Chapter Text
>>>>o0o<<<<
The morning air bit at Harry’s skin, sharp and clean, carrying the unmistakable scent of damp leaves and wet ground. Autumn had finally arrived. The sun had yet to rise, leaving the park wrapped in a pale, bluish gloom, the lamps still glowing faintly along the paths.
Harry was already on his feet, running as he did every morning, shoes striking the pavement in a steady rhythm. Each breath ragged and uneven, coming out in visible puffs. Sweat clung to his forehead despite the chill, trickling down his temple as his muscles protested with every stride.
He slowed to a stop near a bench, chest heaving. Harry bent forward, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He took off his glasses and wiped them against his shirt, smearing away the fog before rubbing at his eyes.
For a brief moment, he let himself just stand there, listening to the distant rustle of leaves, the faint chirping of early birds, the quiet hum of a city waking up. It was peaceful.
Then, the sharp chime of the alarm on his watch cut through the stillness. Time to go home. Harry slipped his glasses back on and resumed jogging, his pace slower now, more relaxed, as the familiar streets led him back.
Number 12, Grimmauld Place, loomed dark and narrow, wedged tightly between its neighbors as if it had always been waiting for him.
After the war, Harry had learned that Sirius had left the house to him. At first, the knowledge had sat heavily in his chest. Sirius was his godfather, his family, but the place felt like it carried too much history, too many memories. Memories that weren’t his.
For a long time, Harry hadn’t been sure he deserved it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to let it rot away. Abandoning it felt like abandoning Sirius all over again. So he stayed. He fixed it up, lived in it, and tried to make it feel like a home rather than a museum.
Harry slowed to a walk as he stepped inside. It was barely six in the morning, but the house wasn’t quiet. From the kitchen came clattering sounds and an unmistakable burst of laughter. When Harry entered, he was greeted by chaos.
James sat in his high chair, cheeks flushed with delight, tiny hands clapping enthusiastically. Porridge was everywhere, on the table, the floor, and, most notably, splattered across Kreacher’s face. The house-elf stood balanced on a stool, stiff and rigid, his expression twisted into a familiar scowl as porridge slowly slid down his nose.
Harry grimaced, though at the same time, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene.
“Oh, James,” he said fondly as he scooped his son up into his arms, “what did you do now?”
“Papa!” James squealed happily, immediately grabbing fistfuls of Harry’s shirt.
The baby buried his face into Harry’s neck, babbling incoherent words with boundless enthusiasm.
“Master Potter,” Kreacher said stiffly, wiping his face with a handkerchief that only seemed to make things worse, “breakfast has been prepared and set upon the table. Kreacher shall continue feeding the young master.”
“That’s alright, Kreacher,” Harry replied gently. “I’ll take over. You can go prepare my clothes and bags.”
Kreacher’s expression remained, and he bowed his head. “Very well, Master Potter.” He set the bowl down with exaggerated care and shuffled out of the kitchen.
Harry sat at the table, James perched securely on his lap, and picked up the spoon.
“Alright, you little gremlin,” Harry murmured, tickling James’s side until he erupted into giggles. “Done terrorizing poor old Kreacher? Now let’s eat, yeah?”
James tolerated exactly four spoonfuls before grabbing the bowl with impressive determination and flipping it straight onto the floor. Porridge splattered everywhere.
Harry stared at the mess for a second before sighing, a tired but affectionate sound. “Right. Should’ve known better.”
He focused on his own breakfast instead, stealing glances at James, who looked immensely pleased with himself.
Once they were done, Harry handed James to Kreacher and headed upstairs to get ready for work. The shower was blissfully hot, steam filling the small bathroom as water ran through his hair and down his back, easing the stiffness from his muscles. He stood there longer than necessary, letting the noise drown out his thoughts.
When he stepped out of the shower, the mirror was completely fogged. Harry lifted a hand and wiped a clear patch through it, leaning closer as his reflection slowly came into focus.
