Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry Potter was a robust looking child. He wasn’t chubby, per se, but his sturdy legs and rosy cheeks made it clear that he was well-loved.

Right now, he was making use of those sturdy legs to reach up onto the sofa and bother the cat.

James Potter, poking his head out from the kitchen at the sound of an almighty yowl, found his son cheerfully grabbing at the cushions – while his wife’s childhood cat huddled as far into the corner of the seat as possible. A hiss sounded from behind him, the pot boiling over, and he was torn between rescuing a beloved pet or rescuing his dinner.

“Liiils!” He called up the stairs, cursing his luck that Harry was finally able to reach the cats ‘safe space’.

“What is it?” A muffled yell came in response. He’d promised not to bother her while she had her bath, sworn he could handle the household ‘just fine on his own, thank you very much’.

Grimacing as he realised he'd failed at that promise almost immediately, he replied. “I need some help down here, please, the pot’s boiling over,” he heard the sloshing of water against the edge of the tub as she quickly pulled herself out, and hustled over to move Harry feeling reasonably secure the boiling pot would be handled shortly.

“What’re you doing, eh? You know mittens here isn’t into the whole tail-grabbing thing” he murmured to his son, scooping him up and away from the aging feline, who was glaring at him with baleful yellow eyes. He turned Harry to face him and bounced him a little in mid-air.

“All these toys you have and you still just want chaos, don’t you?” He chuckled, “probably shouldn’t have made Padfoot your godfather should we, brought it on ourselves a bit.”

“Pa’foo!!” Harry cried with delight. His godfather was his favourite person in the whole world, not counting his parents of course. He hadn’t been around to play with Harry in an awfully long time, and Harry missed riding the great shaggy dog around the living room, bumping into furniture and knocking down ornaments as they went.

“Pa’foo, up?”

James sighed, unable to explain the rising tensions of war and the terror of prophecy to a 15-month-old. “Padfoot is away, Haz. How about a dad up instead?”

Harry eyed him sceptically. He’d never heard of a ‘dad up’ before, his mum had shrieked once when she caught padfoot strapping him into a saddle for a ‘prongs up’ and after that he was only allowed to ride padfoot - 2 feet off the ground at most was the rule.

James took his silence for acceptance, and swung his son up and over his head to rest on his shoulders. Small, sticky hands found their way into his hair – he was sure he’d be struggling to get a brush through that later in the evening – and he felt a gentle kick to the sides of his neck.

“Go! Go! Go!” Harry had clearly gotten the idea, and decided it was a suitable alternative to Padfoot.

Lily crashed into the room, and suddenly stopped short. James was now racing about the room, hands gripping Harry’s ankles tight, ducking and weaving like a muggle airplane.

She quickly leaned into the kitchen, pointing her wand at the hob to lower the flames, and then returned to the doorway to watch her husband and son as they screamed and giggled together. She settled against the doorframe, a small smile on her lips, knowing they hadn’t even noticed her presence yet.

It was at that moment that James forgot about the hanging light in the centre of the room, and a sudden wail from Harry brought proceedings to a screeching halt.

“Wha – oh shit – no sugar – sorry Harry baby. Come here,” he pulled Harry back down from his shoulders, sitting on the arm of the sofa to inspect the scrape on his forehead while he whined. “You’re all good, buddy, you’re fine. Daddy’s sorry, look I’m going to make it all better, ok?”

He pulled his wand out, a healing charm on the tip of his tongue, when Lily coughed.

“Are you sure you want to use our sons head as your second ever attempt at healing magic?” She stepped towards him, wand already out.

“...No, I guess not” he said, sheepishly pulling his wand away.

Lily waved her wand, and with a quiet mutter the scrape on Harry’s forehead knitted itself back together. She reached her arms out and James handed him over.

“Looked like you were having fun,” she offered him a smile. She wasn’t angry, the past few weeks of isolation had been difficult, and any moments of joy needed to be treasured – even if they did go a little awry.

“He was asking for Padfoot,” James looked up at her, “I couldn’t think of what to say so I was trying to distract him.”

“Well, I wish I’d have had a camera - I’m sure the boys would’ve found that whole affair hilarious.” She sat beside him, letting Harry rest on her still-damp shoulder. “I hope you didn’t intend for me to cook the dinner for you?”

“No! No, honestly – I just needed to get Harry away from Mittens and the pot and – “

She giggled, “It’s fine James, don’t worry. I’ve got Harry now, why don’t you go finish up? I’ll go put him down to sleep, then we can have a nice meal together, just the two of us.” Harry’s eyes had clearly started drooping now, the excitement of the past few minutes as well as being an hour past his bedtime all catching up to him.

“Okay, sweetheart. Thanks – for the save. I know you were supposed to have the evening to yourself a little.”

“I wouldn’t have missed seeing that for the world.” She stood, carefully leaning down to give her husband a kiss, then made her way to the stairs.

“I won’t be long!” she called back over her shoulder. James stood also, watching his wife climb the stairs with the black-haired little boy snoozing on his shoulder, before he made his way back to the kitchen.