𝐎 𝐇 ,  𝐖 𝐑 𝐄 𝐓 𝐂 𝐇 𝐄 𝐃   𝐏 𝐀 𝐆 𝐄 𝐒

        𝐆𝐑𝐘𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑 felt like it had already won the House Cup.

The party went on all day and well into the night. Fred and George disappeared for a couple of hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of Honeydukes sweets, greeted by animalistic cheers and a substantial increase in the volume of the music. Only one person wasn't enjoying the festivities — Hermione, incredibly, was sitting in a corner, attempting to read an enormous book entitled Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles.

The party ended only when Professor McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they all go to bed. Rays of moonlight lulled them to sleep, and by Monday afternoon, the sun had given them something else to rejoice about.

"Hogsmeade, next weekend!" exclaimed Ron, craning over the heads of a group of second-years to read a notice posted in the common room. "What do you think?" he asked Harry quietly as they turned and went to sit down.

"Well, Filch hasn't done anything about the passage into Honeydukes . . ." Harry replied softly.

"Harry!" said a voice from behind them. All three of them looked around at Hermione, who was clearing a space in the wall of books that had been hiding her. "Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again . . . I'll tell Professor McGonagall about that map!"

"Can either of you hear someone talking?" growled Ron, not looking at Hermione.

"Ron, how can you let him go with you? After what we know about Sirius Black! I mean it, I'll tell—"

Melody, as though magnetized to the sound of trouble, appeared behind Hermione. She cleared away several books, and offered Ron a pair of raised eyebrows: "What's gone wrong here?"

"She's trying to get Harry expelled!" said Ron furiously, then he narrowed back in on Hermione. "Haven't you done enough damage this year?"

Harry watched Melody's eyes dart between the two; ashen ambivalence drumming deep. Hermione herself opened her mouth to respond, but with a soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. She took one frightened look at the expression on Ron's face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away toward the girls' dormitories.

Melody started to rise, but she fell just as fast, perhaps recognizing that Hermione was better off alone with her thoughts. She frowned at Ron, then, and started, "Ron, maybe you should apolo—"

"So how about it?" Ron interrupted, as though Melody now did not exist. "Come on, last time we went you didn't see anything. You haven't even been inside Zonko's yet."

"Okay," Harry hesitantly agreed. "But I'm taking the Invisibility Cloak this time." He looked to Melody for some kind of affirmation, and she took a colossal sigh — she was cautious, but in the end, her defiance won out.

"I'll cover for you," she gave in, before darting away in the direction of the portrait hole.

        𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 streams of sunlight characterized Saturday morning, alongside the smell of fresh strawberries and crisp Belgian waffles.

Harry went down to breakfast with everyone else, grateful for the clammer of Hogsmeade excitement and, for what felt like the first time ever, Melody's obsession with crossword puzzles.

Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down the table at him, but he masterfully avoided her eye by assisting in the development of viable answers and clues — as a team, he and Melody came dangerously close to crushing her record yet again, with a time of four minutes and forty-two seconds.

"It wouldn't count, anyhow," she insisted when everyone began filing out the oak front doors. "I've got to complete the puzzle myself for it to top the podium."

"Nonsense," was Harry's simple assessment, and he waved farewell to her and Ron as they left. "See you when you get back!"

"Yeah, I'll bring lots of stuff from Honeydukes!" Ron replied loudly, and they were off.

Harry was off, too, but in a different direction — he hurried up to the third floor and slipped the Marauder's Map out of his pocket as he went. Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it out, checking that his coast was clear, before pulling out his wand and muttering, "Dissendium!"

He shoved his bag into the statue, heaved himself inside, and slid down to meet said bag at the bottom of the stone chute. He wiped the Marauder's Map blank again, then set off at a run.

When he next emerged into the sunlight, he was in the center of Hogsmeade. Melody's shimmering silver aura was exceptionally easy to spot: right in front of Honeydukes, next to a squinting Ron Weasley.

He let his feet carry the way, all the while hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak, until he came close enough to prod her in the back.

"It's me," Harry muttered.

Melody didn't turn around, but she exchanged a look with Ron, flipped a braid over her shoulder, and beamed. "Good to see you . . . oh, wait . . ."

And the three set off up the High Street, a skip in their steps.

"Where are you?" Ron kept muttering out of the corner of his mouth. "Are you still there? This feels weird . . ."

They made a beeline for Zonko's, which was crammed with students. Harry gave Melody whispered orders and passed her some gold from under his Cloak — they left Zonko's with their money bags considerably lighter than they had been on entering, but their pockets bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece.

The day was fine and breezy, and they kept exploring the shops until late afternoon. They walked past the Three Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden.

Melody leaned up against the fence, and Harry felt himself stare at her for longer than was probably proper: she had very nice eyelashes, he noticed, thick and dark as the space between galaxies. She wasn't looking at him —of course not, he was invisible— but for a moment he wished she was.

