Chapter Text
“What’s up, Ron?” Harry asked absent-mindedly, not bothering to lift his gaze, as a familiar little pop echoed from the fireplace, shattering the silence in the Auror Office.
It was late at night—he didn't quite know just how late—and he was sitting hunched over his work desk, concealed behind an insurmountable stack of parchment, almost drowning beneath an avalanche of unnecessarily long reports, gruesome case files and other miscellaneous Ministry documents. His desk was completely buried underneath it all, so full that it was close to spilling over, but he’d found just a little vacant space at the very edge. Without even glancing at the mess, he’d pulled up a chair there immediately to finish writing his brand-new report.
The room was dimly lit, but there was a warm, enchanted lamp directly above his head, casting a soft light over the clutter and chaos on top of his office desk and illuminating the outline of his solitary figure.
Most of the Aurors had returned home already. Even his partner, Hannah Abbott, had clocked out early owing to a bad cold. As a consequence, the Auror Office was wholly empty and eerily quiet, the only sounds being the frantic scratching of his own quill over the creamy parchment, the occasional creak of an old, office chair, and the faint, muffled echoes of pattering footsteps from the corridor—noises of tired Ministry employees hastening home. Only the myriad wanted posters of known Dark wizards and old, moving newspaper clippings stuck to the walls gazed at him blankly, keeping him company.
“My hands are full with the reports of a rather horrendous murder case right now, so spit it out quick,” he muttered distractedly, speaking in a casual tone which naturally came with habit and familiarity, his eyes glued to the parchment on which he was scribbling on. “And if it's about dinner at the Burrow this weekend, let Molly know I'll be there.”
Absently, he scratched his scruffy, stubble-covered chin, frowning down at what he’d written. His wild, untidy hair fell messily all over his forehead like dry, dirty stalks of grass. His glasses were slightly askew, and his shoulder blades ached horribly, but he was so focused on the task at hand that he couldn’t care about anything else. His eyelids drooped, his shoulders sagged forwards, and he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d properly savoured a good meal, but none of that mattered in the grand scheme of things.
The most important thing was the job right in front of him—a job which would occupy his time, provide him with a purpose, and keep his mind away from things that truly mattered.
The fireplace hissed and snapped, its flames vibrant and emerald green, but a reply didn’t come for several long moments. With an annoyed frown, Harry looked up, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What’s going on?” he asked, staring right at Ron’s unnerved face in the fire. “Has dinner been called off?”
The fire flickered, emitting a bright green glow. Ron’s eyes darted away uneasily, his expression anxious and uncertain. “Uh…”
Harry’s eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion. “What’s wrong?”
“Er, it’s not about dinner, mate,” said Ron in a strangely perturbed voice. “The thing is… Harry, can you just come over to my place real quick? Something… something truly strange has happened. We need to talk. It's urgent.”
Harry’s brows furrowed, and he glanced at the clock briefly. He was already working overtime, but that was hardly unusual; on the contrary, it was routine for him to remain in the office long after everyone had left.
After all, he had nowhere else to be. The mere thought of returning to Grimmauld place made him feel devastatingly weary. Despite the multiple purges, repairs, renovations and all the overhauling of the drawing room furniture he’d done over the years, the filthy place still had the appearance of a dirty, disgusting graveyard, smelling of death and gloom and misery. The more Harry cleaned, purified, and mended, the more the house violently resisted the change, turning darker and grimmer every day.
Unlike everybody else, there was no one waiting for him in that shitty old place—except for old Walburga Black, who made sure to stay up waiting for him, without fail, to scream at him every single night, until he felt like burning the whole damn place down to the ground.
“I get off at ten,” lied Harry stiffly with a huff, settling his glasses back on and resuming his work. “Can't budge from here unless there’s an unavoidable emergency. Six muggles got slaughtered right in the heart of London this morning—in broad daylight, no less. Can anything be more urgent than that? If you can, save it for later, Ron.”
A tense, uncomfortable silence ballooned in the empty room, and Harry’s hand skilfully flew across the parchment, the scraping of his quill echoing in the dark, sombre air of the room.
“Well, that does sound important, but… but it’s a bit of an emergency on this end too, Harry. I don’t think it can wait. You need to come over here as quickly as you can.”
Harry sighed heavily. “What’s happened?” he asked, grabbing the nearest case file and flipping through it briefly. With a frown on his face, he scanned the contents intently and returned to finish his report. “Did Rosie blow something up again?” he added carelessly, barely paying attention.
