It was sheer dumb luck that Harry overheard what he did. If Professor Snape hadn’t asked him to stay behind to discuss his essay, he would have left with the other students. He would already have been in the Great Hall when that particular exchange took place.

As it was, he emerged from the Potions classroom just in time to hear the faint echo of voices drifting up from further down the dungeon’s corridors. Freezing in his steps, for he’d recognised one of the voices, Harry was desperate to find somewhere to hide. There was no statue in sight, no angle to the dimly lit cobblestone corridor, a long, meandering, gloomy tube.

If only I had my cloak, Harry thought as he debated whether to stay or leave.

The voices were getting closer, and whoever was down there would see him if he stayed where he was any longer. And yet, he wanted to hear more of their conversation. Risking it all, he heaved in a deep breath as he pulled out his wand. The spell was simple enough, but saying it aloud was anything but. The students in the hallway would hear him as surely as he could hear them. Harry would have to do it nonverbally or leave. Those were his only two options.

Harry had paid attention to Professor Nine’s classes on nonverbal magic, and he’d read more than one book on the subject over the summer while he helped Saturnine structure the syllabus. But theory was one thing, and practice was another. Concentrating intently, with a death grip on his wand, he pointed the wooden tip at himself and cast the Disillusionment Charm in his head. Harry willed the spell to act as he wanted it to, envisioning its effect in his mind to help it come along. It was all about focus and clear intent.

He felt the charm slide over him like a second skin as he caught movement emerging from the darkness on his left. Holding his breath, Harry remained as motionless as a statue as three Slytherin students entered his field of vision.

It was Draco Malfoy and two of his snake friends—Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Both were sixth-year students from families with strong allegiances to the Dark Side.

“Hogwarts,” scoffed Malfoy. “What a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I’d pitch myself off the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue for another two years.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?" asked Parkinson. Her face hardened.

“Let’s just say that I don’t think you’ll see me waste my time in Charms Class next year,” Malfoy replied, his voice a sneering drawl.

Harry saw that the blond’s reply seemed to confuse Parkinson, and she glanced at Zabini with a puzzled expression. The dark-skinned boy snorted derisively in response.

“Amused, Blaise?” asked Malfoy haughtily. “We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end.”

And with that, they walked away loftily. They reminded Harry of regal couples he had seen on Muggle TV when he was a child. Parkinson’s back was taut, her arm entwined with Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s platinum-blond hair and fair skin provided a stark contrast to Parkinson’s chestnut curls and caramel skin. Harry watched them go with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

He’d been right the night of the Sorting Ceremony—Malfoy was up to something. What had his father been whispering in his ear? Harry wondered. The Malfoy patriarch—whom Harry knew to be a loyal Death Eater—wasn’t simply evil. He was part of Voldemort’s inner circle—one of his most trusted lieutenants. Whatever nefarious plans the Dark Lord had cooked up in his dank basement, Lucius Malfoy surely knew about them. And Harry had little doubt now that he’d told his son all about them.

As he moved back out of the dungeon’s hallways, Harry removed the Disillusionment Charm and vowed to keep a close eye on Draco Malfoy. Now, more than ever, he needed to know what ferret-boy was up to.

***

The Dark Lord wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve. Harry had them, too—or rather, he had some invaluable inheritances. His father’s Invisibility Cloak, for one, allowed him to prowl the castle at night without triggering the teachers’ wrath. They couldn’t punish students they couldn’t see. Another useful item was the Marauder’s Map that his father had created with Remus Lupin’s and Sirius Black’s help.

The map, a magical parchment, revealed all of Hogwarts. It indicated not only each classroom, hallway, and castle corner but also every inch of the grounds. Everything, from the secret passages concealed within its walls to the location of every person on the grounds, was represented by a labelled dot. If Harry was ever caught with this artefact in his hand, he knew he’d serve detention with Filch until the very last day of his seventh year.

Looking at the other four-poster beds to make sure that his roommates were asleep, he closed the red and gold curtains on his own before sitting cross-legged atop the blanket. Then, tapping the map with the tip of his wand, Harry recited the words that would activate the enchanted parchment. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he said, and the familiar greetings of Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs appeared on the front.

For all its utility, the Marauder’s Map was a nightmare to use during the day, when moving, overlapping dots littered every inch of the vellum surface. But at times like these—way past curfew, when most students were dark lumps of ink in their respective dorms—it was easier to see who wasn’t where they ought to be. Harry scanned the dungeons area first. Professor Snape was in his rooms, and the hallways were deserted. The Great Hall was equally devoid of life, and the only person roaming the ground floor was a patrolling Argus Filch, who paced near the front doors.

Aside from Professor Burbage patrolling the third floor and what seemed to be a class on its way to the Astronomy Tower for some late-night stargazing, no one was in the castle tonight. Even the Aurors, it would seem, had retreated to their assigned quarters for now.