"Even the Hogwarts ghosts avoid it," she murmured as she stared at the Shack, and Harry was compelled to follow her gaze instead. "I asked Nearly Headless Nick, and he says he's heard a pretty rough crowd lives here. No one can get in. I tried with Fred and George a few years ago, obviously, but all the entrances are sealed shut—"

"I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron trying to defend himself!" came a voice from the other side of the hill. 'There's no 'arm in 'im, 'onest —' . . . that hippogriff's as good as dead—"

It was Malfoy, and he had just caught sight of Melody and Ron — his pale face split in a malevolent grin, while theirs sunk into surly frowns.

"What are you two doing?" He looked up at the crumbling house behind them, and his grey eyes glinted. "Ah, suppose you'd both love to live here, wouldn't you? Weasley, dreaming about having your own bedroom? I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that true?"

Ron's frown took on a furious twist, and Melody took a bold step forwards, but Malfoy hadn't finished. "And you, Prewett — you'd have a home of your own instead of living off of teachers' scraps, wouldn't you? But wait . . . you don't have any parents to live with."

Melody began to lunge, but Harry seized her arm, the perfection of the opportunity overwhelming him. "Leave him to me," he hissed in her ear.

Harry crept silently around behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, bent down, and scooped a large handful of mud out of the path.

"We were just discussing your friend Hagrid," Malfoy continued. "Just trying to imagine what he's saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. D'you think he'll cry when they cut off his hippogriff's—"

Splat.

Malfoy's head jerked forward as a large handful of mud hit him; his white-blond hair was now dripping in muck.

"What the — ?"

Harry turned, and to his great delight, Melody was bracing herself with the fence to keep herself standing. She was laughing harder than a comet hurtling through the night; brighter than the bloom of a summer periwinkle.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were spinning stupidly on the spot, staring wildly around, Malfoy trying to wipe his hair clean.

"What was that? Who did that?"

"Very haunted up here, isn't it?" said Ron casually, with the air of one commenting on the weather, and Melody clutched her side, laughing even harder.

Crabbe and Goyle were looking horrified — their bulging muscles were no use against ghosts. Malfoy was staring madly around at the deserted landscape.

Splatter.

Another large pile of mud slapped against Crabbe and Goyle's faces this time. Goyle hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his small, dull eyes.

"It came from over there!" said Malfoy, wiping his face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left of Harry.

Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms outstretched like a zombie. Harry dodged around him, picked up a stick, and lobbed it at Crabbe's back.

Harry doubled up with silent laughter as Crabbe did a kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had thrown it. As Melody and Ron were the only people Crabbe could see, it was them he started toward, but Harry stuck out his leg. Crabbe stumbled — and his huge, flat foot caught the hem of the Cloak. Harry felt a great tug, then the Cloak slid off his face.

For a split second, Malfoy stared at him.

"AAARGH!" he yelled, pointing at Harry's levitating head. Then he turned and ran, at breakneck speed, down the hill, Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

Harry tugged the Cloak up again, but the damage was done.

Melody was no longer laughing — instead she stumbled forward, and stared, remarkably, deep into Harry's invisible eyes. "He's — Snape — You can't — Run!"

Harry deciphered this to the best of his ability, and he quickly decided that it meant get back to the castle before Severus Snape expels you and the rest of your life is spent at the Dursleys'.

"See you later," he said, sloshing back through the mud, Melody and Ron at his heels.

        𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐒 were a side hustle of Melody's, but today, they'd need to become a full-time job.

She was sprinting down a Hogsmeade sidestreet, darting between condo buildings, leaping across puddles, all the while fighting the urge to vomit. Nobody except Dumbledore knew about the Invisibility Cloak, and if Malfoy said anything, he'd know exactly what had happened.

The sky was a dusky pink when she reached Hogwarts; the sun a golden galleon sliced apart by the silhouette of the castle. She sent a prayer to the stars, a desperate plea for mercy or forgiveness or some kind of luck — please, let Malfoy be as useless at running as he is at Quidditch.

She threw open the oak front doors, took a stabilizing breath, then immediately wished to disintegrate into a pile of ash, and preferably not rise from it like the glorious Fawkes.

There, standing in the entrance hall, tapping his foot, was Severus Snape, wearing a look of suppressed triumph.

"What's your hurry, Prewett?" he drawled.

Melody shifted her weight, and willed her deceptiveness to assist her. "I needed to use a bathroom."

Snape's eyes glittered merrily. "Really? A bathroom?" he repeated. "You, having practically grown up in Hogsmeade village, did not know where to find one whilst you were there?"

"Yeah," Melody nodded casually. "And to be honest, Professor, the fact that you're so concerned about my lavatory usage seems minutely misogynistic."

Snape wasn't fazed. "How unfortunate. I'd like to speak with you in my office . . . Once you've used a bathroom, that is."

