November 21, 1992, Saturday
By Saturday morning, the castle's nerves had cooled, at least on the surface.
The whispers had grown softer, the corridors busier again, and for once breakfast tasted less like collective anxiety and more like actual toast.
I had, of course, kept a careful eye on things all week. The Marauder's Map had proven to be every bit as extraordinary as I'd remembered: a masterpiece of enchantment, mischief, and obsessive attention to detail. It had taken me two sleepless nights, a few clever duplication charms, and a bottle of hair tonic.
Creating such a thing from scratch, I realised, would've taken years, even for geniuses as reckless as the original Marauders. But with the full map in hand, the process had been… well, "not that difficult," as I told myself, conveniently overlooking the small explosion that had singed my left eyebrow on Wednesday.
Now that my copy was complete, it was only polite, and politically wise, to return the original to its rightful miscreants.
Which brought me to the Gryffindor common room once again.
The twins were exactly where I expected them: lounging by the fire, surrounded by a semicircle of third-years hanging on their every word. The moment they saw me step through the portrait hole, identical grins appeared.
"Professor Lockhart," said Fred in a tone of mock surprise, "come to join our fan club?"
"Or to recruit us for yours?" added George.
I smiled, holding up a folded piece of parchment between two fingers. "Neither, gentlemen. I've come to return something rather valuable."
That caught their attention. The third-years scattered like startled pixies as I walked forward, the map glinting faintly under the firelight.
"You actually finished with it?" George asked. "We were starting to think you'd eloped with it."
I handed it over. "As tempting as that was, I believe in returning borrowed items. Besides," I said lightly, "I've already made a copy."
Both twins' eyes went wide. "You made a copy? A functional one?" Fred said, almost reverently.
I nodded. "Creating one from scratch would be nearly impossible without the original, years of work, complex enchantments, overlapping runes, but duplicating a working artefact, that's a different matter. Tedious, yes, but manageable."
George whistled low. "You must teach us how to do that sometime."
"I'll add it to the syllabus," I said dryly. "Right after 'How to Accidentally Turn Your Eyebrow into Ash.'"
That earned a laugh. Then George tucked the original safely away, and Fred leaned forward eagerly. "You still owe us clues, Professor."
"Ah yes," I said, straightening my cuffs. "A deal's a deal."
I pretended to think for a moment, though I'd rehearsed these all morning. "Let's see…"
Clue One: "One of them was a genius with transfiguration. Professor McGonagall's favourite, thought she'd never admit it. A real troublemaker, but with a heart too big for his own good."
Fred and George exchanged thoughtful looks.
Clue Two: "Another was a shameless flirt who spent far too much time grooming his hair, though, in fairness, so do I. He was charming, handsome, reckless, and had an unfortunate weakness for dramatics."
"Sounds familiar," Fred murmured.
"Flattery will get you far, Mr. Weasley," I said with a wink.
Clue Three: "A third was the quiet sort, the planner. Always thinking three steps ahead, which is why he was usually three steps behind trouble. The sort who seemed harmless… until you realised he was the reason trouble found you in the first place."
The twins' brows furrowed in unison.
Clue Four: "And the last… ah, the last was shy, awkward, easily overlooked, but shouldn't be underestimated, as he was their scouter. He idolised the other three, though envy simmered right alongside his admiration."
When I finished, the common room was silent except for the crackle of the fire.
George leaned back, grinning slowly. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"I'm a storyteller by nature," I said modestly. "And besides, mystery builds character."
Fred drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "So, four friends, all with their own set of talents, all a bit mad. One liked mischief, one liked hair, one liked plans, one liked… peeping? You really expect us to figure out who they were?"
"Eventually," I said. "But don't rush it. The truth's always more fun when you have to chase it."
"How about one last clue?" George asked, leaning forward.
They looked at me eagerly, hoping this one would take them closer to their idols' identities.
"Their nicknames," I said, smiling, "are all tied to the animals that represented them. That's all, no more clues."
They groaned theatrically, and I turned to go.
As I reached the portrait hole, Fred called out, "Professor!"
