"Dad…" The little boy started slowly, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

The two males, the taller and the smaller, were standing in the middle of a deserted football pitch. It was very early in the morning, and the taller man was yawning slightly as he nodded at his son.

"Of course, Harry! And plus, this was your idea. Don't you want to play Quidditch?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said, nervously running a hand through his shock of black hair (the trait and habit he had picked up from his father), "But Mum will kill us!"

"Ah," said James, waving a hand dismissively in the air, "That's nothing new. She wants you to learn Quidditch too, after all, she just doesn't want you to learn it this early. She likes babying you, your Mum, but I think you're ready. Yeah?"

"I'm ready," Harry said emphatically, and James grinned and told him that he was going to be fantastic. He was sure of it – how could anyone with James Potter's genes possibly be bad at the game?

Harry bit his lip nervously, but little butterflies fluttered in his stomach as his father passed him a broom. It wasn't like he'd never flown before, it had just never been higher than a couple of metres. But this was it! He was going to be the greatest, most amazing Chaser, just like his dad…

"That's it. Now, mount it like this," James demonstrated, and Harry copied him. "And then kick off, slowly now, that's it…"

Harry hovered in the air for a few moments and then touched back down. "Great! Now, a little higher."

The two of them continued in this way until Harry was comfortable with going between five to ten metres off the ground. His father flew close to him and Harry gaped at the red ball that was resting in his hands.

"Ready, Harry? We're going to learn to throw and catch in the air."

Harry nodded eagerly and they began, making small passes and swerves here and there. James was very impressed with his son's progress, but Harry seemed to think otherwise. After about twenty minutes, he caught James' throw and held onto the ball, frowning.

"Alright, Harry? You're very quiet."

James flew closer and hovered in front of his son, who was staring at the ball in his hands.

"Harry?" James probed, laying a soft hand on his son's shoulder.

"Dad," Harry said timidly, "What if…what if I'm not as good a Chaser as you?"

Relived that Harry wasn't in pain, but also bemused, James cocked his head. "Well, you don't have to be good at Quidditch. You just have to enjoy it, and I know you do…right?"

"Yeah, of course. I love it! But I…" He sighed and looked up at his dad. It broke James' heart to see such a troubled look on his young son's face.

"Yeah?" He asked.

"I just don't think I'm a very good Chaser. That's all." Harry seemed dejected as his small fingers made light patterns on the surface of the Quaffle.

James furrowed his eyebrows. There was nothing at all wrong with Harry's Chasing abilities! He was easily better than any other kid his age, and probably almost as good as James was when he was a child.

"What about Keeper, then?" James asked after a moment.

"Huh?" Harry shot him a blank look.

"You could be a Keeper, if you wanted. Or a Beater, or a Seeker. If you want to play and you don't feel comfortable as a Chaser, I mean."

"But…you're a Chaser!" Harry exclaimed, "And I want to be like you."

James stared at his son, who did at a glance appear to be the spitting image of himself. How could he possibly want to be like him? Like James, the strange man with messy hair and clumsy footing and hopeless dancing and tuneless singing. James, who had fallen in love with a girl who he liked to irritate, James who had gotten into so much trouble at school and out.

"You don't have to me like me, mate! You're you. You're Harry James Potter, not James Charlus Potter. You can be whatever you want, Harry. You could be a…a Healer! Or a Ministry worker, or a baker, or a chef, or a spy, or a banker, or a teacher, or even –"

"Yeah," said Harry, and a little smile appeared on his face, "I guess. So, can we try Keeper, then?"

But to Harry's disappointment he was not such a great Keeper either. In fact, he probably disliked being a Keeper more than a Chaser, due to the fact that there was an awful lot of waiting around, and as a young child, Harry did not have a long attention span. He wanted to be moving, to be flying, feeling the air rushing around him as he played.

"Here," said James, handing him a Beater's bat some time later. "I've enchanted this tennis ball to move itself, almost at a Bludger's normal speed, but it's safer this way."

Harry found that being a Beater was much better. He could move around and hit the ball and look for it too. But the bat was heavy and Harry had stringy arms and a gangly form and hadn't eaten half as much breakfast as he was used to.

"I don't think I'm strong enough, Dad," Harry said, looking over behind James' shoulder at the tennis ball that was still whizzing around. He looked back at his Dad's face, worried for his response.

"That's okay, mate!" said James cheerfully. He didn't know why Harry was so anxious. "You're doing great, and to be honest I'd probably be a terrible Beater."

Harry nodded absentmindedly, although he didn't really believe what his Dad was saying. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the tennis ball gathering speed and flying nearer to the pair of them. With horror, Harry realised that the ball was aimed right for his Dad's head.

"Dad," Harry said quickly, "You might want to move."

