Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/537246.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/James_Potter, Lily_Evans/James_Potter
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, James_Potter, Sirius_Black, Lily_Evans
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-14 Words: 7369
****** In Sweet Water ******
by tarie
Summary
     "Harry needs you, James. And you need him."
Notes
     Written for as part of 2007 . Headers derived from Erikson’s
     Developmental_Stages. I doubt this is what he intended them for. Oh
     well! Many thanks to my fantastic and very thorough betas.
           "In sweet water there is a pleasure ungrudged by anyone."
                                 Ovid, 13 A.D.
Trust vs Mistrust
Heat kills.
James isn’t sure how high the temperature had to be for that to happen, but
that is of no matter. What does matter is that heat can and will kill.
Moreover, he could be its next victim.
His house is hot.
James thinks he is bloody well going to die from the heat, but he knows better
than to cast a Cooling Charm. Lily would have had his arse in a sling for it;
she insists the babby will catch cold and that James will just have to suffer.
And so suffer he does. The air is heavy and sticks to his skin in ways and
places that make him feel entirely uncouth, and not in the fun way.
Sulking, and having decided Evans needed to see for herself what cruel and
unusual punishment she was inflicting on her darling husband, James climbs the
stairs and pads to the loo.
As he approaches the open door, the sounds of splashing and laughter reach his
ears. Despite his irritation with being hot and forced to suffer for it as
though he had done something particular vile and needed punishment, James
smiles. Their boy loves the bath. James reckons he’d be dead chuffed to stay in
there until the water went cold and his skin gone completely pruney.
“Having a time of it, are we?” James comments, and Lily jumps.
“Huh!” she exclaims, shooting him a startled and somewhat scandalized look over
her shoulder. “Would it be too much to announce your presence in some way
rather than lurking like a shoddy, pervy toerag?”
“But you like me best when I’m a shoddy, pervy toerag,” James murmurs, and in a
beat he is pressing against her back, chin resting on her shoulder. “Don’t deny
it, Evans.”
“I can’t,” Lily says in a tone that rather suggests she wishes she could.
One corner of James’ mouth curls up victoriously, gaze drifting down to the
portable tub on the counter. “Of course you can’t,” he practically purrs, eyes
dancing as Harry’s chubby fists arc downward and slice through the water’s
surface, sending a spray upward, outward, and every other sort of –ward.
“He’s fast,” Lily comments, canting her head to the side to steal a quick kiss.
“Just like his da,” James says proudly, thinking of himself on the Quidditch
Pitch.
“I certainly hope not.” There is a dirty bird tint to her voice and Lily
sniggers.
“Oi!” James protests, offended.
“Faster than a speeding shooting star!” Lily crows, twisting away from James to
borrow a bit of Harry’s bathwater, splashing it in his father’s direction.
Shaking his hair out like a wet dog, James reaches for her, encircling her
waist with his arm before she can pull back. “I’ll show you just how opposite
of fast I can be,” he growls playfully, nipping at her collarbone. In the tub,
Harry continues to splash and squeal, and James thinks the entire moment is
better than perfect.
“Watch close, Harry old boy. Your dad’s gonna teach you how to tame a bird and
get her to sing on cue,” James boasts. Feeling quite smug about it all, he
wrings out the sponge with his free hand and sets about wiping down Harry’s
round belly.
“Don’t you listen to a word he says, Harry,” Lily interrupts. “It’s all lies.”
James can tell she isn’t annoyed, though, as she lays one hand on his shoulder
while the other covers James’ hand and the sponge.
“Not all of it, Evans,” James says off-handedly as they smooth the sponge down
one of Harry’s chubby legs.
“That’s ‘Potter’ to you, toerag.”
“Cheeky skirt.”
“Just the way you like them.”
Autonomy vs Shame
He’s still got a bit of his baby fat. James watches how it jiggles as Harry’s
small feet propel him across the sand, an almost lazy spray of granules kicking
up behind his heels.
James laughs into the hazy air, salt-laden and humid as anything. Beside him,
Lily peers over the top of her Daily Prophet to see what James is laughing
about. The rag, James notices, unfortunately covers up most of Lily’s expanse
of glorious skin barely concealed by a green two-piece. He knew he should’ve
tossed that in the bin before Lily had a chance to stick it in the beach
hamper.
A hiss of flame and the crackling of paper sound like bloody music to his ears.
The smell of burning tobacco permeates the air. James inhales deeply, getting
his fill of it. The smoke burns his lungs bright like the sun, and today Harry
lords over the Kingdom of the Sea like a Prince while the King and Queen of
Everything look on.
They have been here for hours, lording over it all. Laughing and lounging
alternately in the sea and on the sand. The sun begins to dip, pink-cheeked and
red lipped, below the horizon, and the elder Potters rise in honor of her
glory.
Life feels fine. Perfect, even. And for the first time in a long while, James
feels utterly content, all thanks to Brighton and Its Sea.
