disclaimer: Not mine at all...

-to raise a man-

His eyes are a shocking green—even more shocking than yours, simply because no one's ever seen a baby with such clear-seeing, truth-seeking orbs. In truth they frighten you a little—you're afraid of what kind of trouble your son will get into with eyes like that.

His hair, however, is a fresh breath of reality. It looks like James's, messy and wild, what little there is of it. The dark ebony of his hair contrasts starkly with his baby-pale skin and the cream-coloured dress you're wearing. You wonder and hope with all your might that his life will be normal, that he will never know sadness until he is old enough to understand why people are mean and spiteful, and that he will always, always look at you with his eyes full of clarity and honesty.

And you wish that your eyes could go back to that way.

His tiny hands wave in the air, but he doesn't coo like most babies do. Instead he lies quietly, his perfect eyes following the patterns that his hands are making, as if they are unearthing a secret only he can understand. For a brief moment you forget that you are hiding from the Dark Lord, that you and your family can trust only a handful of people, and that your son's first few years may be spent on the run.

You glance out the window to see James cavorting like a boy, gleefully dribbling a football past an unwitting Peter. You suddenly long for the day when you could abandon your responsibilities and play with your four favourite men—it was you, after all, who taught them the Muggle sport. But nowadays you have a living, breathing, needy liability that you can't abandon for a sudden whim. Sirius glances in the window and gives you a pleading glance. You know what it's saying.

Please, Lily! Please come out and take Peter's place! And if he drops Harry, I promise I'll kick him in the arse for you.

You laugh to yourself. Peter has never been very adept at sports, but you don't trust him to watch Harry unattended by a less clumsy babysitter. Twice in the past week you've had to remind Peter to support Harry's head and to burp him gently, rather than beat on his back like you would a coughing giant.

You walk out onto the front porch to watch as the four men compete over the ball, and you hope that someday your son will grow up to be like them. They are four honourable men, and you pray that Harry will follow in their footsteps.

You remember when you didn't think so highly of those men—James the instigator, Sirius the agitator, Peter the simpering sidekick, and Remus, the only one capable of stopping his friends, but who chose not to. You wish you could blame their past crimes on ignorance and high spirits, but in reality, you know that they were the gods of Hogwarts, and to them that meant not having to answer to anyone but Dumbledore.

And you, you recall fondly. They always played by your rules, if only because James was in love with you. Around you they were always sweet and generous, but when left to their own devices, they fell back into the mean-spiritedness that defines school-age boys.

That was what you hated most about them. They had two faces—one for you, and one for their enemy. In that way they were almost like aristocratic Purebloods, almost like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. They never understood why you compared the lot of them to Him, except for Remus, of course. He understood everything, and you feel that he scolds himself much more often than the other three do. Because Remus knows that he had influence over the others—he was the wise, mature, intelligent one that they looked to for guidance in risky situations. But he never used this influence to stop them from their cavorting and teasing, leaving poor men like Severus Snape to hang upside down in the air.

James and Sirius feel bad too, you know, but you doubt they feel as guilty as Remus. They feel that passing uneasiness that comes when men look back on their youthful escapades and realize that yes, someone could have been hurt. But they don't focus all their energy on that guilt, on that former wrongdoing. Rather, they move on, an immature denial-like move disguised as a mature one.

Peter, you feel, simply follows along. But he was always the sweetest, most thoughtful of the bunch. Remus was always the intelligent one in school, but Peter was the one that remembered your favourite flower and colour. It's almost impossible for him to think for himself, but you know, deep down, he realizes that he's guilty for the former treason of following along with a bunch of hell-raisers.

You hope that Harry will grow up to be like each and every one of them—only better, of course. Always better.

He laughs happily when he spies a familiar head of black hair hovering above him, his fingers grasping for his father's glasses. James hands them over, knowing how easy it will be to fix them later. He grins proudly at his son, resting his hand on your waist and holding out his index finger for Harry to grasp. And when he does, you can't help the surge of joy at the amazed look on James's face, even though Harry has performed this feat numerous times before.

Harry will always surprise James. Harry will always surprise you.

James pecks Harry on the forehead, then scampers off back to the football game. You wave at the men and then retreat back into the house, where the warmth of the fire envelops you like a warm blanket quilted by someone who really loves you. You sit in a rocking chair, resting your son on your lap, tapping out different rhythms lightly on his stomach. He gurgles at the ticklish feeling, and you laugh suddenly and joyously, realizing that all you ever need in life are the five most important men in your life.

Because Harry is already a man, you know. His eyes shine brightly with the courage and forbearance of a man who's faced hardship. They pierce yours with their brilliance, seeking answers like a man who's questioned, and they smile luminously, like those of a man who appreciates beauty in simple things, rather than the overrated "comforts" of life.

You hope this growth stays with Harry throughout the rest of his life.

Maturity doesn't come easily, you know. You've met your sister Petunia's husband, Vernon, and even though he's a full-grown man, he still isn't as mature as your son is. All you can hope, with all your heart, is that Harry will never lose the knowledge and courage that he was born with, even though you know that it is a fruitless hope. So many babies are born with the wisdom of the ages, only to lose it before they can even comprehend what they have lost.

And when he finally loses this knowledge, this wisdom, then it will be up to you and James to give it back to him, to raise him up to be the man he was born as.

The prospect scares you silly, because you feel, in your heart of hearts, that you yourself do not have half the wisdom that Harry will need in his life. You, in the universal sense of the word, are not a man yourself, but you are expected to raise one. Your son should, upon the age of five, know how to use a lavatory, know how to tie his shoes, and have proper working knowledge of a fork and spoon. At the age of seven he should know how to add and subtract, and he ought to have his alphabet and numbers down pat. By the age of nine his handwriting should be legible and attractive, and as soon as he's eleven he should be accepted to Hogwarts.

After that fair year the ideals and set standards for you are a little fuzzy. It has less to do with his talents than his demeanour. By the time he has left school he should be well educated, a hard worker, polite, sweet, diligent, and moreover—he should be a gentleman. That's something you're not sure how to teach—you can pound the principles of thank-yous and your welcomes into his brain, but you can't make him use them properly. And James, you feel, won't be a very good example. A good, strong, sturdy man is James, but he hardly remembers to excuse himself if he burps.

A man. You're expected to raise a man, but it's not like these little babies come with manuals on the proper way to teach and love a child.

You wish there was a spell, a spell that would keep all of Harry's knowledge tucked away in his brain. Then, when he's old enough to understand, you could unlock his memory and he would know what it is to be a man.

But there is no such spell, you realize. No. It is up to you to raise your son into a man. For a brief moment you want to rail against the world. Isn't it enough that the wizarding world is at war? Isn't it enough that your sister has disowned you? Isn't it enough that you have a husband who acts like a young teenager on occasion, and whose three friends are hardly any better? Do you have to raise a man, as well?

But then Harry gurgles a little bit, and you look down into his green eyes. He smiles up at you, and you can't help but smile back. And then you realize that raising a man is the most important thing that you can do. One man, you know, is all it can take to make a difference.

-end-

Erm. Not sure what possessed me to write this. It's just over three pages, 1,665 words. Took me months to write, for I'm fairly sure I started it September... Ah, well. I broke the grammatical rules and wrote it in second tense. Blast it all... grin