Malfoy had told him, there was no denying it. She couldn't escape her fate now, just hang on and hope for the best as her ship went crashing down into the depths — "I don't actually have to go anymore."

"Remarkably convenient," Snape said, already turning on his heel. "Follow me."

The surroundings blurred as Melody trailed him across the castle, staring at her muddy boots. Fear was cracking its knuckles, stretching its limbs in order to clamp its hands around her neck, whether it be for concern of being expelled or her grandmother's reaction. She only looked back up when Snape's cold voice echoed once more:

"So."

She drew a sharp breath — they had arrived at the One-Eyed-Witch Passageway, and it appeared as though Harry had just returned. He stared at them, his eyes feigning emerald innocence, and he stuffed his muddy hands into his pockets.

"Come with us, Potter," ordered Snape.

Harry didn't argue. He followed Snape downstairs, and Melody expertly avoided his eyes, as though meeting them would send them both into a maddening, nervous breakdown; poetic and pitiful. They walked down to the dungeons, then into Snape's office.

Melody had been inside plenty of times, without Snape ever knowing, but he had clearly acquired a few more slimy horrible things in jars since the last time she had broken in. It was certainly a more threatening atmosphere this time as well, somehow more suffocating than an airtight coffin.

"Sit."

Harry and Melody sat.

Snape, however, remained standing. "Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange story," he said, staring at them menacingly.

Neither Melody nor Harry said anything.

Snape narrowed in on Melody, his eyes as dark and stoic as the Kuiper belt. "He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack when he ran into you and Weasley — apparently alone."

Still, neither of them spoke.

"Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to you and Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the back of the head. How do you think that could have happened?"

Melody shrugged. "I don't know, sir," she responded. Her valiance shot out of her, guiltless as can be: "I didn't see anyone throw it."

Snape whipped his head around to Harry. "What about you, Potter?"

Harry looked mildly surprised. "I don't know, Professor," he replied.

Snape's eyes were boring into Harry's, as though waiting for him to crack; praying that he would crumble into ruin. "Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition. Can you imagine what it might have been?"

"No," said Harry, sounding incredibly curious.

"It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair."

There was a silence — a rift in spacetime, or so it felt. The constellations could have imploded, the moon could have fallen from the sky and crushed a quarter of the planet, and Melody doubted it would have felt as mighty.

"Maybe he should go see Madam Pomfrey," she finally said, drawing out the words like they were sweet on her tongue. "If he's seeing things like—"

"What would Potter's head have been doing in Hogsmeade?" snapped Snape. "His head is not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of his body has permission to be in Hogsmeade."

"I know that," Harry broke in. "But honestly, it sounds like Malfoy's having hallucin—"

"Malfoy is not having hallucinations," snarled Snape. He bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry's chair, so that their faces were a foot apart. Still, though, their spirits had trillions of light years between them. "If your head was in Hogsmeade, Potter, so was the rest of you."

"I've been up in Gryffindor Tower," insisted Harry. "I was doing homewo—"

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Harry didn't say anything.

Snape's thin mouth curled into a horrible smile. "So," he said, straightening up again. "Everyone from the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black. But famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences."

Harry stayed silent. Melody could tell Snape was trying to provoke him into telling the truth, cruel as ever. "I really don't think Harry could've been in Hogsmeade, Professor," she said simply. "I would have seen him."

"Silence!" Snape sneered, glaring at her.

She obeyed, bowing her head and stealing half a glance at Harry — he stared straight ahead, as though frozen by the dangerous chill in the air.

"How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter," Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting. "He too was exceedingly arrogant. Strutting around the place with his friends and admirers . . . The resemblance between you is uncanny."

"My dad didn't strut," retorted Harry, and Melody felt the desire to clap him on the back for his nerve. "And nor do I."

"And your mother, Prewett," Snape went on, ignoring Harry. "Her pretty face and small amount of talent on the Quidditch field made her think she was a cut above the rest of us. Rules were for lesser mortals, not attractive Gryffindors."

Melody's jaw flexed, she clenched her fists, she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding — but she said nothing, somehow paralyzed by the mere mention of Cocoa. Perhaps it was the things she now knew, or perhaps the many things she didn't.

Snape had spun back to Harry: "But nobody, man or immortal, could ever match your father, Potter. His head was swollen beyond belief."

"Shut up!"

Harry was suddenly on his feet.

Snape went rigid, even more so than Melody, and his black eyes flashed dangerously. "What did you say to me, Potter?"

"I told you to shut up about her mom, and shut up about my dad!" Harry yelled. "I know the truth, all right? He saved your life! Dumbledore told me! You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for my dad!"

Melody frowned, silent as the grave. She had never heard such a story — where was Harry getting this from?