Content.
Brighton is brilliant this way, and Lily even more so for the suggestion of the
mini-holiday.
Content. Even so, it’s time to go home. James has an appointment with
Dumbledore in the morning, bright and bloody early. He’ll need a proper amount
of rest to be able to put up with all that twinkling at such an ungodly hour.
With the flick of a wrist, the butt is tossed through the air. The arc of
barely-there orange and a trail of blue-grey smoke trace its path. The orange
and blue-grey disappear, snuffed out, in a soft plop as the butt lands in the
sand. Exhaling, James knees down slowly, discretely Banishing the rubbish. “Oi,
c’mon, Harry!” James calls to the shoreline.
“We’re going home now, love,” Lily adds, beginning to pack up the hamper.
“But Muuuuuuuuuuuum,” Harry’s complaint drifts up, his high-pitched little boy
whine carried above the crashing of the waves.
“But Muuuuuuuuuuuum,” James repeats, a roguish wink shot Lily’s way as he jogs
down to where their boy, The Little Prince, is. By the time he gets to the
shore, Harry is scampering down to where the waves are crashing and rolling in.
The water is nearly up to his waist, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“Lookit, Daddy!” Harry raises his arms above his head, a grin curving his
mouth.
“What exactly ‘m I lookin’ at, Harry?” James asks, bemused.
Just then Harry throws his small dark head back and James gasps. The sinking
sun isn’t quite gone yet, and her light glints off of Harry’s face, outlines
Harry’s small body, and James is reminded of Apollo.
Not the Little Prince. The Little Sun God, more like.
Harry straightens, Apollo no more, laughing a little as he splashes in the
direction of the shore. “I’m the King of the Sea, that’s what you’re lookin’
at, Daddy,” Harry says, as though it should be obvious.
“Should Mum and I start calling you Poseidon, then?” James teases, crouching
down, arms wide open.
“Daaaaaaaaaaad,” Harry protests, the water pushing him toward the shore. It
isn’t long before he’s running, running, running, baby fat jiggling merrily as
Harry propels himself forward.
When he gets close enough, James scoops Harry up. Harry’s arms immediately wind
around James’ neck, small arms nearly choking him but he doesn’t mind – though
he does walk very slowly back to Lily.
“Daddy.” Harry’s breath is hot against his ear, his boy’s salt water-slicked
skin sticky against his own.
“Yeah, mate?
“Today was a very, very, very good day.”
Purpose
“…Courtauld passes the Quaffle to Poindexter, Poindexter showing quite a bit of
skill on the broom there, naaaaaaaarrowly dodging the Bludger sent her way
courtesy of Izzard and—oh cor, Empson’s gone and—”
“JAMES HARFOOT POTTER!”
Ear glued to the wireless, James doesn’t bother to look up, but rather waves a
hand over his shoulder.
“…Seeker Avery has spotted the Snitch but, oh ho, so’s Falmouth Seeker Roke.
It’s a—”
The announcer’s voice cuts out abruptly and James swivels in his chair just as
quickly.
“The game!” he cries, gesturing wildly toward the WWN. “I’ve got twenty
Galleons riding on this!” He starts for the wireless but doesn’t get very far;
Lily Banishes the bloody thing across the room. It hits the wall with a bang
and makes a warbling sound until all noise tapers off completely. “Fucking
hell! What did y’ do that for?!
Calm. I must remain Calm and show Bloody Brilliant Poise. Will ask Sirius or
Peter for the score later. Correction. Will ask Sirius. Peter probably switched
to sodding Diagon Alley Damselsin the middle of the fucking thing.
“James Harfoot Potter,” Lily repeats, her voice much quieter this time round.
When she uses that tone, it’s Certain Death, James knows.
Some very serious counteracting is in order. Right. Will not obsess over
possible Quidditch score. May about to be hexed, must look Incredibly Sharp.
“Lily Isobel Evans Potter,” James purrs, reaching a hand out for his wife.
Unfortunately, she’s still shooting daggers. “Did I, or did I not, specifically
ask you to talk to Sirius Bighead Black?” she asks, red colouring her cheeks.
It’s dead sexy, really.
“Of course I talked to him; he’s my best mate,” James demurs, not having a clue
in seven hells what she’s on about. Patting his lap, he says, “C’mere, Skirt.
I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to you.”
James can tell she’s fighting it, but he sees the way her lips curve up at the
corners. Trying to sound no-nonsense (and not quite getting there), she
continues, “Did you talk to him about Harry’s birthday?”
Fuck.
“Yeah,” James says, and even as the word is out of his mouth he knows it sounds
as crap as it is.
“Oh, I see.” Lily shakes her head, eyes flashing dangerously. “So you talked to
him about what not give Harry for his eighth birthday? Told him under no
circumstances to give Harry anything remotely resembling something that could
get him into that ‘up to no good’ tripe you lot are so very well skilled at?”
