As always, I own nothing, and Maggie is awesome.

James

Saying that James Sirius Potter had a penchant for mischief was like saying that Merlin was a fairly well known wizard. When James was barely able to walk, he somehow pushed over all the bookcases in his father's study. When he was three, he set fire to the broomshed. When he was four, he magicked his little brother to their bedroom ceiling and it took his parents 45 minutes to figure out how to get him down. And that was all before he reached the age where his mischief became deliberate.

"James," he remembered his father saying in a resigned but conversational tone after he had been caught putting slugs in Lily's bed at the age of six, "do you enjoy causing mayhem?"

"I dunno," James had said. "What's 'mayhem' mean?"

"Chaos. Destruction. Trouble. Things that make your little sister shriek."

"Oh," James had said. "Then yes."

His parents had taught him to answer questions honestly, so he hadn't been able to understand why his answer had made his mother laugh and his father bury his face in his hands.

He understood later, of course, but by then, it was widely acknowledged that James was simply going to cause trouble, whether he intended to or not (he usually did). James embraced it; he'd meant what he'd said when he was six – there was something he really did enjoy about hearing the shriek that indicated a prank well-played.

He'd heard more stories over the course of his life than his parents had ever wanted him to about his namesakes and all the trouble they'd gotten up to in their lives, and James had long aspired to achieving that level of notoriety. So it may have been an understatement to say that James Sirius Potter had a penchant for mischief, but that didn't make the statement any less true.

It was through his penchant for mischief that James found out the truth about his dad.

When James was ten, he and his dad went Christmas shopping, just the two of them, and his dad made him go into an old people's shop, full of boring, breakable things, and yeah, Dad told him not to touch anything, but the perfume bottles were lined up so perfectly they looked just like dominoes, and well, what would you have done?

"James!" His dad's voice was sharp and long-suffering, and James froze, his hand still raised in an incriminating posture, a line of knocked over perfume bottles leading directly from his fingers to the broken glass and sweet-smelling puddle on the shop floor. "Did I or did I not tell you not to touch anything?"

James had learned in four years when his parents were asking questions that shouldn't be answered, but even if he'd intended to respond, he wouldn't have had a chance, because the sound of breaking glass summoned the shop owner, who started berating James's father for not watching his son more carefully, for letting him wander and touch breakable objects, for being responsible for what sounded like complete destruction of half the shop — until he saw who James's father actually was.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" he said in alarm, his tone and manner changing entirely. "I – I'm so sorry, so sorry, I didn't see it was you. Please, accept my apologies."

James frowned. Why should who his dad was have anything to do with it?

But his father spoke over the man, saying, "No, the apologies are mine. And my sons's." James felt a weight on his shoulders, firm and heavy, and he knew he was in trouble. His dad didn't do the double-shoulder-hand-rest lightly. James focuses on his shoes. "James," his dad said sharply, expectant.

"Sorry," James muttered.

"Oh, no, no, no," the shop owner said quickly, all smiles now. "It was my fault – too tempting for a young boy, too precariously placed. An accident, I'm sure."

For a moment, James actually thought he might get away with it, but his father's next words banished that thought.

"Well, I'm less sure," he said, still in that steely voice. "I know my son, so please, tell me the cost of the perfume, and the damages to the rug."

"Truly, Mr. Potter, there is no need for you to pay."

"Oh, I won't be paying," James's dad said, and James felt a new dread growing in the pit of his stomach, sparked into existence by firmer pressure from his father's hands. "I am going to be using this incident as an opportunity to teach my son a lesson in responsibility."

And now the dread was fully pronounced. And in a matter of minutes, the shop owner had named a price that seemed excessive for a little bit of smelly water and an old rug, and his father was steering James forcefully out of the shop.

"Dad, this is totally unfair!" James protested. "Either one of you could have waved your wand and fixed it in a heartbeat!"

"That isn't the point, James," his dad said in a firm voice, stopping on the walk and kneeling down so he was level with his son. "Just because we have the ability to repair items does not give us permission to destroy them in the first place. Not everything that is destroyed can be fixed with the wave of a wand, and what belongs to others deserves our respect, as surely as the people themselves do. That is why you will be paying for the damages you caused."

"But I don't even have four and a half Galleons!"

"I know," his dad said. "Which is why I'll be withholding your pocket money for the next nine weeks."

"C'mon, Dad! That's not fair —"

"How is it not fair?" This was not one of those rhetorical questions — it was one of the other ones, the ones that were supposed to be answered, even if James didn't really have an answer to give.

"He wasn't even gonna make us pay for it," James muttered, kicking at the sidewalk. "You talked him into it – why not take something for free if it's offered?"

"Because the money isn't the issue," his dad said firmly, "and I've had enough free handouts in my life." He stood then, brushing off the knees of his robes, and steered James with one hand on his shoulder down the street. James let himself be led along, still smarting from the punishment, but his dad's words had made him wonder.