For his part, Snape's sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk. "And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances in which your father saved my life?" he whispered. "Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for precious Potter's delicate ears?"

Melody glanced at Harry, now who was still standing. He looked slightly regretful, his eyes dimming from vibrant emerald to a lifeless sage.

"I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter," Snape said, a terrible grin twisting his face. "Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism? Then let me correct you — your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn't got cold feet at the last moment. There was nothing brave about what he did. He was saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts."

Melody stared at him, her own grey eyes wide as saucers — Snape's hatred of Harry came from a place of dark truth, a place of moonlit memory?

The Professor's uneven, yellowish teeth were bared. "Turn out your pockets, both of you!" he spat.

Melody reached into the pocket of her jacket, and pulled out her bag of Zonko's products — she had spent her entire allowance, and prayed Snape wouldn't confiscate anything. She dropped them onto his desk with a theatrical clunk.

Harry, however, didn't move.

"Turn out your pockets, Potter or we go straight to the headmaster! Pull them out!"

The Map, Melody realized suddenly, alarmedly. The Marauder's Map was sitting in Harry's pocket, and if Snape confiscated it, she'd have a hell of a time sneaking back into his office to steal it back.

Visibly delirious with dread, Harry slowly pulled out the bag of Zonko's tricks and the blank Map, then set both on Snape's desk.

Snape picked up Melody's Zonko's bag.

"I just got that today," she told him casually.

He set it back down, then picked up Harry's bag.

"Ron gave that stuff to me," said Harry quickly. "He — brought it back from Hogsmeade last time —"

"Indeed? And you've been carrying it around ever since? How very touching . . . and what is this?"

Snape had picked up the Map. Harry did an incredible job at keeping his face impassive, while Melody felt her heart swell and surge, bursting into her rib cage somewhat violently.

"Spare bit of parchment," Harry said with a shrug.

Snape turned it over, his eyes on Harry. "Surely you don't need such a very old piece of parchment?" he asked. "Why don't I just — throw this away?" His hand moved toward the fire.

"No!" Harry and Melody exclaimed in unison. At once, they caught each other's gaze, tangibly regretful, but somehow relieved. Snape drew his hand back, and the god-given Map was saved.

"So!" said Snape, his long nostrils quivering. "Is this another treasured gift from Mr. Weasley? Or is it — something else? A letter, perhaps, written in invisible ink? Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without passing the dementors?"

Melody fidgeted with her hands, and Harry merely blinked.

Snape's eyes gleamed. "Let me see, let me see . . ." he muttered, taking out his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk. "Reveal your secrets!" he said, touching the wand to the parchment.

Nothing happened.

"Show yourself!" Snape exclaimed, tapping the map sharply.

It stayed blank.

"Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!" Snape said powerfully, hitting the map with his wand.

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, words appeared on the smooth surface of the map.

Grinning deviously, Snape shoved the Map into Harry's hands. "Read it," he commanded.

Harry gulped, looked to Melody, then, upon her colorless, unreadable stare, lowered his gaze to the Map. "Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and . . ."

"Go on," Snape said, frowning at him.

Harry looked back up, his face rather proud: ". . . and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business."

Melody choked — it was more of a complete, mind-numbing shock than a burst of laughter. As she desperately coughed and gasped breathlessly for oxygen, Snape stood frozen before them.

The Map didn't stop there, though. More writing was appearing beneath the first sentence, and Harry was making no attempt to conceal his bright grin. "Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git," he continued on eagerly. "Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor."

Melody had found her breath, and she gave an involuntary snicker that felt completely out of place, her chest lighting up with a familiar spark of humor — but it was nostalgic, somehow, like she'd heard these jokes a thousand times before.

There was one more line. "Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball."

Highly entertained but still extremely frightened, Melody waited for the blow to fall.

"So . . ." said Snape softly, menacingly. "We'll see about this . . ." Although Melody had expected a notice of expellance or a swift backhand, Snape strode across to his fireplace, seized a fistful of glittering powder from a jar on the mantle, and threw it into the flames. "Lupin!" he called into the fire. "I want a word!"

Lupin, thank the stars above. Melody shared a quick, grateful look with the Boy Who Lived — Lupin liked the two of them; he certainly wouldn't try to expel them. Seconds later, he was clambering out of the fireplace like a guardian angel, brushing ash off his shabby robes.

"You called, Severus?" asked Lupin.

"I certainly did," replied Snape, and his face contorted with fury as he strode back to his desk. "I have just asked these two to empty their pockets. Potter was carrying this."

Snape pointed at the Map, on which the words of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs were still shining. An odd, closed expression appeared on Lupin's face, and his eyes turned tawny. 

Melody felt her stomach quiver, somehow, settling into a resplendent and regretful survey of the past — not that she knew it, of course. Perhaps the stars had realigned in the decade and a half since Lupin had left school, but to her, they looked the same as they ever had.

