I know I said I would update Abomination first, but chapter 67 of Always is turning out to be longer than I anticipated, and I really wanted to post this first chapter.

This is the third story in my Marauders era series. It will have scenes from Always and Abomination, but from James's perspective. It will start from age nine and end at his death. I'm not quite sure how long it will be, most likely around 25 chapters, but knowing me, it will end up longer. The Marauders and Lily will be featured frequently. Severus will also make quite a few appearances. I'm a bit nervous about this fanfic because it's going to be considerably lighter than the others, even though it will have its share of darker and tragic moments. Also, the title is Hero because James will aspire to be one, play the role of one (as Severus so often says in Always), and eventually will become one. So no, this won't be chapter after chapter of James Potter's heroic deeds.

Please let me know what you think of my version of James. He is most likely the most difficult character I've written so far, and I'm not sure if I captured him well enough. For some reason, I find the more distant characters easier to write about, especially the older ones. James was especially a challenge because

1. He's not only a nine-year-old boy, but he's a happy nine-year-old boy with no major childhood issues, so I can't really make him act older than he is, like Sirius and Severus. I was never a nine-year-old boy and the last time I was around one was when I was nine or so, so yeah, I'm not completely sure if I portrayed one realistically enough.
2. He's not only a happy nine-year-old boy, but he's James Potter. Most people either love or hate James. I want this to be as realistic as possible, well, as realistic as possible with a K+ rating. James won't be a perfect hero who does harmless little pranks until he saves Lily from the evil Snivellus. He also won't be a bullying mastermind who spends every day plotting how to separate Lily and Severus while he tortures Hufflepuffs for the hell of it. Since he's going to grow up with two doting parents, he's going to be spoiled and conceited at times, and yes, the occasional bully, but he'll also have his good moments too. My goal, at least in the end, is to make James semi relatable. You will hate him at times, but I hope you'll at least understand why, and grow to love him at other times. I know some of my reviewers really, really dislike James, and I can understand why, but I hope you read this anyway, if not just to mock James or watch for the other Marauders, Severus, and Lily. Who knows, you might even be sad when I kill him off in the end.

Chapter One- Mad Mothers and Fearless Fathers
1969

There was a flash of emerald and a swirl of cerulean, blending together in perfect harmony. The light afternoon breeze was no longer gentle. It whipped his hair and tore at his clothes and hissed in his ears, all while the hot rays of the summer sun beat down on his back relentlessly. It was electrifying, and perhaps just a bit dangerous, but brilliant all the same.

It was flying, and nine-year-old James Potter loved it.

If he flew fast enough, James could almost hear the thunder of wild cheers, the roar of the crowd as they shouted his name with glee. Inspired by his imaginary audience, he embellished a fresh set of twists and turns, adrenaline soaring through his veins. In the midst of a particularly complicated spiral, James's dreamy haze shattered when he became aware that someone really was shouting his name.

"JAMES POTTER, YOU COME DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT."

James winced, wondering if he could feign deafness, at least for another few minutes. But even a hundred or so feet in the air, he recognized the alarming shade of red that Dorea Potter was undoubtedly approaching. From years of experience, he knew perfectly well that was a danger sign. Reluctantly, James began his descent.

Dorea Potter wasn't the sort of mother who was easily angered. There were times when she would sigh, a rather exasperated sigh, complete with an expression that could only be described as oh, James. She almost always used that particular expression whenever she discovered whatever mischief he had landed himself in, whether it was sneaking garden gnomes into the house to "see what would happen" or attempting to convince Biddle the house-elf to kidnap a renowned Quidditch player or two, "just to throw the Quaffle around for a bit". Other times, in arguably more extreme matters, Dorea's mouth would tightly clamp shut in what was meant to appear as a stern look, but would soon start twitching until the smile fighting its way to her lips finally broke out, usually in the middle of her son's explanation, but occasionally after.

And then there were times, as rare as they were, when Dorea was genuinely upset. James suspected that this was one of those times.

