op (maldito) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-01-02 22:38:00 |
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Harry was excited to see his father, in person, for the first time. He’d been waiting for this moment for just about as long as he could remember. He’d invited James to his London flat because it was in Muggle London, but it was also secure, with precautions that even Mad-Eye Moody would have been proud of. Every spell of protection that Harry knew of had been placed around the flat. The floo was set with a secured connection so that Harry would know when it was James trying to get through. It would let him floo, no problem, as he was blood to Harry. He had also cleaned, Muggle fashion, dusting and vacuuming everything so it was spotless. He wanted the place to be perfect but he wasn’t exactly anal about it, so it did look like someone actually lived there. When James would step out from the fireplace, he would see a small kitchen with an island in the center of it and barstools at its sides. A fresh pot of tea was ready to boil on the stove top. In the living room where the fireplace was, there was a small coffee table with sandwiches and sweets laid out for the both of them, along with an assortment of comfortable, oversized chairs and a sofa. Inside the flat, there was Harry’s bedroom, consisting of a comfortable, Queen size bed with an emerald green comforter; James, of course, was welcome to think this might be because of Harry’s choice of boyfriend or because of his Slytherin half, but green was always Harry’s favorite color. It reminded him, after all, of his mum. There was a television set in the bedroom, and a walk-in closet with a nice mixture of Muggle clothing and wizard robes. There was also a wooden dresser against a wall. The loo was across from his bedroom, with a nice full size shower, and his bedroom had a view overlooking the Thames river. Harry himself was pacing anxiously in front of the fire, both excited yet nervous for his father’s arrival. He was dressed simply enough, wearing blue jeans, black loafers on his feet, and a Manchester United hoodie. His hair was as messy as usual and his trademark glasses hung in front of his bright green eyes, and Harry just kept pacing in front of his fireplace. James was excited to see his son, in person, for the first time—the Boy Who Lived, the who defeated Voldemort, who had gone on after the untimely deaths of his parents, who was raised by the Dursleys, who was said to look like him, with Lily’s eyes. ...Excited, yes... Of course, he was nervous as well, extraordinarily nervous, the way he might’ve been before the Quidditch Cup. He was giddy with anticipation and found himself desperately wishing Lily were with him, with palms that needed charming to keep away the sweat (holding onto Quaffles with slick palms was not easy, after all). Lily would have known what to do and what to say. She would have known just whatever it was James needed by way of comfort. But she wasn’t here and James was alone. His robes were pure black and hung past his knees. Underneath he wore a simple white collared shirt and gray trousers very similar to the make Hogwarts mandated. Though he was traveling by fire, he’d tucked his scarf around his throat, too, loosely, like a noose. Just in case. It was with one last raking pass of fingers through the thickness of inky hair that he squeezed his eyes closed behind dark frames and gave the instructions Harry’d given him in his clear voice with all the confidence he could muster. As the flames swallowed him in green and he tucked his elbows close as he slid through the narrow throats of fireplaces, the boy could only hope the meeting would go well. Perhaps, he thought, he should have invited Sirius. It was too late now. The fireplace in Harry’s living room spewed James from the ash of its teeth, sending him stumbling from its maw. He pawed at his robes, cleaning them of soot, before glancing up. There was a streak of black smeared in the crease between his nose and cheek, but, of course, he didn’t notice. Black-brown eyes went wide as he shunted the room together in his mind: the coffee table and Dursley-appropriate sandwiches, the kettle on the stove, Harry. They did look alike, didn’t they, save for the Muggle clothing? Oh, that was eerie. “Harry!” A stupid grin obscured the rest of James’ features and he stepped forward to hug the boy and clap him on the back with much gusto. When he saw James step through the fireplace, Harry’s world came to a halt. Here he was, finally, in person. His heart thudded against his chest, and he ran forward, meeting his father with just as much enthusiasm as he was hugged. Harry’s arms tightened around James, as though he were scared to lose him. ‘Dad,’ he breathed the word, his own grin falling over his features. The only thing that could make this moment better would probably be if Ron or Hermione were around to see this epic reunion, a reunion that Harry had never even thought possible not that long ago. Well, not the only thing. Lily would have been better here, too, but it might be almost for the best if just James were present to have this first meeting. He didn’t want to let go. As strange as this whole thing was, this….made sense. James Potter was here, alive and in person. it was also probably a good thing that Sirius didn’t come along, either. Harry wasn’t sure how he’d react. He seriously missed Sirius, loved him to death,but there was always that nagging feeling in the back of Harry’s mind that said he was responsible for Sirius’ death. Harry knew he’d have to let go, eventually, though, and he did. He stepped back, but barely enough to count. His