To Remus, though, the cosmos was completely distinct. From the luminous moon to the woeful Dog Star, nothing was the same as it once was.

Except, perhaps, the wrath of Severus Snape.

"Well?" Snape said, his eyebrows knitting together into a terrifying sort of centipede.

Remus continued to stare at the Map — quick thinking, he urged himself, trying to imagine the future, for once, and not the past.

"Well?" repeated Snape. "This parchment is plainly full of Dark Magic. This is supposed to be your area of expertise, Lupin. Where do you imagine Potter got such a thing?"

With the merest half-glance in the direction of Harry and Melody, Remus warned them not to speak. If he was to craft a coverup regarding his most spectacular creation, he would need to do it alone — but wasn't he already?

"Full of Dark Magic?" he said mildly. "Do you really think so, Severus? It looks to me as though it is merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who reads it. Childish, but surely not dangerous? I imagine Harry got it from a joke shop—"

"Indeed?" interrupted Snape. His jaw had gone rigid with anger. "You think a joke shop could supply him with such a thing? You don't think it more likely that he got it directly from the manufacturers?"

He knows.

But Remus wouldn't give in, not for Harry and Melody's sake. As he glanced back to them, he was ensnared by the green and grey of their gazes; two stars resurrecting. "You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of those people? Do either of you know any of them?"

"No," the pair answered quickly.

"You see, Severus?" said Remus, turning back to Snape with half a smile. "It looks like a Zonko's product to me—"

And then came Ronald Weasley, bursting into the office — he was completely out of breath, and he stopped just short of Snape's desk, clutching a stitch in his chest and trying to speak.

"I — gave — Harry — that — stuff," he choked. "Bought — it . . . in Zonko's . . . ages — ago . . ."

"Well!" said Remus. He clapped his hands together, grinned at Ron, then looked around cheerfully. "That seems to clear it all up! Severus, I'll take this back, shall I?" As Remus tucked the Map inside his robes, he felt his insides burst into white-hot flames. To be so close to the labors of his youth, yet so far, was simply excruciating. "Melody, Harry, Ron, come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay — excuse us, Severus —"

Remus didn't look at Snape as they left his office, nor did he say a word to any of them until they had walked all the way back to the entrance hall.

Once they'd reached it, the silence lingered like the grey of an overcast sky. Melody was the first to speak to him, of course she was: "Professor, we—"

"I don't want to hear explanations," Remus said shortly. He glanced around the empty entrance hall, just in case, and when he took a step closer to the three, his voice became softer, if not more tremulous. "I happen to know that this map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago. I don't want to know how it fell into your possession, but I am, however, astounded that you didn't hand it in. And no, I can't let you have it back."

It appeared as though Harry and Melody had expected that — they didn't even share one of their all-too-familiar glances before Harry exploded, Melody nodding along fervently.

"Why did Snape think I'd got it from the manufacturers?"

Remus hesitated.

He couldn't tell them the truth, although a part of his quivering heart longed to. The manufacturers were gone, split into separate stratospheres like shadows into the night, and they would never return, at least not wholly. Thinking of Melody's quick tongue and witty retorts inspired his response, one which wasn't exactly a lie.

"Because these mapmakers would have wanted to lure you out of school. They'd think it extremely entertaining."

"Do you know them?" Melody wondered, her lips quirking into a smile.

Remus sighed.

"We've met," he replied. Before his subconscious took a nosedive into this claim, he said very sternly, very seriously, and with full sincerity, "Don't expect me to cover up for you two again. I cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously, but your parents gave their lives to save yours. This is a poor way to repay them — gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks."

The words had hit Harry and Melody in the chests, it seemed, and the nebulae in their eyes went dark.

"We'll go back to our dormitories, then," Harry muttered shamefully.

Remus nodded tartly, although he hated to — the three's nerve hadn't been born from thin air; it was the product of generations of Gryffindors dissolving into one. "I should hope so," he responded, nonetheless. When they turned, however, he heard himself call out: "Melody, you stay here for a moment."

Harry and Ron sent her inquisitive looks, but she simply shrugged and spun back to Remus. The two boys turned away and slowly mounted the marble staircase, but he waited until they were well out of earshot to speak.

He didn't know why he wanted to warn her, or perhaps he did. Either way, he surprised even himself by murmuring, "I'm aware that you don't know what Sirius Black has to do with you, but please, Melody — be careful."

Melody tossed her head back in laughter, and for a moment, Remus saw only Cocoa. "When am I ever not careful?" she asked. "I fell off my broom, broke my ribs, almost got Harry expelled . . . Sounds pretty careful to me."

Remus started, but Melody hadn't finished.

"In fact, I've been incredibly careful considering recent developments in the understanding of my past — for example, why didn't anyone ever tell me that my mother was once in love with Sirius Black?"

