a/n: Sarah is clever.

twenty-five – yelling

James tugs the blankets closer around his shoulders as he rolls over and buries his head in his pillow. When he speaks, it's muffled: "Go away."

"Mister Henry made Chibby promise that Chibby would get Master James to see him, even if Master James told Chibby to go away."

"I told you not to call me that, Chib. James if fine. And I'll go in a minute."

"Mister Henry also told Chibby to make Master James get out of bed if he wouldn't do it willingly."

James groans. "Alright." She clicks her fingers. "Merlin, Chib, it's cold!"

The small house-elf is on good terms with her master and knows that she can giggle at his protestations when the covers are ripped back, exposing him to the slightly chilled morning air.

With much grumbling James stumbles out of bed, ramming on his glasses and hopping into some trousers. He pulls a T-shirt over his head, runs a hand through his hair and heads out of his bedroom. "You're wicked you are, you know," he comments amicably to the house-elf.

A smile strangely creases her face, and James shakes his head, grinning. He gets down to the front room where she told him his father would be waiting and opens the door.

"You wanted to see me?"

Henry is sitting in his armchair by the fire, wrapped in layers and a scarf despite the fact that it's July and there are Permanent Heating Charms in the whole manor.

"Yes, yes. I see she delivered the message. Sit down, son."

James does as asked and looks at his father, who leans forward, pressing his fingertips together.

"You have to understand that this is a difficult question for me to ask, James, but I feel I must."

James rolls his eyes but allows his father to go on. They've had this type of difficult discussion before - at least three times since he left Hogwarts for good two weeks ago.

"Lily means a lot to you, I know that," he begins, "but this is a war, son. Is she really -"

"If you are going to say 'worth it', then don't," James hisses venomously.

The elder blinks but doesn't flinch - he is Henry Potter, after all.

"James," he says, attempting to placate his son. "You are the last thing I have left of your mother. I don't want to lose you."

"You think Mum would approve of what you're saying?" he spits. "You fought against Grindelwald yourselves!" James swallows and closes his eyes. They can't seem to break the routine of their argument. "I don't care that Lily's Muggleborn, Dad," he says evenly, "and you shouldn't either. I love her and I would die for her a thousand times over, and I don't care if that means you lose what little you have left of Mum because she stopped loving you a long time ago."

James draws a breath and stops suddenly as if only just becoming aware of what he has said. Before they stuck to dancing around his girlfriend's blood-status but he's stepped too far this time and knows he's crossed the invisible line. The way his father's jaw squares and eyes flash dangerously confirms it. The younger looks away, not quite able to admit an apology.

"I want you to think about what you're doing," Henry tries. "You have a lot of responsibility, James, and you're a Potter. A pillar of the community. You hold a name and title that people respect, and you must behave appropriately. You aren't at school anymore."

James' eyes flicker to his father's. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Henry says, pausing to try and articulate, "that you can't just think about yourself now. You must consider how others see you, and - and the people you're with." For the first time, his commanding demeanour slips and he falters.

James looks away, seething. In their previous arguments, his father has never been so forthright. "You know something, Dad?" His voice is low and dangerous. "You're as bad as them. You might not think it and you tell yourself you aren't so you can sleep at night but when it gets down to it, you are! You're as bad as Voldemort and the rest of his Pureblood elitists!" he yells, furious. "I can't believe you! You fought against Grindelwald and now you're preaching his ideology! LOOK AT ME!" James stands and kicks the sofa angrily, panting. "You're disgusting!"

He feels sick, sick to his stomach. His father, who taught him what it is to be a Potter and to respect everyone, regardless of colour or creed or blood, is now trying to erase that and teach him what it means to be a Pureblood and respect no-one.

"You're disgusting," he repeats, and leaves the room, slamming the door on his way out.