gaze studied his father, the curiosity and love both shining equally in his green eyes. “I really do look just like you.” Way to go, Harry, with that brilliant first line. Harry was never known for his choice of words, though, and didn’t usually think before he spoke. James was not so rude and impatient as to pry himself away from the son who had spent a lifetime without him. He was the lucky one in this situation, and he knew it. He had never known the boy to lose him, he had never imagined this day. There had not been a piece of him missing. It was only fair that he should give Harry the time he needed to… adjust. He was, however, enough of a teenage boy to simply awkwardly pat his son’s shoulder for the duration of the embrace. When Harry tore back, the elder(?) Potter wore a smile and allowed his arms to fall to his sides. The other boy was standing a touch too close and giving James a look he wasn’t certain what to do with (though it was a gaze he’d received from Lily before, which was a bit disconcerting, given Harry’s eyes were just as hers were), but, well, no one said it would be easy meeting the son he hadn’t yet had, who was the same age as him, in a future only recently discovered (and altered). The first line caught James unawares and he laughed openly, nodding and clapping a palm on Harry’s shoulders. He was thin, Harry was, skinny and tallish, just like his father, though perhaps being a Chaser rather than a Seeker meant James appeared the more athletic of the two. He was thin, but he was muscle. “But, your mother’s eyes,” added the father with the slip of a crooked grin. James inched away to seat himself on the sofa, feeling a bit odd standing before the hearth with nothing to do but stare at another boy. It was all surreal. The fact that the other boy was his son, in truth and fully, continued to feel like a farce. It had yet to be fully accepted by James, simply due to the hugeness of the news itself. He scratched his chin a little awkwardly. “Nice place,” he said. It was just like everyone said was always true. James was just like him. And Harry smiled at the end of that sentence, admitting out loud, “So I’ve been told.” He slid onto the sofa next to his father, his gaze innocent and idolizing for just a moment. Harry wasn’t as blind as he would have been as a first year. He knew more about his father’s life and understood the sort of person he was. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” murmured Harry softly, looking away for a moment as he tried to adjust to this new situation. When James complimented him about his place, Harry just shrugged a bit. “It’s well, it’s not much, I guess. But it’s mine, and it’s safe here, at least.” He paused for a moment, then questioned softly, “And you and Mum? Are you...staying together? This has got to be strange for both of you.” James’ smile was frozen, polite and pleasant, pretending not to notice as Harry averted his eyes. He continued to scrutinize the flat, to take in its many details and to try to extrapolate from them information about his son’s personality. Lily was better at it than he was, but he tried—he gleaned comfort, functionality, and a perhaps better eye for decorating than his father. James tried not to think about Draco. “‘Staying together’?” A question formed between brows and hitched in the corners of a confused frown. James shook his head, his brown eyes meeting Harry’s green ones. “What do you mean? Of course we’re together.” The elder Potter leaned back on the sofa, one arm propped on the back and one on the armrest, sprawling and comfortable, taking up space as he was accustomed to doing. “Oh.” It was a bit of an awkward question. Harry should have known that his parents would find each other regardless of their time and where they were. It was a comforting thought, actually. “Well, that’s good. Great, even.” Harry’s gaze lifted back up to see his father in front of him, as if he were wondering if this was really happening. His eyes were a bit bright, but it was only the excitement coursing through Harry that caused that. This was his father, at long last. “I had so many questions for you,” murmured Harry softly, finally starting to put words together to make some sense of his jumbled thoughts. “I only knew you from everyone else, for the longest time, until Sirius came back into my life. And for...well, for the first eleven years of my life I didn’t even know that I was a wizard.” He looked up at his father, wondering what he’d say to that. How much about him did James know already? He knew Remus knew everything, as cautious as Remus seemed to be just like he’d always been. “um. What do you want to know about me?” It was such an awkward question, just a brilliant job there, Harry. If Hermione were here she’d probably slap him across the face to knock some sense into Harry. This moment really shouldn’t be all that awkward, but in his adorable way, Harry was making it completely awkward. James let Harry stare at him like some lovelorn Quidditch fan and gave him the same smile—well, nearly. It wasn't as smarmy as it could be and held a good deal more warmth in its curve. He adjusted his glasses, waiting for Harry to speak again. The smile wobbled a little. It was like a Quaffle, caught with the tips of fingers, sleuthing through roar-thick air, but with no sure grip to keep it. It stuttered, but James urged his proverbial broom onward and took hold of the thing. The smile reappeared in perfect health. "Whatever you wish to tell me," James answered as sagely as he knew how. He vaguely wondered what questions Lily herself might hammer him with when he saw her next. Did he know the boy's shoe size? Was he well-fed? Was