Remus' mind went blank, and so, it seemed, did Melody's. Her eyes had widened — two meteorites blazing through the ether, fueled by apparent shock at her own tongue.

Remus' own skin had turned pale, and he felt a chill wander down his spine when he whispered: "How did you know?"

"I overheard several adults discussing it," Melody told him. "They were talking very loudly, they sounded drunk . . . there was nothing I could do. Maybe it's not even true, I don't know why—"

"No, it's true," muttered Remus, and his eyes travelled the stone floor. He could remember those years, those of Sirius and Cocoa, as though they were just days ago — not the light years away they truly were. "I didn't think you'd find out, and everyone assured me that you wouldn't—"

"Please don't tell grandma I know," Melody interrupted, and Remus finally met her eyes. "I'm already going to lose my allowance for three months thanks to what Harry and I did today."

Something about Melody's eyes struck Remus; struck a soulful, heart-wrenching chord deep within, and against everything he'd come to stand for, he assured her, "I won't mention it." Then he tacked on, "This is the last time I ever cover for you, I'm warning you—"

"You just said that a few minutes ago," Melody said simply.

"I had no idea you knew," he replied, although nothing about it was simple. The truth of Sirius and Cocoa's journey was as complex as the constellations, and he doubted Melody knew all of it. He doubted she ought to know all of it.

"Whatever. It's not like it changes anything, anyway," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest. "Nothing really can."

Remus stared at her, almost spoke, and decided against it. He blinked twice, straightened himself, then nodded. "Well, that's all. You should catch up with Harry and Ron."

Melody smiled gratefully at him before turning around and hurrying up the staircase, and he sighed to himself.

She'd find out someday, when the time was right.

        𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 up with Harry and Ron? Hardly.

Melody was out of breath by the time she reached Dumbledore's office, but she recovered after heaving several lungfuls of air and spitting out the password. If she was to find out anything about the Marauders, there was only one place to start.

When she came to the top of the circular staircase, she almost expected to see her grandmother there, waiting to expel her. Instead, when she stepped into the headmaster's office, she found him standing beside his desk, stroking Fawkes ever-so-gently.

"You've had quite a day, Melody," he said, without turning around. "How may I help?"

Melody froze at the doorframe, racking her brain for a non-suspicious answer. I'm here to investigate the dark truth of the past involving your newest employee sounded a bit forward.

She was here for something specific, make no mistake — she wanted to piece together the truth, or at least, most of it: who were the Marauders, and how did Lupin know them? Did Sirius Black tie into any of it, and if so, should she be concerned? The Hogwarts student records were, of course, the perfect place to start her detective activities. She'd heard of them only through whispers, a legend more than anything else. According to speculation, they were a collection of books and scrolls dating back to approximately 991. They contained information about every single student to ever attend the school at some point throughout its history.

"How mayn't you help, that's the real question," Melody began, slowly starting towards Dumbledore's desk. She'd need to sound genuine, persuasive, but not as though she was up to something. "I have had quite a day, but it appears that there is one more duty to which I'm obligated."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. He gave Fawkes a final pat, and finally turned to Melody. "And that is?"

She tried and failed to read his expression —he was Albus Dumbledore, after all— and simply prayed that her intention was sincere enough to touch him. "You see, when I got back to the common room just now, an owl arrived through the window. It was carrying a letter, obviously, but it was from my dear cousin Charlie Weasley. He's requested that I look through the Hogwarts student records for information regarding his new coworker. Apparently, his past is a bit . . . hazy."

Dumbledore nodded, slowly, pensively. "What kind of owl?"

Melody tilted her head — perhaps she had succeeded. "Tawny."

"May I see his letter?"

Her heart gave a jolt: "Nope, no can do. Top secret, and he instructed me to burn the letter immediately after reading it."

"How practical."

He sounded amused, if anything, and Melody swallowed thickly, her eyes bright as the storytelling stars above. "Mm-hmm."

She waited for an order to leave at once, a slip of paper that sentenced her to a lifetime of detentions, or a Ministry worker who popped out and locked her up in Azkaban.

But the headmaster gestured for her to follow him, and led her deep into his study. When he plopped the largest book Melody had ever seen onto a free table, her chest soared like the lightest of feathers — it had worked.

"They keep details of every student who has ever attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Dumbledore told her, patting the book lightly.

"Brilliant," replied Melody, grinning like a jester, "mind if I take these back to my dormitory?"

"An excellent attempt, Melody, but no."

"Dammit."

"Language, dear."

Melody sighed. "Sorry." She grimaced at the headmaster, then delved into the records like there was no tomorrow.

First, she stopped at Charlie's class, slowly paging through the students with feigned interest. Before long, Dumbledore grew weary — she heard him sigh, then felt his aura travel back to his desk, leaving her alone.

She had flipped to Lupin's class within seconds.

