Disclaimer: Characters, settings, etc. belong to JK Rowling and associates. No money is being made.

Warnings: DM/HP SLASH, mentions/BIG hints at Mpreg, adult language, and things that should not be read if you do not enjoy the slash world.

Chapter One: The Boy Who Was a Father

Hello,

I realise you probably think it odd to be receiving a letter from me, of all people. And yes, I know you recognised the sender of this letter without looking at my signature at the bottom: you scoff at my handwriting enough in class to be able to recognise it anywhere. If this isn't the case, then surely you know my owl, who has always stuck out like a broken broomstick during the morning post. Speaking of which, if you wouldn't mind allowing her to stay for a night before sending her back, that'd be a help, as it was a long flight for her and she could use the rest.

Anyway, on to the reason I'm sending this letter to you. And if you're still reading, then thank you for not chucking the parchment into the fire the second you'd known who sent this. I'm not trying to waste your time or to fool you or anything; it's rather important you know this, you see. It's ... well, I imagine it's going to be quite a shock for you, so you'd best maybe be sitting down as you read. I know it was shocking for me, even more so than what it's going to be like for you, I reckon. After all, I'm the one who – er, you'll understand soon. I figure you'll be quite angry with me when you finish this letter, and you have every right to be; even I can admit that. I really should have sent this sooner, but with the way things were left between us – have always been between us, I suppose – it proved nearly impossible for me to pluck up the courage and write this in the first place, and actually I'm quite proud of the fact that I've managed this far. You see, I'm not so much for words – actually, you do see, as you seem to enjoy reminding me every chance you get that I'm totally useless with anything – and writing letters and such has never been my forte. Usually I manage to get a friend to do it for me, but she's the one making me write the letter in the first place, and absolutely refuses to have any part in it whatsoever. Generally she's quite helpful with things like this, and I'm only just realising now how much I depend on her for this sort of thing.

And now I'm rambling. Sorry, but I ramble when I'm nervous; apparently even in writing. I'd scrap this parchment and start over, but I've discarded four attempts already, and no one will lend me any more parchment. I haven't been to Diagon Alley yet to get my supplies, you understand, and I've used the rest of my parchment up on that bleeding Potions essay that that greasy-haired git –

And I'm rambling again. Sorry. I guess now you're fairly irritated with me; possibly you're tapping your foot and huffing in that annoyed way you do whenever someone's said something particularly stupid in front of you. And I'm not trying to sound stupid, honestly – I'm just pants at things like this, and well, I'm not so much looking forward to your reaction. It all has to do with the last time we saw each other. Yes, that time. Back in September, during that ruddy celebration after the snake bastard was killed. When you and I, er – well, I'm sure you know when I'm talking about; after all, you were also participating in ... it.

Merlin, I can't even say we've shagged without feeling flushed. Pathetic of me, eh? I've no doubt you're having a real good laugh over all this: after all, it was you who made it perfectly clear that it was a one off, and that we should just forget it ever happened and never mention it again. And I was happy to do that -- well, not happy, but willing. Didn't really need you spreading that all 'round school, now did I? Though I guess in the end it didn't matter whether you did or not, what with the whole Death Eater fiasco, and then me being forced into hiding for the remainder of the year. Thinking back on it now, I suppose that that had been for the best, getting away from all that could remind me of that night, making it easier for me to forget it even happened in the first place.

Only, I couldn't. I couldn't forget. I tried – Merlin, I tried so hard, but it was no use. I don't know what it was, but I couldn't get it out of my mind, no matter how much I wanted to. And then ... and then it became impossible to forget about the whole situation. How could I, when every time I was sick, or craving cheese and marmite sandwiches slathered in chocolate sauce, or having to expand the waistband of all my trousers, or sleeping the entire day away, or having cramps and bloating, I was forcefully reminded of that night? Every time I felt that odd bubbly feeling in my stomach, every time my back ached and my ankles swelled, every time I had heartburn and indigestion was like a Bludger to the face, because it made me remember what had happened that night, and the fact that I was still in hiding, going through it all nearly alone, and you were still in Hogwarts, oblivious to everything.

I have a feeling you've realised what "everything" is by now. I'd be surprised if you hadn't already: you are, after all, one of the smartest wizards in our year, even if you are an utter prat about it. Loath though I am to admit it, you are rather clever, aren't you? You're also fairly predictable, I reckon. In fact, at the very second you're reading this, I think I know what you're reaction is: you've either responded like the typical Slytherin – clever, sneaky and all that rot – and have taken my words at face value, not doubting the truth of my situation but doubting whether or not you're involved with it. If that's the case, then thank you for believing me, and yes, the baby is yours, you stupid git. How many boys d'you think I've let shag me?

If you didn't react the typical Slytherin, then you most likely reacted the way I did – stunned disbelief, followed quickly by a large bout of denial. If this is the case, then guess what: this is not a sick joke. You put me up the duff! Congratulations, you're a dad. A father at seventeen, and the baby's not even a pureblood. Disappointed?

All right, I apologise for that. There's no need to rub it in that you got me, a half-blood, preggers, is there? It's a pretty complicated situation all in itself, purity issues aside, isn't it? But it's happened, and there's no changing it, you know.

