March 27th, 1994, Astronomy Tower, 11:47 PM
The Astronomy Tower stood silent against the March night, its platforms open to stars that wheeled overhead in patterns Luna could probably name without hesitation. Cold wind swept through the open arches, carrying the scent of distant rain and the particular clarity that came with late winter transitioning into reluctant spring.
Harry sat with his back against the tower's central column, his holly wand balanced across his knees, parchment covered in intricate runic patterns spread before him. Behind him—close enough that he could feel her warmth through their robes—Luna sat in mirror position, her own book open, her attention focused on celestial mathematics that Harry couldn't begin to comprehend.
They'd been coming here for weeks now, sneaking out after curfew using the Marauder's Map to track patrol routes and the Invisibility Cloak to avoid detection. The Astronomy Tower offered everything they needed: privacy, space for practice, and the particular quiet that made concentration possible.
Harry was working on something Ethan had introduced during their summer training but never had time to fully develop—the application of Ancient Runes directly into spell construction. Not just knowing the runes theoretically, but understanding their fundamental nature deeply enough to incorporate that meaning into magical execution.
Tonight's focus: Expelliarmus. Specifically, the red lightning variant he'd developed with Ethan's guidance.
The runes for Lightning, Thunder, and Storm lay before him in careful arrangement. He'd been studying them for months—not just their shapes and pronunciations, but their essential nature. What they meant beyond simple translation. What they represented in the magical framework that predated modern spell construction.
Lightning: sudden, decisive, violent illumination. The strike that comes without warning.
Thunder: the declaration, the announcement, the force that follows inevitably.
Storm: the gathering, the potential, the chaotic power waiting to be directed.
Harry traced the rune for Lightning with his wand tip, feeling its resonance, understanding finally clicking into place like tumblers in a lock. Not just knowing it academically, but comprehending it viscerally—the way Ethan had described genuine magical understanding as something felt rather than learned.
'I've got it,' Harry thought with sudden certainty. 'I finally understand what these runes actually mean. Not translation. Not theory. The reality underneath the symbols.'
Behind him, Luna's breathing had settled into the particular rhythm that suggested deep concentration. She was working through "The Mysterious Cosmos"—the book Ethan had given her at term's start—applying its frameworks to practical astronomical observation. Harry didn't understand half of what she was studying, but he recognized the same intensity she brought to all genuine learning.
They rarely spoke during these sessions. Didn't need to. The silent companionship was sufficient—two people pursuing their own studies whilst remaining connected through simple proximity.
Harry allowed himself a brief glance over his shoulder.
Luna sat perfectly still, blonde hair catching starlight and seeming to glow silver-white, her grey eyes reflecting the sky she was cataloguing. She looked ethereal—otherworldly—like something that belonged among the stars rather than earth.
'My Moon,' Harry thought with the particular tenderness he'd only recently begun acknowledging. 'She looks like she's part of the cosmos she's studying.'
What he didn't notice was Luna's own glance moments earlier—the way her eyes had found the back of his head, the careful way she'd studied his posture, the small smile that suggested she was thinking something similar.
'My Knight,' Luna had thought, warmth spreading through her chest. 'Always so focused. Always trying to be stronger, better, ready for whatever comes next.'
Harry returned his attention to the parchment before him, his mind processing the breakthrough. He couldn't perform non-verbal casting yet—that required even deeper integration, months or years more practice—but he understood the runes now. Truly understood them. Which meant when he cast Expelliarmus, when he spoke the incantation aloud, the spell's nature would be completely under his conscious direction rather than half-instinctive.
"Luna," Harry said quietly, not turning around. "I think I've got it. The runes. I understand them properly now."
Fabric rustled as Luna shifted. "That's wonderful, Harry. Will you show me?"
"Not tonight. Don't want to risk the light drawing attention. But I understand them. Finally. After months of studying, it just—" He struggled for words. "—it clicked. Like suddenly seeing the solution to a problem that's been obscured."
Luna's hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently. "That's how real comprehension works. All at once, after long preparation. Congratulations."
Then, before Harry's brain could process what was happening, Luna leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
Time seemed to stop.
Harry's entire awareness condensed to that single point of contact—Luna's lips against his skin, warm and gentle and absolutely intentional. His breath caught. His heart stopped, then restarted at approximately three times normal speed. Heat flooded his face with such intensity he must be glowing visibly even in darkness.
Luna pulled back, and Harry finally managed to turn around.