It was the only place she could think to start, but something told her a good amount of knowledge would come from it. Anticipation plagued her like a cosmic contagion, and there it was — Black, Sirius, the first name alphabetically.

Black's page was about as crammed as it could be, full of detention after detention after detention. As Melody scanned through each instance, her brows knit together — countless accounts noted James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin tagging along for the shenanigans. She caught one or two containing the name "Mary McGonagall", and her heart began to race.

One last detention record stitched it all together; from a haphazard patchwork into a stunning embroidery.

Black, Professor Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and James Potter had levitated their mattresses out of their dormitory at midnight and adventured through the corridors, stating that they "weren't out of bed after hours" to anyone who objected. According to the record, Melody's grandma had issued them two weeks of detention, but a letter to Dumbledore lay right beneath the record.

Albus —

Although I recall you seemed to be entertained by Black, Potter, Lupin and Pettigrew's latest floating mattress stunt, I believe things have gotten out of hand.

When I sentenced the boys to two weeks of detention for their practical joke, Black merely shrugged and said "as if that'll stop the Marauders." This concerns me — it's like the four have formed some sort of bond, a brotherhood, devoted to causing chaos and magical mischief.

Please give me a raise.

Minerva

Melody had to reread the letter to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

"As if that'll stop the Marauders."

The Marauders.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs — four names. Four Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers.

It's them. It's got to be them.

Sirius Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. They made the Marauder's Map. They were like brothers.

It's them.

Alarms went off in Melody's head — Lupin didn't just know Sirius Black, they were as close as she was with Harry. Did that mean he still upheld his end of the friendship? Melody doubted it, since he was always so adamant for her and Harry's safety and responsibility.

But which one was which? She frowned, and narrowed in on Black's page once more. Who's Moony? Wormtail? Padfoot? Prongs? She didn't find any of those words on Black's page, but she'd already flipped to Lupin's before she could mourn the fact.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. Shit. She'd found the word "moon", at least.

Remus Lupin was a werewolf, according to these student records.

She'd heard of werewolves before, nasty things about them. They were practically loathed in the wizarding community, and until now, Melody hadn't quite cared. Lupin, though, was warm, friendly, and wise, and somehow, it all made perfect sense. His boggart — the full moon, as iridescent and ephemeral as ever. He'd been sick, scarred, and shabby for most of the year, and it always seemed to worsen about once a month.

His friends, the Marauders, they must have known — and that was his code name, Moony.

Melody shook her head, stunned. Lupin was a werewolf, and a Marauder, along with her best friend's father, a notorious mass-murderer, and one of said murderer's most iconic victims.

"Found what you need yet?" Dumbledore wondered, from the other side of the office, and Melody jumped about a foot from the ground. "Not to rush you, Melody, I do enjoy your company, but your heavy breathing is a bit distracting—"

"Yep, yep, I've got it. I'll go write to Charlie," she answered, without turning around to face him. "Thanks for your help, Dumbles."

"Of course."

She slammed the enormous book shut, and the table shook with its force.

Blinking furiously and frantically, she dashed out of Dumbledore's office, thinking of nothing but everything she'd missed: how hadn't she noticed Lupin's reality? There had been nothing but signs, practically shouts — she was mortified and horrified and vulnerable.

She was back in the Gryffindor common room, suddenly, still under her trance, but then came the lightbulb.

Under an armchair on the far side of the room lay Most Potente Potions, where Harry had tucked it all those midnights ago, before the Hufflepuff match. She'd been looking for whatever potion Snape had made for Lupin, and if she remembered correctly, she hadn't gotten to the "W"s yet.

The common room was barren, so she had no trouble plucking the thick book out of its hiding spot and flipping to the end — there it was, in perfect illustration and sense.

Wolfsbane, that's what Snape had made, a potion that relieved the symptoms of lycanthropy. Lupin had noted that adding sugar to improve the taste made it useless, and that, too, was noted on the page, along with an illustration of the potion exuding a blue smoke.

Melody sighed. This was a terrible truth to behold, one which should've sent her spiraling from the sky like Icarus, but now, a single name came to mind:

Hermione.

She scrambled at once, shutting the book and dragging it up the staircase. When she bursted into her dormitory, there was her sister — Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, paging through some sort of essay.

"'Mione," she started, dropping Most Potente Potions on a nearby nightstand. "I need you to listen very closely for the next three minutes."

And so Hermione did — from the four who made the Map, to Black's relationship with Lupin, to the poor Professor's werewolfery, she listened like she would to an important Arithmancy lesson. This, however, was far more fascinating, and Melody was the greatest of storytellers.

Melody closed her monologue with a desperate, "You can't tell Harry, or Ron, or anyone at all—"

"Why not?" Hermione broke in, furrowing her brows.

"They're idiots, they'd blab about it right away—"

"But werewolves are really dangerous, aren't they?" she went on, with an anxious wring of her palms.