His hair was a mess as always. Thicker, heavier, and sticking up in stubborn directions. It refused to be tamed, falling into his eyes the same way it always had, only now it looked wilder, less boyish. He caught sight of a few pale strands threaded through the dark mess. The realization made his mouth tighten.
His beard had grown in fuller, too, rough shadowing his jaw and chin, no longer something he could ignore or pass off as laziness. It sharpened his features, made his face look harsher somehow.
Beneath his eyes lay deep, permanent-looking shadows, the kind that sleep never quite erased. They spoke of long nights, early mornings, and a weight that never really left his shoulders.
Harry let out a slow breath, resting his hands on the sink. Even at twenty-three, he looked older than he should have. War certainly had a way of carving years into a person, etching them into skin and bone where time could never heal.
Aside from that, his body had also changed the most since his teenage years. He had grown into a solid six-foot-two now. His shoulders were broad, his chest filled out, muscles packed dense beneath his skin. His arms were thick and strong, corded with muscle earned from years of training and fieldwork. Even relaxed, he looked powerful, built not for show, but for endurance and survival.
Harry studied himself for a moment longer before straightening. He got out of the bathroom and found his clothes already laid out neatly on the bed.
He dressed automatically: black button-up, pressed slacks, suit jacket. The maroon tie took him longer than it should have, as it always did. After a few attempts, he settled for “good enough” and shrugged into his coat. Finally, he fastened the golden emblem to his suit; the pin gleamed softly in the light.
Harry paused, fingers brushing it. Three years he had worn it now. Three years of responsibility, of rebuilding, of carrying the weight of both the past and the future. He took a steadying breath, straightened his shoulders, and headed downstairs to the living room.
James was already there, neat and clean, perched on the couch with his legs kicking idly. He was dressed in a red shirt with a small lion embroidered over his chest, a Black jumper, soft, comfy pants, tiny socks, and shoes that looked almost too small. The sight tugged gently at Harry’s chest.
James was honestly the only thing that kept him sane. The single constant that tethered him to the world when everything else felt too heavy.
Everyone liked to say James was his exact copy, and Harry couldn’t deny it. He saw it every time he looked at his son: the dark green eyes that missed nothing, the warm brown skin, the thick curls that refused to behave no matter how carefully they were brushed. Sometimes it startled him how familiar the boy looked, like a reflection pulled from the past and softened by innocence.
But James was more than just his likeness. He was Harry’s light. A small, kind soul who laughed easily, who reached out without fear, who loved without reservation. In James’s presence, the weight on Harry’s chest eased just enough for him to breathe.
James’s face lit up the moment he saw him. “Papa!” he chirped, arms lifting eagerly.
Harry crossed the room and scooped him up without hesitation, pressing a quick kiss into his hair. “Okay, James,” he said softly, bouncing him once against his hip. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, yes!” James replied, nodding enthusiastically as if the entire world was waiting for him.
A soft pop announced Kreacher’s appearance. The house-elf stood beside them, holding a well-packed baby bag in one hand and Harry’s briefcase in the other.
Harry set James back down on the couch and took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder before grasping his briefcase. With a sharp flick of his fingers, Kreacher summoned the stroller, which floated neatly into the living room. He moved efficiently, strapping James in with practiced motions.
“Alright, Kreacher,” Harry said as he headed toward the door, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “I’m dropping James off at the daycare. We’ll be back around six.”
Kreacher’s mouth thinned, his expression clearly displeased, but he inclined his head all the same. Harry knew the house-elf secretly disapproved of James spending his days surrounded by Muggles. He insisted that he was capable of caring for the infant. Still, Harry couldn’t leave James cooped up in Grimmauld Place all day. James was pure energy, and more than that, he needed friends who didn’t scowl every single second.
Outside, the morning had fully awakened. Streets were filled with vehicles, people hurried along the pavements, and the air buzzed with life. Harry pushed the stroller at an easy pace while James sang a tuneless little song, occasionally pointing at passing cars, dogs, or anything that caught his eye.
