Bringing Baby Home

Harry crept into the nursery and quietly closed the door behind him. He had no clue if the baby was asleep and if he were the reason James woke up, he would have hell to pay should Ginny wake up too. So he was very careful as he tiptoed across the wooden floor and over to the crib.

James was perfectly still, with the exception of the slow rising and falling of his chest. With a small black tuft of hair atop his head, Harry knew exactly what his son's hair would look like. Messy and out of control like his father's, no matter what spell or charm he tried. The mark of a Potter, Ron had called it at the hospital.

As his eyes fell on James' sleeping figure, he slowly lowered himself to the floor at the foot of James' crib and fell to his knees. He looked up at the ceiling. "I know you're probably not a very big fan of me and for a while, I thought you'd forgotten about me. Actually for seven years, I thought you hated me," Harry said to no one in particular.

Quietness. He did not know what he expected. The muggles often spoke of a higher power and as a child, Harry scoffed at the idea. What kind of person would allow a one year old infant to lose his parents and suffer the most horrendous seven years of his life?

That didn't sound like a higher power to him.

"But I know you don't," Harry said shaking his fist slightly. "You can't hate me. Because you've given him to me. You've given me a son. And I want to know…what makes you think I can take this on? I don't know how to be a father," He said in a loud whisper, careful not to wake the baby. "I've never had one."

Apart from his heavy breathing and his son's soft snoring, there was complete silence.

"Don't blow me off God." Harry buried his face in the palms of his hands. "I know you hear me. And I feel like a right fool for talking to someone that I'm not even sure exists, but I need an answer. And after all these years I think I deserve one."

He shook an angry fist and looked to the ceiling again. What on Earth was he thinking? Yelling at a God that he didn't believe in and expecting an answer. He must've been going mental. But it was worth a shot.

"I've never had much of a father, apart from Sirius, and you took him from me too. All I can remember of mine are flashes of the night he was killed and that one time he popped out of the stone and my wand," Harry mused quietly. "I'm the last person on Earth you want to make a father."

"But you did it anyway and I should tell you, I like a challenge, God," Harry said adamantly. "I know that this won't be easy. I never expected it, since I haven't really got a clue as to what I'm doing. But I won't disappoint my boy. I can't afford to."

Harry got up from his knees and unfolded his hands. Staring down into the crib, Harry reached his hand to his son and felt his stomach do a funny, flopping thing as his large, calloused hand touched the soft scalp of James' head.

"I don't remember my father, son, but you're going to remember me. That's a promise," Harry said and stepped away from the crib. He went back to the door and before stepping out, he looked up and pointed a finger in the same direction. "And I always make good on my promises."