He swallows hard, stymieing the lielaughtershitshitshit from seeing the light
of day.
“Don’t,” Lily says scathingly, holding up a hand, “even try to deny it, James.
I know you didn’t because—”
The pounding of feet and then the flushed, panting form of their messy-haired
son interrupt. “Dad! Dad!” Harry gasps, a disheveled-looking parcel cradled
against his chest, his thin frame leaning against the doorway for support.
“Guess what Uncle Sirius got me for a birthday pressie!”
“Cursed Christmas Crackers?” James ventures a guess, smiling broadly over at
Lily.
“No,” son and wife say at the same time, though Harry sounds much more
enthusiastic about the whole thing than his mum.
“Water pistols!” Harry says excitedly, tossing the brown wrapping paper on the
ground. “See? See?”
“Bloody—Padfoot—WATER PISTOLS!” James nearly shrieks, practically tripping over
himself in his own excitement as he crosses to Harry. “Let me see what you’ve
got there, eh?”
“Sure thing, Dad.” Harry rips open the end of the box, passing one of the pair
to James.
“Good old Padfoot,” James practically cackles, turning the plastic thing over
in his hands. “Good idear, too. It’s hot as a tick on a hippogriff in Hell.”
“Not ‘good old Padfoot’,” Lily interjects, disapproval etched all over her
face.
“But I really like them,” Harry says quietly, pushing his glasses back up his
nose.
Lily’s face softens then, and James knows she’s a goner. She loves the hell out
of their kid and, while she’s stubborn and hard on him sometimes, she can
rarely say ‘no’ when she knows it’s something important to him.
“All right,” she relents, and James crows, throwing his hands up in the air
victoriously. Harry follows suit. Both of them freeze when Lily gives them A
Look. “None of that in the house though, understood? We’ve too many nice things
from your grandparents and magic can’t fix everything.”
“Yes, Mum,” Harry mumbles, and then he flings himself against her, arms
wrapping around her waist. “Thank you.”
“It’s all right, baby,” Lily says quietly, smoothing down Harry’s unruly hair,
and James smiles as he taps the two pistols with his wand, filling them with
water. “Love you.”
“And I love you, Lily,” James breaks in, and then he promptly squirts her in
the neck with one of Harry’s pistols.
“OI!” she bellows, and Harry laughs, disentangling himself from his mum.
“Boy, catch!” James shouts, tossing the other one to Harry. Then he’s out the
back door, running as though his life depends on it.
Behind him, he can hear the thumping of two sets of feet on the ground, mad
laughter and, “Accio Water Pistol!”
Though he tries to keep his grip on the butt of the gun, James cannot best
Lily’s summoning; the pistol wrenches itself free, flying over his shoulder so
fast it nearly nicks him. And then there is a brief sting in the centre of his
back, accompanied by a burst of water.
“I’m hit! I’m hit!” James cries, sinking to his knees.
Harry cuts in front of him, his round face red and twisted from laughing so
hard, gun hanging at his side. “Mum got you good!” Harry guffaws.
Lily is standing right behind him; James can feel her warmth. Just as she
begins to snicker, thoroughly giving his hair a bath courtesy of Sirius’ water
pistol, James grins. “She always does.”
Industry vs Inferiority
James is tired of gaining sympathies and catching ‘poor fellow’ looks from
across the room. He doesn’t want or need their sympathies. He doesn’t want or
need their pity.
All James needs is for his wife to be fucking all right, not in a coffin six
feet under and two plots away from her parents, dirt so fresh atop her casket
that James can still smell it. Christ, he can still smell her. He can still see
her.
The first time he saw her, she’d been sitting in a compartment on the Hogwarts
Express. If anyone had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to recall if anyone
else had been in it with her; all he could see was her. Her hair was longer and
brighter and more vibrantly red than anything he’d ever seen before that very
moment. And when she’d turned to look at him with eyes so brilliant and green
he’d thought he had tripped head-first into a vast meadow, that was the moment
James knew he would marry her.
The last time he saw her, Dumbledore had been lowering the lid on her casket.
That was an hour ago, though it seems to James like he’s experienced a lifetime
of loneliness since then. He will never love another woman like he loved Lily
Evans.
“James.”
A warm, strong hand claps about his shoulder. James knocks back another glass
of Firewhisky, ignoring it. “Don’t.”
“James, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything, Sirius!” he finally explodes, whirling around to
glare into his best mate’s eyes. “Lily’s fucking dead, okay? I’m not going back
out there—” James jerked a thumb toward the drawing room. “—so just stop. I
don’t need anyone else to tell me how sorry they are, to offer to bloody help,
so—”
“Shut up,” Sirius hisses, wrestling the glass away from James.
James doesn’t have the strength to fight back, to reclaim the cup. Leaning back
against the counter, he puts his head in his hands. Everything hurts.
“You have to go outside. Get some fresh air,” Sirius says shortly.
“No.”
“Harry needs you, James. And you need him.”