So anyway, if you're not so stunned as to be able to do simple maths, you've summed up that it is impossible for me to still be carrying the baby. Good on you if you had, as I'd not been able to form coherent thoughts for at least a week after I'd learned. If you hadn't, well its true. I had the baby May first, five weeks before her due date. She came out small but healthy, which is good, as I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd come out with extra fingers and a tail, knowing your family's history with inbreeding ...

Again, apologies. Old habits die hard and all that, you know? I suppose I'm still feeling a little resentful at the fact that for the past three months I've been taking care of a baby that's half yours, and you've not even met her ... and I have no right to be angry with you, do I? It's my fault that you've not known about her. I am sorry about that, yeah? I mean, you deserved to know, and that's really the only reason that I was able to write this letter in the first place. Whether or not I wanted to, you should at least know that you've got an heir out there; a baby daughter with your hair, nose and tendency to be overly-dramatic. I'm sorry it took me so long to write you: blame my pride, if you want. Stubborn Gryffindor to the end, that's me. And ... maybe blame my fear. Fear of what, I'm not exactly sure: all I know is that, though she's a bit of a handful and it is more than a little terrifying thinking that I'm in charge of keeping someone alive and healthy for the rest of my life, I really am quite taken with her, and I'm not too keen on anything happening to her. You understand that, right? Well, maybe you don't: as far as I know, you haven't got any other illegitimate children running 'round Hogwarts.

Before I sign off and send this, I want to stress that this letter isn't being sent with expectations. I know you didn't ask for any of this (though a protection charm would have been helpful at the time, particularly since I didn't even know wizards could get pregnant in the first place), and I don't expect you to drop everything to be a part of the baby's life. We are pretty damn young, and parenthood is the hardest and scariest thing I've attempted to date, including the whole Voldie debacle. If you want to be a part of her life, then I'm willing to work something out. She does deserve two parents, after all – even if we can't stand the sight of each other for more than five minutes unless hearty amounts of Butterbeer and punch shot with Firewhiskey are involved. If you don't want to have anything to do with her, then all right. At least I told you, and my conscience is now cleared. And if you're at all curious about anything financial related – I won't demand a Knut from you, don't worry. I've heard of your ... difficulties during and after the war, and if the rumours are true, then you need to keep what's left of your Galleons for yourself. And if it sounds like I'm rubbing it in, well – you have acted rather shoddy to the Weasleys in past years, haven't you?

Again, I'm sorry I've kept this from you for so long, and feel free to write back, though no Howlers, yeah? The baby doesn't sleep enough as it is, and I doubt very much you yelling obscenities at me through the post will help any to rectify that.

Suppose I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express, September first.

Sincerely Yours,

Harry Potter

"Harry?"

Harry Potter was pulled from a restless and rather uncomfortable sleep by the voice of one of his best friends speaking alarmingly close to his ear. With a surprised yelp, the black-haired boy jerked upright from the large Transfiguration tome he'd been face-planted in, almost immediately regretting this action when the severe crick in his neck became known with a particularly vicious throb. Clapping a hand over the offending area he twisted around in his seat, glaring blearily through crooked glasses at Hermione Granger, who had quickly backed up to avoid a collision with the crown of Harry's head.

"Hermione!" he croaked while rubbing furiously at his stiff shoulder, trying to work out the Sickle-sized knots he felt there. "You trying to kill me? You nearly gave me a hear attack!"

"Well, how was I to know you'd react as though you'd seen Voldemort's ghost?" she retorted, folding her arms across her front and matching the green-eyed boy's glare. "I'd only been saying your name for five minutes, after all, and it's not as though I hadn't been yelling it to the high heavens, either. What, have you started stuffing cotton in your ears before bed, now, or is it merely the fluff that fills your head beginning to leak out?"

Someone swallowed a Humour Potion this morning, thought Harry grumpily. Fluff, indeed. So he'd turned into quite the heavy sleeper this past summer, that was no excuse to scare five years off his life!

"There was still no reason for you to sneak up like that, you know," Harry's mouth voiced his thoughts mutinously, undoubtedly guaranteeing an eye roll and a "tsk" from his counterpart. Nevertheless, he pressed on. "Not a good way to wake someone up, I can tell you. I could have hexed you on instinct, and then what would you've done?"

"Oh, please." Hermione tsked and rolled her eyes. Shocking, thought Harry sarcastically to himself. "Firstly, I'd be able to block anything you tried to throw at me, as seconds before you were dead to the world and stampeding Hippogriffs wouldn't have woken you. Secondly, you're over-reacting."

"No, I'm under-sleeping," Harry corrected, suppressing a yawn as he straightened his glasses and absently wiped the drool from his chin with the back of his hand. "I haven't had a full night's sleep in almost four months. Forgive me for feeling a little less than thrilled at being so rudely awoken from much needed slumber. And you clearly underestimate my hex-throwing abilities, Hermione," he added after a slight pause, in deference to his pride.

Hermione actually hmphed at this, a sound that did nothing to improve Harry's fantastically mulish mood. "Well, so sorry to startle you, then," she snapped, and the raven-haired boy could almost taste her indignation, she was laying it so thickly onto her words. "Next time I'll just thwap you over the head with your broomstick to wake you up, shall I? Or maybe drop a bucket of ice water over you instead, hmm? Would that be more to your liking, Mr 'I've made my bed, but am going to complain every second I lie in it'?"