The daycare was only a fifteen-minute walk from the house. When they arrived, Harry handed over the baby bag, and as always, the moment one of the staff lifted James into their arms, his face crumpled.
“Papa!” James cried, reaching out desperately.
Harry waved, forcing a smile that felt tighter every morning. It had been two months already. Anyone would think James would be used to it by now, but the tears came just the same, every single time.
As hard as it was, Harry knew James would be fine. He always was. Still, watching him cry never got easier. With a sigh, Harry turned away before his resolve could crack completely.
Finally, Harry folded the stroller with a practiced motion and tucked it into his briefcase. He adjusted his grip, squared his shoulders once more, and turned toward the street. The Auror Office awaited.
>>>>o0o<<<<
The alarm chimed softly, pulling Draco from dreamless sleep. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before rubbing the heaviness from his eyes and turning his head toward the clock. Six thirty. Too early. It was always too early.
With a quiet sigh, Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged himself upright. The floor was cold beneath his feet as he shuffled toward the bathroom, shoulders slightly hunched, movements sluggish with lingering sleepiness. He splashed water onto his face, the chill making him flinch, and scrubbed his teeth mechanically.
He grabbed his yoga mat from the closet and unrolled it across the living room floor. The apartment was quiet, bathed in the faint sunlight filtering through the curtains. For the next thirty minutes, Draco moved slowly and deliberately. Stretching, bending, and holding each pose longer than necessary.
His muscles protested at first, but gradually loosened. The routine was one of the few things that grounded him, the steady rhythm of breath and motion easing the tight knot that always seemed to live between his shoulders.
When he finished, his skin was lightly shone from sweat. He rolled the mat back up and stepped into the shower. Hot water poured over him, steam filling the small bathroom as he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He stayed there longer than he should have, letting the heat sink into his bones.
Draco stepped out of the shower naked, droplets of water trailing down his body and pooling on the tiles. He walked to the sink. His reflection stared back at him, sharp and pale under the harsh light. He lifted a hand and traced the lines of his face, fingers brushing over skin that looked almost translucent, more corpse-like with every passing year. His eyes seemed tired, faint shadows clinging stubbornly beneath them.
He ran his hand through his hair. His hair had reached his shoulder now, and his bangs had gotten longer, framing his face delicately. Draco put a mental note to trim his hair soon when he got the time or will, but for now, he just had to clip his bangs and put his hair in a low ponytail.
Still naked, Draco padded down the short hallway and into his bedroom. This was how his mornings always went. There was no one to see, no one to mind. He lived alone, and the apartment reflected that.
The living room, dining, and kitchen shared one open space, packed but not cramped. One bedroom. One bathroom. Through the living room, a small balcony opened to the outside, where he kept a few pots filled with herbs and plants he used for potions.
Draco went into his room and grabbed the towel draped over a chair, and began drying himself off. As he did, his phone dinged from the nightstand. He crossed the room, picked it up, and dropped onto the bed, the blanket still warm beneath him.
“Get me an espresso and the special sandwich, skip the mustard. Don’t be late.”
Draco let out a low groan and tossed the phone aside. Of course. As usual, his boss had found a way to start the day by reminding him exactly where he stood, running errands before he even had a chance to breathe. Draco stared at the ceiling for a moment, frustration simmering quietly beneath the surface.
Draco pushed himself up from the bed and began dressing. He pulled on his briefs first, then froze for half a second when his gaze caught on the pale, jagged scars lining his inner thighs. His fingers tightened in the fabric. Even after all these years, the sight of them still made his stomach twist. He forced himself to keep functioning and reached for his shirt.
The long-sleeved top clung tightly to his lean frame. He tugged the sleeves down until they covered his arms completely, swallowing the ugly mark etched into his skin. One sleeve slipped up as he moved, exposing just enough for him to notice. That snake and skull tattoo. The dark mark. Draco sucked in a breath and yanked it back down sharply, his hands trembling involuntarily.