Oh, God. Harry.
Dragging his hands down his face, James stares over at Sirius. Everything is
blurry. It hurts to focus.
“He’s outside, James. You know where.”
“Yeah,” James says thickly.
“Go on then. Remus and Pete and I will take care of things here,” Sirius says,
already walking toward the drawing room.
Harry is sitting at the edge of the small pond round the back of their
property, just like James knew he would be. His small shoulders are slumped in
defeat. As James sits silently down beside Harry, he can hear him sniffling.
They sit in the quiet together for some time, both staring out at the water’s
smooth surface. If James concentrates on focussing, he can almost see Lily’s
face in the water there. Vision blurs once twice before slowly carefully
painfully putting all the pieces together. Mouth hanging open, James leans
forward as reds and creams and greens start to light before his eyes. She’s
there, in the water, trying to tell him something, and—
Plop! Splash!
Just like that, the picture dissolves. James reels back, staring open-mouthed
at Harry.
Harry’s eyes are red, puffy. Bloodshot. They likely see nothing but the
collection of smooth pebbles in the palm of his hand, though James sees
everything.
James sees how much his son aches and it makes him ache on the inside, like
someone’s carved a large, cavernous hole inside him and nothing will be able to
fill it up no matter how much he needs it to be filled.
Harry’s barely a few days past ten and he’s aged ten years in the span of the
three days since Lily died.
“Gimme one of those stones, won’t you?” James mutters.
Harry wordlessly presses one in James’ palm. A beat, and then James’ fingers
curl over it, the cool smoothness doing nothing to calm him.
“Dad,” Harry says hoarsely.
“Son,” James breathes. He exhales. He inhales. And that fucking hole gets just
a little bigger.
A sudden flick of the wrist. Skip skip skip spa-lunk. The water’s surface is
disturbed, rippling. It moves as though it’s crying out for help, searching for
someone, something, anything to help soothe it.
There isn’t anything to be done about it. What’s done is done and there isn’t a
damned thing anyone can do.
A great, gut-wrenching sob sounds beside him. James turns his head just in time
to see Harry lob the lot of the stones toward the centre of the pond. A mighty
splash sounds and then Harry is pressed against his chest, glasses digging into
James’ shoulder.
It strikes James then just how much of a little boy Harry still is, no matter
if Lily and he had been commenting on how big Harry was getting anymore. Harry
is small for his age, thin and wiry, but James knows he’s fast as anything when
he runs and faster still on a broom (though James had not let on to Lily that
he’d been letting Harry try out his racing broom). He’s full of energy and
creativity and spark. He feels things deeply and always speaks his mind in the
way children do, with utmost honesty.
James can’t help himself. Holding Harry, knowing Harry’s got Lily’s eyes and
her kindness and her stubbornness, his eyes begin to sting, to become wet with
tears and regret and longing for what can never be again.
“It’s just us now,” James says dully, voice muffled against Harry’s hair.
Harry tilts his head back, staring up at James in a determined way that
painfully reminds him of Lily. “That’s all we can be, Dad.”
Identity vs Role Confusion
Second year already.
Tomorrow Harry will be leaving for year two at Hogwarts. James can scarcely
believe it’s that time again, nor that he’ll be taking Harry in the morning to
King’s Cross for the second year in a row. Pity Lily never got to send Harry
off. She would have been so proud of him, beyond thrilled that he’d both got
the letter and been sorted into Gryffindor like both his parents.
It’s just James and Harry now.
Lily was always the more responsible parent. She was the one to make sure Harry
had washed behind his ears, eaten his vegetables, brushed his teeth and all
that, while James was the one to sneak in some broom riding or horse about
with. James has had to learn to do the things Lily did. He’s acting as Dad and
Mum now because that’s how it is.
It’s late.
When he’d checked an hour ago, Harry still hadn’t been finished packing. It was
time for Harry to get to bed or else James would never be able to rouse him on
time in the morning.
Carrying a goblet of water, James heads down the hall toward Harry’s room.
After dropping off the water and wishing Harry a good night, James intends to
turn in himself. He had a long meeting at work that morning and is fairly
exhausted. Tomorrow will be another long day, starting much earlier than usual.
“Hey, mate,” James says, twisting the knob. Pushing the door open, the hinges
creaking slight, he continues, “I’ve got your drink. How goes the pa—” Funny,
James would later think, how quickly one can lose the power of speech, et
cetera, when completely, utterly, totally surprised by something-or-other.
James blinks, dimly aware that his hand is no longer holding the goblet. It has
fallen to the floor, no longer whole but in dozens upon dozens of minute pieces
instead. Water clings to the fabric of his trousers upon his calves in places,
soaking through to the skin in others.
In the middle of his four-poster, open trunk at the foot of it, is Harry. His
head has fallen back; his eyes are closed and his skin is so very flushed.
Harry’s small mouth held steady in an ‘o’ as his hand fisted slowly, awkwardly
over and over himself.
