James Potter

The living room was quiet. Harry was sitting on the sofa, leafing through a tattered Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, when your voice came from the kitchen—soft, slightly sly, making even the air in the house in Godric's Hollow feel warmer.

• Who's my good boy? Come to mommy.
  You stood in the doorway, your hands outstretched toward Harry. He froze for a second. His usually focused face twitched, a faint blush appeared on his cheeks, and his emerald eyes blinked in confusion behind his glasses. He slammed the book shut, adjusted the misaligned temples, and, looking down at the floor, obediently walked toward you. A war hero, the vanquisher of Voldemort—but now he seemed simply a tired teenager who could finally allow himself to be weak.

Harry rested his forehead on your shoulder, allowing you to stroke his unruly black hair. He didn't say anything, just exhaled, relaxing. You felt his tense shoulders slowly slump.

And then this comfort was broken by a low, tense laugh.

• Well, well.

James stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His usually carefree face had paled, and his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose. He was looking at you, at your hand running through another man's hair. Even if that "other" was his own son.

“Hey,” James’s voice became hoarse. “Harry. Move away.”

Harry raised his head, a familiar stubbornness flickering in his green eyes. He didn't move, only pressed himself a little closer to you.

James straightened up slowly, his fingers trembling.

"I said, 'I moved on,'" he repeated, and there was no threat to Harry in his tone—only a dull jealousy directed at you. "She's mine. And you... find someone else."

.