Oh, here we go. Groaning, Harry slumped his shoulders and attempted to burrow into the chair back, preparing for a long one. Spending most of last year in the company of a mothering, albeit slightly disapproving, Molly Weasley had gotten Harry more than used to the "you've had your play, now it's time to pay" lecture: he'd been hearing it ever since he'd revealed his surprise pregnancy to the few close people in his life. Every time Harry had bemoaned his fate while spending quality time with the toilet, Mrs Weasley had been there with a wet flannel, switching back and forth between cooing and tutting while wiping sweat and sick off Harry's face. When Harry had gotten into a spectacular row with the mirror above the mantel because it had called him "Tubby", Mrs Weasley had rushed over to intervene, shushing the cackling mirror and managing to give Harry a very meaningful look that quite obviously said, "Well, you are seven months along, dear." When Harry had been up to his elbows in dirty nappies and shite, very near tears and desperate for some sleep, Mrs Weasley had graciously taken over for the afternoon, but only after humming in a way that plainly inferred, "Shame on you for thinking it's all just daisies and roses, you know." And then when Hermione had shown up mid-July with her "I told you so" air, patented glares and rehearsed scoldings ... well, it was all Harry could do to keep from hexing the women's mouths shut every time they drew near.

That's not to say Harry didn't appreciate having Mrs Weasley as a surrogate grandmother to his daughter, or Hermione's role as an overly-caring friend. Without their help – all the Weasleys' help, really – Harry wouldn't have lasted a week on his own. If it weren't for Mrs Weasley's afternoon sittings, or Hermione's evening tutor sessions – Harry with a book in one hand, baby in the other – he was quite sure he would have floundered in all the summer homework his professors had assigned him. If Ron hadn't been brave enough to give up his attic room for the summer and kip in the twin's old room – amongst poisonous packages, random sizzling sounds emitted from an ominous-looking Muggle stop-watch, and a horrendous smell of spoiled doxycide – or if Mr Weasley hadn't found his collection of old Muggle music boxes that helped soothe the baby back to sleep after her three o'clock feedings, then the green-eyed boy would have been wailing constantly himself. Hell, if Fred and George hadn't developed their new line of baby-safe products ("Ear-Ache Begone Solution – One Drop And The Screaming Stops!", "Anti-Rash Nappy Powder – Keeps The Bum Smooth And The Baby Quiet!", and "Teething Remedying Gel – Helps Growing Of Teeth For Tots, And Parents Dealing With Dribble Spots!"), then Harry would have marched himself to St Mungo's and asked for a bed in the Janus Thickey Ward ... but only after he cursed himself dizzy, of course.

Harry's summer, and the eight months leading up to it, had been very different from the ones he had experienced in previous years. He hadn't finished off his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with his friends and classmates as he had first planned: the Death Eaters had seen to that. Harry had been at Hogwarts hardly two weeks when there had been an abduction attempt by a rogue group of Voldemort's followers, who had all managed to evade capture by the Aurors after their lord's final downfall. Ultimately the plan for revenge had failed, as the leaders of the group had been the elders Crabbe and Goyle, and though they had managed to allude the Aurors' grasps after the fall of their master, they had made it perfectly clear where their sons had received their half-wit from, when Harry had distracted them by pointing behind them and shouting, "Look! A new Dark Lord!" and then making a fairly easy retreat back into Hogwarts castle while the two older wizards glanced stupidly over their shoulders. They and four of their comrades had all run off when they'd seen Harry disappear through the castle's main doors, knowing that any place with Albus Dumbledore residing in it was not a place they wanted to enter, and thus had ended that particularly pathetic threat to Harry's life.

The whole affair had been rather anti-climatic, to say the least, and had left the inhabitants of Hogwarts, professors included, rather bemused. Though the actual attack on Harry had failed miserably, leaving the black-haired boy with nothing more than an insignificant burn on the inside of his ankle from when Crabbe senior had accidentally dropped his wand, Professor Dumbledore had still insisted on Harry immediately relocating to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, to wait it out until the rest of the Death Eaters had been captured. After this particular decision from his headmaster, Harry had caused quite a stir, not liking the thought of being left alone in a dreary old house that had far too many unhappy memories, and was severely lacking in friendly inhabitants (unless doxies, ghouls and Boggarts could be constituted as "friendly"). He'd found it quite unfair to be forced into hiding after having finally destroyed the most evil wizard of the age, thinking that it was high time he be allowed to start living his life without having the fear of being offed lurking around him wherever he went. After all the physical pain, emotional turmoil, and feelings of great loss Harry and many others had suffered at the hands of that snake bastard, the very last thing he had felt like doing was being separated from what he had considered to be his only home, and the remaining people of what he thought as his family.

In the end Harry had reluctantly agreed to be hidden away, but only after a rather lengthy discussion with his constantly level-headed headmaster, whom had promised it would only be a temporary solution, and assured Harry that he would not be left completely alone in the decrepit House of Black. It was then Harry had learned that his third year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and friend to his late parents, Remus Lupin, had agreed to tutor him during his absence from Hogwarts, and though it was a far cry from spending his time with his best friends, in his beloved school, Harry enjoyed the soft-spoken man's company all the same, and happily waited out the capture of his incompetent abductors, confident that it would only take a few weeks' time, if even that.