he kind? He sighed, an anticipatory exhalation, and slapped the sofa with his palm. He tried very much not to be terribly awkward when he spoke. "So, you and Draco? You are… together, then?" He was more careful with his words than he normally would have been, but it was only their first time meeting. That was the first question out of his father’s mouth. Harry had waited nearly twenty years for this meeting, as long as he had knowledge of his father, but that was the first question his dad wanted to know? Harry held his tongue for the moment, though, as he’d known that James would eventually ask that question at some point today. “Um, yeah,” remarked Harry softly, “at least for now. I’m not...certain what we want to do with this, but it just...sort of happened.” He shrugged lightly. There was an awkward, yet gentle smile on Harry’s lips when he gave his father a look again. As if he couldn’t believe that this was really happening . “What about you and Mum? I mean, what do you...think of me? What do you know of me, of what...well, of what happened?” It was a question whose answer would douse the fledgling flames of many other questions that wrestled with James' mind—was it a joke, what about the Weasley girl, was together together, and so on. So, yes. That was the first question Harry's dad wanted to know. It was clear, still, that the answer wasn't one he particularly wanted in firmness. Now there was no disbelieving it, no tucking it away as a misunderstanding. Bugger. Oh, hell. Not bugger. Bollocks. Sodding hell. Merlin. James put a hand to his forehead a moment to turn his brain off. He closed his eyes and forced the images of copulation from the center stage of his thoughts, a Muggle hook around hideous shoulders, like in those cartoons Peter had liked so much. "Think of you?" The father repeated in the same incredulous tone from before ('staying together?') and laughed. He squeezed Harry's shoulder. "You're our son." For someone like James, that was all that needed saying. He smiled, then blinked. "In the Second War?" Harry watched his father’s reaction to that comment and he knew enough to know that it wasn’t as simple as James had made it. If James was every bit the Gryffindor that Harry thought he was, Harry took those closed eyes as meaning that maybe James wasn’t so happy about the relationship, because he was who he was. He knew that reaction more than well enough. Harry managed a small smile, his own eyes softening a bit to help with the answer. Though, the comment that he was their son meant...well, the world to Harry. He looked up at his father, his eyes shining just a bit as he did so, a gentle smile on his features in the process. “Um. Well, for the record, Draco and I...we don’t really know for sure what we are. It’s taken us a long time to get to this point, though. It didn’t happen just recently. We spent years hating each other. And were nearly enemies, at one point. But I do know for a fact that Draco isn’t a killer, and Snape knew that, too.” Harry frowned briefly, thinking about the past for just a moment. That day when he learned what had really happened behind the scenes, even when Harry himself was in the thick of things. “That’s what...changed my opinion. He wasn’t a killer, caught up in the thick of things because of his bloody father. That and...being here. Alone, for nearly two years before anyone else showed up.” He gazed up at James again, an awkwardly unsure smile floating across Harry’s lips. "But yeah, in the second war. What do you and Mum know about what happened? About what...well, what I did?" The closed eyes had nothing to do with James' feelings as to his son's relationship, and more to do with him attempting to wrangle his own thoughts like so many practice Bludgers. Though, if they had had something to do with his feelings there, they would've been just the same, so it hardly mattered. The boy sat next to his son, quite still, finally reaching forward to take up a sandwich when he felt Harry's expression had grown a touch too earnest for his comfort. He turned it over in his hands. He listened to the other boy's words of the Second War and of Malfoy's son. Remus and Lily would've been proud too, as he did not even dream of interrupting. (Sirius, likely, would've been somewhat disappointed.) "Save the world, didn't you? Narcissa told me about it in some detail. I was very proud." Harry sighed quietly. He was happy his father was proud, don’t get him wrong. But it went back to the reason as to why Harry was the savior all together. he glanced over at James awkwardly, then nodded slowly. “I did what I had to do.” Harry lowered his gaze, and his mind’s eye was already reliving the deaths of those who had died so he could save the world. “So much happened, all because he couldn’t kill me, because of Mum’s love. I was the only one who he couldn’t touch. I...and everyone died for it.” Harry clenched his fist now, giving James a serious look. “You, Mum, Sirius, Remus, even Pettigrew, Snape, Moody…” the list went on in Harry’s head, though he fell silent after the first handful of names. “I’ve been angry about it. Thinking there was more that I could have done. Should have done. What if I’d grown up knowing that I was a wizard? Would I have been stronger, more prepared to stop him?” And now this time. Tom Riddle was still him. The similarities between the two of them were eerie, even now. Harry understood Tom’s every move, even this time around. He couldn’t quite predict him, but he could understand each move he made because Harry could see himself doing it at one point or another. Now James felt unsure. He'd been through war, everyone had, he had seen the bodies pile, skin and