He paused and took a breath slowly, calming himself. It was ridiculous. Despite so much time having passed, some things never truly faded, no matter how hard he tried to erase them.
Draco shook his head and focused his mind back. He continued putting on his scrubs. Dull blue. Draco huffed at the color as he pulled them on, wishing that the clinic allowed something more lively, considering the nature of their workplace. Whatever.
He shrugged into his jacket, slipped his feet into his sneakers, and grabbed his backpack, methodically checking that everything was there: wallet, keys, phone, name tag, pens, notebook, and a small pouch of potion ingredients he kept just in case.
Before leaving the house, he made sure to water his plants, carefully pouring just enough for each pot. A smile tugged at his lips upon seeing that the herbs were thriving; lush, green, and alive in a way that felt almost mocking. Still, tending to them brought him a strange comfort, like proof that he could nurture something without it breaking.
Draco slipped his headphones on as he locked the door behind him. Music filled his ears, dulling the noise of the street as he walked toward the train station. He moved on autopilot, weaving through commuters, boarding the train, and getting off at his usual stop without really thinking.
He went to the usual cafe, located on the corner of the street. Draco stepped inside and ordered without hesitation: one espresso, one black coffee, and the special sandwich, no mustard.
With the drinks secured, Draco took a cautious sip of the black coffee. He immediately grimaced as the bitter liquid hit his tongue.
“Merlin,” he muttered under his breath. He hated black coffee. Despised it, really. But right now, it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Then, he caught the bus outside the cafe and got off at the fifth stop. The clinic stood quietly on the corner of the street, small and unassuming, yet constantly buzzing once the doors opened. Draco paused for a brief moment before going in through the back door.
He was still surprised that he had managed to land this job after graduating from nursing school, but well, he wasn’t going to complain about it. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered.
Draco arrived at exactly eight thirty. The clinic wouldn’t open for another thirty minutes, but that didn’t stop him from getting to work immediately. Though there were two other nurses on staff, Draco took it upon himself to prepare everything anyway.
He dropped the coffee and sandwich on his boss’s desk, pulled open the curtains to let the light in, tidied the waiting room chairs, and checked the emails piling up in the inbox. Finally, with a few minutes to spare, he settled at the front desk with his coffee and reviewed the appointments for the day.
The patients were all children or babies. Plus, this was not a big hospital, so his day was mostly routine checkups, minor illnesses, and follow-ups. Nothing too serious. Draco sipped his coffee slowly as he skimmed through notes, committing names and conditions to memory.
“Good morning, Draco.”
He looked up to see Tina, the other nurse working there, approaching, already pulling out the chair beside him and collapsing into it.
“Morning, Tina,” Draco replied, eyes drifting back to the report in his hand.
She groaned dramatically, pulling out a small mirror. “Ugh, my hair is a disaster today. I had to brush it forever, and it still looks like this.”
Draco hummed noncommittally, attention firmly on the paperwork.
“Good morning, you two,” another voice chimed from behind them.
Draco and Tina turned together. “Morning, Emma.” They both said in unison.
Emma, the other nurse, sighed heavily as she joined them, rubbing her temples. “I woke up with a horrible headache today.” She shot Draco a wary look. “Please tell me that naughty kid, Evan, isn’t coming in today.”
Draco finally smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting as he glanced at the schedule. “Ten thirty sharp.”
Emma let out a dramatic groan, and Tina burst into laughter. Draco sighed to himself, grateful that today was likely going to be just like any other day.
>>>>o0o<<<<
The day unfolded without trouble. Steady, predictable, and of course, exhausting. Draco moved through the clinic with practiced ease, checking vitals, helping the doctors, calming crying children, offering soft smiles and reassuring words to anxious parents.