On ground level, Dorea looked far from the doting mother she was as she loomed high above him, her hands planted firmly on her hips, billowy robes swirling around her. Her streaking dark hair blew wildly with every gust of wind, giving her all the more terrifying appearance, an appearance that had even James ruffling his hair with a rare nervousness. Any second, he half-expected her to breathe fire, and wouldn't have been startled to see puffs of smoke escape her nostrils. But even smoke and flames wouldn't have been able disguise the concern in her usually merry blue-gray eyes, the only thing that could cause the normally mild Dorea to appear in such a way.

"Hi, Mum," James said a touch too brightly, knowing fully well that a charming smile was in order. That and feigned innocence. "Was I flying too high again?"

At his cheeriness and wind-flushed cheeks, and most likely the realization that he was on the grass, safe and sound, Dorea's face slowly returned to its normal color, and she no longer seemed quite so fierce. But from the way her hands remained fastened to her hips, James knew he wasn't in the clear- yet. "I think you know perfectly well how high you were flying, James. What's the rule again?"

"Only fly as high as the roof when you or Dad aren't outside," James said automatically, ducking his head down so that Dorea wouldn't be able to see his eyes, still bright from what he considered to be a rather spectacular flight, cross and unappreciative Dorea or not. "Sorry, Mum."

He was sorry, sort of. He hadn't meant to worry her, but how was he supposed to be a famous dark wizard-catching Quidditch player if he couldn't even fly above the roof? Mums, James decided, worried far too much.

"James, how many times have we had this discussion?" Dorea was beginning to sound more weary than formidable.

James fidgeted at the uncomfortable question, debating whether or not it was best to continue with the innocent route. He preferred that one much to the truthful path, which tended to be awfully thorny, but he had a feeling that outright denial would make Dorea turn red again. He settled on the safe medium of vagueness. "Not that often."

"You don't call twice a week often?"

"There are five other days in the week," James pointed out earnestly.

When Dorea said nothing, James finally dared to sneak a peek, and was bewildered by what he saw. Her forehead was resting against her hand, her face wavering between the frustrated desire to laugh and cry, and once again, James was baffled by adults and their confusing ways. Surely no one could want to laugh and cry at the same time, especially at such a simple fact. He was being honest. There were five other days in the week.

For a second, James was struck by the sudden alarm that his mother was secretly mad. It didn't matter, he decided bravely, a moment later. He would love her anyway.

"I love you, Mum," James said aloud, feeling that those three words couldn't hurt. Maybe they would even make her less mad.

To his horror, he was almost sure he could see her eyes glisten. He hadn't mean to make her cry. Mums were supposed to be happy when they heard they were loved. Everyone knew that. Before James could say so, he realized that Dorea's face was beginning to soften, with only a few worry lines remaining, worry lines that had been there for as long as he could remember. When she spoke, her voice had grown a great deal softer. "Your father and I only made these rules because we care about you, James. You don't want another broken leg, do you?"

"That was one time!" James said defensively, looking up to meet her eyes the second his flying skills were in question. "I'm a much better flier now. Did you see that Wronski Feint I just did? Even Hamish MacFarlan would've fallen for it!"

"Which one is the Wronkski Feint again?"

"Mum!" James was horrified that anyone, especially his own mother, did not know what a Wronski Feint was. Before he could launch into a detailed explanation, a new thought crossed his mind, one even more important than Wronksi Feints. "When is Dad coming home? I want to show him this new move I made up."

A sudden shadow crossed over Dorea's face, so fleeting that James was unable to catch sight of it. If he had, it would have troubled him far more than her possible madness. "Late."

"Again?" James's face fell, his chin drooping in disappointment. Normally, he relished the fact that Charlus Potter was an Auror, one of the most highly respected in the Ministry of Magic. While other fathers pored over tea-stained paperwork, his fought dark wizards. While other fathers simply worked to provide for their families, his saved the world. To James, Charlus wasn't just an ordinary father.

He was a hero.