hair unrecognizable as anything once loved. He'd grown up in war. It was, for him, a fact of life. It was tragic, yes, but he didn't quite understand the intention behind the list. From behind the lenses of his glasses he blinked. Crumbs rolled down the front of James' robes and he brushed them aside thoughtlessly. "It's not worthwhile to think like that," he told his son as paternally as he could, trying to imagine his own father giving him the same advice, the way he'd put his hand on the back of James' neck and give it a squeeze. It was hypocritical on his part, the advice, as James had had similar doubts about himself, after hurting Alecto and so on. But he knew it was a useless line of thought and had been working hard on putting it out of his mind. "Surely there would have been more carnage, had you not been able to put a stop to things. You must remember that, as well." Harry smiled softly, grateful to hear those words coming from his father. He knew them, knew that it was true, but it didn’t make it any easier. “But if it had never been for that prophecy, you and Mum...might never have died.” Of course, Harry didn’t know that for sure, no one did, but it was one of his concerns throughout most of his decision making. He shook his head once, then looked over at James lightly, trying to bring them back into a more natural conversation rather than such a serious one. He hadn’t yet touched the sandwiches, more focused on the conversation and his father in front of him than anything else. “And...I know, you’re right, I guess, but I’m always concerned about that.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Um. What else did...you want to know, about me? I guess...I did all right, I think. I made some good friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. You might know Ron’s name, but Hermione’s a Muggle-born witch so I’m not sure if you would know her family or not. She’s got to be the brightest witch I’ve met, to be honest. Saved me more times than I can count.” "I'm telling you it's senseless to think in such a way. We died. It had to be done. We're back now, in any case, so fretting is unneeded," James said in what he thought was an encouraging and bracing manner, once again patting his son's shoulder with all the paternity he could muster. He was not one to linger on doubts, on the what-ifs of life. He hadn't died, had he? He was right here. Though, in abstraction, he understood Harry had experienced his death, James' understanding of sympathy, and indeed his mere method of piloting in the world at large, didn't extend so far as to allow him to comprehend the gravity of that feeling. It didn't matter what had happened so much as what was going to happen and what was happening, right then, in the present. It was a naive, optimistic view, especially for someone raised in war, but that certainly didn't change it. James listened to Harry's descriptions of his mates, his mind wandering to the Weasley girl Lily was so fastened on. With a smile, he looked from the sandwich to his son. "I'm glad you had people to help you through. Though, you've not met your mother, so don't go on too much about this brightest witch nonsense." “I know that you’re all here, but so is Tom Riddle. Voldemort. I know him better than I let on to just about anyone,” murmured Harry quietly, leaning closer to his father without even thinking about it. It was a natural reaction; Harry was always a person who enjoyed personal contact, especially now that he could get it freely, whereas he’d gone years in his childhood where he’d been alone locked in a cupboard beneath the stairs. “I know what he’s capable of, and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of you to prevent the future from happening again. And this time, I don’t know if I have the ability to stop him like I did before. I don’t know when he started to split his soul, and I doubt I can get that information from him.” Oh, Harry knew pieces, but even he didn’t know Voldemort’s exact timeline. There were still a lot of things missing from his youth that made that timeline uncertain. Still, the mention of his mother caused Harry to smile wholeheartedly and he looked over at James curiously. ‘What is she like? Mum? I’ve...she’s one of the reasons I was able to do what I could. Well, you both were, but...it was Mum’s love, too. I’ve heard so much about her…” Harry trailed off a moment, easily getting lost into his thoughts for just a moment. James wondered what all Harry knew or didn’t know, and tried to fathom how it could help, or not. He wasn’t knowledgeable enough about prophecies as a whole to know, if fulfilled and time looped, in such a way, what would happen. He didn’t know if it would come to pass again, if there would be a new one uttered, or even if anyone knew the outcome, outside of Dumbledore, who wasn’t around to help. He’d bring it up with Sirius and see if he had any insights, and Lily, who’d likely read some obscure book from the Restricted Section some years ago and managed to remember every last detail. James himself smiled vaguely at the conception of a thought about his wife, one that only gained affection as Harry continued to speak. “She’s ...wonderful,” said James, fully aware of the broadness of his answer, and of how much laughter such a response would incur if ever uttered in front of his mates. “Lovely, intelligent, kind, but not without a will of iron. Brave, beautiful, compassionate, and not at all bad in—” He stopped there, abruptly biting his own tongue and appearing almost red. He fixed his glasses. “...Class. She was an excellent student, of course.” He recovered well enough. This was going to be a long first meeting. |