The Boy Who Lived

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Six:

"I thought we might start something new today," James informs the teens, "We'll get to the sparring in a bit, but Lily and I have been talking, and we both feel it would be beneficial for the three of you to learn the Animagus Transformation."

As Hermione's eyes light up with interest, Liam coughs awkwardly, shifts on his feet, and averts his gaze. Similarly, Harry stares at the ceiling, and his face is on fire.

Beside James, Sirius starts to laugh.

"Or not," James observes, "Henry? William? Do you have something to tell me?"

Liam and Harry share a glance. Harry tilts his head, questioning, Liam shrugs in response, and Harry sighs, resigned.

Liam clears his throat. "We might have started teaching ourselves in Third Year?"

"You don't sound so sure."

"We definitely started teaching ourselves in Third Year," Liam reiterates more confidently. Even as Hermione gapes at them as though they're an alien species, Liam is bolstered by Sirius' and Remus' evident good humour. James' face could probably be carved from marble though, and Harry doubts their father is as entertained.

When their mother - who'd been delayed at work - finds out, she certainly won't be.

"I cannot express how absurdly irresponsible that was," James says sharply, "You two could have been seriously hurt!"

"You lot did it," Liam counters mulishly. He's irritated by the reprimand, Harry is too,, but Liam's always had less qualms about expressing himself.

"Yes, and it was extremely dangerous," James replies, "I told you about all of our accidents as a cautionary tale; Not to encourage you to go ahead and repeat them. What in Merlin's name were you two thinking?"

"It was after Second Year," Harry explains carefully. Liam is silent beside him, a scowl on his face, "I suppose it was around then we realised Voldemort was eventually going to find a way to come back."

"He'd already nearly killed us," Liam contributes, "He didn't even have a body, and he was powerful enough to use wandless magic like it was nothing. We couldn't rely on the grown-ups to save us indefinitely-"

"Not that the Hogwarts staff ever did much of that to begin with," Harry interjects bitterly. He still has nightmares and scars from his various confrontations with Quirrell, from their sojourn into the Chamber of Secrets, from their assorted encounters with the dementors of Azkaban.

"-And I guess we wanted to be proactive. Our luck wouldn't - won't - last forever."

"That was the summer you two really committed to the training," Sirius recalls thoughtfully.

Harry nods his confirmation. That summer, they'd thrown themselves into the magical combat training, to their MMA lessons, into further developing their mental shields. They'd studied the theory behind the Animagus Transformation intensively, and in September of 1993, they'd begun the search for their respective spirit animals.

In many ways, the summer - and the search that ensued - had been exhausting and discouraging, but ultimately fruitful, and Harry and Liam had both learned a great deal from the experience. As such, despite expecting it, their father's reaction is somewhat disheartening.

He doesn't even seem curious.

"We didn't tell you because we figured you wouldn't help us."

"Bloody right we wouldn't have!" James exclaims, uncharacteristically vocal. Good-natured and mild-mannered, he's rather difficult to fluster normally - or at least, he's exceedingly good at hiding it - and so his outburst is somewhat startling.

"What do you want us to say?" Liam asks, "Neither of us are going to apologise, and it would be extremely hypocritical of you to expect us to."

James throws his hands up, resigned and frustrated and any number of other things, and stalks out of the room. Remus follows him with a rueful sigh, and it isn't until they're well out of hearing range that the silence is broken once more.

"What are your forms, then?" Sirius asks,curious.

"I'd rather not say," Harry says, as Liam opens his mouth to do just that. He's been looking forward to the opportunity to brag, "The less people who know, the less likely it will get out to anyone else."

Liam rolls his eyes, unsurprised by Harry's paranoia, but no less exasperated by it.

Sirius doesn't argue. He will later, when Hermione isn't present, but for now, he asks instead, "What have you managed so far?"