Little by little, exhaustion was seeping into Harry’s bones, weighing down his arms and limbs, making him feel as though he were moving them underwater. It was exactly what he wanted—to be so exhausted that he couldn't think any more. He often liked to pretend there was a tower of obligations and responsibilities stacked atop his head, but the truth was, he had none at all. Unknowingly, his entire life had started to orbit around his work, and it had been that way for quite a while now—seven years, in fact.
Seven years.
For a fleeting second, Harry’s fingers stilled, and a dull ache throbbed in his chest. Then, he simply recommenced his writing without a visible hitch. The emerald fire popped and flickered; Ron’s glimmering face disappeared for a brief moment, and the muffled sounds of Ron and Hermione arguing in loud, incomprehensible whispers echoed in the background as his fingers rapidly scribbled away without a pause.
“Rosie’s fine,” said Ron, reappearing in the fire, his tone a mix of resignation and worry. “But I’m serious, mate. You’ve got no idea what a shock we’ve had. You need to get here immediately—”
Harry looked up again with a confused frown. “What’s wrong, then?”
As he observed, Ron was suddenly shoved away, replaced by an enraged-looking Hermione, who glared at him like he’d just kicked a house elf into a deep, gaping pit. “Harry, for heaven's sake, get your butt over here right this instant!” she screamed, making the fire fizz and crackle.
Harry stared into the fire in incredible surprise and arched an eyebrow. “What—”
“Hermione, stop!” Ron seemingly wrenched her back again, and both of their faces disappeared for a moment.
“You stupid idiot!” screamed Hermione, reappearing for a fleeting second, her shrill, furious voice resounding in the silence. “You utter imbecile, Harry! You irresponsible, insensitive, thoughtless, selfish little—”
“Hermione!” shouted Ron helplessly, and Harry gaped in curious bewilderment. “Stop! Come on, move—at least, let me explain—”
The fire hissed, and noises of indistinct bickering rang out in the silence of Harry’s office.
Finally, with a defeated huff, he was forced to put down his quill. Frowning in utter confusion and even greater curiosity, he pushed his wooden chair back and padded over to the fireplace, just in time to witness Ron reappearing once more.
“Good God, what’s got into Hermione?” he asked incredulously, crouching beside the sparkling green fire. “What’s happened? Is everything—”
“Sorry, Harry,” said Ron breathlessly. “She's still in shock. I mean, we’re all in shock, and… Well, judging by the looks of it, I reckon you will be too.”
“Is everything alright at the Burrow?” asked Harry, a sliver of fear running through him at the thought. “What about—”
“Everything's alright at home, mate,” sighed Ron. “Everyone’s fine. Don’t worry. It's not about anything like that.”
Harry let out a relieved breath, sitting down on the floor and crossing his legs comfortably. “Then, what is it?”
“Well, the thing is…” Ron’s gaze darted away to something else for a brief second before flicking back to rest on Harry. “We have a very special guest here who’d like to meet you.”
Harry arched an eyebrow with a snort. “Guest?” he asked in annoyed astonishment. “I thought you said that it was an emergency.”
Ron nodded solemnly. “Well, it is,” he said gravely, surprising Harry even more. “I honestly have no clue where to even begin.” He rubbed his forehead and let out a heavy sigh, as though he were steeling his resolve. Then, he began again in a sombre voice, “Harry, mate, listen carefully… So, this very morning, I was doing the usual, getting the shop ready and all, you know. George, as always, was running late, so I was stuck holding the fort by myself. And then, out of fucking nowhere, this tiny little kid—barely three or four, mind you—walks in like she owns the whole damn place—”
Harry raised his eyebrows, feeling puzzled. “What’s this random story got to do with—”
“Just listen, Harry. Be patient. I’m building up to the point here. Anyway, this kid—her eyes were bright green, and her hair was a right mess, all black and horribly untidy—just like yours, honestly—”
“Er, I'm not sure where you're going with this—”
“—it sounds strange, but she looked exactly like a mini version of you, mate, and I swear to Merlin, I remember thinking, ‘Blimey, she’s the spitting image of Harry. If Harry had a daughter, I’m sure that’s exactly how she’d look.’ And… wouldn’t you know it, turns out she actually is your daughter. Talk about a twist!”
For an entire minute, a profound silence resonated and pulsed like a living thing, mushrooming in the room and filling every corner. Seconds marched past, and Harry wasn’t sure how to react to this sudden, unexpected declaration.
