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“Georgie,” Fred whispered, arching a brow and digging his elbow into his brother’s ribs as soon as they poured out of Filch’s office. “Have a look.”
“Well then,” George remarked, eyeing the worn piece of parchment in his twin’s hand. “A whole drawer of confiscated items and you thought the blank bit of parchment was probably best?” He reached for it, giving it a skeptical once-over. “For this I wasted a dungbomb?”
“A dungbomb at the inconvenience of Filch is never a dungbomb wasted,” Fred told him smartly. “Anyway, considering the drawer, there’s obviously more to it. Unlike you,” he added, nudging him. “Who possess nothing beneath your stunningly handsome facade.”
“A handsomeness that I wear better, by the way,” George assured his twin, not looking up. “Hm,” he murmured to himself. “If it were me, I would- ”
He stopped, frowning in thought.
“Oh good,” Fred said, fighting a yawn. “I was hoping you’d come to an abrupt stop.” He leaned against the wall, kicking one leg out to cross it over the other. “Frankly, if it weren’t for your unerring mystery, I’d have run off a long time ago.”
George raised his wand and tapped it against the parchment. “Revelio,” he muttered, and then watched as a series of words began to spread across the page.
No, it said. Don’t feel like it.
“That’s fair,” Fred remarked, watching over his twin’s shoulder. George hummed thoughtfully, trying again.
“Please reveal yourself?” asked George, to which Fred permitted a single delicate scoff.
“That’s your brilliant plan?” Fred prompted dubiously. “To say ‘please’? And then what, it’ll just- ”
He broke off as the scripted lettering reappeared on the page.
Well, look, they’ve at least got a sense of general politeness, Moony, a new script continued. Surely that’s an improvement over the last horrid invasion of privacy.
Padfoot, a third script contributed messily, just because a person has got some semblance of manners -
Which, for the record, a fourth contributed, you don’t, Prongs.
OH I’M SORRY WORMTAIL, I DIDN’T REALIZE I’D MADE ANY SORT OF REQUEST TO BE UNCEREMONIOUSLY JUDGED BY MY PEERS BUT BY ALL MEANS, CARRY ON -
In fairness, Prongs, the first set of lettering interrupted, nobody asked you.
I know that, Moony - and don’t think I’m happy about that, either!
“Uh,” George said, tapping the map again. “My name is George, and I would love for you to reveal your secrets.”
“You’d love it?” Fred echoed, making a face.
Well, George, that’s all well and good, but you’re hardly the first person to have asked. Which, for the record, is something I knew would happen. This is what I was saying, Moony, exclusivity! People clamor for it!
He’d ‘love’ it, though? I don’t know. I’m not convinced.
“That’s fair,” Fred commented, smirking.
George sighed. “I swear not to tell anyone what this parchment contains if you reveal it to us,” he attempted.
OOOH, getting warmer. Moony. Moony. Moony -
I’m listening, Padfoot. I’m right here.
I like George. I think George shows promise.
Oh, so GEORGE you like, Wormtail, but I’M just a dearth of manners wrapped up in a set of rippling muscles, then, am I?
Prongs, I want to be very clear that I said nothing about muscles.
WHICH, AGAIN, I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT.
Fred and George exchanged a glance.
Prongs, is there any way you could, you know … not?
I’m offended that you would even ask me that, Moony.
Unsurprising.
Do we even really know this George, though? I mean, what do we know about him other than he’s mucking about in our business?
True. Wormy’s right - George could be a murderer.
Or worse! A Prefect!
Did you just -
UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, IT WOULD BE WORSE. I stand by it.
You shouldn’t.
Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn’t. If I stopped to catalogue them I’d never get anything done.
“I’m certainly not a Prefect,” George said hastily. “In fact, I’m - ” he paused, glancing at Fred. “Well, I’m up to no good, really.”
Oh really? Moony, did you hear that? Moony. Moony. Moony -
Yes, Padfoot, I’m right here -
Did you hear him?
What part of ‘I’m right here’ is unclear?
I simply worry you’re missing the gravity of the situation, Moony.
Of what situation?
The situation of being.
Being?
Yes. Time, Moony.
Time?
I feel we’ve gotten off track.
I’d agree, but that would make me agreeable.
Nobody would ever accuse you of that, Prongs.
Honestly, it’s a wonder I can even manage to stand considering your constant stream of BRUISING REMARKS -
Well, in any case - do you swear it, George?
“Look,” Fred said, nudging him. “That’s you.”
“Yes,” George said, beginning to wonder what on earth the parchment could possibly contain. “I swear I’m up to no good.”
Hm. Okay. Well -
How do you swear it, George? In what manner?
Are we doing hints now? My god we’ve sunk incredibly. We’ve devolved to the depths of boredom.
Leave your depths out of it, Moony, we’re doing a thing.
“Handsomely,” Fred said hopefully.
“I handsomely swear that I’m up to no good?” George echoed skeptically. “Really?”
Personally, I’d accept that.
I worry about your standards, Padfoot.
Interesting that you would say that, Moony.
Stop.
“I fervently swear,” George offered.
Sounds like a Prongs-ism.
He’s not wrong. I do like my swearing to have a certain feverish urgency about it.
Oh, so that you’re not offended by, then?
How dare you, Padfoot, how dainty do you think I am?
Honestly?
Eh, no.
Thought so.
“I intently swear,” Fred suggested. “No, marvelously. Frantically.” He paused. “Ah, wait, solemnly - ”
George snapped his fingers. “I solemnly swear,” he agreed, nodding quickly.
VINDICATIONNNNNNNNN
“That’s it,” Fred said excitedly, pulling the map towards him. “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good.”
They watched the words spread across the parchment, their breaths temporarily caught in their throat.
Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
“These four are lunatics,” George commented, shaking his head.
“Brill,” Fred said, grinning. “Now,” he added, eyeing the one-eyed crone across the corridor, “about fulfilling that oath … ”