A/N: New story from me where Harry adopts a daughter. Chapters will alternate between this and my detective agency fic.

Although this is Harry/Hermione, the fic's main focus will be the relationship between Harry and his adopted daughter. Basically, consider it a gen fic with a small romantic subplot much later on, more so than a full blown HHr fic.

Anyway, without further ado, enjoy!

People often spoke about the calm before a storm.

But what of the storm before a calm?

Because indeed, Harry Potter's life over the past year had felt like just that.

Constantly on the edge. Fighting for his life. Voldemort hanging the wizarding world upside down over the cliff of destruction.

Deathly hallows. Hallows of death. Grief, funerals, sinking loss into sunken hearts.

Harry hadn't had time to process anything other than horcruxes and death eaters and the aftermath of the worst wizarding war in history.

But now the death eaters were gone. Rounded up by the ministry, a reformed ministry under the watchful eyes of Minister Amelia Bones. Thrown into Azkaban for life, the lot of them, and a new age of freedom and prosperity and peace was established.

And Harry's storm had come to a calm…before falling below that calm. His calm had, rather inexplicably, turned to a cold.

As if nothing within him wanted to move at all, so frozen it was. As if he had nothing to live for, in the end, without a genocidal freak to battle.

It was odd, to say the least—the lack of throbbing in his scar. It was odd that he could wake up in the morning and just…live, without thinking that a death eater was storming his front door. It was odd that, well, the world had turned a new leaf whilst Harry felt stranded in a forest of old ones.

He should've been revising content for the upcoming eighth year at Hogwarts, the first ever time in history that the castle was forced to add a year (Hermione had dropped that fact at a recent dinner).

He should've completed his homework by now, considering only few weeks remained before the new year commenced. He should've headed to Diagon Alley and purchased the laundry list of items Hogwarts had owled his way earlier in August.

Instead, he lounged about reading muggle newspapers in Essex and Stephen King novels to pass the time, all whilst staring out of the window sometimes when raindrops fell from the grace of heaven and into the world.

The rain would smatter his living room window, as though trying to greet him personally but unable to do so—a lot of things in life followed that trend. Then, that single drop, almost like a tear, would trace its unique path down to the windowsill. Before dripping off onto the grass forever, never to be seen again.

Another raindrop would follow that pattern, then another, and Harry would watch them all, novel forgotten in his lap, cup of tea no longer steaming, his breath coming in longed-out sighs.

Ron and his family, Molly Weasley in particular, had offered to let him stay with them permanently. The gesture warmed Harry—of course it did, since he was one who'd never felt the warmth of true family before—but he refused it.

He needed…space, more than anything.

At least, he thought he did.

Harry wasn't sure of it himself, but that yearning to take action when there was no action to take spurred him to seek a place to live alone. And Essex, a rather rural and industrial area within driving distance of London, seemed the perfect spot.

Not too far from anything. Not too close either. A bit like how Harry felt after the war ended and things had died down.

Oh, and the rent in Essex was cheap, too, not that Harry really had to worry about that.

"You sure about this, mate?" Ron had asked when coming to view the house with him. They had been standing outside at the time, in a cloud's shadow. "Issa nice place and all, but Mum and Dad really want you with us, you know."

Harry had tightened his fingers around his sleeve, as if drawing comfort from the fabric. "I can't do that to them, and you know that, Ron. Feel like it'll be better here. And you know how those newspapers will start hounding the Burrow after a week or so."

"Still," Ron said, eyebrows furrowed and hand rubbing chin, "Mum and Dad were even talking about adopting you proper even though you're of age. That way you could live with us without worrying about all that legal crap. Not long to adopt either—just a ritual and the ministry's sign off is all."

Ron had shrugged. "They basically view you as their son anyway, mate. Why not make it more official, you know?"

Harry wanted to say a million things—about how he wished for a family to call his own, about his yearning for true parents, about how he could never replace the son Mr and Mrs Weasley had lost in the Battle of Hogwarts.

But he kept quiet at the time, merely saying, "I'm all right, mate," before heading into the house.