They stared at each other in starlight. Luna's ears had gone scarlet—visible even in the dim illumination—whilst her hands clutched her book with white-knuckled intensity. Harry suspected his own face looked similar, burning with embarrassment and something else he couldn't quite name.
"I—that was—" Luna started, her usual dreamy composure completely shattered. "—congratulations. For the runes. You worked very hard and I'm proud of you and—"
She stopped abruptly, her blush deepening impossibly further.
"Thank you," Harry managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "For—for that. And for being here. And for—" He gestured vaguely at everything. "—all of it."
Luna nodded jerkily, gathered her book with fumbling hands, and stood. "I should—dormitory. Sleep. Classes tomorrow. Good night, Harry."
She was halfway to the stairs before Harry's brain restarted enough to respond. "Good night, Luna!"
Then she was gone, practically fleeing down the spiral staircase, and Harry was left sitting against the column with his hand pressed to his cheek where she'd kissed him.
'That happened,' he thought dazedly. 'Luna kissed me. On the cheek. That's—that was—'
Words failed entirely.
Harry had absolutely no memory of packing up his materials, consulting the Marauder's Map, or making his way back to Gryffindor Tower. His mind simply refused to process anything beyond that single moment—Luna's lips, the warmth, the terrible wonderful mortification—
He entered the common room still floating, still dazed, still touching his cheek like he could preserve the sensation through continuous contact.
Then he saw Professor McGonagall.
The Head of Gryffindor stood in the centre of the common room with the particular fury that came from fear transmuted into rage. Her Scottish burr was so pronounced each word practically bristled with anger. Students clustered in anxious groups, whispering urgently, whilst Percy Weasley hovered nearby looking simultaneously important and terrified.
Harry's post-kiss euphoria evaporated instantly.
"Mister Potter," McGonagall said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. "Where have you been?"
"I—Astronomy Tower, Professor. Studying. I lost track of time—"
"Studying." McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. "Alone?"
"Yes, Professor."
It wasn't technically a lie. Luna had left first, and Harry had no intention of revealing their late-night practice sessions.
McGonagall studied him with sharp eyes that missed nothing, then apparently decided Harry wasn't her primary concern tonight. "Take a seat. Remain here. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to return to your dormitory until I give explicit permission."
"What happened?" Harry asked, dread settling into his stomach.
"Mordred Slythra broke into Gryffindor Tower," McGonagall said flatly. "Approximately two hours ago. Mister Weasley woke to find his bed curtains slashed to ribbons whilst he slept."
Horror flooded Harry's system. "Is Ron alright? Is anyone hurt?"
"Mister Weasley is physically unharmed. Considerably shaken, but uninjured." McGonagall's expression softened fractionally. "No one was hurt. But the security breach is unacceptable. Mordred Slythra entered this tower, reached the boys' dormitory, and attacked a sleeping student. We are extraordinarily fortunate he didn't accomplish significantly worse."
Harry sank into the nearest chair, his mind racing. Mordred had been here. In Gryffindor Tower. In Ron's dormitory. Close enough to kill—
'But he didn't,' Harry thought with sudden clarity. 'He slashed the curtains as a message. As intimidation. If he'd wanted Ron dead, Ron would be dead. This was about proving he could reach us whenever he wanted.'
"How did he get in?" Harry asked.
"Sir Cadogan," McGonagall said, her voice dripping with disgust, "admitted him. Apparently, Mordred possessed a list of the entire week's passwords written on parchment. Sir Cadogan, in his infinite idiocy, saw nothing suspicious about this and granted entry."
"Someone wrote down the passwords?" Harry's horror intensified. "Who would—"
"Neville Longbottom," McGonagall said. Each word carried weight like stones. "He admitted responsibility. Wrote down the passwords because he couldn't remember them, then lost the parchment somewhere in the castle. Where Mordred Slythra found it."
Harry's heart sank. Poor Neville. The guilt would be crushing.
March 29th, 1994, Great Hall, 7:17 AM
The Great Hall felt heavy despite morning sunlight streaming through high windows. Two days had passed since Mordred's break-in, and the atmosphere remained oppressively gloomy. Students spoke in hushed tones, casting nervous glances toward exits, jumping at unexpected noises.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table between Ron and Hermione, with Neville across from them looking absolutely miserable. Jasper perched on Harry's shoulder, chirping soft reassurance whilst Harry stroked golden feathers absently.