Then, he burst into a loud, barking laugh that echoed off the walls, shaking his head in disbelief. “What?” he asked incredulously, looking at Ron with amusement. “Are you drunk? Or are you just taking the piss?”
“I’m dead serious, Harry.”
Harry laughed again. “Oh, bugger off,” he said. “I’m busy as it is, Ron. It’s late. If you’re drunk, go to sleep, or find someone else to joke around with.”
Yet, Ron didn’t appear intoxicated. He looked weary, extremely so. His forehead was creased, and his dull, fatigued eyes didn’t have the slightest trace of humour in them.
“Harry, I’m not kidding, mate,” he conveyed with a heavy sigh. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Harry froze, his brow furrowing even more as he scrutinized the stern, unfaltering expression on Ron’s face and blinked in astonishment. “Have you gone mad, Ron?” he asked in shock. “No, you must be drunk. Let me speak to Hermione.”
“No, hold on, Harry, here’s where it gets even more interesting. This kid, she knew me. Knew my name—and that’s weird ‘cause no one really recognizes me these days, you know. It’s been years since the war ended—almost a decade, in fact. Anyway, she purposely sought out my shop at the crack of dawn. Diagon Alley is usually all deserted and peaceful at that time of the day, and she was all alone, so I reckoned she was lost or something—”
Harry sighed in exhaustion, having no interest whatsoever in this bizarre tale. “Ron—”
Ron ignored him. “Just let me finish my story, Harry. Then, after barging into my shop and looking around for a bit, she asked me if I was Ron Weasley. I naturally said yes. And she revealed that she was there to meet her daddy. I laughed at first and jokingly asked her who her daddy was.” He looked up at Harry. “That was when she dropped your name. She looked me dead in the eyes and said that she was Harry Potter's daughter.”
Harry couldn’t help but let out another greatly amused, disbelieving laugh that resounded awkwardly in the heavy silence. How could he have an actual child in this world and not know about it? The thought itself was ridiculous and absurd. “Ron, seriously, who put you up to this—”
“For the last fucking time, I’m not joking, mate. You need to come here as soon as you can—”
“Well, I think you're losing your marbles!” said Harry with a scoff, shaking his head in amusement. “Your wife’s the youngest Head Healer in the world, why don’t you ask her to give you a thorough health check?” He chuckled in disbelief again. “For God’s sake, I'd know if I had a fucking daughter, Ron!”
Ron’s hard, grim demeanour remained unyielding, and a small sliver of doubt and uneasiness flared through Harry. The very idea of secretly having a daughter seemed utterly preposterous to him. There was absolutely no way that it was true. Nevertheless, he was aware that his best friend would not joke about something so important, yet so utterly far-fetched. He knew Ron too well, and without a shadow of a doubt, he understood that Ron was not lying.
At the very least, Ron believed every word he had said.
“Well, uh… the thing is she's here right now,” confessed Ron hesitantly, avoiding his suddenly startled gaze. “And we—Hermione and I—have been talking to her—”
“What?” Harry blurted in complete shock, letting out an incredulous, utterly bewildered laugh again. “Wait, you brought some random kid home? Oh, for fuck’s sake! That's called kidnapping! And you believe her? You believe some strange kid over me? What about Hermione?”
“Well, she’s just four years old, Harry. She looks exactly like you, and she insists on meeting you, so we—”
Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with a weary sigh. “Ron, really, she’s just some random kid. Lots of kids come up to me when I'm out shopping to get my autograph. It's just kids being kids, as usual. There are probably a million more kids who claim that I’m their father! Did I father them all? If she keeps insisting that I’m her father, she’s either been fed a load of lies, or she’s been extensively trained to scam people. Don’t get me wrong, I feel awful for her. It’s unfortunate, but I don’t have a daughter, Ron. What the fuck—”
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” mumbled Ron, chewing on his bottom lip and glancing back at something with a pity-filled gaze. “But—”
“Then, why in God’s name did you bring her home without suspecting anything?” snapped Harry. “For fuck’s sake, you were right to pull out of Auror training, Ron. Her parents are probably looking for her right now, or if that's not the case, perhaps, they’re waiting to swindle money out of me. Maybe they've been deliberately filling her head with utter rubbish. It wouldn’t be the first time—”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” asked Ron defensively. “She's just a kid… and potentially, your kid.”
“I don't have a kid, Ron!”
Ron rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Anyway, she keeps asking to meet you. She says that there’s something very important that she wants to tell you. Just come and meet her, and you’ll understand. She looks like your clone.”