Over the holidays, if they could even be called that, Harry had rarely seen Hermione, his other best friend. She'd promised to be at Hogwarts, so that was reassuring, but wanted to spend the rest of her summer with her parents.

She had, after all, just restored their memories and explained the whole wizarding war debacle. If Harry was in her position…he would probably glue himself to them and never let go.

He couldn't imagine the mental torture Hermione had gone through to protect her loved ones.

To make that kind of decision, and then reverse it and attempt to reignite the relationship—Hermione was far stronger than Harry could ever be. Far, far stronger.

She was facing the people in her life, whereas Harry was avoiding them.

Because here he was, wasting away alone at home in Essex, sitting in a rickety armchair and staring at the traffic passing by outside. Cars stopping and starting, parking, hauling themselves along.

Moving, at the very least, in a way Harry couldn't.

Their engines rumbled, as did his stomach. He sighed, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and got to his feet. He swayed a little, white walls and grey tarmac outside blurring his world for a second.

But he righted himself. Regained his balance. Harry always did.

He grabbed the stack of books he'd borrowed from the library that week, hauled them in a carrier bag, before pocketing his keys and heading out the front door.

His head tilted down to avoid the neighbours a stone's throw down the road.

Harry Potter—saviour of the wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One—had some library books to return.

The library was warm and cosy, and after Harry had returned his novels and pocketed the carrier bag, he searched for a few more to borrow amongst the shelves. This time, however, he skipped past the bookshelves at the front with all the popular authors and headed to the rear of the store. Here, the shelves were coated in a thick layer of dust, having not been cleaned for what felt like years, and it smelt like a wasteland too.

Heck, the clerk at the counter—a uni student named Rachel with Weasley-level red hair—had even offered Harry a job the other day.

"Need a couple'a part timers to clean them shelves back there," she'd said, smiling at him like she always did. A natural smile. The smile of someone without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Harry had tried to smile back, but the gesture felt fictional. Felt made-up. Felt like stretching his lips upwards rather than a genuine grin.

"I'm all right," he'd said, which appeared to be his response to a lot of things in life nowadays.

Even if it was a lie. A stone-cold lie.

He sighed, banishing the memory from his mind, and breathed in the musty air of old books that hadn't been touched in ages. Kind of like the Hogwarts Library's restricted section, where the real gems were waiting to be uncovered amongst the swirling dust.

Hermione would've loved to be here with him, perusing old books and finding classics and discussing them. The brightness of her eyes, and the way she'd look up at Harry and smile, and the way she'd tuck a lock of bushy hair behind her left ear and bite her lip whilst reading the blurb of a new novel—

It was all intoxicating, a contagious happiness, a sea of joy amongst the greyness of reality, and Harry would've let himself be swept up in those waves.

She was, perhaps, the only person around whom he could.

But Hermione wasn't here. She was in Australia, with her parents, enjoying life and the reunion they all deserved. Whilst Harry wasted away in Essex, hiding from everyone and anyone.

Bloody coward, that's what you are, the voice inside his mind said. You bloody saved the world, and now you're hiding from it.

Another sigh raked through not just his heart, but his soul. And then he caught a shadow in the next aisle of books. The shadow flitted a little, and Harry's danger sensors pinged him to high alert. Death eaters? No. Something else. But what? And why here? Wasn't this library safe? If not, what could it be? How had they found him here? What information did they have? His hands got clammy. His eyes tunnelled in on the shadow. His breath shifted from belly to chest. Nose to mouth.

But it was just a girl. A child. Not capable of threatening Harry. A muggle child, just wanting a book to read, and reaching an arm up to get one from the top shelf, except she was nowhere near tall enough.

The child had stark black hair—so black, in fact, that Harry almost saw the twinkle of stars in those strands. As though the girl had dyed her hair with the starry night sky above an Arabian desert. Her skin was pale, far too pale, like the colour of freshly painted walls. A mole pinched the otherwise pale skin beneath her left eye, and those deep grey eyes—

Sparkled with a curiosity unlike anything Harry had ever seen. A curiosity that eclipsed even the single most curious person Harry had ever met.