His father didn't seem to have heard him, as he was instead looking with dismay at something far away on the ground. Harry's instincts kicked in. He was going to catch the ball.

He whizzed off on his broom, and James tilted slightly as Harry zoomed past him, eyes squinting behind his glasses as he looked at the tennis ball. Why wasn't his Dad moving?

And then, many things happened all at once.

A shout of, "James bloody Potter!" could be heard ringing around the deserted area, just as James spun around to see his son. Harry, ignoring the yells that followed him, felt a rush of blood to his muscles and he spurted forwards, right arm reaching out for the ball…he was so close…his fingers scrambled for it and his other hand shot forwards to catch the ball and hug it close to his chest…

And then he was falling, falling, and gripping onto the broom with one arm and the ball with the other and there was a loud shout and a scream as his eyes flickered shut. Harry felt faint and sick as his stomach was swooping and he collided with a warm body that held him safe in their arms before his vision dissolved and went black.

Harry woke with a start. He stretched and cricked his neck, rubbing his side which felt slightly sore. He sat up slowly and looked around; he was in his bedroom at home, tucked in under the covers. There was a tennis ball lying in his lap.

He picked it up and turned it over, as the events that he'd just experienced came flooding into his head. He'd caught the ball! And it had felt right; the rushing of the wind in his hair and the scramble for the catch and the thrill of it all. He had been invincible, unbeatable…

A snore broke him from his reverie, and he realised that his father was sleeping in an armchair that had been pulled round to the side of his bed. Harry got onto his knees and shuffled forwards, poking him in the shoulder.

"Psst. Dad." James let out a little grunt and Harry nudged him again.

"Dad. Dad. Dad." Harry whispered relentlessly, accompanying each word with another jab.

James yawned and rubbed his eyes, jolting his glasses so that they slipped down his nose. He pushed them back up with his forefinger and looked at Harry. A wide smirk spread across his face.

"Harry James Potter," he said delightedly, "You never told me that you were going to be a Seeker!"

"Dad – what?" Harry frowned.

"That catch! It was bloody spectacular, you just sped out of nowhere and lunged and I have to say, mate, I'm slightly jealous. I could never catch a little ball like that, I'm much better with a good old large Quaffle."

Harry coloured under his father's praise. "So you think I'm a Seeker, then?"

"I know you're a Seeker. I wasn't Captain of Gryffindor for no reason, you know. I can see talent where it's due." James said, pulling Harry into a quick hug. He squeezed his son once and then relinquished his hold.

Harry beamed, but James' smile was quickly diminishing and he adopted a worried look instead. "Seriously, though. Are you okay? That was quite a fall you had, and although I don't think you were hurt because I caught you, you still passed out. Your mother…well, let's just say she's not too pleased with the two of us."

"I'm fine, Dad, really. No blood, see?" Harry spread his arms and smiled, "And what about Mum?"

A sheepish look was resting on James' face. "Yeah, she wasn't too happy. Came and found us right when you caught the ball and fell, screamed pretty loudly too. Then she hexed me and tucked you in here when I carried you back." He nodded at Harry's bed.

"Oh," said Harry in comprehension, "So where's she now?"

"Making dinner," answered James, "She's pretty angry with you too, because it was your idea and all…" He broke off with a sly look at his son.

An affronted look appeared on Harry's features. "Dad! You told her it was my fault? You're the one who wanted to teach me Quidditch!"

James held his hands up in defence. "You're the one who wanted to learn!"

Harry groaned, although he was still grinning. "She's going to murder us."

"It's alright, Harry. I'm sure we'll get her to come round," James said with a smirk, and Harry high-fived his partner in crime.

It was normal for him and his Dad to get into trouble with his Mum, and he rather thought that it was better this way – his Mum was awful at holding grudges, and with the combination of James' persuasion (Harry wasn't sure what that entailed, but he didn't really want to know either) and Harry's big green puppy dog eyes, the pair of them were unstoppable.

"I'm sure." said Harry, "When are we practising next, then?" He swung his legs over his bed and stood up, grinning.

James chuckled, getting to his feet. "Not so fast, mister." He ruffled his son's hair, "I'm not letting you do anything drastic until you've at least grown one centimetre, shorty."

Harry punched his Dad in the stomach playfully and James picked him up and swung him easily over his shoulder.

"Come on, Star Seeker. Let's go and ask Mum if we can play tomorrow – we might have to bring her with us to supervise though, I don't think she's too keen on letting you try out for the National team like I am…"

The two males continued down the corridor, joking together about Harry's prospects as future Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. As James put his son safely down on the ground in the kitchen and Harry hugged his torso, he thought to himself that he was awfully lucky to have a little boy like Harry. Indeed, Harry felt the same – if one thing was for certain, it was that there was no father better than his.