Upon hearing the goblet shatter, Harry’s eyes fly open, his hand freezing.
James isn’t sure who is redder – Harry or himself.
“Clean up and get to bed,” James hears himself say. “We’ve got an early morning
of it.”
Harry mumbles something in response, but James doesn’t hear it. With a quick
flick of his wand, he’s taken care of the goblet mess and races off for his own
bedroom.
He can barely slam the door behind him fast enough. Pressing his shoulders
against it hard, James reaches down to the zip on his trousers. A few agonizing
moments later, his trousers are down around his thighs, pants shoved down far
enough to release his cock. Running his thumb across the head, James presses it
against the slit, teasing it. Already he can feel the tension begin to mount in
his balls. Oh God, but Harry’s his son and he shouldn’t be—Fingers form a
circle and then begin to fist tightly, pump pump pumping hard and then fast and
then hard again. He can feel the length of his cock moving against the lines in
his palm. Everything begins to spin out of control – Harry is growing up and
there isn’t anything he can do about it – and he shouldn’t be thinking about
Harry but for some reason he just can’t stop. His thighs begin to tremble -
- green eyes like Lily’s, a spirit all his own, leaving me for another year
don’t think I can take it -- and then a tremendous cry forces its way out of
his chest as wet, sticky warmth spurts all over his hand.
All because of Harry.
“Fuck.”
Intimacy and Solidary vs Isolation
“C’mon, Dad,” Harry urges, looking back over his shoulder at James as though
silently adding, “You slow old arse.”
“I’m running as fast as I bloody well can!” James huffs, jogging behind his
son. His footing is uneven in the sand, slowing him down even more. He can’t
possibly keep up with Harry; Harry is fifteen and fucking fast while James is
thirty-five and definitely not as fit as he was when Harry was four, the last
time they’d been at this beach.
Last time they’d been there with Lily. It’d been her idea for the mini-break.
This time around it was Harry’s. “It’ll be my early birthday present,” he’d
wheedled, and James hadn’t been able to bloody well say no. Merlin, if Lily
hadn’t ever been able to deny Harry anything, James sure as hell couldn’t
either.
In a few short weeks Harry would be back at Hogwarts for his sixth year (and a
prefect for the second year in a row). So really, James did want to spend as
much quality time with his boy as he could. It hadn’t been too difficult to
give in. Secretly, though, James wished Harry would have selected a different
beach. But no, it had to be Brighton, so Brighton it was.
“Under here,” Harry calls before ducking beneath the dock.
Panting a little, James catches up a minute or two later and follows suit. His
head tips back, eyes studying the slats overhead. Sunlight slips through the
cracks and spills upon their forms. When James looks over at Harry and the way
the light plays upon his face, he is reminded of a small boy amid the sea, lit
up like Apollo though he’d rather be Poseidon. The Little Sun God isn’t so
little anymore.
“What’re we doing under here?” James asks curiously. Thinking back to a boyhood
holiday or two here of his own – long summer days of salt and seaweed and
laughter and queer Muggle fags that made his eyes tired and stomach insatiable,
he adds mischievously, “Have you got a spliff for your old man?”
“What?” Harry’s eyes round and he shakes his head a little too vehemently. “No.
No! Dad. It’s nothing like that.”
“What’s it like, then?”
“Just, I wanted-- This.” James hadn’t even realised Harry had been cupping
something in his hand until he opened them, revealing a Snitch with its wings
all aflutter. “Catch!” Having said that, Harry pushes his hands up, forcing the
Snitch to launch.
With a great big laugh, the kind that starts low in your belly and bubbles up
until you can’t stand it anymore, James launches himself after it. Reaching
reaching yearning almost—ah ha!
“That’s a boy,” Harry crows, adopting the tone James has used more than once at
Harry’s Quidditch games.
“When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It doesn’t piss off to the wayside, kiddo,”
James grins. “Your turn.”
The Snitch zooms off with Harry in hot pursuit. There is sand on the back of
Harry’s legs where there is a sunburn on James’. Through the smudge of
fingerprints and saltwater, James watches as his boy easily plucks the Snitch
from the air. With a swagger James had seen in Lily more than once, Harry makes
a beeline for him, a smug smile creating a broad line beneath his specs.
“Wanna make things interesting?” Harry asks, that smug smile transforming into
a smirk,
“Sure,” James says easily, his curiosity piqued.
“Whoever doesn’t catch the Snitch next has to do the dishes for the rest of the
summer.”
James snorts; that’s by far Harry’s least favorite chore round the house.
“Without magical means,” Harry adds.
“Woooooah,” James says teasingly. “Quite a bet there, mate. Guess you oughta
invest in some of those Muggle rubber gloves soon, eh?”
“We’ll see about that,” Harry says loftily. Holding the Snitch high above his
head, he locks eyes with James. “On three.”