Working as a nurse in a children’s clinic had become second nature to him, something he would have laughed at, once upon a time. The idea that he, Draco Malfoy, would spend his days tending to sick Muggle children would have seemed absurd in another life. And yet, here he was.
Strangely enough, it was comforting. It might not start pretty in the beginning, but over time, Draco didn’t just tolerate the work; he enjoyed it.
“Hey, Draco.”
Ah. There he was.
Draco stopped mid-step, already feeling the familiar irritation coil in his chest. Slowly, he turned around.
“Yes?” He kept his voice civil, but the sharpness in his tone made his feelings abundantly clear.
“It was cold.”
Draco blinked, turning around to face the man, “I’m sorry?”
“The espresso on my desk,” the man continued, voice laced with complaint. “It was cold when I drank it. I had to dump it in the sink.”
Draco stared at him for a long second, fighting the urge to sigh dramatically, or worse, roll his eyes. “And what could I possibly do about that, Bailey?” he asked flatly.
The man scoffed and stepped closer, far too close. He leaned down toward Draco’s ear, his voice dropping. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Oscar when we’re alone?”
Draco stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing as warm, stale breath brushed his skin. Revulsion crawled up his spine. Oscar Bailey. One of the two doctors at the clinic. The owner, to be exact.
Bailey was middle-aged, smug, and thoroughly unpleasant. A complete bastard, in Draco’s opinion, and one who seemed to take particular pleasure in reminding Draco of the power imbalance between them.
The man had just gotten out of a divorce three months ago. Draco heard that his wife had caught him cheating with a prostitute in their own bed.
Draco inhaled slowly, then exhaled, forcing his voice to remain even as he fixed Bailey with his best polite look.
“As you can see, Bailey,” he said coolly, “I’m on my way to the front desk to input some data. So kindly move out of my way.”
Bailey chuckled, clearly entertained, before shifting just enough to give Draco a narrow path to slip through. Draco offered a tight, half-smile and stepped past him without another word.
“Make sure to have my coffee right tomorrow,” Bailey called after him, smirking.
Draco didn’t turn around. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing his annoyed expression.
Bailey was insufferable, but Draco’s hands were tied. He had an unspoken agreement with the man that Draco would handle all the side assignments in the clinic, and that included the coffee runs, the opening and closing of the clinic, and the extra tasks no one else wanted. In return, he earned a bit more pay. And Draco needed that money.
Ever since he had chosen to live independently, money had become more than a convenience. When his father had been sentenced to Azkaban, everything had unraveled so quickly. The Malfoy assets were seized by the Ministry, leaving him and his mother with nothing.
His mother had begged him to leave with her, to start over in France, somewhere far away from the whispers and the hatred, but Draco had refused. Their family name was already in ruins; there was no point in going anywhere.
At seventeen, despite the Dark Mark burned into his arm, Draco had still been spared Azkaban. The Ministry, in their mercy, had chosen another punishment. He was forbidden from ever using magic again.
He knew he should have been grateful. He wasn’t rotting in a cell. But the verdict had shattered him all the same.
Magic had been his birthright. His identity. To have it ripped away so completely had sent him spiraling into a darkness he hadn’t known how to escape.
That was also part of the reason why he never returned to Hogwarts to finish his education, though Professor McGonagall had personally asked him to come back, but how could he? The thought of being among those he had once stood against made his stomach twist. He knew he didn’t deserve the chance. To walk the same halls as the victims, when he himself had been complicit in their suffering. It was a mercy he didn’t earn.
So instead, Narcissa had poured what remained of her fortune into giving him a chance in nursing school. It hadn’t been what Draco dreamed of, but it had been his only option.
Truly, if it weren’t for his mother's unwavering presence, her steady love, Draco wasn’t sure he would have survived it. Eventually, slowly, he learned how to move forward.
And now, standing in a children’s clinic, clipboard in hand, surrounded by laughter and tears and life in its simplest form, Draco reminded himself of one thing: He was still here.
