Obsessive Fixation? I Prefer the Term 'Talent'.
Author's Note and Disclaimer: This is kind of strange piece for me as generally I focus on Sirius, but the other marauders were begging to be written about. I love stories that delve a little bit deeper into the lives of the marauders (given that canon leaves endless possibilities open). This is my attempt, it may or may not hit the target, we'll see. Also, I want to apologize for my faux-Bristish slang. I try to add in slang to make the story seem a bit more natural, but I have really no idea whether some of the slang words used in this story would have been realistic for teenagers in the 70's to use.
Disclaimer: If I had been clever enough to come up with Harry Potter by myself, would I really have to walk my academic advisor's dog for money? True story. Also, regarding Remus' hidden talent, I remember reading a story a few years ago that made a short reference to Remus learning self-defense (I believe it may have been Kaydi's "My Name is Sirius Black," but it's a very long fic and it would take a while to look it up specifically. If I'm mistaken, and you know the story that references Remus and self-defense, please tell me) and I found the idea very realistic, so I decided to expand on it in my own way.
"Legitimate use of violence can only be that which is required in self-defense." – Ron Paul
When one grows up with a condition as hated and feared as lycanthropy, one must be prepared for a death threat or two. Or, you know, an entire village rioting against him with pitchforks. Needless to say, the Lupin family never stepped food in Landes, France again. Remus was bitten when he was very young, but not even his diminutive stature kept people from fearing him – there was a werewolf lurking inside that tiny boy, after all. Alicia and Gideon Lupin had braced themselves for the inevitable day Remus would be threatened, but they never imagined that it would be so soon as his seventh birthday. Alicia had been calmly reading a book in the house when she heard muffled yelling from outside. She peeked through the window drapes and gasped when she saw Remus surrounded by five older boys who had trapped him and were kicking at him. Alicia ran out the front door just in time to hear one of the boys say, "Why don't you just fucking kill yourself before you kill one of us, you monster?" as he spat at Remus and landed another solid kick.
"You get away from him, you little bastards!" Alicia Lupin was not someone who normally swore, especially not at young adolescents, but seeing her child bleeding and crying on the grass snapped something in her brain and she chased the boys off her lawn, wand out and ready. After the boys had run off in separate directions, Alicia knelt down to her son, hands out but afraid to touch. How could she even pick him up without hurting him more? Alicia stuck out her wand and signaled for emergency aid. The mediwizards arrived a short time later and took Remus to the local wizarding hospital – he was put in the ward for werewolves, of course. Remus came home a few days later, but it took Alicia weeks to gather the courage to ask her son the question that had been plaguing her since that day. She wasn't sure how to ask it without sounding callous, but Remus had always been a sensible child, so she simply asked him straightforwardly.
"Dear, why did you not fight back? I know for a fact that you could have."
Werewolves exhibit many features that normal humans do not, and among these features is enhanced strength. Not the 'move a mountain' kind of strength, but the 'can easily lift three time his body weight' kind of strength. Any other child would have been outmatched by five boys, but Remus could have easily gotten in at least a few good hits, and yet he didn't even try.
The seven-year-old was a silent for a while before answering, "Because they would have been even more afraid of me. I know I'm a lot stronger than them and I would just hurt them real bad."
Alicia's heart broke for her son, both because of his kindness but also because of the unjustness of the entire situation, Merlin, the unjustness of her son's life. Suddenly, she was then struck with an idea. The tormentors and harassers were never going to go away, and Remus' uncanny strength would always be a part of him, so why not learn how to control it? Gideon thought the idea was marvelous and the next week Remus found himself learning self-defense from Herodotus Kline, an ex-auror who was a neighbor of the Lupin family. Over the course of the three years that the Lupins lived in Ayrshire, Kline taught Remus how to control his strength, how to use it only when of the utmost necessity, and how to defend himself against the fists of his attackers. Years later, Remus would meet Kline again through Nymphadora. Though his former mentor was now hunched-over with age and silver-haired, he still looked at Remus and smirked, quipped that Remus had gotten out of shape, and asked for a sparring session. Nymphadora smiled and laughed hysterically as Kline brought Remus to the floor.
Remus repeatedly considered offering Sirius a self-defense lesson or two, but to do so would be to acknowledge the problems Sirius faced at home, and good luck to anyone who tried to get Sirius to talk about it. The Marauders eventually learned never to bring it up, and Sirius managed alright on his own (up til Christmas of '76, anyways). Instead, Remus found his student in the form of a bullied Ravenclaw first year. He ran into the poor kid, Gerard, one night on Prefect duty as the boy was being ruthlessly harassed by a particular group of Slytherin sixth-years. Remus managed to get him to admit that this was a regular occurance, though Gerard adamantly refused to tell Dumbledore about it. Remus instead made a deal with him. He taught him the basic moves and ducks, and gradually Gerard showed up in the hospital wing less and less (Remus spent an awful lot of time there, both because of his condition and because his best mates were morons with no sense of self-preservation), and it made the long hours of training and putting off his own work to help Gerard worth it.