Oh, but James is ready. He might not be as quick as Harry but he’s got at least
twenty more years of experience horsing about with a Snitch (it had been, after
all, his display of choice when trying to impress the flock of birds back in
his Hogwarts days).
“Show me what you’ve got, poppet,” James taunts, crouching low, eyes shifting
to stare at the fluttering white wings of the Snitch.
“Sure thing, crone,” Harry retorts, laughter ringing around the edges of the
syllables. “One. Two. And three!”
Just like that, they are off. Sand sprays up behind them, their legs – long
lean kissed brown by the sun – pumping furiously as they race under the dock.
Weaving around the support poles and racing under the slats, James feels
invigorated and vibrant and ready to win. Every time the Snitch skitters past a
crack in the slat it gleams gold, gold like Galleons and Gryffindor and grace,
and oh but Harry is full of grace when he moves. He is like a Sun God, James
decides, elbow jostling Harry’s side as he reaches far with his free hand.
Broad and fit and so very luminous, life and livelihood coursing through his
veins because he’s invigorated by his youth but not unrealistically so. Harry
has seen tragedy and knows it well, yet he will persevere. The sun sets and
rises and so shall Harry. So will James because he has no choice. It’s the way
of the world. It’s the way of them, and that’s all they can be.
“Nghh,” Harry grunts beside him, pulling up from behind.
His eyes dart to the support pole just ahead, the glittering Snitch hovering
beside it, and Harry to his left. Bugger this. I’m winning. “Eurgh,” James
pants, straining, reaching fingertips wanting almost there yes have it no wait
maybe—
Shit, James thinks, immediately followed by, Fuck me, it hurts! as his head
slams against the support poles. Harry then runs straight into him, elbows and
hip bones digging into James’ skin as they both struggle to gain possession of
the Snitch fluttering madly in the small space between them.
“Let go,” he says through gritted teeth, struggling to ward Harry’s fingers
off.
“No,” Harry says petulantly, nudging a knee between James’ legs, likely trying
to gain footing so he can throw his father off.
“Yes,” James grinds out, bound and determined to gain the upper hand. Lifting
his hips off the pole, he bucks forward – thinking that ought to jostle Harry
right off – and then freezes instantaneously. There’s a hardness digging into
his hip and it most certainly is not Harry’s hipbone. Shit, he can feel himself
getting—getting-- Fucking hell, I can’t bloody think it.
James needs to move right now. He needs to move right bloody now, let go of the
Snitch, and head back for their blanket on the beach before this can get any
sodding worse. But James can’t move. He can barely even breathe as Harry’s
eyes, wide and greener than ever, bore into his.
James feels one of Harry’s hands curl around his waist, fingers pressing into
his flesh so hard James knows there will be a mark. Then suddenly Harry is
closer, much closer, and – dammit – their hips are grinding together, erections
– Christ, I’m fucking hard – colliding and rubbing together, making them grunt
and groan beneath the pounding of the surf against sand.
This is my son. My son. Lily’s boy, James thinks desperately, but thoughts
cannot overcome the heat spiraling and coiling in the pit of his belly, tension
mounting as his breathing becomes forced and shallow.
Harry’s hips twist against James’ almost violently.
“Harry,” James chokes, and then he hears himself moaning, unable to get
anything – like ‘Stop’ or ‘More’ or ‘Fuck’ – else out because Harry’s hand was
moving along the fabric of his swimming trunks that covered James’ erection.
“Can’t—”
“Can,” Harry nearly whimpers, taking hold of James’ hand and pressing it
against his own erection. James feels it practically leap against his touch. A
beat, and then they have both released the Snitch, the small golden ball
trapped between their chests, wings beating frantically in time with the
snapping of their hips.
A heavy, thick feeling begins to push from within and then he’s pulsing against
his trunks, Harry’s name tumbling from his lips over and over.
“Dad,” Harry rasps raggedly, sliding against James, wet heat spreading out and
against his father.
“It’s just us now,” James whispers, wondering what in the hell he’s just done.
Generativity vs Self absorption
“Congratulations, Ron! Well played!” James claps the red-head on the shoulder,
grinning wildly. Gryffindor has just soundly thrashed Ravenclaw 310 – 80,
thereby securing the Quidditch Cup for themselves.
“Thanks, Mr Potter,” Ron grins, shrugging his rucksack up his shoulder as he
kicks the changing room door shut behind him.
“’s Harry still in there, or have I missed the little blighter completely?”
“Nah, you’ve not missed him. I reckon he’s staying in there as long as possible
so he can make a grand entrance to the party later,” Ron laughs, and James
joins in, knowing full well Ron’s taking the piss out of him. Harry is a
brilliant Seeker but he absolutely hates all the attention after a match. More
than likely he’s biding his time so that he’ll miss the party back in the
Gryffindor common room completely.
“Thanks, Ron. Think I’ll just pop in and have a chat before I nip home.”
“No problem. See you over summer hols.” With a wave, Ron disappears round the
bend, the spring in his step undeniable.