The girl wore ragged clothes—a summer dress hung off her shoulders, so dirty it had probably been dragged through autumn and winter, before missing spring entirely. Her shoes were cracked at the soles, stained dirty beyond belief, like she had spent her entire life on the streets. Her legs were skinny, as were her arms—so skinny, in fact, that they appeared to bear less skin than bones.

The paleness of her face, the gauntness of her cheeks, the determination set into a jaw far too defined—Harry recognised it.

Recognised it in—

The boy who stared back at him when he looked in the mirror. Not like the adult Harry had become. He had the appearance of an adult, at eighteen years of age, but whenever a mirror met him, all he could see was that hurt child once more. With the dirty skin, dirty clothes, ripped, ragged, gaunt cheeks more hollow than a wormhole, eyes darkened and begging, constantly begging, for what he didn't know. And a wish, a deepest wish, for someone to whisk him away from the dark cupboard he was trapped—

In a heartbeat, Harry's mind pulsed back into the present. The library. Musty smell of old carpet. Dirty shelves at the back. A girl reaching for a book on a shelf far too high for her.

What the hell was Harry doing, just standing here?

He walked up to the girl, glanced up at the old copy of The Hobbit. It appeared to be some forgotten early edition, wrapped in a thick coating of ashen dust.

Harry grabbed it and handed it to the girl, who stood about a head and a half shorter than him.

"Assuming you wanted this one?" he asked.

The girl took it, eyes narrowed at Harry. "Whassit to you?"

Harry raised both hands. "Nothing much," he said. "Just thought I'd help you out."

The girl hugged the book to her chest, like inside it contained the secrets to the universe.

"What do you want from me?" she asked with a venom.

Uhhh…what?

What did he…want from her?

"Nothing," he said, a little too quickly.

He'd faced off against Voldemort, death eaters galore, but this girl with the starry hair and stark grey eyes was an adversary far more fear-inducing.

"Well, I could'a got it meself, I could," the girl said. "So you didn't need to get it for me. Means there's summat you want from me, ain't there?"

Just what on earth was she on about? Acting like Harry was some kind of predator. Although, analysing the situation of a man at the back of a library in its abandoned sections with a girl that looked little over ten years of age, Harry could see her point.

But another detail latched onto his mind.

"What do you mean, you could've gotten it yourself?" Harry asked, gesturing to the shelf beside him. "You're at least two heads too short for this, and you didn't exactly bring a ladder."

"What did you call me? Short, did you?"

"Nothing," Harry said, again a little too quickly. He was fast losing the verbal spar. "And you never answered my question, did you? How are you supposed to get something from a shelf so high?"

The girl shrugged, her earlier anger seemingly dissipated in seconds. "Dunno, it just comes down to me."

"By itself?"

"Yeah, that's right. By itself. Probably think I'm some nutter, don'cha? Got a screw loose or something."

If anyone had a screw loose, it was Harry. More than a few screws, actually, and no one appeared willing or able to turn those screws back in. Least of all Harry himself.

"You're not a nutter," Harry said, flashes of his own accidental magic coming to mind. "Actually, you're someone special."

The girl laughed. She actually laughed at what Harry said. Who on earth—

Had sat at the back of Mrs Sherling's English classroom in primary school, feet cross legged whilst sitting on their chair in case Dudley decided to take a swipe at their leg, whilst Mrs Sherling, the softest spoken teacher in the entire school, went around the class listing special things about everyone present, and when his turn arrived, she'd told him that the mark on his forehead was unique and special, and at that time, Harry had—

—laughed when someone called them special?

"I ain't special," the girl said, rubbing that mole under her eye. "Y'know what they call me? Call me a f—"

"—reak. Yeah, I know."

Harry knew that all too well. The Dursleys had drilled it into him for the first eleven years of his life, and then every summer thereafter. Thank God he didn't have to see them anymore.

"So you do think I'm a nutter," the girl said, looking defiant as though she'd solved a sphinx's riddle. "Knew it. Told you you're like the rest of 'em, and you proved it now—"

"Oi, Elizabeth, where are ya?" a man's voice rang out from nearby.