"Arms and legs," Liam replies, "I've got the tail down, Harry's managed his ears and nose. I guess we've been procrastinating with the rest…"

"Understandable," Sirius acknowledges, "The head and the torso are the hardest parts to manage, and the most dangerous."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione asks, focus on Liam. She sounds hurt, and witnessing this conversation is the last thing Harry wants to do today.

Sirius meets Harry's gaze with his own, and gestures for them to leave Liam and Hermione to their discussion.

Gratefully, Harry doesn't protest, and they wander over to another side of the training room, far out of hearing range of the other two. Neither notice.

"I wouldn't worry about your dad too much. He's proud of you two, really. It's just that the fact he knows all of the ways the transformation could have gone wrong doesn't sit well with his desire to smother you both in cushioning charms."

"I'm more worried about Mum, to be honest." He still feels guilty about disappointing and scaring their dad, so his godfather's certainty is reassuring, but Lily Evans-Potter is a force of nature. "She's terrifying."

"That she is," Sirius agrees, "You should count your blessings. SHe's gotten a lot less hex happy with age. She probably won't curse you."

"I'm sure that will help me sleep better at night," Harry replies glibly. He doesn't mention his mother's liberal use of the stinging hex when Harry and Liam were small. Sirius probably already knows about it, and if he doesn't, it's likely because James and Lily consider it none of Sirius' business.

"Glad to be of service," Sirius replies, and bows theatrically. When he straightens up, he has his wand in hand. "Think fast!"

As Sirius sends a stunning spell rocketing towards him, Harry lunges to the right on reflex, fumbles for his wand, and offers his godfather a disgruntled scowl. Sirius is undeterred though, and between dodging and shielding Sirius' unending chain of spells, and vainly attempting an offence of his own, Harry doesn't have much of an opportunity to express his displeasure.

"No fancy casting," Sirius reminds him. He looks entirely unruffled, and Harry sort of wants to punch him in the face, "Save that for the duelling circuit. In an actual fight, you want to stick to a handful of spells you can cast quickly, easily. You know this, Harry."

As Sirius continues with his barrage of hexes, Harry nods jerkily. He's created a list of spells to subdue an opponent, and he's also - with a great deal of hesitation - created a list of curses that have the potential to put someone down permanently. Each list is limited to 10 incantations, but Harry hasn't reached a point where he can cast them all with the same speed, accuracy, and magical output that Sirius is presently demonstrating, never mind doing so wordlessly, or in the form of apparently effortless spell-chains.

If Harry is honest with himself, it's hard to believe he ever will.

He's certainly not going to stop trying to reach that point, in any case. It's too important, too vital for the months - maybe years - ahead of them, and quite frankly, Harry is far too stubborn - too proud, really - to give up the training when he has already poured so much time and effort into the sessions. It's not in his nature to do so, and Harry can't imagine that will ever change.

"Focus, Harry," Sirius rebukes sharply. As he does so, a whip of blue flames snaps passed Harry's ear. It doesn't make contact, but Harry grits his teeth against the heat, chagrined all the same, "You need to stay alert, always. A fight is no place for daydreaming. Don't hesitate to get in close, either; Use those Martial Arts skills you've learned."

Harry shields against Sirius' next barrage of spellfire, but he's so intently focused on maintaining his defence that he doesn't notice Remus behind him until the stunning spell makes impact against his shoulder blade. The next thing he knows, he's on the ground, the Marauders crouched on either side of him.

"You alright there, Harry?" Sirius asks.

"Yeah," Harry replies, disappointed with himself. He sits up, eschewing their offered assistance, and reaches for his wand, "That was embarrassing, though."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Remus says, "It was a dirty trick, but I figure Death Eaters don't play fair, so it's something you ought to be prepared for."

"In that vein, we'll be working on your situational awareness for the rest of your holidays," Sirius contributes, "Constant vigilance, and all that."

Harry nods his acquiescence, casts his gaze over the room, and queries, "Where's Dad?"

Liam and Hermione are seated cross-legged on the other side of the room. Hermione is meditating - trying to, at least - but Liam is watching Harry, curious and concerned and sympathetic. Despite Remus' return, however, James is nowhere in sight.