.
.
.
“Someone, someone help, please!”
The cry cut through the clinic like a blade.
Draco’s head snapped up instantly. A woman stumbled through the entrance, pale and shaking, clutching an infant to her chest. The baby was wailing at the top of his lungs. Blood soaked his tiny hands, smeared across the woman’s apron, bright and terrifying against the fabric.
“Yes, come here, quickly,” Draco said, already moving. He guided the woman down the hall and into the nearest checkup room.
Samuel, the other middle-aged doctor in the clinic, though he was nothing like Bailey, was seated at the desk inside, reviewing notes. The moment he saw them, he rose to his feet without hesitation.
“Put him here,” Samuel said gently, gesturing to the examination bed.
The woman complied immediately, her hands trembling as she laid the infant down. The baby thrashed and screamed, crying harder with each passing second.
“Miss,” Draco said softly, hand on her back, keeping his movements slow and controlled, “I need you to tell us exactly what happened.”
“I–I was cutting some papers,” she sobbed, hiccupping between words. “I swear I put the scissors on the table. I swear I did.”
“It’s alright,” Draco reassured her, even as his stomach clenched. “You did the right thing bringing him here.”
Carefully, he took the baby’s hand in his own. The sight made his chest tighten. An ugly, deep cut ran across the infant’s palm, nearly three centimeters long. Too deep for a bandage.
Samuel leaned in, examining it closely. “Alright,” he said calmly. “We’ll take care of this right away. Miss, I need you to wait outside for now.”
The woman nodded numbly, casting one last terrified glance at the baby before stumbling out of the room.
“Draco,” Samuel said, already snapping on gloves, “Please get everything ready, quick.”
Draco nodded and moved instantly, muscle memory taking over. Antiseptic, suturing tools, anesthetic, gauze, and cotton swabs. He laid everything out on the table with practiced efficiency. The baby was still crying, thrashing weakly, making it difficult for Samuel to inject the anesthesia safely.
Without hesitation, Draco scooped the infant into his arms. Blood smeared across his scrubs. He cradled the baby close, rocking gently, murmuring soft words under his breath.
“It’s okay,” Draco murmured softly, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”
Gradually, the baby’s cries softened. He still whimpered, but he stopped thrashing long enough for Samuel to administer the anesthesia. Draco sat on the edge of the bed, settling the child securely in his lap, one arm circling his stomach while the other held on to the baby’s other hand to not accidentally disturb Samuel.
The procedure went on without trouble. Draco kept murmuring to the baby the entire time, nonsense words and soft reassurances, grounding both of them. By the time Samuel finished stitching the wound, the infant was no longer crying, just blinking up at Draco with watery eyes, cheeks flushed.
“There,” Samuel said with a small smile as he finished. “All fixed, little man.”
Draco exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank Merlin,” he whispered quietly, standing and cradling the boy against his chest. “Thank you, Samuel.”
“My pleasure,” Samuel said as he winked at the baby.
Suddenly, the door opened abruptly, revealing Emma.
“Emma,” Samuel said, relieved, “could you bring the woman back in and let her know her baby is fine?”
Emma hesitated, her expression uneasy. “About that… she passed out a while ago.”
Draco and Samuel stared at her.
“…Oh well,” Samuel said after a beat.
>>>>o0o<<<<
It turned out that the woman was actually a staff member at a daycare center not too far from them. However, they didn’t have the place’s phone number, so in the end, Tina and Emma had to rush over to the daycare to inform the other staff.
Draco remained behind, mostly because the baby absolutely refused to let go of him. Every time someone else tried to take him, he clung tighter, tiny fingers fisting in Draco’s scrubs. Luckily, it was nearly closing time, and no other patients were waiting.
Draco sat in Samuel’s office, gently bouncing the baby on his lap. The child seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that he had undergone minor surgery a while ago. He babbled happily, full of energy, pointing at everything that caught his attention.