"They've tightened security to ridiculous levels," Ron said quietly, pushing eggs around his plate without eating. "Filch has boarded up everything Mordred could use to sneak in except the passage to Hogsmeade. Professor Flitwick's teaching the doors to recognize Mordred's face... which is brilliant magic but utterly mental that we need it."
"Sir Cadogan got sacked," Hermione added. "The Fat Lady's back, but she insisted on security trolls guarding her portrait. Two of them, rotating shifts."
"At least she's willing to come back at all," Harry observed. "Can't imagine portrait duty feels particularly safe right now."
Neville hadn't spoken. He sat hunched over his breakfast, radiating misery so intense it was almost visible.
"Neville," Harry said gently. "It's not your fault."
"It is my fault," Neville said miserably. "I wrote down the passwords. I lost them. Mordred used them to break in and nearly killed Ron because I'm too stupid to remember a simple weekly password—"
"You're not stupid," Hermione interrupted firmly. "Memory difficulties don't equate to stupidity. And Mordred Slythra is a competent, dangerous Death Eater who would have found another way in regardless. This isn't on you."
"McGonagall doesn't agree," Neville muttered. "I'm banned from Hogsmeade for the rest of the year. Got detention. And she's forbidden anyone from telling me the new passwords—I have to wait in the corridor until someone else arrives to let me in. My own common room."
"That's harsh," Ron said with genuine sympathy.
"It gets worse." Neville's voice dropped to barely audible. "Gran sent me a Howler. Two days ago. In front of the entire Hall."
Ron's expression shifted from sympathy to visceral understanding. "Oh no. What did it say?"
"That I'm a disgrace to the Longbottom name. That my parents would be ashamed. That she can't believe someone with Longbottom blood could be so careless, so foolish, so—" Neville's voice cracked. "—so disappointing."
Silence settled over their section of the table.
Then Ron said, "My mum sent me a Howler second year. Remember? After the flying incident?"
Neville looked up slightly.
"She went on for five minutes," Ron continued. "Five whole minutes screaming about responsibility and family reputation and how I'd embarrassed the entire Weasley clan. The 'IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE' bit is still burned into my memory. Pretty sure people in Hogsmeade heard it."
Despite everything, Neville's mouth twitched slightly.
"The worst part," Ron said, warming to his story, "was Fred and George's reaction afterwards. They spent the rest of the day addressing me as 'The Disappointment' and asking if I needed help with basic tasks since I clearly couldn't handle simple concepts.'"
"Did it help?" Neville asked quietly. "The Howler, I mean. Did it make you more careful?"
"Made me more careful about not getting caught," Ron said honestly. "But actual safety? No. Just made me feel rubbish for a week." He met Neville's eyes. "Your gran's angry because she's scared. Scared Mordred might hurt you. Scared of losing you like—" He stopped, carefully not mentioning Neville's parents. "—like she nearly did. It's not fair she took it out on you, but it's not really about the passwords. It's about fear."
"Doesn't make it hurt less," Neville said.
"No," Ron agreed. "But it helps to understand where it comes from."
Hedwig swooped through the Hall's high windows, landing beside Harry's plate with a letter clutched in her talons. Harry recognised Hagrid's large, messy handwriting immediately.
Harry—
Can yeh come fer tea this afternoon? Bring Ron, Hermione, Draco, an' Luna if she's willin'. Got summat I need ter talk about. Meet me in the Entrance Hall at three an' I'll walk yeh down ter the hut.
—Hagrid
Harry's stomach tightened with foreboding. Hagrid's tone carried weight that suggested whatever needed discussing wasn't pleasant.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, reading Harry's expression.
"Hagrid wants us for tea. This afternoon." Harry passed her the letter. "All of us. Something he needs to discuss."
Hermione scanned the parchment, her expression growing concerned. "This doesn't sound social."
"No," Harry agreed quietly. "It doesn't."
March 29th, 1994, Hagrid's Hut, 3:23 PM
They found Hagrid outside his hut rather than inside, standing near the lake's edge and staring across the water with the particular stillness that came from deep worry. Fang lay at his feet, the boarhound's usual enthusiasm muted into anxious whining.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Luna approached carefully. Draco had been surprised by the invitation but had accepted with the careful courtesy that suggested he understood this was serious.
"Hagrid?" Harry called softly.
The half-giant turned, and Harry's heart sank at his expression. Hagrid's beetle-black eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn with stress that aged him considerably.