"Your mum just got home," Remus explains, "I imagine he's informing her of your extra-curricular studies."

"Great,. I'm sure she's thrilled."

"You reap what you sow," Remus replies mildly. Harry grunts his acknowledgement, but he doesn't disagree, "I'd advise you brace yourself."

Harry's expression is sardonic. "You think?"

As Lily strides into the room beside James, incandescent with fury and still dressed in her robes for work, Remus doesn't get a chance to answer. Instead, the two canine Marauders and Hermione make themselves scarce, and Harry, indeed, braces himself. Beside him, Liam does too, and the united front of James and Lily Potter descend upon their sons with all of the anger and fear and disappointment Harry and Liam expected and then some, and it's terrible. There are tears, angry words, accusations, unanswerable questions, and by the time they are sent to their rooms, their punishments assigned, Harry is emotionally and mentally drained.

If the expressions on his parents' and brother's faces are anything to go by, Harry expects he's not the only one.

-!- -#-

Harry and Liam are barred from the climbing room, from flying, from Liam's art studio for two weeks. Any new magical projects they want to start have to be approved by James or Lily, they'll be cleaning the stables and taking care of the equines they keep there for the remainder of the Summer, and they're both expected to aid in guiding Hermione through the beginning stages of the Animagus Transformation.

Harry's not thrilled, particularly about teaching their houseguest, and it's still on his mind the following morning, through his jog with Liam, through their first round of chores (feeding the animals, mucking out stalls, sweeping up hay, grooming the horses, pegasi, and abraxins) ), through a late breakfast they eat outside, and through the shower Harry languishes in afterwards.

He's still stewing over it when he enters the library for he and Liam's next lesson with Charles, and the sight of Granger quizzing the portrait of he and Liam's grandfather doesn't help things.

Liam glances up as Harry drops into the seat beside him. He's freshly showered, as well, but he's slumped in his seat, and his acknowledging smile is weary.

"What's going on?"

"Hermione's asking Taid about what he did during World War II," Liam explains.

"She couldn't do that some other time?"

Liam rolls his eyes. "Can you stop looking for reasons to criticise everything she does?"

Harry grunts and pulls a face, but he doesn't protest the accusation. It's become something of a reflex over the years - a defence mechanism against her hostility - and it's not a habit he's willing to break just because they're sharing a living space. Quite frankly, he doesn't like Hermione Granger, and despite Liam's efforts, he can't imagine that will ever change.

Trust his brother to call him out on his attitude, though.

"Mum's coming home at lunchtime," Liam informs him, and the non sequitur is a surprise, "We're going shopping for some new clothes. The Greengrass' are coming for dinner tomorrow night."

Harry struggles to breathe, oddly winded. A lead weight has made itself known behind his sternum, and he rather feels like throwing up. "So soon?"

Liam shrugs, and tactfully doesn't point out how squeaky Harry's voice gets. "I suppose they want to sort things out as soon as possible."

"Great," Harry acknowledges dully. He's aware, of course, that the issue is rather urgent, but he'd not expected to have it shoved in his face so quickly.

Liam grimaces, sympathetic, but there are no words to say to make Harry feel remotely better, and so he averts his gaze, meets Charles' acrylic eyes over Hermione's head, and arches his eyebrows, expectant. In turn, the portrait of Charles winks in response, wraps up his conversation with the girl, and starts up yet another Government, Law, and Politics lesson.

As he does so, Harry takes up his fountain pen with a resigned sigh, sets aside thoughts of Daphne Greengrass and all that which goes with her, and settles in to listen, to take notes, and to learn all he can. Knowledge is power, after all, and with the weeks, months, and years ahead of them, he'll need every scrap of it he can get.

-!- -#-

Fyne Alley is a discreet, converted laneway off Diagon, with a series of boutiques and cafes that cater to the wealthy and the wealthier of Britain's magical community. It's quiet, absent of the street vendors that habitually crowd Diagon and Knockturn, but at the main entry point, a floo roars to life, and in short order, it spits out Lily, Harry, Liam, and Hermione.