“Da!” he exclaimed, then pointed again. “Kitty!”
Draco chuckled softly. “You’re very chatty, aren’t you?”
Then the baby’s gaze landed on something specific. His eyes lit up.
“Candy!” he declared, pointing enthusiastically at the lollipop sitting on Samuel’s desk.
Draco followed his gaze and laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart. That’s not for you.” Yup. There was no way Draco would purposely give a choking hazard to a baby.
The baby stared at him with wide, pleading green eyes; bright, vivid, sparkling in a way that was too expressive for a child so young.
Draco froze for half a second. Those eyes. Something about them tugged at him, an uneasy familiarity curling in his chest.
“Pweasee,” the baby said again, voice small and earnest.
That snapped Draco out of it. He laughed again, shaking his head. “No, no. I can’t give you that.”
The baby pouted dramatically, lower lip jutting out in a way that was offensively cute. Draco rocked him gently, giggling despite himself.
Then the baby reached out. Not toward Draco. Toward the air.
Draco frowned; confusion flickered on his face.
Suddenly, something was moving. It was the lollipop. And it was not just moving, the lollipop was floating. Then slowly, deliberately, it drifted through the air toward them.
Draco gasped, standing so abruptly the bed scraped loudly against the floor. His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
Until finally, the lollipop settled neatly into the baby’s waiting hand. The infant giggled delightedly, clutching his prize as if he had just performed a grand trick.
“Oh my Salazar,” Draco breathed out.
A wizard! The realization hit him like a physical blow. His stomach dropped, his thoughts spiraling. A magical child. Here. In his arms.
“Draco?”
Samuel’s voice snapped him back to reality. He turned sharply to the door.
“Yes–yes,” Draco said quickly, forcing a smile that felt far too tight. “Sorry. What is it?”
“The boy’s parent is here,” Samuel said, brow furrowing as his eyes flicked to the candy. “Did you give him that?”
Draco immediately snatched the lollipop away, ignoring the baby’s instant protest. “No, yes, I mean, no. I was just distracting him,” he said hurriedly. “His parents here?”
“Yes,” Samuel replied slowly. “His father.”
Draco swallowed hard. Was that why the child had felt so strangely familiar? Because he had sensed the boy’s magic. That had to be it, right?
For a fleeting, dangerous second, his heart began to pound. What if the child’s parents were witches or wizards? What if they recognized him? His name, his face. Everything he had spent years trying to bury could resurface in an instant. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.
But Draco quickly pushed the fear aside. That couldn’t be true. No wizard or witch in their right mind would ever send their child to an ordinary Muggle daycare, let alone bring them to a Muggle clinic. This had to be a Muggle-born child; unaware, untrained, accidental magic spilling out because no one had taught him how to control it yet. Yes, that was it.
He took a steady breath and looked down at the baby in his arms. “Alright,” he murmured softly. “Ready to see your daddy?”
The baby’s eyes widened. “Papa?”
Draco smiled despite everything. “Yes. Your Papa’s here.”
He walked out into the hallway, heart still a bit on edge. His focus stayed firmly on the baby, as though looking anywhere else might jolt him.
“James!” A voice rang out, loud and unmistakable.
Draco stopped dead. He looked up. A man was standing in the lobby, looking so disheveled.
That face. That voice. Those impossibly green eyes.
Time seemed to stop. His breath caught painfully in his throat as recognition crashed into him all at once. The man standing there, tall, familiar, and painfully real, stared back at him.
The boy in Draco’s arms beamed. “Papa!” he shouted happily, reaching out.
But the man didn’t move. His gaze wasn’t on his son. It was locked on Draco.
“…Malfoy?” He whispered into the air.
Draco’s entire body went rigid.
The sound of his name shattered the last remnants of doubt, even as Draco’s heart had recognized the truth the instant their eyes met. There was no mistaking it now; the man standing before him was, indeed, Harry Potter.
.
.
.