Bathsheda was sitting in the armchair by the window, legs tucked under her, a half-drunk cup of tea on the sill beside her. Cassian didn’t say a word as he dropped the parchment into her lap. She looked down at it, then up at him.

“What am I looking at?”

“You’ll see.”

He flicked his wand. The ink surged to life.

She sat up straighter. “Alright… that’s not normal.”

“Nope.”

She traced a finger along one corridor. “This is the third-floor hallway. These dots, students?”

“Everyone in the castle. Names, movements, rooms. Look.”

He tapped the edge and pointed as a little dot labelled “Mrs Norris” moved past “Nearly Headless Nick” near the Great Hall.

Bathsheda leaned back, arms folded now, watching the map with narrowed eyes. “Who made it?”

“No idea. I thought the twins did, turns out they scavenged it. Marauders’ signatures on the bottom corner.”

She blinked. “Never heard of them.”

“Same.”

She didn’t say anything for a bit. Just watched the names shuffle across the corridors, disappearing through walls, climbing staircases, flickering in and out.

“Terrifying,” she said.

Cassian dropped onto the sofa, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Can’t even argue.”

“This is illegal.”

“Extremely.”

“It’s a surveillance spell.”

“Yup.”

“Of minors.”

“That part occurred to me.”

Bathsheda slapped the parchment. “You’re holding the most invasive thing in this school after the Bloody Baron.”

Cassian raised both hands. “I’m equally horrified. But also a bit impressed. Also disgusted.”

“You better be.”

He sighed. “Look, if I’d made this, I’d have slapped my name on it and handed myself in.”

She rubbed her forehead. “It shows staff too?”

He pointed to a corner. “Snape just left Lupin’s office. Sprout’s near the greenhouse. Dumbledore’s apparently pacing in the North Tower.”

Bathsheda pressed her knuckles against her mouth, staring down at it. “This is madness.”

As a man from the 21st century, all Cassian could think was, “You think?” That’s several human rights violations packed into one bit of parchment. The kind of thing that’d have been slapped with six lawsuits and an EU regulation before breakfast.

She leaned back, “You’re absolutely sure this wasn’t made by the Ministry?”

“No idea.” He hummed, “But I doubt.”

Bathsheda sighed slowly. “It’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“Illegal.”

“Extremely.”

“And we’re keeping it.”

Cassian stared at her.

She held his hand. “If I would trust anyone with this map, Cass, it would be you. Not even myself.”

He didn’t answer straightaway. Something had gone oddly warm in his chest. Her trust landed heavier than he expected. Not because of what she said, but how easily she meant it.

Cassian swallowed. His first instinct was to make a joke, dodge it. But her hand was warm around his, and the words caught in his throat.

She didn’t let go. “I know why you haven’t destroyed it already. You want to use it to find Sirius Black, don’t you?”

He blew a slow breath through his nose. “Can’t exactly wait around and hope he announces his next attempt with fireworks.”

Bathsheda shifted, gaze flicking across the parchment again. “You think he’ll try again?”

“He’s not done,” Cassian said. “Last time, he ran. Next time, he won’t.”

Her hand tightened slightly. “You are right. This can help us catch him.”

He looked down at it. “I’m not thrilled about it. But it’s the only thing showing us what the wards miss.”

“You won’t tell the others,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

She glanced at him. “Cass.”

“Tell Snape I’ve got a map that shows which direction his nose points every five minutes?” He snorted. “I’d rather wrestle a Dementor.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Dumbledore?”

Cassian rolled his neck. “He’d nod sagely, say something vague about ‘tools with power’ and then disappear just as someone breaks in again.”

“So you’re keeping it.”

“Until Black’s caught.”

“Then?”

“Burn it?”

She squeezed his hand. “Or… we can seal it. In case we need it again.”

Cassian watched her, eyes trailing over the frown at her brow.

“I’m not saying we should use it,” she added, voice lower. “I’m just saying I trust you. I know you’ll keep me in check.”

He sighed, a quiet thing through his nose. “Let’s find Sirius first.”

***

Remus sneaked into Filch’s office after warding the corridor. Ten layers, sound dampening, misdirection, alarm ward, a bonus one that’d confound anyone who so much as coughed near the threshold. Standard fare when one’s breaking into the Nosy Bastard’s Archive of Doom.

The office was worse than usual. Smelled like mothballs, boiled cabbage, and whatever had recently died under the filing cabinet. Remus didn’t light his wand, he didn’t fancy giving the portraits something to gossip about, but he did flick a silencing charm at Mrs Norris’s bed. The cat wasn’t in, but just in case.