"Harry. All o' yeh. Thanks fer comin'." Hagrid's voice was rough. "Didn' want ter tell yeh by letter. Seemed wrong, somehow."
"What's happened?" Hermione asked gently.
"Buckbeak's trial," Hagrid said heavily. "It's this week. Thursday. Committee fer the Disposal o' Dangerous Creatures. Nott father and even Lucius Malfoy's pushin' fer execution. Says Buckbeak's a danger ter students based on what happened with Theodore Nott."
"But Nott provoked him," Harry said immediately. "Everyone saw it. He approached Buckbeak with deliberate disrespect—"
"Don't matter ter the Committee," Hagrid interrupted. "They's got influence. Got Galleons. Got connections throughout the Ministry. An' he wants Buckbeak dead as revenge fer—" He glanced at Draco uncomfortably. "—well. Personal reasons."
Draco's expression had gone carefully neutral. "My father holds grudges. Particularly against those he perceives as beneath his station."
"Ethan promised he'd handle it," Harry said urgently. "He said the witness testimony would ensure Buckbeak's safety. And Dumbledore—surely Dumbledore's testimony carries weight—"
"They're both testifyin'," Hagrid confirmed. "Yeh dad's sent documentation, apparently. Got statements from everyone who witnessed the incident. Got expert testimony about hippogriff behaviour. Even got some law specialist ter argue the case." His shoulders slumped. "But it might not be enough. Malfoy's determined. An' the Committee—well. They tend ter side with pure-blood families with Ministry connections."
Luna stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hagrid's waist—or as much of it as she could reach. "Buckbeak will be fine. The Nargles say so."
Hagrid made a sound between laugh and sob, his massive hand coming up to pat Luna's head gently. "Thanks, Luna."
Then, one by one, the others joined—Hermione hugging Hagrid fiercely, Ron offering awkward but genuine comfort, Harry pressing close with determination, even Draco placing a careful hand on Hagrid's arm in gesture of solidarity.
"We're here," Harry said quietly. "Whatever happens. You're not alone."
Hagrid's shoulders shook, but when he pulled back, something in his expression had lightened. "Right. Well then. Since yer all here, might as well have that tea properly. Made rock cakes. They're only slightly dangerous this time."
The afternoon passed in Hagrid's warm hut, conversation carefully steered away from trials and danger toward safer topics. Hagrid told stories about magical creatures, answered Luna's increasingly creative questions about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, and laughed at Ron's dramatic retelling of the Howler incident.
For a few hours, the tension receded.
April 2nd, 1994, Hogsmeade Village, 2:34 PM
The weekend Hogsmeade visit arrived with unseasonably warm weather—spring finally asserting itself over winter's stubborn remnants. Students flooded the village with the particular enthusiasm that came from escaping castle confines.
Harry and Ron walked toward the Shrieking Shack together, both of them in high spirits despite recent events. The Shack sat slightly outside the village proper, deliberately isolated, its reputation for violent ghosts keeping most visitors away.
"So," Ron said with exaggerated casualness, "how are things with Luna?"
Harry's ears immediately went red. "Fine. Good. We're—we're friends."
"Friends who sneak out after curfew for private study sessions," Ron observed. "Very platonic. Absolutely no romantic tension whatsoever."
"Shut up."
"Does she know you're completely besotted?"
"I'm not—I'm not besotted—"
"Harry, you get this look when you talk about her," Ron interrupted gleefully. "Like someone's cast a Cheering Charm but made it specific to one person. It's adorable and nauseating in equal measure."
"At least I don't turn into a stammering mess whenever Lavender's nearby," Harry shot back.
Ron's face matched his hair. "I do not stammer."
"You absolutely stammer. You stammered for five minutes straight when she complimented your Firebolt flying."
"That's—that's different—"
"How is it different?"
"Because—because Lavender's just—she's nice, alright? She's kind and she laughs at my jokes and she brought me Chocolate Frogs when I was injured and—"
"And you fancy her," Harry finished triumphantly.
They grinned at each other, the teasing comfortable and warm.
"We're both completely hopeless," Ron observed.
"Utterly," Harry agreed.
They'd just reached the Shrieking Shack—its boarded windows and dilapidated exterior living up to reputation—when voices interrupted their companionable silence.
"Well, well. If it isn't Potter and Weasley."
Theodore Nott stood near the Shack's perimeter with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like particularly dense bodyguards. All three wore expressions suggesting deliberate provocation.