In that instant, the girl (evidently Elizabeth) hugged the book tighter to her chest. She flinched, just once, so small that only someone who'd felt the depths of fear like Harry would be able to clock it. The stars in her hair looked like they were burning out, and fast.

"Elizabeth, you skank!" the baritone voice shouted, suddenly to Harry's left.

A body heaved itself around the corner. Well, more like the belly came around the corner, with the rest of the body following. Next arrived a rank smell, of cigarettes and a whiff of alcohol that Harry couldn't mistake—Mr. Dursley often smelt like that on those worst nights. The man's belly rolls jiggled under his grey shirt as he lumbered over to Elizabeth, grubby hands resting by the side of crummy blue jeans.

If Elizabeth's hair was a starry night, the man's jeans were a sea polluted with gunk.

The man smiled sinfully and twirled a moustache more grimy than hairs trapped in a sink.

"Well, what do we 'ave here, eh?" The man leaned down, eye level with Elizabeth, and sneered. "Got yourself a boyfriend, did ya?"

"He's not my boyfriend—"

"I'm not her boyfriend—"

They both stopped, looked at each other, then glanced away. Though, at the corner of his eyes, Harry noticed a small smile on the girl's face. The first time he'd seen her smile at all.

"Jinx," she whispered just loud enough for Harry to catch it.

"Don't matter who 'e is," the man said. He grabbed Elizabeth's arm, sudden and fast and with a thick grip, and a yelp escaped her lips.

The temperature in the library spiked, and Harry's heart rate quickened. That fight or flight response in his brain, always lurking under the surface, activated.

And for Harry, it wasn't fight or flight.

It was fight, then fight and fight again.

So he did something he probably shouldn't have.

He stepped forwards and socked the man straight in the mouth. As hard as he could. Throwing his entire weight behind the punch.

Knuckles connected with jaw.

The man and his belly staggered backwards, winded for a second. His grip on Elizabeth dropped. His breath knocked out as toxic gas that Harry nearly passed out from.

That alcoholic tinge to the air turned to toxic fumes.

And Elizabeth just turned and stared at Harry, as if seeking permission.

Harry didn't say a word, which Elizabeth took as approval.

She rushed at the man and pushed him, then slapped him on the belly, then punched him in the chest, then screamed in rage and attempted to—

Harry pulled her back by the arms, as gently as he could given how high tempers were flaring.

"Get off me!" Elizabeth yelled, struggling against him. "Get the hell of me, hey—"

"Where do you want to hit him?"

Elizabeth stilled. Turned to gaze up at him, looking confused and amazed at the same time.

"What?" she said.

"Where do you want to hit him?" Harry repeated. "I'll do it for you."

The man, standing but with balance strained, glared at them. Staggered forwards with his fists clenched.

"In his bloody nose," Elizabeth said. "Cos them nose hairs are nasty."

"What did ya say to me, you ungrateful little shit, you ugly arse frea—"

Harry duly obliged with Elizabeth's request, smacking a fist straight into the man's nose and knocking him backwards. Blood sprayed the floor and even stained Harry's knuckles a little.

He turned to Elizabeth, that rage inside him lowering to a simmer. "You still want that book?"

The book had dropped to the floor, but Elizabeth quickly picked it up and tugged it to her chest. But she remained mute, eyes downcast in fear.

"Probably best to go, eh," Harry said. He didn't exactly want a little girl to be lost and follow him, but he couldn't just leave her with this man.

Harry despised abusers, especially child abusers, so he wasn't about to let the man off without a hitch and leave Elizabeth with him.

Harry took one last look at the sorry excuse of a man, sprawled out on the floor next to a shelf, before motioning to Elizabeth that they should get the hell out of there.

Thankfully, the lady at the front desk didn't notice Harry's bloody knuckle, and let Elizabeth borrow the book without a fuss.

An early edition Tolkien novel was a steal and a half, all things considered.

"Uhh…why are you following me?" Harry asked, leaning back in his seat. A cup of Whiskers Café's finest coffee sat wisping on the cream table in front of him, whilst the girl with starry hair, Elizabeth, sat opposite. Harry hadn't touched the coffee.

