Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar

Mere minutes later, three resounding cracks heralded the arrival of Sirius, Remus, and Harry (who was clutching Remus's arm) in front of a dilapidated home.

"Welcome," Sirius intoned gravely (though the effect was ruined by his clownish grin) "To Number 12 Grimmauld Place, ancestral home of the Black family!"

It was certainly aptly-named, Harry thought. He was instantly given the impression that ominous organ music should be playing in the background, with lightning flashing overhead. It was that kind of place, complete with spiked iron fences, ratty black shutters, and a general air of death and decay. Harry gave off an involuntary shudder, and began moving toward the door.

Once in the sitting room—and still shaking off the twitches from his first time side-along apparating—Harry remarked that it hadn't felt that stressful when he had done it alone, which immediately drew the attention of the two older wizards.

"What?" Sirius and Remus asked simultaneously. "How and when did you apparate by yourself before?" Remus prompted.

Harry paused, wondering whether he should have mentioned it. Knowing that he couldn't un-ring a bell, he continued, "Once when I was running away from some kids after school"—he carefully omitted Dudley's key role, knowing it would only set the two men off about the Dursleys—"I was really scared, and I saw the school roof; I knew they couldn't get me if I was up there, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the roof."

Remus and Sirius shared a significant glance. "We can definitely exploit this," Remus said seriously. "If we can get you into form on apparation—enough that you can pass the American apparation license exam—you can get a license there, and it will be honored in Britain."

"Why would Britain honor any American licenses?" Harry asked, not quite understanding.

"It's a requirement for all member countries of the International Confederation of Wizards," Sirius replied. "Registration and licensing any regulated magic can be done in any ICW nation, which is another great reason to have you get your apparation license and register as an animagus in America, rather than Britain. It's far away enough—and unexpected enough—that nobody in Britain will think to request records from there to find out what you can do, but you will still be able to technically abide by the law."

"That's right," Remus noted, nodding. "Even better, apparation licensing and animagus regulation in America is done at the state level, which means anyone looking to find out about you will have to request and sift through records from all fifty states and several protected territories, and that's if someone looking for you manages to narrow the search down to America. Plus, owl post and records requests from those offices isn't cheap—we're talking about several man-hours of the office clerk's time, plus the fee for international owls. Basically, it will be enough trouble and expense that the only time you'll be exposed is if you need to prove that you've registered to get yourself out of trouble with the Ministry, which pretty much means that you've already been exposed anyway."

Harry was impressed. The two pranksters had clearly thought this plan through. Except...

"What about a wand? I'm still underage."

Sirius grinned. "Yes, the British Ministry of Magic Trace is still active on your wand until you're of age. You'll get away with doing underage magic out of school the same way generations of Blacks did—by cheating."

"Basically," interrupted Remus, taking up the thread, "wealthy, well-connected families like the Blacks buy wands in bulk, to have their own wand inventory. That way, the wands are registered to adult members of the family, so the Trace isn't active on them, while there are enough wands that it's practically guaranteed that the underage family members will find one that matches well enough to practice, and function as a back-up."

"Brilliant!" Harry exulted. "Can I take a look now?"

Sirius led the way down to the cellars—one level of which had the look of an abandoned training room—and into the armory. Racks upon racks of swords, axes, and other assorted medieval weapons (and the armor to match) filled the room. At the back, though, were scores of shelved wands, each with a brief description engraved on the holster.

"Go ahead, try some out" Sirius instructed. "See if you can't find one or two that work for you—you won't be able to get away with using your holly wand, so it'll be good to have one primary wand and one backup."

Perhaps it was the (albeit small amount of) Black blood in Harry's veins, but the search went much faster than it had when Harry was buying his first wand. In fact, the second wand he tried (12 inches, ebony and dragon heartstring) was only just barely a lesser match than his holly wand, showering the three with blazing golden sparks as he curled his fingers around it. After trying several more, he found another to be his backup (10 inches, cedar and dragon heartstring), which let loose a pleasant humming sound and glowed blue as he picked it up.

By this time, it was nearing 9 PM, but everyone was too excited to prepare for bed. Instead, they held an impromptu three-way duel, pausing every few minutes to teach Harry (typically in hilarious Marauder fashion) new tricks and spells. Before they knew it, the clock was tolling midnight, and Harry was suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion.

Noticing Harry's flagging endurance, Remus called a halt to their game, and shooed the other two off to bed. Before closing the door on "his" new room (which had once belonged to Regulus, Sirius's now-deceased brother), Harry made Sirius and Remus promise to spend the next morning teaching him how to apparate. He barely managed to pull off his ratty old trainers before closing his eyes, the last of his energy well and truly spent.