Harry should have realised then that nothing in his life ever turned out the way it was first expected. When the last of the Death Eaters had finally been rounded up by the Aurors – Antonin Dolohov having been found living incognito as an eighty-year-old witch in Northern France mid-March – the green-eyed boy's plans had changed yet again. After spending nearly six months at Grimmauld Place, Harry had decided not to return to Hogwarts for the remaining three months of his sixth year, instead opting to relocate to the Burrow with Remus, to spend some time with the Weasley parents in their much more warm and welcoming home. The reason given to the student body of Hogwarts, not to mention the whole of wizarding Britain, for Harry's continued absence was that he had been suffering from magical exhaustion due to his final confrontation with Voldemort, and was finishing the year in a quiet location with relatives, so as not to over-exert himself. The real reason, of course, had been that Harry was over five months pregnant, and though school robes would have easily covered his slightly bulging stomach in the beginning of his return to school, it would have eventually become fairly obvious that he was expecting, the closer they neared his due date in early June.

After Madam Pomfrey had made the startling discovery that Harry's bad case of stomach flu was in fact him entering his second trimester, the adults in his life (Mr and Mrs Weasley, Headmaster Dumbledore and Remus Lupin) had all sat down with him and explained that in no uncertain terms could his pregnancy be revealed to the wizarding public. Not only would it cause a complete political upheaval between Harry's Ministry supporters and their opponents, what with the sixteen-year-old saviour of the wizarding world having a baby only months after ending a war, but it could give a Dark wizard with a wand and a grudge the perfect opportunity to attack Harry while in such a vulnerable state.

There really hadn't been a choice for him to go back to Hogwarts at all, no matter the glamours he could use to conceal his expecting state, and in a complete contrast to his reaction to being sent to Grimmauld Place, Harry had readily agreed to stay with the Weasleys, trying to look at it as an extended holiday that involved mood swings and back aches. Remus had graciously continued his tutoring of Harry for the remainder of the year, Ron's mum had taken it upon herself to get Harry through the pregnancy in one piece, and in all honesty the green-eyed boy hadn't really minded being kept locked away in the Burrow all that much. Remus and Mr and Mrs Weasley had proved good company; Remus with his helpful words of wisdom and quiet wit, Mr Weasley constantly asking absurd questions about mundane Muggle appliances, and Mrs Weasley mothering and fussing over Harry's eating habits. Hermione and Ron had spent most of their free weekends visiting with Harry as well; Hermione keeping him up to date with class lectures and Ron relaying Quidditch matches in minute detail, so as not to make the other boy feel left out of his favourite past-time. He'd appreciated every effort his best friends went through to keep him feeling involved, and with few exceptions, including furtive looks between one another when Harry refused to talk about the other person involved in the conception of his baby, and quick, edgy glances toward his gradually swelling stomach, the two Gryffindors had been nothing but supportive of Harry and his child.

And Harry had needed all the support he could find. Being told that he had a small life growing inside of him had been far from expected; he hadn't even known that in the wizarding world males could conceive and give birth in the first place. The concept had been so far-fetched, so completely and utterly out there, that when Madam Pomfrey had first explained the magical ramifications that could take place inside a wizard if they had unprotected sex with another male, Harry had not believed her, and had thought it all a rather sick prank being played on him. The thought of him growing fat and then eventually popping out a baby through he didn't even know where had had Harry's head reeling for days afterwards, and he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact that that was what had been causing his nausea and severe cramping. It had taken days of yelling down the roof of Grimmauld Place, crying on any shoulder he could find (Harry later blamed the hormones), and countless hours of reading through dusty old books Remus supplied him with before he could finally accept the fact that wizards could have children. Then, after all that, it took an additional two days of Harry sitting alone in his darkened bedroom, with one hand splayed across his still flat stomach, until he understood that it had indeed happened to him, and that in a little over six months he was going to have a baby.

That life-altering realisation had been accompanied by many a sleepless night, countless temper tantrums, and numerous visits to the toilet that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with gut-wrenching anxiety. Harry, a boy who had had next to no experience with sex and relationships, pregnant at sixteen? The irony had been almost comical: that Harry would have one drunken night, one lapse in judgement, and end up pregnant with the last person he would ever pick to have a baby with would have made Harry laugh hysterically ... if it had happened to anyone other than him.

For Harry had known that he would never be able to rely on the other person involved with the conception; their history together was rocky at best, and the other involved would see their baby as a mistake, an abomination against wizarding society. Harry couldn't even bare to think of what they would say about him and their child, because though he had known from the beginning that he was far from ready to take care of a baby on his own, Harry had not once been able to consider the little being inside of him a mistake. A pregnancy had certainly been unexpected, and Harry was unprepared to deal with it, that much he could not deny, but the reality was that he had created a life, and that life was a part of him; a tiny little baby that was a part of his family. That thought alone had been enough to have Harry decide to keep the baby and raise it, with or without others' help, no matter what the consequences would be.