Smiling to himself, James pushes open the door to the changing room and steps
inside. Only one locker is open, a Quidditch kit folded neatly on the bench.
It’s Harry’s and it absolutely reeks of sweat.
“Harry?”
Tilting his head to one side, James can just make out the sound of running
water. As though drawn, James moves toward it. He rounds a dividing wall and
promptly stops in his tracks.
Just ahead are the communal showers, one of the taps on. The water is running,
pounding against Harry’s back, some of the spray kicking up and slipping over
the fronts of Harry’s shoulders and chest in thick rivulets.
Harry’s chest is broader than James remembered it from Brighton. More filled
out. James’ eyes move lower, noting his son’s sculpted abdomen. To the right of
his navel is a lion, fierce and proud, its jaws working in what is undeniably a
roar. Lower still James’ eyes go, skimming over a thin trail of dark hairs
leading to the place where his gaze stops – Harry’s cock. Harry’s smooth and
pink cock, half-hard and bobbing slightly.
“God,” James breathes, alternately awed at how grown his son is and disgusted
that he’s bloody staring like some sort of perverted letch.
“Dad,” Harry says, reaching behind to turn off the taps. James’ head jerks up,
his eyes averting guiltily.
Harry steps toward him and James has to fight every instinct to not just turn
and walk away right then and there. “How long’ve you been standing there?”
“I came to say congratulations before I went back home,” James says
automatically, avoiding Harry’s question. He lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s,
trying valiantly to not focus on very graphic and just bloody wrong thoughts
whirring about madly in his mind – the two of them against the pole beneath the
dock, the two of them together in this changing room, Harry’s hands braced
against the tile as James-- No. God, NO! “So congratulations,” he finishes, an
uncomfortable hitch in his chest.
“Thanks.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. After James tosses him a towel,
he wraps it round his waist. His expression turns serious. “Dad?”
“Yeah?” James hates how hoarse his voice sounds.
“I’ve something I need to talk to you about.”
James’ stomach bottoms out. He doesn’t have to ask Harry what he means by that;
it’s written plainly all over his face.
“I’m your father, Harry,” James whispers.
“I know,” Harry says, eyes wide and searching, “and it’s you and me. Family.”
“Not like that,” James says firmly.
“Exactly like that,” Harry retorts, and James can almost swear Harry’s lower
lip is trembling.
“You’re wrong,” James hears himself say, an acidic taste in his mouth.
“You’re scared.”
I am.
Wisdom
James stands in Harry’s doorway, watching as his son crosses angrily from one
side of the room to the other, occasionally stopping to toss something in a
large rucksack.
“So you’re still not talking to me, I see,” James notes.
The only thing he gets in response is the tensing of Harry’s shoulders.
They haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to one another since perhaps
an hour after James picked him up from King’s Cross for the very last time.
That was seven weeks ago. Not even on Harry’s birthday did they manage to make
amends, though James had very much wanted to do so. Harry had spent that whole
day either shooting a murderous glare in his direction or looking distraught
and melancholy.
“Have fun with Sirius, then,” James says when it becomes apparent Harry is not
going to break his silence. Shrugging, James pivots and starts down the
hallway. Sirius is due within the hour to round up Harry; his belated birthday
present to his godson is a motorbike tour about the countryside.
“I will!” Harry’s voice shouts behind him.
Mouth twisting, James does not let himself turn around. Rather, he keeps
walking toward the staircase. “Good,” he says evenly, feet carrying him swiftly
down the stairs. Just as he reaches the landing, Harry’s hands shove roughly at
James’ shoulder blades, causing him to stumble forward.
“It isn’t good!” Harry roars, and James whirls around to glare at him coldly.
“Don’t you dare do that again,” James warns, his patience long gone.
“Or what, Dad?” Harry chokes, and then he pushes his way past James.
“Are you walking away from me?”
“Yeah, I am,” Harry says defiantly, and James winces as the door to the back
yard slams shut.
He can’t let Harry go like that, leave for his trip being utterly furious at
James.
Resolve setting in every last nerve, James follows Harry outside. It’s pissing
down rain and he can barely see Harry in front of him. Taking off his glasses,
James squints and is just able to make out Harry’s blurry form making a beeline
for the large willow tree near the pond. Ducking his chin against his chest,
James runs for it as well.
The moment he’s under the protection of the branches and foliage, he buffs his
specs dry with the hem of his shirt that isn’t sopping wet like the rest of
him. “You’re not leaving like this,” he says, replacing the glasses and
blinking as Harry comes into proper focus.
Dropping his rucksack on the grass, Harry raises his head high. “I am, Dad. I
told you how I felt and what I wanted, and you—”
“And I what, Harry?”
“And you don’t want me!” Harry says, voice strangled.
He turns around and James finds himself staring hard at the slight dip between
Harry’s shoulder blades.