Absently, Lily disperses the soot accumulated on herself and the teenagers, casts her gaze over the lane, and sets off at a brisk walk to reach their destination.

It's a nice day, sunny and clear in London, and Harry briefly regrets that they're not taking their time. He usually hates visiting Fyne Alley, forced to interact with the pretentious purebloods who usually frequent the lane, but outside of his sojourns to Qiang Sensei's dojo and his father's workshop, Harry's been mostly cooped up in Potter Manor, and the confinement - such as it is - has grown rather stifling. Lily Potter is a woman on a mission though, and given their grounding, Harry doesn't expect she'll let them linger for any longer than strictly necessary.

"I've made a booking at Twilfitt and Tattings," Lily informs them, "Given the growing you've done since the last Alliance dinner you attended, you'll each need whole new outfits. Hermione, that includes you, darling."

The last alliance dinner Harry and Liam had attended was before Hogwarts, when they'd been 10 years old. They'd been boring, tedious affairs, interspersed with the occasional argument between intoxicated Lords, Ladies, or Heirs, and Harry hasn't missed them.

Of course, Harry had started attending alliance meetings that summer, though those are less formal, more productive affairs than the dinners he remembers. But then, perhaps it's just that he's older now, with a greater understanding of the conversation, of the political and social connotations therein, but either way, it's not something he dwells on much.

"You really don't have to do that, Lady Potter," hermione demurs.

"I really do," Lily answers, "You're a ward of the House of Potter, and it's my and James' responsibility to ensure you dress the part."

"Only one of us has to be measured, right?" Liam asks before Hermione can protest further. He gestures between himself and Harry, expression hopeful, "I mean, we're identical. I can show Hermione around Fyne Alley, instead?"

Lily rolls her eyes, and replies blandly, "Nice try, Liam. You're all being fitted."

Liam slumps, dejected, and Harry laughs at his brother's disappointment. In turn, Liam pulls a face, but he grins and shrugs unapologetically a moment later, and banter good-naturedly the rest of the way to Twilfitt and Tattings.

The tailor's shop is a small, quiet store, without any pre-made clothing in sight. Instead, the front room is part sitting area, part fitting space, with an enormous clothing catalogue dominating a low table in the midst of the leather sofas. A thin, aged wizard stands behind a counter near the doors, and Lily approaches him confidently, undeterred by his haughty, rather unapproachable demeanour.

Liam glances at Harry, and queries, "Do you want to go first?"

Harry grunts, unenthusiastic, but acquiesces with a short nod. "Might as well."

Before he can get fitted though, his mother spends a good half hour discussing with Mr Tatting what would look best on Liam, Harry, and Hermione, deciding on colour schemes and everything else, and the minutes drag by. Liam fidgets restlessly, Harry daydreams, Hermione people watches from the front window, and Harry's almost relieved when his mother's increasingly lively discussion with Mr Tatting draws to a close.

"Are you ready?" Lily asks.

Harry considers the reasons for their presence there - dinner with Lord and Lady Greengrass and their family, the on-going negotiations for a betrothal contract no one really wants, the tedium that is acquiring new robes - and smiles mirthlessly. "As I'll ever be."

And as Harry steps onto the pedestal, as Mr Tatting sets to work acquiring his measurements, Harry wonders if anyone can ever be truly ready for an arranged marriage with a person they hardly know.

-!- -#-

Author's Note: Happy Birthday to me. Be kind. The HP fandom makes me so anxious these days. Lot's of trolls, y'see? Anyway, I'm supposed to be writing an essay, listening to a lecture, and doing some readings for a tutorial in the morning (studying online is a challenge, it turns out) but I'm not doing any of those things.

Rebel, that's me.

Take care of yourselves. It's a crazy world we're living in. Until next time, -t.

ps. Where is everyone? Not just readers/reviewers, but writers, too? Is no one else stuck at home for the foreseeable future?