He crossed to the tall drawer cabinet, labelled ‘Confiscated Contraband’ and yanked it open.

Quills, joke wands, at least four sets of teeth and for some reason pens. The map wasn’t there.

He pulled open the next drawer. Nothing but broken Sneakoscopes and a framed photo of Gilderoy Lockhart. Shirtless. Remus closed it fast, muttering a quiet apology to his eyes.

Bottom drawer was locked.

He muttered the unlocking charm under his breath and opened it slowly.

Empty.

He frowned, crouching lower. Something had scratched the backboard. A set of initials, MWPP.

The letters made his chest tighten. He could almost see James grinning as he pressed the blade too deep, Sirius laughing at the mess, Peter whining that Filch would catch them. And himself, standing off to the side, trying not to smile too much in case anyone noticed how much it meant that they’d included him at all. The scratch in the drawer looked the same as it had on their desk legs, crude and careless.

He stared at it. Then rapped his knuckle against the wood.

Hollow.

He pulled his wand and whispered, “Revelio.”

The bottom of the drawer shimmered, then flickered out entirely. False panel.

Behind it was a narrow space, barely deep enough for a scroll. Long gone.

He sighed. Not in Filch’s office. Which meant…

Remus stood up fast, brushing dust off his knees, already mentally mapping the rest of the castle.

Someone had beaten him to it. And whoever they were, they knew exactly what they’d taken.

He stepped into the corridor, dropped the wards one by one, then walked off, not really looking where. His thoughts ran in loops. The castle always changed at night. Shadows stretched longer, staircases groaned louder, and portraits dozed in frames, pretending not to hear. He walked the long corridors with his wand ready, more out of habit than fear. It felt like slipping back into his youth, except his knees ached now and his heart never stopped bracing for bad news.

If Sirius had taken the map, and he might’ve, clever enough, desperate enough, it’d explain a lot. Too much, maybe. Was that how he’d been slipping past the wards, around corners no one even saw? If so, they were wasting time playing catch-up.

He’d have to tell Dumbledore. Have to adjust the wards.

Back then, the map had been laughter and lantern light, parchment that smelled of ink and rebellion. Now it was a weapon, stolen, twisted, a ghost of four boys who’d thought mischief had no end.

Remus rubbed the back of his neck. Their legacy was stalking children now.

He slowed, looked around. Shrieking Shack. Brilliant. Apparently, his feet had more opinions than his head tonight.

He sighed, shoved a hand into his coat pocket, and stepped closer to the Whomping Willow. The knot was still there, half-hidden under a coil of moss. He pressed it. The branches froze like they’d been caught mid-punch.

He ducked under and slipped through the opening.

The tunnel was the same as always. Cold. Stale. That wet-earth smell never left.

He didn’t even know why he was going there.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe he just missed them. The real ones. Before it all cracked. Before the war, and Azkaban, and the mess that was now stalking Hogwarts in dog’s skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, memory ambushing him. Sirius once dared him to howl in the library at midnight. James had laughed so hard he toppled into a pile of atlases, shushing himself with tears on his cheeks. Even Peter had clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from squeaking.

For a heartbeat, he almost heard them again, friends alive, whole, foolish.

Then the silence rushed back in, colder than before.

He used to come here every month. Dragged down through the tunnel, half-conscious, shaking in the grip of a fever that always started three nights before the full moon. Terrified someone would find out what he was. What he could become.

He’d tried hiding it, at first. Of course he had. Who wouldn’t? Hogwarts was the only place he’d ever been allowed to feel normal, even for a few months. He clung to it like a drowning boy clutches driftwood.

Then James found out. Sirius, not far behind. He expected fear. Maybe pity. Definitely distance.

Instead…

They turned themselves into animals.

Didn’t even tell him at first. Just showed up in the Shack one night, casually chatting like nothing had changed. Prongs, Padfoot and Wormtail. His friends for life.

He blinked hard. Cleared his throat. He reached the trap door and stopped, one hand brushing the old wood. He expected dust, but there was none. Had the school used this place after him? His hand pressed flat against the trapdoor, and it creaked open.

The room above was still, quiet. The faint outline of claw marks still scarred the floorboards, deep gouges where he’d thrown himself in blind rage. Bit of a sore memory, that.

Floorboards warped where his body had slammed against them, month after month. He let his hand drift over the grooves, guilt pressing down like a second spine. Every inch of it was a reminder of what he was, what his friends had carried for him. Coming back felt like visiting his own crime scene.

He sighed, as he stepped in. Expecting an empty shack.

But there was someone already standing there.

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