"Why wasn't that guy gonna make you pay?" he asked.

"Maybe because he recognized that young boys can be careless and thoughtless on occasion?"

"No, because it was when he saw it was you," James stressed. "Did you know him?"

"No," his dad said shortly.

"But he knew you?" James asked. His dad sighed.

"Yes."

"How did he know you if you didn't know him?" James said, pushing for answers. "Are you, like, famous? Because," – he was gathering steam now, putting things together – "people recognize you all the time, lots of people, and I thought you just knew them all, but you don't, do you? So what—"

"James," his dad interrupted, "if you want a ride home, I suggest you stop talking, focus, and hold on tight."

"I don't think I do want a ride home," James muttered, "since you're just gonna sit me down with Mum and make me have a serious conversation."

"Hang on," his dad said, and James wrapped his arms around his father's waist, feeling the familiar tug and pull of Side-Along Apparition. They appeared in their garden, and his dad marched him straight into the kitchen.

"Hello," James's mother said when they entered. "You're home a bit early, aren't you?"

"Yes," his father said. "We are. And James has something to tell you, don't you, James?"

"Yeah," James said immediately. "Dad won't tell me why he's famous."

His mother's eyebrows shot up, even as his dad said, "Not was I was referring to, James."

In the end, just as James had feared, they sat down and had a long, serious conversation that answered his mum and dad's questions, but none of his own, and if James hadn't been a master-class sneaker, he wouldn't have found anything out.

But that night, after he and Al and Lily were all in bed and supposed to be asleep, James sneaked from his room and down the hall, to listen at the crack under his parents' bedroom door. He'd seen enough that afternoon to guess that his parents would be talking about him after they'd gone to bed, and he was right.

"Harry, you have to tell him sometime," James heard his mother say. "He's started asking questions; he's not going to accept being kept ignorant for much longer. More than that, he deserves to know, and more than that, he needs to know. He can't go to Hogwarts being the only person who doesn't know who Harry Potter is."

"Why not? I did," James heard his dad say, and he was pretty sure it was a joke; it sounded like what he'd heard his Aunt Hermione call 'dry humor' once.

"Harry," his mother said simply, and his dad sighed a heavy sigh that James could hear even through the closed door.

"We've got a year before he leaves for Hogwarts, Gin. I'm not going to send him out into the world not knowing, I just . . . I want him to have more time to be himself before he's thrust into a world where he will be defined by who his father is."

"And when he was too young to know to ask questions, that was reasonable, but he's started to put things together now, and you know your son, Harry. He's not going to rest until he gets answers. Wouldn't you rather they came from you?"

"I'd rather have it not matter in the slightest who James's father happens to be!" James's dad muttered then, and the intensity of the words scared James a little. For the first time, he felt like maybe this wasn't a conversation he wanted to hear. Dread slowly started to replace the determination to know things that had brought him here in the first place.

"Unfortunately," his mother said softly, "we don't live in a perfect world. Isn't it better that we take the time to prepare him for the reality of being Harry Potter's son?"

That was when James left. He left because there was something ominous and terrifying in the way his mother had said 'Harry Potter's son,' and suddenly, James hadn't wanted to know why his father was famous, what he had done, what James would apparently have to live up to. He got next to no sleep that night thinking about it, and in the morning, when his father approached him over breakfast with a serious look on his face and said, "James, I've been thinking about what you wanted to know yesterday," James was so overcome with panic that he blurted out, "No, Dad, not a big deal, don't worry about it," and all but fled the table rather than hear his dad out.

James hated himself for this display of cowardice almost as soon as he'd made his retreat, and he really couldn't explain or name or understand the deep-rooted fear that had suddenly cropped up around this issue. He thought about going back to his father and apologizing and telling him that of course he wanted to talk about this, and that he would listen to whatever his dad had to say — but then he remembered his mother saying "Harry Potter's son," and the panic returned, and James knew he couldn't do it.

In the end, he found out from Molly and Fred.

James's cousins Molly and Fred were his best friends. They told each other everything, and they were both smart and observant, and if anyone knew anything and would tell him the absolute, honest truth, it was Molly and Fred.

And so, when they all gathered at the Burrow for Christmas, James's first act was to pull his cousins away somewhere private (easier said than done, but the three of them were well-versed in finding nooks and crannies) and demand, "Do you two know why my dad is famous?"

Molly and Fred looked momentarily surprised, and then exchanged A Look, and this was the worst kind of Look, because it was the Silent Communication Look. He and Molly and Fred had perfected it, and they used it all the time, but this time, it was being used without him. He shoved both of them, real panic welling up in him now.

"Stop that," he said, and was slightly ashamed at how shrill his voice came out. They looked back at him, both apologetic, but Molly more so. She couldn't hold James's gaze, and she glanced back at Fred after about a second, a glance that he returned, and they were doing it again. "I said, stop!" James insisted. "What do you know?"