Oh, but how wrong Harry is. James can almost laugh at the notion – he doesn’t
want Harry? Far from it, and it’s been far from it for much longer than James
cares to admit.
“But I do,” James says quietly.
Harry blinks. “You mean you…” He licks his lips. “You mean it, don’t you, Dad?”
“I mean it. We can talk about it when you get back from your trip.” The words
sound so odd to James’ ears, but he knows that was his voice, those were his
words. Harry had been right that day in the changing room. James was scared. He
is scared. But if he has learned anything in life, it’s that he can’t give into
the fear. He simply has to work through it.
“No. Now,” Harry says insistently.
“But Sirius is soon going to be coming round,” James protests.
“I don’t care,” Harry says, and then he closes the gap between them by pressing
his mouth against James’, winding his fingers in his father’s hair.
Part of James is screaming shrieking begging for him to
stopceaseforgetiteverhappened, but it’s only a small part. The rest of him
focusses on the feel of his son’s hand in his hair, focusses on slanting his
mouth open for Harry’s tongue. James settles his hands around Harry’s waist,
tugging him closer before moving one hand to slide under Harry’s trousers and
pants. Nimble fingers begin to stroke his son’s cock, the rhythm as fast and
teasing as the slide of Harry’s tongue against his own. Tightening his fist,
James shifts gears, making slow, teasing work of each pull. Harry’s hips begin
to snap forward impatiently, and suddenly James needs more than mouths and
hands. He needs to feel more.
“Down,” he grunts, and Harry complies, falling to his knees. James moves behind
him, hands sliding down the length of Harry’s arms and over to the waistband.
In a few moment trousers and pants are tugged down and James pushes Harry
forward onto his hands, yanking the offending fabric until it is pooled at his
ankles.
Two hands skirt up Harry’s thighs, and James feels himself harden as Harry’s
back arches, accompanied by a keening mewl.
“Daaaad,” Harry whines, and James leans forward to press a kiss to the nape of
Harry’s neck, teeth scraping lightly.
“Talk to me, Harry.”
“I w-want you to….”
“What do you want?” James asks, his voice a strange half-moan.
“I want to feel you. In me,” Harry breathes, and fuck but James could come
right there if it wouldn’t ruin everything.
“Okay,” James breathes, nudging Harry’s legs apart. As one hand holds Harry’s
hips in place, James runs his tongue over and around the fingers on the other.
Running his fingers across Harry’s buttocks, James then presses two fingers
against his entrance, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. Harry moans,
pushing his arse back immediately. “Not yet.” Twisting his fingers inside
Harry’s warm channel, James crooks them until they press against a small knot.
James can Harry tense around his fingers. Draping himself over Harry’s back,
James whispers, “Now,” into his ear.
Removing his hand, James positions himself against the tight pucker. A beat,
and he propels himself forward.
Shit. Missed.
“Dad,” Harry groans, arse lifting toward him.
“Sorry,” James mutters, and he nudges Harry’s knees farther apart before
pushing himself forward with a low groan. Harry is tight, so very tight and the
resistance makes James feel a little dizzy and a whole lot brilliant. His hands
find purchase on Harry’s back for leverage, his son’s skin hot and slick to the
touch. Inch by inch he slowly moves forward until his balls slap against
Harry’s arse.
“I need you,” Harry moans, rotating his hips and creating the most glorious
fucking sensation ever.
James snaps.
Lungs burning, James pulls out a minute bit. Rocks forward. Pulls out a minute
bit again. Rocks forward again.
Harry whimpers and bucks and James knows Sirius will be here any minute so
they’ve got to hurry, they’ve got to finish, they’ve got to—
“Fuck—”
“Harry—”
“Harder. Please. Dad.”
Slamming into the slim body beneath him, James’ self control has been lost. He
can’t help but to withdraw then drive forward and fuck fuck rut Christ but
Harry feels good. When James begins to kiss the side of Harry’s neck, he hears
his son whisper his name over and over again. It makes James fuck him all the
harder, Harry’s words from so long ago ringing in his ears -- That’s all we can
be, Dad, -- and James knows it’s true. It’s just James and just Harry and
that’s all there is to it, family and blood and familiarity.
“Come inside me,” Harry moans, and that absolutely bloody well does it. James’
cock jerks hard, pounding against Harry’s arse until he’s spiraled completely
out of control.
It isn’t until both he and his boy beneath him stop trembling that James
realises he has nothing to be scared of. Harry may be grown up now and no
longer a little boy, but Harry is and will always be his family.
The roar of an engine can be heard from just down the road then, and James
reluctantly pulls out.
They make quick work of fixing their clothes. After James climbs to his feet,
he offers a hand to Harry. Sirius rolls into view, cutting across the grass as
the rain continues to pour down.
“Have a good time on your trip,” James says quietly as Sirius climbs down from
his bike.
Tossing his rucksack to Sirius, Harry then turns to his father. “I’ll have an
even better time when I get back.”
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