Remus preferred not to let the other Marauders know about his self-defense skills. Sirius would have dismissed it and said that spellwork was superior (though Remus had seen Sirius resort to fist fighting more than a few times), and James probably would have tried to pay him to go after his Slytherin enemies. No, Remus was happy keeping his ability to himself – well, to himself and whatever unwise sod that tried to attack him.
"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance." - Japanese Proverb
Progeny of such pure breeding and honorable traditions must be rigorously taught in not only intellectual pursuits, but also in the graceful skills of art and music. Sirius Black, despite his adamant denials, was as well-versed in all of these areas as any other pure-blood child. He knew every rule of etiquette and every word of the noble and ancient family verses. He did his damnedest to hide these particular talents from the other Marauders; after all, Sirius Black was a manly-man. He liked quidditch, motorcycles, firewhiskey, and pretty girls. He practically had testosterone leaking out of every pore, in his opinion at least. He was a manly-man, and manly-men did not know how to dance to the Wizard's Waltz or the Flamel Foxtrot. His parents had been adamant that he learn those bloody dances; he was forced to practice for hours at a time, and he grew to hate them. He would rather forget those deeply ingrained dance steps than actually acknowledge his ability.
Try as he might, though, he couldn't deny the smile that crept onto his face during the gyrations of the mambo or the heart-racing pace of the lindy hop. Andromeda introduced him to the world of dancing that had been deemed too unbecoming and inappropriate by the rest of his family. Andromeda loved the culture of muggle swing dancing. She taught Sirius all kinds of steps, from the sling shot to the heel break. Visiting Andromeda was one of the few things Sirius actually looked forward to while home on breaks. It had all come to an end, of course, when she eloped with Ted Tonks and was blasted from the tapestry with particular viciousness courtesy of Walburga Black. Years later, when Andromeda and Sirius finally met again, it never occurred to her to ask him to dance – the teenagers they once were had been lost to the ravages and ruins of time. Imagine Andromeda's surprise when Sirius asked her, instead. She put on a muggle record, and though there was a little less energy behind their steps, there was no less heart.
Sirius had kept his dancing ability a secret from his dormmates for nearly seven years, his manly-man reputation for the most part intact (The exception being when he had been caught cuddling Anita Greybeard's new kitten; but come on, it was so bloody soft). He would have gotten away with it, too, had it not been for Lily asking James to be her date to Petunia's wedding. James had been tripping over his own two feet for the last half hour trying to master the most basic moves of the box-step, and he was driving Sirius completely nutters. Apparently James' family had not been so insistent on him learning the finer arts as a child. Lucky.
Finally, after the eighth time James fell on his own arse, Sirius simply walked over to him and said, "Stand up, you daft sod." James simply glared up at him from the floor, irritably rubbing his elbow, angrier at the ground than anything else. Sirius extended his hand down to James and flipped his palm. "Hurry up, my offer to teach you how to dance is about to be revoked."
James continued glaring up at Sirius. "This isn't a joke, Padfoot. Lily's sister's wedding is in two weeks and you know that this is a big deal. She's never asked me to meet her family before and I've got to make a decent impression."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure you'll make a lovely impression when you try to dance with Lily and end up tripping over her and onto the cake table," Sirius smugly replied, grinning over his shoulder at the third occupant of the room when Remus chuckled. Remus, too, had been watching the spectacle of the last thirty minutes, torn between sympathy and schadenfreude.
"Do you think you can do much better, Sirius?" Remus asked, semi-grateful for the distraction from his advanced ancient runes homework.
Sirius ignored him and turned back to James. "Alright, mate, feet like this." Sirius made an example of his own feet and James followed suit. He continued, "Now, pretend I'm Evans. Put your hand here on my waist," James hesitated and looked at him like he was either insane or a poofter.
Sirius rolled his eyes, "Moaning Merlin, Prongs, do you want to learn to dance or not? This is a final offer – I've got better things to do with my time than seduce one of my mates, anyway. Just put your hand here and deal with it. This is how people learn to dance."
James was just desperate enough that he was willing to follow Sirius' instructions and by midnight he was no longer falling on his arse, though his technique still looked a bit like a wooden marionette trying to maneuver across the floor. Sirius continued rattling off dance terms, and it was worth the miniscule loss of his manly-man-ness to see the astonished expression on Remus' face. Two weeks later, James could pass for a reasonable dancer, as long as no one expected him to do more than box-step. Lily was impressed, her parents were pleased, and James got invited back to another family gathering a few months later. The rest, they say, is history.