Of course, his worries of taking care of a baby by himself had all been for naught: he should have known from the beginning that his friends and the people who mattered to him most would never abandon him. During his pregnancy, he had prepared himself for taking care of a child as best as his situation had allowed him, and it had all been done with the help of others, including attending biweekly visits with Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts' matron; adhering to the strict diets she had put him on; conceding to one of Mr Weasley's suggestions at keeping a preggers diary (Harry had refused to call it his "mother-to-be" diary); allowing himself to be kept under very close observation by both Remus and Mrs Weasley; and reading every book on male pregnancies and baby care Hermione looked up for him. Ron had solemnly offered to help Harry with nappy-changing, and had been there with his best mate as Mr Weasley had sat Harry down and explained to him the finer points of fatherhood. In fact, Harry had been so dedicated to giving his baby a good head start in life that he had even spent countless hours with his feet in Mrs Weasley's lap, listening raptly as the motherly woman spoke in great detail of the pregnancies and deliveries of her seven children. Afterwards, Harry had felt confident in what to expect for the remainder of his time expecting -- though he could have lived without the detailed description of Mrs Weasley's troubles with haemorrhoids while carrying Fred and George.

Actual child care was what had had Harry worried the most during the months leading up to the birth. After all the books and pamphlets he had read through and memorised, he had felt thoroughly squicked about all the things he needed to remember for taking care of a baby. He had never known that there was a common ailment that sometimes caused newborn babies to cry for no apparent reason, or that putting them to bed on their stomachs and with blankets and plushies could actually suffocate them. Reading that his heartbeat was a useful tool to help calm his baby down had been a fortunate titbit to find, and he had been quite confident when it came to learning how to support the baby's head and neck while holding it, but he had nearly lost his lunch while reading up on a graphic description of the soft-spot on the top of a newborn's head, and when he had realised what he needed to do if ever his baby could not poo ... well, he had sincerely hoped that his child never had that particular digestion problem.

And those were just some of the Muggle things to remember! Wizarding babies were a whole different Quidditch match, Harry had soon realised. Not only could he not perform strong magic on or around his baby for the first year of its life, for fear of interference to the baby's developing magical core, but he had also been informed that it was quite natural for young babies to experience magical "outbursts" (how big of an outburst he was to expect, the books ironically never mentioned) as they grew accustomed to their magic, though that was only if, Merlin willing, his child didn't come out a Squib. To be sure that his baby did have magical abilities and was controlling them properly, for the first year he'd be required to take his child to regular check-ups that included magical screenings and aura readings, and apparently sparks shooting out of his baby's fingers while they were crying was a natural occurrence and a good sign that things were progressing and developing well, and was to be expected for the first six months of his baby's life. It had all left Harry rather wide-eyed and nervous, especially when Madam Pomfrey had left him after a particularly informative check-up with a brisk, "Not to worry, Mr. Potter: wizarding parents deal with magical babies every day. It's all completely natural, and I'm sure Professor Flitwick will teach you some excellent flame-retardant charms to help you along."

With all the reading he had done, and all of Mrs Weasley's stories he had listened to, and all the warnings and concerned clucks Madam Pomfrey had supplied him with, Harry had known going into it that fatherhood was going to prove a very difficult job indeed, but he honestly had had no idea just what a wake-up call having a baby could truly be. Not only did it make him realise that he now had to take care of himself properly (a thing that had never overly-concerned Harry, as up until the previous summer he'd been prepared to die before he turned eighteen), he also now had a tiny little human being completely dependent on him. Also, he'd been quite alarmed to realise, St Mungo's Healers did not exactly give witches (or wizards) time to adjust to this earth-shattering realisation. After having his daughter at nearly half-past one in the morning, amidst close friends in a heavily-warded room to keep away prying eyes and reporters, he had been thrust back into the real world carrying a bundle of squirming blankets by lunch time the next afternoon, with hardly a crash course in nappy-changing, and some ridiculously complicated folding-technique called "swaddling".

He had arrived back at the Burrow that afternoon a new father, feeling both elated and scared, all the information he'd read up on during the pregnancy racing in circles through his dazed mind. After everyone had had a proper coo over the newest member to the Potter family, Mrs Weasley had handed Harry a few bottles of formula, patted him encouragingly on the cheek, and then sent him upstairs to spend the rest of the day and night alone with his new daughter. Bonding time, Ron's mum had called it. Total spaz-fest is how Harry would have better described it, after he'd learned the hard way that babies didn't have off switches, and that their favourite past-time – second only to sleeping – was wailing their little lungs out. The rest of that first day had been spent with Harry either pacing the length of the room with his crying daughter in his arms, rocking furiously in the chair placed by the window as he tried not to drip formula all over her chin while he fed her, or slumped over the side of her cot, staring in awe at the tiny little person he'd brought into the world; feeling both excited and terrified about how the rest of the day would go, and if he'd actually manage to survive that first sleepless, nerve-fraying night.

But survive the first night he did, as well as the next, and then the next, and fifteen weeks later Harry was finally beginning to feel as though he was getting the hang of the whole parenting thing. The scared thoughts and feelings – the nervousness at buggering up his daughter's life for good – were still there, floating in the back of his mind, and he doubted very much they would ever completely disappear, but for the moment he was quite content in just focusing on taking care of his baby, and reveling in the knowledge that there was someone in the world that would love him endlessly and with no expectations, no matter what he did to bollocks it all up.

Lost in his thoughts of the past few months, Harry failed to notice that his attention had noticeably wavered as well. It was only the sight of Hermione beginning to fluff up like an angry cat, due to his lack of response to whatever she had been saying, that had the green-eyed boy snapping back into reality with a quick shake of his scruffy head.

Deciding that on second thought it was best to end this dispute quickly and leave Hermione the victor, lest his ear be lectured off, Harry hastily asked, "Er, so why was it you were told to come and wake me up?" trying to convey an apology for being so shirty with his well-meaning friend with a smile that felt more tired than winning.

