping due to sleep deprivation.

With a groan of irritation, he let one hand fall from the tile and wrap around his not-quite-flaccid length. He'd be quick about it, then relax in the bath, and hopefully sleep soundly later that night.

He closed his eyes and stroked himself. His erection built slowly as he willed the memory of Selwyn on her knees back to the forefront of his mind, twisted details to how he wished that interaction had taken place.

In his mind's eye, Selwyn was compliant instead of fussy. She wasn't clumsy when she took him in her mouth. She didn't whine or cry in protest when he grabbed a fistful of her hair or hesitate with her tempo. She wasn't afraid of being sloppy or using her hands.

If a good little witch had been at his feet, she would've been a quick study. She would've found the speed and pressure he wanted. She wouldn't try to talk to him or ask him a thousand insipid questions about what he wanted her to do — she simply did. She took what he gave her and lapped at his cock like a starving little whore. She moaned, low and wanting when he tightened his grip on her curls, blinking wide, whiskey-hued eyes up at him, hazed over with lustful devotion. The flush of exertion taking over her face would've made her dusting of freckles almost disappear as she watched him, seeking the approval she'd earned.

Tom moaned, a low, quiet sound. "There's a good witch," he breathed.

Maybe it was the heat of the water, or the decreased supply of oxygen to his brain, but it took him too long to realize he wasn't thinking about Selwyn anymore. The furious, almost perfect pace his hand had found stopped as he froze, staring unseeing at the shower tiles.

He was close. He was close and harder than he could remember ever being in his life and somehow that all came together and resulted in him imagining Dove on her knees for him.

No.

No.

Not her. Any witch but her. No witch of her caliber belonged at his feet like a common whore and he would not lower her to such. He refused.

But his cock twitched in his hand, incessant, as the image of Dove on her knees for him remained behind his eyes.

He was uncomfortably hard, a few more moments and he would've been finished. A few moments more and he would finish but no matter how hard he tried, Dove wouldn't turn back into Selwyn, or even one of the Black sisters, or any other witch and he damn well knew why.

They bored him. Dove didn't.

That didn't change the fact that he refused to lower her to the likes of Selwyn, who was too stupid to make anything of herself if she didn't marry well after Hogwarts. Dove was his right hand witch, his second in command, his protege. She mattered. She wasn't just a thing to be used and discarded, she was invaluable.

But fuck if the baser, less refined part of Tom's mind wasn't hellbent on the idea of looking down at those mischief-filled eyes while she took as much of him as she could manage. On the idea of tangling his fingers into her curls and pulling her closer until her eyes watered, rewarding her with his loosened grip when she let him without protest, despite the discomfort.

Surely her sharp wit would lend itself to a talented tongue. And whatever she didn't have in natural inclination he knew she'd make up for by studying every movement she provoked from him, by figuring out what made him tick.

Fuck.

But this was a fantasy. It wasn't real. It would never, could never, be real, so what did it matter? Just this once, he could consider how her cheeks would hollow as she sucked him. He knew her too well. Knew how easy her determination would mold itself to the task of pleasing him.

He'd give her the Outstandings she thrived on but she'd have to work for it. She'd have to be willing to take it when he got close, when he took control and fucked her cheeky little mouth while she tried, failed, to maintain eye contact.

Blood rushed in his ears, echoing the pulse throbbing in his hand, as lighting licked through his nerves. Combined with the heat, it made him dizzy, and Tom barely noticed when he dropped to his knees.

Her ink stained fingers would grip him like a vice as she did her best to swallow him whole — eager little overachiever that she was.

Such a perfect listener, she'd be. A naughty little whore just for him. He wouldn't have to share her time, or vy for her focus, she'd just center herself around sucking him off, begging him with those fucking eyes to coat the back of her throat in his cum. And she'd take every. last. drop.

"Oh fuck, " tore from his throat, gravely and stained. "Dove, please—"

His vision went white as he came. Every pinpoint of focus was on his cock, pulsing and aching in his hand in time with the heartbeat flooding his ears.

Was this what it was supposed to feel like? Was this why his classmates made idiots of themselves for witches' attention? How was being so utterly out of control still appealing to them once the rush wore off?

Tom focused on getting his breathing under control again as specks of light danced across his vision. He desperately needed to figure out what the hell he'd just done, but fatigue was getting the better of him. His limbs shook as he slowly moved to stand, wishing his erection would soften faster. His arms and legs felt like overcooked pasta, struggling to obey his commands as he washed up.

He needed to piss and then his bath was waiting, the magic faucets having turned themselves off while he was preoccupied. He'd take his bath, maybe have a nap while he was at it, and shove this entire experience in a box labeled Deal With Later in the back of his mind.

The last thing he needed was another bloody thing to worry about.

A/N: Annnnnyyyywaaaaayyy how is everybody? :))) We've got the map in the picture now and Tom's psyche is simultaneously melting and imploding...