Disclaimer: See first chapter.
A/N: And now for something completely different.
A/N: I know it's really short. I'm sorry. I'll make up for it.
"A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it." - Frank Howard Clark.
September 12th 1980. Godric's Hollow. 12:40.
Sometimes, often during the day when he knew Peter was fiddling around with potion ingredients and changing the world, when he knew Sirius was actively fighting against the man he was forced to hide from, when he knew Lupin was handing invaluable information to Dumbledore, James resented his son.
The child was small for his age. His jet black hair grew in all directions, thicker in the front than the back. His eyes were wide with wonder at everything he saw and heard in their home.
He rarely cried. James knew that he ought to be relieved, but he was baffled. All babies cried. Not his.
The boy had little reason to. His parents, trapped in the same four walls as he was, doted on him. He was not left alone. He was constantly fed in a bid to up his weight-gain. He was kept warm in a baby-blue fleece blanket. His every whim was pondered to.
Lily had quickly accustomed to her new life as a fugitive, hiding out with her little family. She managed smiles in the morning as she made tea and buttered toast. She spent her days curled up on the burnt orange armchair beside the fireplace, reading books the size of her head and drinking large glasses of white wine. James noticed that her measures were gradually creeping further and further toward the rim. It was the only outward appearance that all was not well.
He wasn't supposed to be left alone with his son while Lily visited her mother at her deathbed. Sirius had promised that he would sit with them and talk to them and keep the loneliness at bay. James wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved when Sirius was called into work. He missed his best friend. It was a partial reason for his being unable to warm to the child. He couldn't help but resent the boy for taking the joy out of his life and imprisoning him in their family home, for taking his dreams for their future. Harry seemed to sense this reluctance to hold him, talk to him, or play with him. He only ever seemed to want his mother's company.
Or Sirius'.
Sirius, who brought him sugar (which his mother would not allow him to eat) and gifts every time he crossed the threshold, was held extremely high in the boy's esteem. Sirius laughed and was always willing to play nonsensical childish games with him. Harry usually tired of this before his godfather did and, as a result, adored him.
James felt as though he were completely insignificant in his son's life.
He'd tried, God knows he'd tried, to maintain the pretence that he could cope. He attempted a smile for the child every time he met Harry's eyes. He never left him alone in a room. Harry went to bed a great deal earlier than his parents, who had now spent so great a time in one another's company that they had nothing to say to one another, and until he was asleep, his father sat with him.
Perhaps, thought James, his son was just as tired of his company as his wife.
The thought terrified him. He had never before pictured his role as husband and father to be redundant. He'd imagined himself as a larger-than-life character who could never be replaced in their lives, yet his wife and child seemed to be perfectly capable of forgetting him. They didn't need him. He was unable to leave the house and had lost his role as best friend. He had lost his role as provider as Sirius brought things to the house. He had never had a job and as such, had never had a role as breadwinner. His life amounted to nothing.
Until his little boy smiled at him.
At first, he wasn't sure Harry had smiled. After all, he was just under six weeks old and there seemed no reason for him to smile.
James peered down at him, his hands resting on the little wooden cot as he cocked his head to one side like a sparrow.
"What are you so happy about?" He frowned. "Why am I asking you?" He sighed softly. "Of course you're happy. Why wouldn't you be? That's the question, isn't it? You're warm and well-fed and you know that Mummy loves you."
Harry waved his pudgy arms in the air, his fists clenching and grasping at nothing.
"What do you want?" He lowered a hand into his son's cot and returned the child's smile as Harry gripped his finger. "And you know that Daddy loves you too, don't you, Harry? You have to know. I don't know what I'll do if you don't love me."
Harry only kicked with pleasure, smiling up at him.
"You are smiling. I knew you were," he lied. "Wait until we show Mummy. I bet she wasn't smiling at six weeks old." Harry had still not relinquished his hold on his father's finger. "Am I to take it that you don't want that nap? If you do actually love your old man and want to play with him, please give me absolutely no signal whatsoever."
Harry merely stared up at him.
"That's good enough for me. Come on. Let's see what Mummy's been silly enough not to hide from us."
The kitchen yielded little more than a packet of crisps and a telephone. James opened the crisps and absentmindedly finished them browsing through his wife's address book.
Having settled Harry, James dialed the only number he was comfortable dialing without Dutch courage or a genuine emergency for an excuse.
He pressed a finger to his lips, but there was little need. The phone rang for whole minutes.
"I think maybe Sirius is still at work. My friends are boring." He turned to his son. "Who else can we pester? How about your aunt and uncle? Wouldn't that be funny? I don't think your mother would think so though, would she? OK, how about…I genuinely don't know who these people are."
"You know, Sirius, it rings for a reason. Hello?"
James beamed. "'Alo. We 'ave your family. I want you to 'ide the money een a green sack and-"
At the other end of the line, Lupin sighed and turned to his flat mate. "It's James pretending to be a Mafia boss so I assume it's for you."
"Oh, Moony! Why did you have to go and spoil it? I'm trying to teach the boy about Muggle culture here."
"James, the last time you put on an accent, you were traumatising twenty five-year-olds and ruining my Nativity, so please forgive me my reservations."
James turned to his sleeping son and stage-whispered. "Uncle Moony's a killjoy. What is he, Harry? A killjoy, that's right."
"'Alo. 'Ow dare you breeng deeshonour on my 'ouse."
"Pad! Brilliant. How was work?"
"Same old shit. I stole a tin of biscuits though, so it wasn't a total waste of a day. Anyway, back to beesness."
A small click was the only clue that the second receiver had been picked up.
"You're butchering the accent, you know, both of you. And besides, we cannot 'elp you. We do not 'ave a green sack."
"Oh, shit. I forgot Moony's something Sicilian. What's it your uncle's in, Moon? Casa Nostril or something, isn't it?" Sirius laughed. "And did your mother never tell you it was rude to pick up the phone and listen to people's conversations or did she never get to mention it when her mouth was full of my-whoa! See you, James."
James listened to the dial tone, knowing they wouldn't see him and unsure what else to do.
"I miss you."