Hermione paused in her puffing up and frowned, knowing perfectly well that Harry was merely looking for a getaway opportunity, but she soon enough relented – as Harry knew she would – sighing in a very put-upon way.

"Breakfast is nearly ready," she informed him briskly as she strode across the room to the curtained window and yanked the drapes open, filling the neon-orange room with bright, mid-morning sunlight. "We're heading to Diagon Alley right after we've finished eating, and Mrs Weasley said to make sure you have the baby ready before you come down for food."

"We're going to Diagon Alley?" Harry blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the new intruding light source. He shielded his face with his hand impatiently and squinted up at Hermione's silhouette. "Since when?"

"Since Professor Dumbledore owled last night and suggested you take that daughter of yours out and into public before heading off to Hogwarts," Hermione informed him promptly. "And really, it's a very good idea if you think about it, Harry." She walked over to Harry's trunk and began digging through its contents, presumably to find something for the black-haired boy to wear for the outing. "That way less people will be surprised at seeing you show up on the platform with a baby, and therefore less likely to mob you. Quite ingenious really, don't you think?"

Harry didn't think this a very ingenious idea. In fact, he thought it a rather shoddy idea, and it must have shown on his face, because when Hermione looked back over her shoulder at him, her breath puffed out in exasperation and she shook her head.

"Don't even think about trying to get out of this, Harry Potter," she warned him, her finger waggling threateningly in his direction while the other hand rooted around for a clean pair of trousers. "You've holed that poor baby up in this house for long enough. She needs to get out and start interacting with other people, not to mention getting used to surroundings different from the Burrow. She's not used to any other people and places, and for Merlin's sake, the only sun that poor baby's seen is through a window!"

Harry felt vaguely insulted by what his friend was saying. Really, he thought it a bit much for Hermione to start berating his parenting skills. He was, after all, quite new at it, and the only major incident he'd had thus far was when he'd woken up in the middle of the night during his third week as a father, briefly fearing that he'd rolled over and onto his own daughter while he'd slept. After ten frenzied seconds in which he'd desperately searched through the bed clothes for his lost baby, he'd glanced over to the cradle and spotted his daughter resting peacefully and safely, completely oblivious to her panicking, sleep-crazed father.

"I just don't see why it's necessary to take her to such a ... crowded place for her first outing," said Harry stiffly as he heaved himself out of the chair he'd fallen asleep in. He hummed in satisfaction as dozens of little pops and cracks sounded up and down his spine when he stretched his arms high above his head. "And after all," he continued, scratching his side and suppressing a yawn, "the more people that see me with her means the more photographers and reporters trying to write cracked up stories about us, and splashing our picture all over the Daily Prophet. Funnily enough, that doesn't sound very appealing to me."

To Harry's utter surprise, a look of sympathy instead of exasperation flitted across his friend's face.

"You know that's going to happen no matter what," said Hermione softly, reasonably, as she straightened up from the trunk, walked back over to Harry and placed a hand comfortingly on his arm. "You're Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, and whatever other ridiculous names they've come up for you this week. You showing up with a baby that has your eyes is going to cause quite a stir, no matter when or how it happens."

When Harry gave no sign of agreeing with her, the bushy-haired girl tried a different approach. "I know that you're worried about how all this is going to affect the baby, and that alone makes you a top dad, but sadly even the great Harry Potter won't be able to stop this from eventually happening. Not everyone is going to understand, Harry, and eventually you'll need to accept that." She gave his bicep a reassuring squeeze before continuing hopefully, "But just think, at least you'll be able to control when and where everyone finds out about her. You know as well as I do that Dumbledore would eat Fawkes before allowing photographers and reporters anywhere near Hogwarts, and the security at King's Cross makes it nearly impossible for students to get onto the platform, let alone people who aren't authorised to be there. And with any luck, we'll be in and out of Diagon Alley before the reporters can even catch wind of you being there, and you'll have worried all for nothing."

This Harry severely doubted, as reporters had been sniffing around for him ever since he had gone into hiding the year before, and one word about him being out in the streets would surely have them flocking to Diagon Alley within minutes, blood-thirsty for front page news and wielding their Quick-Quote Quills and cameras. But Hermione did have a point about Dumbledore keeping reporters out of Harry's and his baby's hair once they reached Hogwarts, and personal experience had him understanding quite well how difficult the barrier entrance onto platform nine and three-quarters could be to get past if one was not wanted there. There was a slim chance that he and his daughter could avoid getting caught by the reporters -- very slim, but there all the same.

Still feeling a prickling of unease at the base of his spine about the whole outing, though not as severely as moments before, Harry again smiled at Hermione, this time managing an easy grin with only a hint of tiredness peaking out around the edges of his eyes. Hermione smiled back at him, before squeezing his arm a final time, laying the clothes she'd picked out for him on the bed, and turning to the door.

"Don't forget to have the baby ready for the day before you bring her down," she reminded him as she opened the door.

Harry's grin quickly morphed into a grimace as he glanced to where his daughter was resting.

