This story emerged from the sewers of my subconscious some time in the early hours of this morning. Completely AU, and with no time set, but most likely after Series 8 – or not. It was in part triggered by TheChicaChic's story, `Goodbye'. My question-to-self was: under what circumstances might Harry actually fall in love again?

If someone has already written a story similar to this, I apologise in advance. I am trying to read all the HR fic already written, but that may take me some time.

oOo

Harry's in love again. Smitten. Head over heels. Besotted. Drunk on love. Bedevilled by Venus. Flummoxed by Freya.

He hadn't believed he could love anyone else, this soon and so totally. After all, he's in his fifties, and isn't that a time in life when this sort of thing is meant to be behind him? Friends of his have warned him that it is after turning fifty that a man's passions begin to wane, that life becomes a predictable paved road of black and white, sometimes with a little grey, but mostly simply basic beige, from here to a distant horizon ….. rather than splashes of grass green and magenta, puce and purple against a backdrop of brilliant sky blue. He has been told that he will no longer relate to Mahler, Mozart and Massenet, and that he should begin to tune in to the easy listening stations... (and that those who listen to Wagner post turning-fifty will surely become unhinged.) He has been warned that having turned fifty several years ago, he should expect less and less. He now knows that his friends are wrong. He is on a roller-coaster of emotion …... blind love one minute, followed by such paralysing fear for her the next. He can't be with her every minute of the day, although he longs for a time soon when he can be. Retirement can't be far away. Not a minute passes that he doesn't think of her, longing to be with her again, to see the way she smiles just for him. Then there are those at work who ask after her.

"How's Sophie?" someone will say, and his face will break into a goofy smile. He's sure they ask just so he will drop his Section Head mask. If he is being honest with himself, he hates his Section Head mask. It is just another of his walls, and since Sophie, such walls are unnecessary.

"She's wonderful," he'll say, looking away, aware of how soft and – goddammit – human he becomes when he thinks of her. He can hardly give anyone a bollocking when he's smiling like that – smug, contented, blissful. Perhaps that's why they do it. He knows his staff are happier since Sophie. He is happier since Sophie. Everything makes sense now he has her. Behind him, almost in another lifetime, are the years of angst-filled hours he'd once spent in his office long into the night, avoiding his home, avoiding facing the vacuum that had been his personal life. What was it Ros had once said to him? `What right do you have to make judgements on my personal life? Your own isn't exactly a shining example, is it?' She'd been right, of course. Then Ruth had entered his office to tell him that Ros had been wrong. Such a pair they'd been back then, he and Ruth. So …... wary of each other, so afraid of putting a foot wrong, and so damned dysfunctional. Those were crazy days, and thankfully they were long behind him. Most nights he is gone by 7 pm, and there are even times when he is gone from the Grid by 6. He is learning to delegate, and to trust others with responsibilities that he had believed were his alone to shoulder. Since Sophie, he needs to be home to spend time with her. He wants to be home with her.

He has a photograph of his new love on his desk in his office on the Grid. He has never before done that. His policy has been for there to be no overt reminders that he has a personal life, for fear he this will put his loved ones in danger. He has always though that best. He's thrown that idea out the window since Sophie entered his life.

The name Sophie means `wisdom'. When he looks into her eyes, he can see how wise she is. He is also aware that he may be projecting this on to her. Surely not everyone who bears the name Sophie is wise, but he is certain that his Sophie is. He's only known her four months, but in some ways he feels like he's known her all his life. He's been waiting for her for what seems to him to be a very long time, and now here she is. There was a time of waiting, of intense anticipation before he first met her. It was during that time that he imagined what it would be like to hold her, to press his cheek to hers, to plant a gentle kiss on her soft skin. He hadn't known how much he needed her, how much she'd mean to him, until she was here, in the flesh, living and breathing in his life.

He is holding her now. She is asleep, of course, so he can't gaze into her eyes. Her head rests on his upper arm, while both his arms are around her, holding her close to his body. The bright gold band on the third finger of his left hand glows in the half-light against the muted tones of her clothing. He has discarded his jacket and tie, opened a few of his shirt buttons, so that there are less layers of cotton between his skin and hers. He longs to brush his fingers along her cheek, to trace the line of her eyebrows, to lean close to her and drink in her smell, to watch her eyelids flutter as she is about to wake. Hoping not to wake her, he caresses the blonde hair which curls near her ears. She is a miracle, and she is his.

He has watched her sleep now for over an hour, and he misses her. He misses her smile, he misses her beautiful eyes, he misses how much she loves him and trusts him. He can wait no longer. He aches to watch her while she wakes. He reaches down and presses his lips softly to her forehead. She opens her eyes, stretches, and brings her eyes into focus as she looks at him, a smile of recognition slowly transforming her soft face. They gaze at one another, his hazel eyes looking into her deep pools of blue-grey. They are both suddenly startled by a brief flash of bright light.

"That's one for the family album," Sophie's mother says. "The perfect Daddy and Sophie moment."

Sophie stretches again, her face contorting as she brings herself fully into wakefulness. Harry watches her every move, his face a study in wonder and awe.

Ruth puts the camera down on the coffee table, and sits beside her husband, her face resting against his free shoulder.

"I never thought I'd be jealous of my own daughter," she says. "I swear you love her more than you love me."

"No darling," he replies, "I just love her differently. You will always be my first great love." He reaches down to kiss her, the woman he loves, the mother of this miracle - his new daughter, Sophie Ruth Pearce.

oOo

I know that it was hardly very subtle, and I'm sure you guessed what it was about by about line 7. It's also very uncharacteristic of me to write soppy stories. I've given myself a good talking to, and I've promised myself I'll not do it ever again!