The marauder's map is a mystery to most; even though having been created by four juvenile delinquents in the making, it is an enigma, yes, an unsolved puzzle. For though nobody could argue that the two donned Prongs and Padfoot were somewhat prodigies when it came to transfiguration, I still wonder why nobody questioned their magical breakthrough. I confess to never have been a fan of these marauders, but I am telling you honestly, when saying that, though the dunderheads had a generous amount of ability, they almost certainly brought their most unique feature to life by accident.
I remember the day they discovered the magic faintly, though at the time I was nothing but a, if somewhat insecure, potions genius. I remember it was a sunny day, sweltering to be precise, and that during our yearly lecture, the four had started to goof off.
"Oi-" Sirius Black muttered as he elbowed his companion in the side. Remus Lupin, the only academic of the four, had been the receiver of this hit, and he turned to the side, curiosity written plainly on his not-yet-furry face. You see, Remus Lupin was, and is a werewolf, and though that was something known only to his close friends, I still wonder, years later, how he kept his secret from all the others for the seven years of his education. Even now, his face scrunches up as he fibs. He is horrible at maintaining a neutral expression.
"Look, Snivvelus is writing to us!" Black said, pushing the familiar parchment in the werewolf's face. Lupin looked down, surprise obvious in his expression, for how could 'Snivvelus' have possession of their parchment?
Though smart, I do not think they had expected to come across an old face while instructing future troublemakers through their invention. To be honest, the four, though three would be a more appropriate term, were quite short-sighted in their operation, not even beginning to scrape the veracity of their achievement. This was the reason why when seeing the familiar spiky black handwriting of the child they tormented for his too-big clothes and greasy hair, they looked surprised, excited, and in the case of Peter Pettigrew, scared. (for what would their victim do to them while they were still weak, and he now powerful)
The words were simple; straight forward. "Professor Severus Snape, Potions master of this school, commands you to yield the information you conceal!" I must admit, I have always had a flair for drama, and had I been expecting a reply, I would have gone with something much more subtle. Instead, I had given the buffoons gold to work with, nuggets of information that could be used to insult.
It is a sacrifice for science that I sit in the Pensieve, watching again and again as my past tormentors insult me, striking in the places that have healed, yet are still raw. It is for magic, that I revise the painful events, jotting down all that could be part of the key to the frivolous time correspondence. For I know that if I crack this, I will get the reward I have ached for through most of my prime. I will get to apologize to my dear Lily.