"But Hermione," he protested as he turned back to see the girl step out into the hallway. "It's nearing nine o'clock, and she's actually still sleeping for once. Do I really have to –"

"Yes, you really have to wake her up right now," replied Hermione, before Harry could even finish his plea. She frowned and looked disapprovingly at him for the fourth time in as many minutes. "This is why she doesn't have consistent sleeping patterns, Harry. Ron's mum has been telling you since you got back from hospital that you need to get her into a schedule by waking her up at certain times, and I read in that one parenting book, Caring for a Magical Baby, that –"

"All right, all right, I'll wake her up," Harry interrupted hurriedly, keen on keeping Hermione away from lecture-mode. "Just ... tell everyone I'll be down in a few for me, will you?"

"I will, though try to be ready in ten minutes, Harry, the Weasleys have been waiting to start breakfast."

She left after this last comment, and as Hermione's footsteps faded down the rickety staircase, Harry approached the cot which held his slumbering daughter and glanced down inside it, his breath hitching as it always did whenever he looked upon his sleeping baby.

Lydia Anne Potter, Lydie for short, was the most beautiful sight Harry had ever laid his eyes on. With tiny and delicate features, pale downy-soft skin, emerald green eyes that were still changing from the deep blue they had begun as, and tufts of fine blonde hair that was like silk to the touch, Harry's baby girl personified cute. She was the epitome of adorable; even the medi-witches and Healers at St Mungo's had admired his baby daughter, one even going so far as to suggest he name her "Belle". Harry had been sorely tempted to do just that, as the second he'd laid eyes on her he'd fallen in love with the tiny, wailing, perfect baby girl, but when he'd really had a good look at her (after the Healers had washed away the goo and he hadn't been so stuffed full of pain-relieving potions), he'd decided that she was most definitely a Lydia.

He'd actually been quite relieved when her name had come to him so decisively: he'd spent the better part of three months leading up to the birth worrying over whether the first decision he made as a parent would be an utter disaster because he named his baby the wrong name. He'd pored over baby name books that Hermione had fetched for him, both wizarding and Muggle, looking for the perfect name to give his soon-to-be son or daughter, but hadn't been able to satisfy himself with making such a large decision for someone he hadn't even properly met. He'd decided to keep his options open, pick out around a half-dozen names he thought were decent enough for his coming child, and hoped that he could make the right choice once he was holding his baby in his arms. Three and a half months later, he was still happy with Lydia Anne, and had high hopes that it would stay that way.

Being a father was a feeling that Harry couldn't even begin to describe. The incredible feelings of awe, fierce protectiveness, and all around rightness he had felt when he'd first looked at his baby had been more than enough to make all the pain and strife of the past months worth going through. When he had first held Lydia, his throat constricting and wetness rimming his eyes as her warbling little wails subsided as soon as he cuddled her close, Harry had known instantly that that was where he belonged, what he was meant for. In that perfect moment, he had been given a second chance at having the family he'd always wanted, had dreamed of having as a little boy growing up in a small cupboard; hoping that one day there would be someone to love and be loved in return. She was a gift that Harry would cherish for the rest of his life, and the knowledge that she was his and would love him unconditionally, no matter his faults or mistakes, continuously left him breathless with emotion.

Of course, as Mrs Weasley was prone to say, being Lydia's father was most definitely not "all daisies and roses." Lydia cried. She dirtied her nappies ... a lot. She enjoyed spitting up all over Harry right after he'd changed into his third shirt of the day. She slept when Harry couldn't, and was awake and hungry when he was barely conscious. She hated being washed to the point of screaming during her entire bath, no matter how hard Harry attempted to calm her down. She yowled like an injured cat when Harry didn't pick her up quick enough from her cradle, and generally didn't like anyone else feeding her, so that job was usually just her father's, three o'clock feedings and all. She was absolutely terrified of Harry's owl Hedwig, and so the green-eyed boy had been forced to ban his beloved pet from visiting him in the attic room; something which thoroughly miffed the snowy owl to the point of her cuffing her owner on the head with her wing whenever he tried to approach her. Lydia was also complete hell to deal with while she was ill, though Mrs Weasley had assured Harry that most babies were, when he'd come to the older woman in near hysterics during his baby girl's battle with a nasty ear infection at five weeks of age. But most of all, she demanded attention like none Harry had ever seen, knowing perfectly well that she was surrounded by people – besotted father notwithstanding – who would happily supply her with all the attention she desired. At fifteen weeks of age Harry could already tell, by a look on his daughter's face he sometimes caught her wearing, that Lydia Anne Potter knew perfectly well she had her daddy wrapped around her little finger.

Oh, and wrapped around her finger Harry was. One innocent look from those big, shining green eyes and he'd be falling all over himself trying to give her what she wanted. The sleepless nights, constant worrying about her health and happiness, and general feelings of near-hysteria that were mandatory with parenthood would momentarily disappear with one toothless smile, or a gurgled sound, or a tiny hand grasping his finger with surprising strength. When impossibly small feet kicked water all over his trousers, Harry simply gave his daughter a love-sick smile and continued washing her. When curious hands grasped the bridge of his spectacles and nearly pulled them off his face, Harry laughed with delight and praised his clever daughter. When Lydia woke up smelling like a troll's dirty trousers, smiling in a way that told Harry she knew perfectly well of the present she'd made for him, he held his breath, bent forward and blew a loud raspberry on his stinking daughter's stomach, just to hear her make those adorable gurgling giggles. And when his baby fell asleep on his chest after a long bout of crying, one of her small fists clutching at a loose fold of his shirt, Harry felt his heart expand and his insides warm, and he knew in that moment there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be than lying there with his daughter safe and in his arms, her tiny little body rising and falling with every breath he took.