"Life is like a piano. What you get out of it depends on how you play it." - Tom Lehrer
Sirius wasn't the only one of the marauders with a manly-man complex, nor was he the only one brought up with a solid background in the arts. Despite what Sirius may think, James Potter was equally as trained in art and music as his best mate was. His parents introduced him to a number of instruments growing up, eventually settling on the piano. From ages five to eleven he had thrice-weekly piano lessons, working his way up from Gandlegough's Youth Primer to the long, intense Sonatas of Eziack Grey. After starting Hogwarts, James told himself that it was time to give up the piano; after all, only nancy boys played it, Sirius said so. He avoided thinking about anything musical for the first few months of the school year, but by November his fingers were itching to play, even if just a few chords or arpeggios. Quite by accident, he found his Grand black beauty in one of the long-neglected rooms of the south corridor, fifth floor. She was covered in dust and nauseatingly out of tune, but with some quick spellwork she was perfect. His hands touched the keys and without even thinking about it, his fingers began playing a quick, lively piece. His feet were tapping to the rhythm and he smiled, no one had to know he was a piano-playing nancy boy.
He continued these semi-weekly trysts with Clara (his pet name for the majestic grand piano) for the next six years, evading discovery by his mates time and time again. The only one to ever figure out his secret pastime was the lovely Lily Evans. He had been trying to get Lily to go on a date with him since roughly the second year, and so far none of his attempts had been successful. At best she would simply dismiss him, at worst she would curse him with an itchy rash hex. He had tried to impress her through various means, though none had been successful. He certainly would never tell her about his piano playing; she would never be able to look at him again without busting up laughing. Well, that's what he thought, anyway. James Potter was rather clueless about women, it seems. It was one night during April of his sixth year when he was caught red-handed (or black and white handed, rather). He had just finished the final bar of a particularly energetic piece when he saw her reflection in the polished varnish of the black piano. He froze, trying to come up with any kind of excuse as to why he was playing a piano at midnight like some kind of reclusive loony, but stopped when he saw that she wasn't laughing, she was smiling. And it wasn't even sardonic!
"Scoot over," Lily said, and James was too dumbfounded to do anything but obey.
Lily's long fingers began playing a beautiful melody James had never heard before. Her hands seemed to ghost over the keys in rapid, flowing movements. James was stunned, and maybe a little more in love, if that was possible. To his disappointment, the song was over much too soon, and Lily placed her hands on her lap, looking at him, looking at the piano, then back at him.
James managed to rediscover the ability to speak. "What was that?"
Lily smiled at him again. Merlin, a real smile. One more of those and James was going to have a heart attack. "A piece by Mozart, No. 24."
James must have looked confused at the mention of this random bloke Mozart because Lily continued on, "He's a very famous muggle composer from the 18th century. Have you really never heard of him?"
Years later, Lily would joke that that night was the first time she decided James wasn't actually as huge a prat as she thought. When Lily agreed to go on a real date with James to Hogsmead, Sirius asked him what he did to finally get Evans to change her mind. James just shrugged and said that she had seen him playing quidditch one day and realized what a real man he was. Sirius had snorted disbelievingly and walked on to class. James never mentioned anything about piano and Mozart to the other marauders, but he continued playing the ivories faithfully until the dark October night that Voldemort came banging down his door.
"There's no such thing as a good gun. There's no such thing as a bad gun." -Charlton Heston
Peter's ears rang and his shoulder ached from the kick of the .12 gauge. He lowered the shotgun and smiled as he saw a hole near the center of the board. Almost there, a little to the left, maybe. He reloaded the shotgun and raised it again, adjusting it a bit for the force of the wind, lined up the sight, and pulled the trigger. Right on center. Unlike his friends, Peter did not have many easily-seen talents. He did not have Remus' singing or studying abilities, or James' quidditch skills, or Sirius' endless charm and charisma. What he did have was three generations of marksman blood running through his veins. He shot his first pistol when he was seven and he never stopped since. There was something incredibly cathartic about the kick of the shotgun and the loud crack of a round leaving the chamber. Most people jumped at percussive bangs of a firing gun, Peter just found it relaxing like a lullaby.
He wanted to tell the other Marauders about his talents so badly, but people born in the wizarding world had no appreciation for guns, some wizards didn't even know such things existed. And maybe a part of him was selfish, maybe he didn't want his mates to know about the world of target shooting because that would just be something else for them to master and get attention for, leaving him in the dust.
He resented those who looked down on him because of his hobby. They viewed guns as dangerous and evil, but a gun was only something to be feared when in the hands of someone with either inexperience or ill-will. Peter was neither of those. His only victims were pieces of paper, clay pigeons, and glass bottles. He'd never actually shot anything with a heart beat, and he was proud of that. He didn't understand how someone could look another living being in the eye and pull the trigger.
During his time with the Order of the Phoenix, Peter once brought up the possibility of outfitting the members with handguns. He reasoned that the death eaters would never see it coming, being so used to wand dueling and all. Sirius, the arse, just laughed at his face. The rest of the Order looked at him a bit queasily and attempted to redirect the conversation. Peter looked at Lily, the only other muggle-born, and pleaded his case with her. Lily looked at him and said, "Guns can't beat wands, Peter."
Years later, while working for Voldemort, Peter was ordered to kill one of the unfaithful Death Eaters. He used his Colt 1911 pistol to do it. One shot, right on the mark.