I glanced back.
"Are they still alive?"
I paused just long enough to give a small, knowing smile. "Three of them, yes."
That left them whispering excitedly behind me as the portrait swung shut.
I allowed myself a quiet chuckle as I walked back down the corridor. They'd have fun with that puzzle for weeks. And meanwhile, my own copy of the Marauder's Map waited safely in my office, ready for the next stage of my plan.
Because if I was going to stop a basilisk and a ghost of Voldemort, I'd need more than good looks and luck.
I'd need every trick Hogwarts had ever taught its best troublemakers.
…
That evening, with the Marauder's Map spread open across my desk and a fresh cup of tea steaming beside it, I decided it was time to see what my copy of this masterpiece could really do.
The parchment was still, not a single speck of ink on it. Then I gave the usual command with a flourish, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
And just like that, Hogwarts came alive.
Tiny names bloomed across the paper like fireflies in the dark. Hundreds of them, moving through the labyrinthine corridors, climbing staircases, clustering in classrooms. It was hypnotic, a living, breathing portrait of chaos and routine.
I leaned closer, tracing with a fingertip. "Mr. Filch, stalking near the library... naturally."
Further down: "Ah, the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey, still there at this hour. Doesn't she ever rest?"
My eyes flicked toward the broom cupboards. "And there's, oh, that's creative. A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff sharing 'advanced snogging techniques' inside a broom cupboard. My, my, Hogwarts never changes."
A smirk tugged at my lips. Mischief, romance, danger, this castle had it all, and the map saw every bit of it.
Then I shifted my attention to the second floor, to the girls bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle's haunt was as quiet as ever. I tapped the area thoughtfully with my wand. "Now then… how to make sure Miss Weasley doesn't wander in here unnoticed again…"
I muttered to myself as I worked, trying to weave a warding charm into the parchment's enchantments, something subtle, something that would alert me if Ginny entered that space. No grand fireworks, no glowing alarms, just a soft shimmer on the edge of the map when danger stirred or a bit of vibration perhaps.
Unfortunately, the map refused to cooperate. The moment I attempted to bind the alarm, the ink rippled, resisted, and, quite rudely should I say, erased my modification attempt entirely.
"Don't like strangers meddling with your secrets, do you?" I murmured.
I tried again, this time gentler, whispering the charm directly into the parchment. The result was the same: a small puff of smoke, a flicker of light, and the faint smell of burnt parchment.
I sighed. "So much for subtlety. No wonder it took them years to make this thing."
For a moment I considered giving up. But then I glanced back at the name Ginny Weasley, currently in the Gryffindor common room, and the thought of doing nothing didn't sit right.
If I couldn't alter the map, perhaps I could learn how. There had to be a workaround, a spell, an enchantment theory, something tucked away in the dustier corners of the library.
I folded the map with care, tucking it into my robe pocket. "All right, gentlemen Marauders," I said under my breath. "Let's see what you'd think of me borrowing your secrets again."
And with that, I left my office, my footsteps echoing softly through the empty corridors, bound for the library.
If I was going to outsmart a teenaged Dark Lord, I'd first have to outsmart four old pranksters.
…
The library had that evening hush that made even breathing feel intrusive. Rows of books stood solemn and tall, the scent of parchment heavy in the air. A single candle flickered near Madam Pince's desk, casting her hawk-like silhouette across the shelves.
I gave her my most dazzling smile as I passed. "Evening, Irma. You're looking... formidable as ever."
She glared over the rim of her spectacles, but, miracle of miracles, didn't hiss at me. I took it as encouragement and slipped deeper between the shelves.
I had come to search for something specific, Runic Interlinks and Magical Detection Webs, if memory served me right. Something that could help me figure out how to set a specific alarm on the Marauder's Map. Unfortunately, Hogwarts' library was vast, and the books often liked playing hard to get.
I had just reached the darker corner of the Restricted Section when a faint sound caught my attention, a shuffle, the scrape of a shoe, quickly silenced.