“Where are her parents?” Harry asked angrily, feeling agitated. “You should ask her where they are, and try to send her back home—”
“You are her parent,” accused Ron. “At least, that’s what she keeps saying! Besides, Hermione ran some spells—”
“Ron, come on,” scowled Harry, but vague doubts were slowly beginning to creep in. Frowning in contemplation, he tried hard to think about the last time he’d had a one-night-stand, but he’d been so busy with work lately that he couldn’t remember any recently noteworthy events at all. In fact, as far as he could recall, he’d only ever met up with men—never women. And the very last man he’d slept with was—and that was literally years ago. Now that he thought about it, it had been a long time since he’d gone to bed with anyone at all. How in the world could he have a four-year-old daughter in this world without knowing?
When had he ever slept with a woman? It was impossible—utterly and thoroughly impossible, unless he’d sleepwalked into some woman’s vagina unknowingly.
He was absolutely certain he’d never slept with a woman—not since Ginny, and that had been one giant fucking disaster.
“Look, mate. You don’t believe me? Fair enough,” Ron muttered warily. “But the poor thing came all alone, and she doesn't know how to get back home. I tried to kick her out at first, but she wouldn’t leave. She stubbornly sat in front of the front door the whole damn day, and she was still there when I came out to close the shop. I felt bad for her. She’s just four years old, Harry. What was I supposed to do? I thought maybe she looked up to you or something, and she was lying just to see you, so I contacted Hermione to ask for her opinion. She was shocked too, you know, so she ran some quick tests.” He took a deep breath. “The kid’s magical signature matches with yours one hundred percent.”
Harry started, looking up with a deep frown. “Well,” he said, placing his glasses back on his face and scratching his chin. “That’s quite uncommon and extremely rare, but that’s not complete proof in and of itself.”
Ron rolled his eyes and shot Harry a reproachful look. “A one hundred percent match is usually considered solid evidence. It’s not something you can just brush off, mate,” he retorted. “Hermione thinks so, too. You don’t get that kind of match unless you’re closely related to the kid somehow. We can’t just sweep this under the rug, mate. You have to come and meet her for now. She says she’s got something important to tell you. She won't talk to us at all.”
“Tell me, if I’m her father, where's her other parent, then?” he asked sceptically, utterly unconvinced. “Where’s her mother? Did she give you a name? If not, ask her. Who’s the fraudster—”
Ron’s expression right then was incredibly strange, startling Harry into a confused silence. His features contorted into a terrible grimace, and his lips formed a tight, hard line. A very peculiar look of deep discomfort and distress came over his face, as though he’d just accidentally swallowed a long strand of hair and was now desperately trying not to shudder. “That's the thing, mate. She’s actually—this is going to shock you, Harry.”
Harry rolled his eyes impatiently. “Just tell me!”
“She… she claims to be Draco Malfoy’s daughter.”
Harry’s heart stuttered to an abrupt halt immediately, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis as the shock at hearing that name reverberated through every fibre of his being. All he could do was stare in stunned disbelief. It was a name that kept him awake late into the night, a name which he rarely thought of without deep regret and a longing pain. Waves of icy chillness swept through him, entering every pore. For several minutes, his dumbstruck mind grappled with the sheer magnitude of what he’d just heard, his heart throbbing with a sharp, stinging ache that made it a little hard to breathe.
“What?” he choked out in an odd, breathless trance, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Did you just… did you just say that she’s Draco’s—”
“What’s more, her name…” muttered Ron quietly. “Harry, her name’s Lily Malfoy.”
And that was when Harry's entire world came crashing down around him.
Draco,
It’s been a month since I’ve seen you. Where on earth are you, and what the fuck are you doing? How can I get in touch with you? Now that I think about it, I don’t know where you live these days. You never told me, and I never bothered to ask. You always just show up at the pub, and I’ve been patiently waiting, but you’ve been absent for a whole month now. I know you don’t live in Malfoy Manor any more, but I still went there the other day, just in case.
Needless to say, I didn’t find you there, and it's crawling with Aurors and other Ministry folk instead. They're still scouring every inch for Death Eaters. It's nearly been a year since the war ended, and I don't know why they still bother, honestly. Most of them have already fled the country.
Anyway, where did you disappear to? I tried to owl you already, but all of them returned without being able to find you. We’ve never gone so long without seeing each other. I’ve been frequenting the pub every single day in hopes of meeting you. The barman says he hasn’t seen you either, but I’m leaving this note just in case you happen to drop by. Don’t just vanish without a word. At the very least, send me an owl and tell me where you are, you arsehole.
Harry