And there was nothing quite like watching his baby daughter sleep, Harry mused to himself as he gazed down into Lydia's cot, watching her stomach rise and fall gently as she blissfully slept on. Of course, the reason he enjoyed watching his baby girl while she slept was mostly due to the fact that she was more or less silent when sleeping, and although Harry absolutely adored Lydia when she was all smiles and gurgling noises and curious eyes, those occurrences were almost always followed by a large dose of howling. Admittedly, Lydia's cries could be constituted as cute, in that her wail sweetly warbled near the end, her adorable little face always scrunched up and reddened, and her lower lip trembled when she was feeling particularly fussy, but it was in all honesty more ... loud, than anything else, and with the lack of sleep Harry had been dealing with for the past few months, he was always quite keen on avoiding crying-Lydia at any cost.

Which was why he was still grimacing slightly as he bent over the cot and very gently lifted his daughter up and into his arms, silently pleading with Lydia to not start crying the instant she woke up. The grimace quickly slipped away though, to be replaced by a look of soft affection when he cradled Lydia up against his shoulder, one hand supporting her bottom and the other gently cupping the back of her head.

"Good morning, lovey," he murmured into baby fine hair, his voice full of the giddy delight he was feeling as his daughter made a kitten-like mewl and nuzzled into his shoulder sleepily, blissfully whimper-free; though he still swayed on his feet slightly and rubbed soothing circles onto his baby's back -- just in case.

"No crying this morning, I see. This mean you're ready to greet the day, then? Or maybe you've seen how tired Daddy is and decided to let him have a bit of a lie-in? Is that it, petal? Are you just trying to look out for Daddy's health?" He pressed a kiss to the top of Lydia's head as he side-stepped to the change table next to Ron's dresser on the adjacent wall. "Very thoughtful of you, Lydie. Daddy needed his rest after that particularly eventful night we had. Why you enjoy bonding-time at half-past two in the morning is beyond me." He grinned when a small fist grasped at his shoulder as though in answer, and he gave his daughter's brow another kiss before gently laying her on the change cot, careful to mind her head and neck as he lowered her. He made quick work of the metal snaps to Lydia's pink onesie, and was soon removing the soft material from his daughter's wriggling body, pulling her tiny flailing arms and legs free and kissing each hand and foot once they were revealed.

"Don't you start, Lydie," he chided softly when Lydia's brow scrunched slightly over still-closed eyes and her lower lip began to tremble in reaction to the cooler air hitting her bare skin. He began methodically changing her nappy as he continued, "We've got a big day ahead of us, you know, and I'll not have you wailing throughout the entire thing. We need those vultures at the Prophet to think you're all cute and cuddly, not a Dark witch in the making or any other rubbish stories they can come up with, just because they've caught you on a grumpy day." With accuracy only borne after three and a half months of constant nappy-changing, Harry had the soiled cloth plummeting into the waste bin next to the change table, a reflexive wince gracing his features when the bin burped happily afterwards.

"Now, keeping in mind that this may very well be your first press release, what d'you reckon will look better: another onesie for comfort's sake, or a terribly pink dress and bonnet that will be near impossible for me to put on you, but will have Mrs Weasley, Hermione and every other witch within seeing-distance fawning all over you?"

In answer, Lydia finally opened her eyes, blinking up at him in a way that said, "You dare suggest we not put me in the outfit that will garner the most attention? Bonnet and dress now, you silly git!"

Harry grinned largely. "Right, ridiculously cute dress and hat it is, then." He finished pinning the sides of Lydia's nappy together, landed a smacking kiss on her protruding baby belly, then turned to the old wardrobe next to the change table.

Was it odd to have such one-sided conversations with a fifteen-week-old baby, Harry wondered to himself as he fetched the dress and hat from the wide selection of baby outfits, all in varying shades of pinks and yellows, with a splash of Gryffindor red standing out in random areas. Ron had teased Harry about his conversations with Lydia, asking him if Muggle babies learned to talk at four weeks of age, but in all honesty the green-eyed boy didn't really know what the protocol was for talking to one's baby. Sure, all the books had said to "communicate" with the child for sensory development, but he'd never really understood what that meant. Did it mean speak to the baby normally, like you would a mate? Or maybe use softer tones or, Merlin forbid, that sickening baby talk Professor Dumbledore and – surprisingly – Ron were quite fond of? And what exactly was one supposed to say to a tiny human who couldn't answer back? And was Harry the only parent out there that had ever wondered about this?

Hermione had said he'd been over-thinking, when he'd asked her opinion after one particularly long conversation he'd had with his baby daughter, in which he'd pleaded with Lydia to go to sleep, and she'd instead continued to grab at his nose. Harry had found Hermione's reply a bit rich coming from Miss Must-Know-Everything herself, but his friend's next piece of advice, "Just do what feels natural, Harry, for Merlin's sake," had made the raven-haired boy relent, and he'd not really thought on the subject since.

"Suppose it doesn't really matter," Harry mused to himself as he began the difficult task of getting Lydia into an outfit that seemed to be all small openings and even smaller clasps. "It's not as though you actually have any idea what I'm saying any of the time, do you, duckie?"

A delicate sneeze answered him which, of course, was cause for Harry to grin a tad wider than before.

"Bless you."