The quiet, unfamiliar warmth of their own home settled around them as midnight approached, far away from the battles of the past.
When Harry was finally sure no one was looking, when the heavy armor of the Savior of the Wizarding World could finally be set aside, he couldn't hide his emotions any longer.
He stood by the crib, tears tracking silently down his face, born from a place so raw and aching it knocked the wind out of him.
In his arms, little James shifted, breathing with a soft, steady rhythm that felt entirely miraculous.
Harry looked down at him with a fierce, desperate ache, vowing that this child would be cocooned in love, never once tasting the hollow, echoing grief that had hollowed out Harry's own life since the night Voldemort took his parents.
No cold words, no cupboard under the stairs, and no frost of the Dursleys' indifference would ever touch his son.
He would break the wheel right here, holding the tiny weight of a future where a boy was simply allowed to be loved