Melody brushed her off, waving a hand through the ghostly still air. "If Lupin wanted to kill us, he would've already. That doesn't worry me."

Hermione frowned. She was exceptionally gifted when it came to thinking on her toes, but this one she couldn't quite figure. "Okay, right, then which one is which out of Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?"

"I don't know," Melody confessed, her eyes lowering. "I ran before I found out."

Just like that, Hermione was pacing, the gears of her ever-industrious brain beginning to shift — their handling of this new information had the potential to birth a plethora of vibrant new stars and slay countless others.

After several minutes of huffy back-and-forths across the dormitory, Hermione turned back to Melody, voice even, and said, "You're right, we can't tell Harry and Ron about Lupin being a werewolf. It'd scare them out of their minds, too — but should we tell them who made the Marauder's Map? I mean, that was Harry's dad."

Melody nodded frantically. "I know. Lupin confiscated the map from Harry, though, and knowing him, he'd try to steal it back." She gulped, her brows closing together. "Maybe the Map would react? Like how it did with Snape?"

Hermione frowned. "It reacted to Snape?"

Melody's concerned expression turned amused, just for a moment. "It wrote insults about him." Then, back to her previous solemnity: "I don't know, it's an ingenious magical object, but something feels wrong — like we're missing something. Moony makes sense, but the others? They're odd."

Hermione's body had frozen up, now, in either astoundment or existential deliberation — who could tell, in this lighting? "We shouldn't tell them about it. Not until we know more, at least, since they'd probably sneak out with some idiotic plan to learn the truth."

"And get expelled."

"Exactly." Hermione sighed, paced over to her bed, and threw herself onto it. "Lupin's a werewolf!"

Melody followed suit, burying her face in the comforter. "Lupin's a werewolf, and a Marauder."

"You've done it this time, Melody," murmured Hermione.

Melody perked up, her expression hopeful: "I'll assume that was a compliment."

"It was."

"Good," she settled back down into the comforter, then wondered, "Do you have any dark, rotten secrets? I've shared all I've got."

"No," came Hermione's instincts, acting before her intellect. She had spoken too quickly, she realized, too suspiciously — she couldn't risk anything. "Well, just one thing, but it doesn't matter."

But Melody sat up. "Now I'm involved, though, so to not tell me would be an infringement upon my rights."

Hermione's eyes went wide, and she, too, sat up. Her back was straight, and her decision straighter still — she couldn't tell Melody, not unless she wanted to be expelled and sent to jail.

But then she turned, looked into the star-grey eyes of her best friend, and something shifted in her chest. She couldn't tell if it was love or trust or something else terribly terrifying, but for some reason, she had slipped off the bed and dug into her bag. There lay the Time-Turner, now shimmering in her hand.

She turned back to Melody, grinned, and said, "You know I'm taking a load of extra classes this year?"

Melody's jaw had fallen. "You're lying."

"McGonagall had to pull a lot of strings to get me one, but it's how I've been getting to my lessons."

"My god, 'Mione," groaned Melody, shaking her head in utter disbelief. "Let me know if I can borrow it, make it so Lupin was never bitten and the Marauders never met."

Hermione giggled, taken back to a simpler time — there was Melody's spirit, more alive than a butterfly, a dragon, or the Sun.

"I'm honestly numb with shock," she was saying, sounding offended. "I can't believe you hid this from me; your closest colleague. As payment for months of injustice, do you want to tell me anything else?"

Hermione kept smiling for a moment, but then, her face fell in remembrance. "Buckbeak's getting executed."

She turned back to her bag, stuffed away the Time Turner, and dug between two large books for Hagrid's letter. When she thrust it into Melody's outstretched hands, her voice couldn't help but catch.

"I was going to tell you tonight anyways. Hagrid lost his case. He — he sent me this."

Hermione watched as Melody read — the parchment was damp, and enormous teardrops had smudged the ink so badly in places that it was very difficult to read.

Dear Hermione,

We lost. I'm allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts. Execution date to be fixed. Beaky has enjoyed London. I won't forget all the help you gave us.

Hagrid

"They can't do this," said Melody at once, throwing the letter down beside her. "They can't. Buckbeak isn't dangerous."

"Malfoy's dad frightened the Committee into it," responded Hermione, with a brief wipe of her eyes. "You know what he's like. They're a bunch of doddery old fools, and they were scared. "

Melody exhaled sharply, and she shook her head. "Well, so am I."

Hermione took the letter back, placed it in her bag, and made her way to the windowpane. She felt Melody join her, gazing out across the twilight for some semblance of normalcy and conviction: there were the navies and purples they'd grown to love, accompanied by the constellations and so many sacred stories.

They knew what they thought was the truth, but they'd always been a few steps behind — alas, the full story was coming nearer and nearer in the steadily approaching night.

The two girls shared a glance, keen and close, then turned back to the skies.