It will occur to James later, much later, that he was doing his father an extreme disservice here -- that of course he should have known that both of his parents loved him unconditionally, that neither of them had ever done anything to even suggest otherwise. It was just too much at once: trying to figure out what the hell adulthood meant, what he was supposed to be doing with his life, what he was supposed to be doing as a Potter, if it made him some sort of monster to love Draco Malfoy's son. Generally, James was a happy, bright fellow, but when he let himself dwell on these thoughts too long, it sent him into a fit of self-loathing that made reason hard to see.

If he couldn't stand himself, how could he expect his father to? Except there Harry was, fingers digging into his shoulders and telling him that he did, and James has no idea how to answer. Numb, he searches Harry's face, and while he finds anger in spades, he can't locate any disgust.

"You don't hate me," he finally says, something breaking in his expression. "You really don't." Quietly, like this is some new, profound discovery, like this changes everything -- which it does, truly.