Placing his cloak back in his trunk, for he wouldn’t be needing it tonight, Harry heaved out a sigh. Standing up, he looked through the window, and his gaze caught the bright moon that lit the night. It was full, and he spared a thought for his friend, Remus Lupin, who was surely having a worse night than he was.

Harry knew he wouldn’t be seeing much of the werewolf again for the next couple of months—not until the Christmas break, at least. Over the summer, he’d grown used to having him drop by Cove Cottage every now and then for tea in the afternoon. And he loved it when Remus stayed over for supper so that they could spend the evening playing board games. Mr Moony had shared many stories with him during their afternoon walks outside. He’d told Harry about his time spent at Hogwarts alongside Mr Prongs and Mr Padfoot, Harry’s deceased father and godfather, respectively. The boy lived for those moments—those precious few memories that helped him flesh out his father in his mind’s eye. But the memory tap had run dry, and Harry wouldn’t be getting any new content for weeks to come. Or would he?

Glancing at the map, he let his gaze travel to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, finding it predictably empty. The third-floor office was equally bare, as were the teacher’s living quarters next to it. Saturnine was nowhere in sight, he realised. He hadn’t caught her name anywhere else on the bewitched parchment. So, he knew that she wasn’t patrolling the grounds. Scanning the map once more, Harry wondered why she had left the castle. He fleetingly wondered if maybe it had to do with Remus. As she knew of his affliction, maybe she helped him out with it, like she used to when they lived in France.

Closing the map again, he tapped it with his wand and said, “Mischief managed.” The ink bled out of the document until it was blank once more. Harry folded it and placed it securely further down inside his trunk before closing the lid and muttering a spell that would stop intruders from trying to pry it open.

Moving back to his four-poster bed to lie down beneath the blanket, Harry fleetingly wondered if he should tell anyone what he’d overheard earlier in the dungeons. But who could he tell? His friends would say that he was paranoid, the headmaster couldn’t be bothered with something so trivial, and Saturnine—well, it seemed the dark-haired witch had agendas of her own to carry out. Harry would be nothing more than a distraction at that stage, a thorn in her side. Remembering that he was sixteen years old now, he decided that he was more than capable of handling the situation on his own.

Whatever Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry was onto him like a Niffler looking for gold.

***

Harry was luckier the following evening. He opened the Marauder’s Map just in time to see the lone dot bearing Draco Malfoy’s name sneaking out of the Slytherin common room. Harry was out of the Gryffindor dorms, cloak bulging from his pocket, before Malfoy had time to make it to the ground floor level.

He had no idea where Malfoy was going at such a late hour, but he was determined to find out. Slipping out of the portrait-hole with the cloak now securely tossed over his shoulders, Harry moved to the stairs quickly. Map in one hand, wand in the other, he navigated the treacherous stairs while keeping an eye out for his target. His majesty of the snakes, he saw, was now busy making his way to the Grand Staircase.

“Where are you going, ferret-boy?” Harry muttered between two breaths, as he rushed down Gryffindor Tower in a flurry of hurried steps. Careful not to march on the hem of his cloak, he forced himself to slow down some to avoid certain death when the stairs decided to move to the left.

When the map showed that Malfoy had reached the third floor, Harry got off the stairs and into one of the fifth-floor corridors. He didn’t want to run into him on the stairs. Huffing and puffing as Harry was, he didn’t trust himself to remain inconspicuous in such a tight space. Eyes glued to the light-brown parchment, he tracked Malfoy’s progress. The Slytherin kept going up, and soon enough, Harry saw him walking by, going further up.

Harry had just enough time to catch the tired, worn-out look on Malfoy’s face when the stairs lurched to the side again, forcing the blond out of view. He heard him utter a low curse at that. Then the soft padding of his shoes hitting the steps resumed as Malfoy kept going up. Harry counted to twenty in his head. Then he went after him.

Both boys kept going up until they ran out of stairs as they reached the seventh floor, and Harry had a sinking feeling he knew where Malfoy was going. Not needing the map to help him navigate the familiar corridor—for he knew the area well—he gave it only the barest of glances to make sure he was still on target. When he saw Malfoy’s dot walk past the same area three times in a row, Harry knew he’d been right—the bloody bastard was aiming for the Room of Requirement. An instant later, his dot disappeared through a wall, confirming Harry’s suspicions. The young Gryffindor swore under his breath. He couldn’t follow Malfoy inside without knowing what kind of room the Slytherin had wished for.

Folding his map and securing it away in one of his pockets, Harry was at a loss for what to do. Even if he stayed here all night, he wouldn’t learn anything new. And even if he stuck around until Malfoy came back out—which could take hours—he still wouldn’t know what he’d been up to. He would have to content himself with watching Malfoy walk down the stairs until he reached the dungeons.

It was pointless, and in frustration, Harry removed his useless cloak and turned on his heel. He’d barely finished rounding the next corner when a bright light exploded in front of him, effectively blinding him. He grimaced in pain as he brought a hand up to shield his eyes. He cursed himself inwardly when he realised he’d been caught out of bed, past curfew, by a member of the staff.