Who: James Potter and Harry Potter Where: Harry's bungalow When: The morning after What: Recovery, and a chat about ladytroubles Rating/Status: Incomplete/lowish?
It was the sort of thing fathers did. Well, maybe apart from the breaking and entering. But normally, blokes got to live with their sons. And he had, lived with Harry, but that hadn't been for very long, and Harry hadn't even been walking, let alone been capable of going out and getting sloshed. And the extent of his infant son's women problems generally involved how far away Lily was at any given moment. In the whole few months that James had lived Harry, Harry had never once been left by his wife. Or married at all.
James was starting to think he'd never actually get used to the fact that Harry was bigger than a garden gnome.
Regardless of how big Harry was or wasn't, James had gotten it into his head to take a little initiative. He didn't really care for journals where everybody could see what everybody wrote. James's personal thoughts, his correspondence, that was privileged access, not mass-market. And as much as he might have preferred to have been there when Sirius went out and did the drinking with Harry, James fancied that he got the difference in roles there. That hadn't really been fatherly territory. But it had been godfatherly territory. So James was glad it was Sirius.
The morning after, however, he reckoned was fair game. Letting himself into Harry's place wasn't hard. Maybe he'd make Harry breakfast. Once Harry got up, anyway. After peeking in to make sure Harry was actually there, it seemed a little foolish to go waking him up prematurely, so James flopped himself onto Harry's couch. He'd stumbled across Candide in the library, and that had seemed far too fitting to not snag and carry about. Fetching it from his back pocket, he settled in to reread it, again, while he waited. That had been the plan, anyway. What actually happened was that James got another seven pages in before he dozed off on Harry's couch.