"Nott," Harry said flatly. "What do you want?"
"Nothing from you, Potter. I was addressing Weasley." Nott's smile was unpleasant. "Tell me, Weasley—how did it feel waking up to Mordred Slythra standing over your bed? Knowing he could have killed you any moment he chose? Must have been terrifying for someone of your... limited capabilities."
Ron's wand was out instantly, his face flushed with anger. "Say that again. I dare you."
"Ron, don't—" Harry started.
But Nott was already continuing, his voice carrying deliberately offensive mockery. "I heard you nearly wet yourself. Screaming like a child. Crying for mummy—"
Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his bag with smooth efficiency. He slipped beneath it whilst Nott was focused on Ron, his holly wand already moving.
"Flipendo."
The spell caught Nott squarely in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. Before Crabbe and Goyle could react, Harry followed up with rapid precision.
"Tarantallegra."
Crabbe's legs began dancing uncontrollably.
"Rictusempra."
Goyle collapsed into helpless laughter.
From Harry's right, a voice said with careful neutrality, "Potter?"
Harry's head whipped around—the movement causing his hood to slip slightly—and there was Draco Malfoy, standing near the Shack's far corner with his grey eyes fixed on Harry's half-visible face with dawning comprehension, his mouth quirked slightly, and he turned his attention to Nott with aristocratic disdain. "Theodore. Perhaps you should return to the village. Before additional unplanned dance lessons occur."
Nott scrambled to his feet, his expression mixing fury with humiliation. "This isn't over, Potter! I'll report this to Professor Snape—"
"Report what, exactly?" Draco interrupted smoothly. "That you and your friends were hexed by invisible assailants? That'll go over well. I'm sure Professor Snape will be very sympathetic."
Nott shot them all venomous looks before retreating toward the village proper, Crabbe and Goyle stumbling after him whilst still afflicted by their respective hexes.
Once they'd disappeared, Harry pulled off the Cloak entirely.
"Thanks," he said to Draco.
Draco said blandly. "Merely three Slytherins who apparently can't handle their own clumsiness. Tragic, really."
April 2nd, 1994, Snape's Office, 4:47 PM
Harry should have anticipated Nott would make good on his threat.
Professor Snape's office was exactly as unpleasant as Harry remembered from previous unfortunate visits—dim, cramped, lined with jarred specimens that seemed to watch with preserved malevolence. Snape himself sat behind his desk with the particular satisfaction that came from having Potter at his mercy.
"Mister Potter," Snape said silkily. "Mister Nott has reported a most interesting incident. Claims he and his companions were attacked by invisible assailants near the Shrieking Shack. Mister Malfoy corroborated that something occurred, though he claims to have seen nothing definitive." His black eyes glittered. "Would you care to explain?"
"I-I was with Ron near the S-Shrieking Shack," Harry said carefully. "Nott was there. They had a verbal altercation. I didn't s-see any invisible attacks, P-Professor."
"How convenient." Snape rose and began circling Harry like a predator assessing prey. "Empty your pockets, Potter."
"P-Professor—"
"Your pockets. Now."
Harry complied with sinking dread. Quill, parchment, a few Sickles from his Hogsmeade purchases—
And the Marauder's Map, folded carefully and currently displaying nothing but blank parchment.
Snape snatched the map immediately, his expression sharpening with interest. "What is this?"
"P-Parchment, Professor. S-Spare parchment."
Snape's wand tapped the map. "Aparecium."
Nothing happened. The map remained obstinately blank.
"Revelio."
Still nothing.
Snape's frustration mounted. His wand moved through increasingly complex revealing charms whilst the map stubbornly refused to react. Finally, in desperation, he addressed it directly.
"Reveal your secrets."
Ink began appearing across the parchment's surface—not the castle map, but words forming in elegant script:
Mister Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape and requests that he keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business.
Mister Prongs agrees with Mister Moony and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.
Mister Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor.
Mister Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.
Snape's face had gone from pale to blotchy red. "Potter. Where did you get this?"
"Zonko's, P-Professor. It's a j-joke item. Insults anyone w-who tries to read it."
"lies." Snape's voice was dangerously quiet. "This is not from Zonko's. This is—" He stopped himself. "Wait here."
He swept from the office, the map clutched in his hand.
Five minutes later, he returned with Professor Lupin in tow.
Remus entered looking tired but alert, his eyes immediately finding Harry with concern. "Harry. Professor Snape says there's a disciplinary issue?"