It was a demand, but it wasn't answered. Molly just twisted her hands in her lap and stared at them, and that was terrifying, because this was Molly, all confidence and sass and not this kind of nervous uncertainty.

"I'm not supposed to tell you," she said in an apologetic voice, and James didn't understand.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded, and Molly took a deep breath.

"My dad said your dad wanted to tell you himself, so I'm not supposed to talk about it, especially not to you."

This was mind-boggling. James couldn't get his head around it. "And you?" he asked, turning on Fred, who lifted his hands in defense.

"Hey, I hardly know anything," he said quickly. "Your dad's famous because of the war, just like your mom and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron, but he's the most famous, that's really all I know."

James knew about the war, of course. Everybody knew about the war. There were ceremonies every year that James never went to, though he knew his parents didd, and his cousin Victoire was in a photograph or something, and all the aunts and uncles and grandma and grandpa had fought in it, and Uncle George's twin brother had died in the fight. He knew that. And he felt a sense of relief, because maybe that's all this was.

"So he's a war hero?" James asked, feeling calmer now. "I mean, he's head of the Aurors, so that makes sense. If that's all it is—"

"It's not."

Molly's voice was very small, very quiet. "It's a lot more than that, James. Your dad was famous long before the war. Your dad was famous when he was a baby. They called him The Boy Who Lived because Lord Voldemort tried to kill him and couldn't. And he got other names, later. The Chosen One. The Savior."

The dread was back now, in full force. "Tell me," he said. Molly took another deep breath.

"My dad's gonna kill me," she said, sounding terrified.

"Molly," he said, as serious as he'd ever been, reaching out to take her hand, which was practically unprecedented given that she was a girl. "Please. I have to know."

So she told him. She told him everything. Everything his dad had done, been known for, all the times he'd almost died and fought dark wizards and saved the world before he was even done with school. And the more James heard, the more icy cold he got.

Harry Potter's son. His mother's words echoed in his head. He was Harry Potter's son. He was the son of a man who had done more of importance at 15 months old than James had accomplished in his entire ten years of existence.

How on earth was James ever supposed to measure up to everything his father had done? People would expect Harry Potter's son to be extraordinary. And James wasn't. He was just a kid with a penchant for mischief. He didn't know how to be the son of the Savior of the Wizarding World. And even if he did learn how to do it, he doubted very much his ability to pull it off.

The son of the man Molly was describing, or at least who James imagined the world would expect that son to be, sounded more like Al than like James, quiet, studious Al, who liked to read and learn things, who never got bored or got into trouble, who had a habit of saying things that the adults called 'deep,' who had what Grandma Weasley called 'an old soul.'

Surely that's who everyone would be expecting, someone smart and well-behaved, who understood things the first time he read them, who didn't goof off during lessons and rely on remembering what was said aloud because the printed words didn't always sit on the page like they were supposed to.

Al was who they would want, Al or someone brave, some extraordinarily talented wizard who would dazzle the teachers and students alike with his magnificent abilities, and that just wasn't James.

James wasn't anything extraordinary. He was just a kid who could fly pretty well, a trouble-maker who could make people laugh.

But maybe, he thought suddenly that night as he was lying in bed unable to sleep, maybe that's the key. He sat up in his cot, his mind working overtime. Maybe you can be someone else. Maybe if you and Molly and Fred create some huge, impressive bit of mayhem right when you first get to Hogwarts, and make sure everyone knows it was you, something clever, not just chaotic, maybe that will work.

He fell asleep that night, half-formed pranks flying through his head, rehearsing the best way to float the idea to get Molly and Fred on board, confident in this plan. They'd make a name for themselves, be the next Weasley twins, following in the footsteps of the Mauraders. That would be their identity. That would be his identity.

Because if he could get everyone to see him as a trickster like his namesakes, just another boy with a penchant for mischief, then maybe he could escape ever having to figure out how to be Harry Potter's son.

James is a fascinating figure for me because he is so often portrayed as nothing more than a trickster like his namesakes. And I'm guilty of that too - that's how I wrote him in the Roses trilogy, which was my first exploration of this universe. And so, when I started trying to figure out his moment, I wanted to find a way to give him more depth than just the eternal trickster.

This was that solution - he's not just a trickster; he's a boy who creates an identity as just a trickster because he's terrified of failing to live up to his father's legacy. He works around that fear by removing it - he'll focus on living up to a different legacy, one more easily in his reach. Also, I think this is a James who acknowledges (to himself alone) that his little brother is far smarter than he is. My James has mild dyslexia; a good enough memory that he can compensate for it, but it still makes him feel stupid on occasion, and it's going to make him rubbish at classes like Potions, and he's not going to touch Ancient Runes with a twelve-foot pole.

He's also going to continue to struggle with his identity and being Harry Potter's son for a long time - but that's a story that will come later.