But even so, James couldn't help but wish that heroes had more time off. Lately, Charlus had been working exceedingly long hours, and when he did finally come home, he wasn't the same energetic father who was more than delighted to fling a Quaffle back and forth for a few hours. He was tired, with dark circles haunting his hazel eyes, as if he hadn't slept in ages.

"Again," Dorea confirmed. "Why don't you clean your room in the meantime?"

James made a face, temporarily forgetting all about Charlus. "Why can't Biddle do it?"

"Because it's your room and not Biddle's. And Biddle wasn't the one flying above the roof," Dorea's blue-gray eyes still glinted, revealing that the flying incident was far from forgotten, much to James's disappointment. She reached over to smooth her son's hair, the motion affectionate and decidedly more forceful when it became clear that the determined black strands would not stay flat. "Honestly, sometimes I think not all the magic in the world could keep your hair down."

James gave a slight yelp and protectively cupped his hands over his head, his precious broomstick falling under his arm. "You're ruining it, Mum. It's supposed to look this way."

"Like you were caught in a tornado?"

"Like Hamish's, after he's won a match!"

"Can't you push it back a little?" Dorea said desperately, even though they had the same conversation many times before. "I have a nice potion that does wonders-"

"No!" James refused to hear another word and quickly backed away, hoisting his broomstick off the ground with one hand, still covering his head with the other. "I'm going! I'll clean my room! Just don't mess it up again, okay, Mum?"

"Okay," Dorea agreed with a helpless little sigh that he knew well by now. He didn't have to turn around to see the slight smile coloring her lips.

It didn't take long for James to clean his room, or at least kick whatever he could under the bed. He didn't understand why he had to clean his room when there was a house-elf that wanted to clean right there. It was rather insulting, really. If Dorea poked her head in and asked why there were still dirty socks piled up in the corner, James would inform her that he was only thinking of poor Biddle's feelings. Dorea would have to admire her son's thoughtfulness. Who wouldn't?

Instead of stacking up the comic books strewn across the floor or tucking away the rather indignant chessboard pieces that had been forgotten in the midst of game, James settled back on his bed with a small stack of unopened Chocolate Frogs, a private victory celebration in honor of a brilliant flight. Once he sorted out his new cards, nearly all of them doubles, much to his disappointment, he laid back once more, and lazily tossed a Remembrall back and forth, absentmindedly pretending that it was a Snitch.

He wished his father would come home.

But Charlus didn't come. Not even when the sun had finally sunk and the crescent-shaped moon had risen high above. Even after Dorea had come in to gaze around the room with an unsurprised shake of her head, and later, to bid him goodnight, Charlus still hadn't arrived. James may have been tucked under the covers, but his eyes were wide open. He had absolutely no intention of sleeping. At least not until his father arrived to say goodnight. He always said goodnight, no matter how late it was.

As minutes transformed into hours, James's eyelids grew heavier and heavier. One second, he was ordering himself not to fall asleep, the next, he was dueling twelve wizards at once, the very same duel he had so often imagined his father doing. Just as he was regaining the upper hand, James found himself suddenly wide awake in bed, quite sorry to have discovered that it was just a dream after all. His initial disappointment quickly vanished when he realized what, rather who, had awoken him.

"Dad!"

"I didn't mean to wake you," Charlus creaked the door open another inch. "I just wanted to say goodnight."

"Oh. I wasn't sleeping," James said quickly, abruptly dropping his hands to keep from rubbing his sleepy eyes. Aurors didn't sleep, at least not regular hours, especially when they hadn't planned on it.

"Is that so?" Even with only the faint light of the moon to brighten the room, the amusement in Charlus's tired eyes was evident, and James found himself wondering if that would be him in forty or so years. Even in the poor lighting, the resemblance between father and son was undeniable, from their thick hair, even if one was a bit gray, and virtually identical hazel eyes. Thinking back to his father's many tales of dark wizard captures, James hoped so.

"Really," James said, nodding for emphasis. "Just relaxing. You should've come home sooner. You missed my Wronski Feint!"