My wand was in my hand before the thought even formed. "Is someone there?" I asked lightly, my tone caught somewhere between amusement and suspicion.
No answer.
I frowned, murmured, "Homenum Revelio." The spell rippled out, silent and invisible… and returned nothing.
Curious. Very curious.
There were only a few ways to fool that particular charm. One of them involved a legendary artefact most believed to be a myth. But I happen to know better.
I smiled faintly, lowering my wand but keeping it ready. "Mr. Potter," I said conversationally, "I know you're there. You may as well come out. I promise I won't assign detention, provided you haven't been sneaking into the Restricted Section. Again."
There was a long pause. Then, slowly, the air shimmered. The silvery outline of a cloak drew back, revealing one very startled Harry Potter.
He looked guilty in the way only twelve-year-olds could, like someone who'd broken several rules and wasn't sure which one I was about to scold him for.
"Professor Lockhart!" he said quickly. "I wasn't… well, I didn't mean to…"
"Oh, relax, my boy." I waved it off with a charming smile. "No harm done. Though, really, you might consider walking like a cat if you plan on using that cloak effectively. Chairs have a way of tattling."
His brow furrowed. "How did you know I had…"
I tapped my temple. "Experience. And intuition. Mostly intuition."
He looked at me, still uncertain, then said hesitantly, "You... you won't tell anyone?"
"My lips are sealed," I assured him. "Now, tell me, what brings you to the library under cover of invisibility? Surely not my biography section again?"
He hesitated, glancing down at the table as if deciding whether to speak. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the cloak. "I was... looking for something."
"Something specific?" I prompted.
He swallowed. "Information. About… hearing voices."
That caught my attention. "Voices?"
Harry nodded, his expression tight. "I've been hearing one. A weird one. It says things like... it wants to kill. That it's hungry."
He said it quietly, but the words hung between us like a cold draft.
I folded my arms, studying him. "And how long have you been hearing this voice?"
"Since Halloween," he said. "That's what led me to Mrs Norris. I followed it down the corridor... and then found her, petrified. But no one else heard it."
Interesting. Very interesting.
I leaned back in my chair, pretending to think. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, have you ever noticed you can... speak with certain creatures? Birds, perhaps? Rats? Or maybe..." My voice softened, careful, deliberate. "Snakes?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Snakes? Well... once, at the zoo. I talked to a boa constrictor. But that was ages ago. Isn't that normal? I mean, wizards talk to animals all the time, don't they?"
"Some animals, yes," I said slowly. "But snakes are another matter." I folded my hands atop the book. "The ability to talk to serpents is called Parseltongue. It's extremely rare, frightfully so. Only one family in Britain was known for it: the Gaunts. Descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself."
Harry paled slightly. "Oh."
"Don't look so alarmed, my boy," I said quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. "It's not an evil trait, merely... uncommon. Magic expresses itself differently in everyone. Some sing to plants. Some dream of the future. Some, apparently, have charming conversations with boa constrictors."
He didn't look comforted. "But what about the voice? If no one else heard it..."
I leaned back, feigning a thoughtful frown. "Hmm. Perhaps it was a small snake on the hunt. Hogwarts has plenty of them, after all. They slip through cracks, through pipes, through old stonework. It's quite possible you overheard one on its nightly prowl, and finding Mrs Norris just afterward was sheer coincidence."
He looked doubtful. "Coincidence?"
"Life is full of them, Harry," I said gently. "The important thing is that you weren't harmed. And next time you hear a voice like that, perhaps fetch a teacher before following it, yes?"
He nodded slowly, though his brow was still furrowed in confusion.
"Good lad," I said, rising. "Now, off to bed. I promise, the books will still be here in the morning. And try not to let mysterious voices lure you into trouble. It's terrible for your reputation."
Harry gave a faint smile, pulled the cloak back over himself, and vanished once more, his footsteps soft against the floor as he slipped away.
I stood there for a long moment after he left, staring at the shelves, my reflection flickering in the dark glass of the window.
"Parseltongue," I murmured under my breath. If some fanfic theories are to be believed, the ladies would definitely love it.
…
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