firecracker ???

The day before the Hogsmeade weekend settled over Hogwarts like a spell, crackling through the corridors with the kind of nervous, excited energy usually reserved for Quidditch matches and last-minute exam rumors. Even the library hummed with it. Fred and George had spent most of the morning charming Bertie Bott's wrappers to shriek insults when opened, and every corridor buzzed with plans: get into Honeydukes early, snag a table at the Three Broomsticks before the rush, convince Filch not to inspect bags too closely on the way out.

Everyone was going.

Except Harry.

He tried not to sulk. He tried not to listen too closely when Seamus asked him if he wanted him to be bringing back any Fizzing Whizbees or when Lavender Brown giggled about Madame Puddifoots. He tried, even, to look politely disinterested when Ron and Hermione offered to bring back some Butterbeer for him.

He wanted to go.

So when Fred and George approached him during the lull before dinner, their usual mischief half-muted by something close to sincerity, he straightened without thinking.

"We heard," Fred said.

"Saw your face in the common room," George added.

"Tragic."

"Devastating."

"Which is why we've decided—" Fred drew something from inside his robes "—to be charitable."

Harry blinked. "Is that...?"

"Parchment," George said brightly. "A map."

"But not just any map," Fred added, handing it over like it was a family heirloom. "This is the Marauder's Map."

Harry unfolded it carefully. It looked... like nothing. A blank square of old parchment, scuffed and folded a dozen times over.

Fred leaned in. "To use it, tap it with your wand and say, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

"And when you're done, tap it again and say, Mischief managed, or anyone snooping will see exactly what you don't want them to," George added.

"And what is it?" Harry asked.

Fred and George exchanged a look.

"The secret to everything."

-

Later that night, long after dinner, Harry sat on his bed with the curtains drawn tightly around him. The dormitory was quiet save for the rustle of Ron's blankets and the steady purring snore of Neville across the room. The parchment was still blank, resting on the covers before him like it was waiting.

He held his wand over it.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The change was instant.

Ink bloomed across the surface like smoke curling from a fire, sharp and curling into elegant script.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are proud to present... The Marauder's Map.

Lines unfolded. Tunnels. Hallways. Every tower. Every staircase. The whole castle unspooled beneath his hands in black ink, pulsing and alive.

Dots moved through corridors, each labeled in full: Albus Dumbledore pacing his office, Argus Filch trudging along the trophy hall, Severus Snape lingering near the Potions stores.

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

He leaned in, tracing paths, realizing with growing amazement just how much this could give him. How much it showed.

There—behind the mirror near the Charms corridor. A passageway. Hidden. Labeled faintly: Secret tunnel to Honeydukes cellar.

His chest lifted.

He could go. He could go.

With this, he didn't need permission slips. Didn't need Dumbledore's pity or McGonagall's disapproval or a signed form from people who barely remembered he existed.

He just needed this.

The thrill pulsed beneath his skin, warm and fizzing like stolen victory.

He whispered, "Mischief managed."

The ink vanished.

-

That night, the dream returned.

It started the same as it always did: the sound of wind through barren trees, the crunch of snow beneath boots he didn't remember putting on. The world was pale and vast and too quiet.

Then came the shape.

A massive black dog, stepping from the woods like it had always been there. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dark, and it didn't move toward him—just watched, still and solemn.

Harry tried to raise his wand.

The dog didn't growl. Didn't bare teeth.

It just stared.

He opened his mouth to speak—but the snow swallowed the sound.

He woke with a start.

The dormitory was dark. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting faint orange shadows on the walls.

He sat up slowly, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, and reached for his wand. His chest felt tight. He didn't need a textbook to explain it.

He knew what it was now.

Trelawney had mentioned it in Divination just last week—The Grim. The spectral dog that haunted wizards before death. The worst of omens. A sign of doom.

He pressed a hand over his eyes.

Then something shifted.

A soft scrape—faint, but deliberate—just beyond the common room.

He moved without thinking, grabbing the Marauder's Map and slipping from his bed.

The common room was empty, cast in the warm flicker of near-spent firelight.

Harry crept to the portrait hole and pressed his ear against it.

At first, there was only silence.

Then—breath.

Not his own.

Slow. Measured.

The light shifted. Something moved.

A face appeared in the tiny crack where the portrait had once slightly shifted.

Wild hair. Gaunt cheekbones. Eyes like deep hollows.

Sirius Black.

Harry's heart stopped.

He didn't breathe. Didn't blink.

The eyes stared at him—for a second. A heartbeat.

Then vanished.

He yanked the portrait open, but the corridor was empty.

Nothing remained. No sound. No shape. Not even a footprint in the torchlit stone.

Just the firelight behind him, and the cold certainty that Sirius Black was inside the castle.

And someone—someone—was letting him in.