"So I heard." Charlus slipped inside the room when it became clear that James was no longer about to drift back to sleep, and whisked a chair from the nearby desk, making himself comfortable in it before he spoke again. "I also heard you nearly gave your mother a heart attack, a hundred feet in the air."

James's eyes widened in excitement, eager to make the number even more impressive. "A hundred! It had to be two hundred, at least!" At his father's grin, he caught himself and sighed, regretful about letting the words spill more than anything. Aurors didn't make mistakes. "Am I in trouble?"

"I'll tell you what." In spite of Charlus's stern expression, his eyes were gleaming as he leaned forward. "If you promise not to frighten your poor mum again, we'll fly tomorrow. Maybe even three hundred feet."

James didn't have to consider the offer long before beaming. "Deal. Did you find any dark wizards tonight?"

Even in the shadows, Charlus's face seemed to darken, the light in his hazel eyes suddenly dimming. For a moment, James almost thought that he looked worried, but then he remembered that Charlus never worried. His father wasn't afraid of anything at all, not even of basilisks and dragons. James decided he must have imagined it. "No, James. You should get some rest."

"Wait," James said suddenly as Charlus began to rise from the chair. Time with his father was becoming increasingly rare, and after waiting hours for him to return, James found that he didn't want him to leave so soon. "Can you tell me a story? The Godric one?"

"Again?" Charlus raised an eyebrow, looking surprised but pleased all the same. "Didn't you say you were too old for stories?"

James shook his head firmly. "Not tonight."

And so Charlus sank into his seat once more and began to tell the tale of Godric Gryffindor, from his rise to glory to his final moments. James listened, drinking in the words as if it were his first time hearing them. Charlus told the best stories, describing each part in such vivid detail that James almost believed that he had been at Godric's side the entire time. James could practically see Godric slicing his sword into the air, rubies gleaming in the late afternoon sun, far redder than the blood that spilled from the dying dragon. He was invincible.

"Did he really save Salazar's life?" James asked, with the same frown he wore whenever he heard that particular part. It had never made sense to him.

"Oh yes," Charlus said wisely. "Even though certain other wizards would claim otherwise."

"I don't understand why," James said slowly, his forehead creasing in contemplation. "I know they were friends, but that was before Salazar went bad, wasn't it?"

"Salazar had made his mistakes by then," Charlus acknowledged. "But not the worst of them. Even if they had had their differences, Godric was able to rise above them. I suppose he thought there was another chance for Salazar to change."

"But there wasn't," James said, more than a little dismayed that one of his idols could have made such a grave error. "Salazar still wanted to keep Muggle-borns out. He left a monster in the school."

"That is just a legend, one I probably shouldn't have told you," Charlus ran a few fingers through his hair, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. "Godric was a hero. A true hero doesn't decide whether a life is worth saving or not, James. He saves lives because he's better than that. Would you look up to Godric as much if he left Salazar to die?"

James mulled it over. Godric and Salazar had had their share of disagreements, with Salazar clearly heading down a dark path. It was easier, safer for Godric to step out of the way, to save his own life rather than his enemy's. But that was what Salazar would have done, and Godric was no Salazar. "Not really."

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Charlus's lips at his son's reply. James yawned, finding himself suddenly exhausted.

"Godric was the best wizard in his time, right, Dad?" James asked sleepily, even though he had asked the same question many times before.

"I believe so," Charlus agreed as if he hadn't answered it just as many times.

"I'll be a Gryffindor at Hogwarts, right?"

"I would be very surprised if you're not. But even if you're not, it won't be the end of the world."

"No, I have to be a Gryffindor," James insisted. "I want to be a hero. Like you and Godric."

If James had been a bit more awake, then perhaps he would have noticed that his father was choosing his words carefully. "It's the wizard, James, not the House. Not all Gryffindors are heroes. There are some Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and even Slytherins who might surprise you."

But James was shaking his head, his words slurring together. "No, I'll be a Gryffindor. I know I will."

He was too tired to hear his father's reply. As darkness washed over him in a peaceful sleep, the thought stayed with him. Godric was a true hero. Just like his father.

Just like he would be someday.