The Gryffindor common room buzzed with the usual late-evening chatter, a soft hum of life under the flickering firelight. Ron was buried in a game of wizard's chess with Seamus, grumbling every time his knight was outmaneuvered. Hermione had returned to her armchair, poring over Hogwarts: A History for the sixth time. But Harry sat near the window, chin in hand, looking out into the night like it held answers he couldn't quite reach.
He felt... watched lately. Not in the usual way, not like the stares he got after the Triwizard mishap. This was quieter. Sharper. Sometimes he caught Draco looking his way during class or meals—expression unreadable. Sometimes curious, sometimes irritable. Once, almost… worried?
But that couldn't be right. Could it?
He didn't have long to wonder, as footsteps sounded behind him. Hermione looked up as Professor McGonagall's voice rang across the common room.
"Mr. Potter. A word."
Harry blinked. "Now?"
She nodded, face unreadable. He followed her out, only realizing once they were halfway down the corridor that she wasn't heading to her office—but toward the Entrance Hall.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
When the large wooden doors opened and the night air hit his face, Harry felt that weird tension build again. It always came before something strange. He didn't have to wait long.
"Potter," came a drawl from the shadows. Malfoy stepped forward, flanked by his usual goons, but tonight, he looked different. Less smug. His cloak was fastened tightly, eyes darting around.
Harry tensed. "What's this? A trap?"
"No," McGonagall said firmly. "Professor Snape has requested both your presences in Hogsmeade. Under supervision. He believes… it will be productive."
"Wait—you're sending me with him?" Harry and Draco said at the same time, pointing at each other.
McGonagall raised a brow. "Yes. You'll be under Madam Rosmerta's watch. The Headmaster agreed. Now move."
They exchanged one final scowl and followed reluctantly.
---
Madam Rosmerta gave them a polite but tired smile as they entered the warm interior of the Three Broomsticks. "Private room's upstairs. Snape's orders."
Harry blinked. "Snape—what is going on?"
When they were alone in the little side room, with butterbeer warming their hands, Draco finally spoke.
"I didn't ask for this."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You think I did?"
They lapsed into silence, only the low murmur of patrons downstairs filling the air.
Draco broke first. "You've been acting strange."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb. You're different this year. Quieter. Always off in your own head. Even Weasley's noticed."
Harry set down his mug. "So what if I am? Maybe I'm just tired of all the constant drama."
"Yeah?" Draco smirked slightly. "Then why do you still go looking for it?"
That hit home. Harry flinched. "I don't—"
"Oh please," Draco said, leaning forward, voice low. "The hippogriff. The sneaking around. You think no one saw you with that map?"
Harry's heart skipped. "What do you know about the map?"
Draco's eyes flickered, lips pressing into a thin line. "More than you think."
That answer wasn't reassuring.
Before Harry could retort, a loud bang from downstairs made them both start. Rosmerta's voice shouted something, but it was drowned out by a sudden gust of wind—the door had burst open on its own.
Both boys leapt to their feet. Wands drawn.
Then, silence.
Draco was the first to speak, voice shaky. "Tell me that wasn't—"
"Dementor," Harry said quietly, teeth gritted. "I can feel it."
But nothing came. No cold. No shadows.
Instead, a slow knock sounded on their door.
Draco stepped back. Harry moved closer, wand raised.
The door creaked open.
And there stood Professor Snape.
He looked annoyed.
"Fools," he muttered, sweeping inside. "You're both as reckless as ever."
Harry blinked. "Wait—you sent the Dementor illusion?"
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. But I had a feeling you'd attract something… inconvenient. So I came."
Draco looked like he had a dozen questions but wisely kept his mouth shut.
Snape's gaze passed between the two. "You are to start working together—effective immediately. Consider it a Headmaster's directive."
Harry looked incredulous. "You're forcing us to be friends now?"
"Hardly." Snape's voice turned dry. "But perhaps if you two spent more time solving real problems instead of antagonizing each other, you'd stay alive longer."
Draco bristled, but didn't argue. Harry just stared.
"And Potter," Snape added, eyes narrowing. "I know what that map is. And I also know that it shows more than you understand."
He flicked his wand, and parchment fluttered from his sleeve. The Marauder's Map. Harry's map.
Harry lunged for it instinctively. "How did you—?"
"Don't bother. I'm not here to confiscate it. I'm here to warn you."
Draco and Harry both leaned in.
"There are names on this map that should not appear. Names of the long-dead. You may think you're following Sirius Black—but what if someone else is watching you through the same map?"
Harry's blood went cold.
---
Back in the Slytherin dormitory, Draco sat on his bed, staring up at the canopy. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on his chest.
Harry was hiding something. Maybe more than one thing.
And that map—whatever it truly was—held clues to a bigger mystery.
More importantly, Snape was acting weird too. Tense. As though the whole school sat on the edge of something. Not just Black. Not just Azkaban.
Something deeper.
He turned over, reaching into the drawer beside his bed. Inside sat a crumpled, enchanted note that Harry had once thrown away, half-burned. Draco had found it weeks ago.
A name. A cryptic phrase. And one odd sentence that made no sense:
"He knew before it even began."
Draco didn't know who "he" was. But he had a feeling Snape might.
---
Meanwhile, Snape stood in his private quarters, gazing into the flickering fire.
The Marauder's Map rested on the desk beside him. His fingers hovered over the inked names.
He muttered a spell.
And there it was again.
In neat, cursed script.
Peter Pettigrew.
Still alive.
Still… near Harry Potter.
Snape's face darkened.
This timeline was slipping—deviating in tiny ways from what he remembered. Something—or someone—was interfering.
And he would find out who.