"Mister Potter was found carrying this." Snape thrust the map forward. "It's clearly a Dark artifact. I want you to examine it."
Remus took the map, and Harry watched his uncle's expression carefully. For just a moment—just a heartbeat—recognition flickered across Remus's face. Then it was gone, replaced by polite confusion.
"It appears to be parchment," Remus observed mildly.
"It's insulted me," Snape said through gritted teeth. "Read it."
Remus examined the map, his mouth twitching slightly at the insults still visible on its surface. "Well. This is certainly creative. But hardly Dark magic, Severus. More like elaborate pranking."
"Potter claims it's from Zonko's," Snape said. "I don't believe him."
"Why not?" Remus glanced at Harry. "Zonko's stocks all manner of joke items. This seems exactly like something they'd sell—enchanted parchment that insults readers. Quite harmless, really."
Before Snape could argue further, Ron burst through the office door with the particular breathlessness of someone who'd run considerable distance.
"Professor Snape! I can explain—that's my parchment—I bought it from Zonko's weeks ago and loaned it to Harry—didn't realise it would insult anyone who looked at it—I'm so sorry—"
Ron's performance was admirably convincing—wide-eyed innocence mixed with appropriate guilt.
Snape looked between them with deep suspicion, but without actual evidence of wrongdoing, he couldn't justify further interrogation. Finally, he waved dismissal.
"Get out. Both of you. If I catch you with any other suspicious items, Potter, you'll be in detention until graduation."
Harry and Ron fled before Snape could reconsider.
Remus followed them into the corridor, his expression carefully neutral until they'd moved well beyond Snape's hearing range. Then he stopped, turning to face them both.
"A word, Harry. Alone."
Ron nodded and continued toward Gryffindor Tower whilst Remus guided Harry to an empty classroom.
Once the door was closed, Remus pulled the map from his robes and unfolded it properly. His wand tapped its surface. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The map bloomed across the parchment—corridors, rooms, tiny labeled dots representing every person in Hogwarts.
"Where did you get this?" Remus asked quietly.
"Fred and George Weasley gave it to me," Harry admitted. "They found it first year. Been using it ever since. Thought I could benefit from it too."
"And you didn't think to mention this to me?" Remus's tone carried hurt beneath the mild reproach. "Harry, this is—" He gestured at the map. "—this is remarkable magic. This is my friends' greatest achievement besides becoming Animagi. And you've had it for months without telling me?"
"I meant to," Harry said quickly. "Really, I did. I just—with everything happening—Mordred, and the Patronus lessons, and Luna's situation—I kept meaning to show you and then I'd forget or something would come up and—"
He stopped, seeing Remus's expression soften.
"And your father already knows about it, doesn't he?" Remus asked with resignation.
Harry's silence was answer enough.
"Of course he does," Remus muttered. "Ethan always knows everything first. Gets all the good surprises whilst I'm left finding out through Snape's confiscations." But his tone carried affection beneath the complaint. "What did he think of it?"
"He said it was spectacular," Harry said honestly. "Called it master-level enchantment work. Possibly genius-level. Said attempting similar magic anywhere besides Hogwarts would be nearly impossible because the castle's ancient wards provide the foundation."
Remus's expression transformed—pride flooding his features so intensely it made him look years younger. "Ethan said that? Really? Those specific words?"
"Yes, Uncle Remus. He was genuinely impressed."
"Well then." Remus handed the map back with visible reluctance. "I suppose I can forgive the delayed revelation. Though next time you acquire something this significant, I'd appreciate earlier notification. Before it gets confiscated by Snape, preferably."
Harry tucked the map away carefully, then hesitated. "Uncle Remus... I've been thinking. This map—it shows everyone in Hogwarts, yes? Including people trying to hide?"
"That's the design, yes. Why?"
"Could it help catch Mordred?" Harry's mind was racing through possibilities. "He broke into Gryffindor Tower somehow. Got past the wards, avoided detection. But the map shows everyone. If we watched it closely enough, if we tracked unusual movements—"
Remus went very still, his expression shifting from casual to intensely focused. "Harry, that's—that's actually rather brilliant. If Mordred's in the castle, he'd show on the map regardless of disguise or concealment. We could track his location, predict his movements..."
"Exactly."
They stared at each other whilst implications settled.
"I need to discuss this with Professor Dumbledore," Remus said finally. "And probably your father. This could change everything, Harry. This could be exactly what we need."