Harry Potter walked into the master bedroom of his house, looking for the son he realized was not in his respective room.
"Al? What'd we tell you-"
He stopped when he saw his youngest son at his mom's vanity with a tube of barely used lipstick in his sweaty, little fist.
Fearing the worst (though there's nothing wrong with that lifestyle, he tried to tell himself) he stepped forward.
"Al? What're you doing with Mummy's make-up?"
Harry reached for the tube but stopped when he saw where his Albus was applying it.
"Daddy! Look," the boy pointed to his forehead, "I'm you!"
Harry paled slightly. He was shocked at the soft spot Albus' words hit.
Sighing, Harry pulled the lipstick out of hands and picked him up.
"Why don't you go find James? I'm sure he's doing something fun," Harry muttered as he pulled out his wand to clean off the artwork of a five year old off his son's face.
As Al ran off a minute later, Harry touched his own scar.
It scared him slightly to see how much his boy looked like him with the painted-on lighting bolt on his head.