"Cos I want to follow you. Got a problem with that?"

Harry sighed. The girl clearly had someone abusing them, but what could Harry do? If he was caught with her and that man in the library called the police—wouldn't this be classed as a kidnapping?

Harry already felt trapped by the wizarding world. He wasn't keen on entering a muggle version of Azkaban.

"Don't you have a home to go back to or something?" Harry asked. "And who was that guy? What'd he want from you?"

Elizabeth's gaze dropped to the coffee, then to her fingers playing with each other in her lap. The dreary day had given way to a sun that lit the girl's face in a halo—her skin looked paler than Harry imagined.

"Have the tea," Harry told her, before standing up. "Cupcake or pastry? Take a pick."

Disbelief coloured Elizabeth's eyes. "You ain't serious now, are you?"

"Dead serious, minus the dead part." Harry smiled at his joke. Elizabeth appeared less than amused. "Still, make a choice. I'll get it for you."

"That vanilla cupcake, then. Sugar has more calories, Sister Annabel did say. I need the energy."

"Just make sure you don't eat too much sugar," Harry said. "Your teeth won't be around for long if you do."

Harry didn't know what had made him say it, or maybe he did. Everyone told him he had a saving people thing—but this seemed different. The urge to protect Elizabeth made his skin tingle—this defenceless young girl reminded him so much of—

The boy at the back of the cupboard, spiders and insects his only friends in the world, dirt and grime pressed into every pore of his skin, whilst darkness provided only a little light for use, then the cupboard door inched open and a grubby hand crept inside, though whether it was Mr. Dursley's or that man at the library's the boy couldn't tell, and then—

"Oi, you got the chocolate one," a voice said, pulling Harry back to the present.

Elizabeth's voice. An annoyed voice.

The café's bright colours flashed back into view, and only then did Harry remember to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slowly. Carefully. Ignoring the pounding of his chest as the memory filtered out.

"Oi, are you a loony or what? Proper looking round like there's some ghost somewhere."

Harry sat back down and handed the—chocolate—cupcake over. Despite her frustrations, Elizabeth bit into it greedily, then moaned at the taste and finished the whole thing in a few more bites.

The same way Harry would scrap at leftovers when the Dursleys were kind enough to provide them.

Elizabeth then read the novel she'd borrowed from the library whilst sipping the tea. But the longer they sat together in a strange yet comfortable silence, smells of chocolate and coffee wafting over them, the slower Elizabeth read, and the greater time passed between sips of coffee.

"You ain't got summat to do, have you?" Elizabeth asked, setting the book down flat. "Issa Wednesday morning and you look like the type walking round at Tesco's fish aisle."

"I could ask you the same thing," Harry said. "Don't you have school today?"

"It's a holiday, duh."

"I didn't know that…duh."

"Come off it. Everyone knows issa holiday, that's what. You probably live under a rock somewhere."

"Where do you live, then?"

As soon as Harry said it, he knew he shouldn't have. Elizabeth's gaze fell to the table, and she eyed the now cold coffee. She took a sip, her hands trembling, and lowered the cup with a clatter. The old edition of The Hobbit sat stock still, watching Elizabeth's churning emotions criss-cross her face.

Harry's heart pulsed with guilt. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Frank Orwell's Orphanage, that's where," Elizabeth said. "And it ain't a pretty place. Pretty Orwellian, if ya asking me. Funny name, given that."

Harry sighed, not knowing what to say. He closed his eyes for the briefest second, and the void that met him didn't provide any answers. He recalled meeting the girl at the library, and how she'd confidently reached for the book as though knowing it would descend to her hand.

And then that sorry excuse for a human had arrived.

"Who was that guy?" Harry asked. "The one back at the library."

Harry didn't miss her shiver.

"Old Grumble?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yeah, him," Harry said.

"Runs the orphanage, he does. Apparently that Orwell guy's son, we been told."

"And he came here looking for you?"

Elizabeth twirled a lock of starry hair around a finger. "Yeah, cos I run away lots. No point staying there—Old Grumble don't like me, and the other kids ain't either."

"Why don't they like you?"

Although Harry could've seen the answer from a million miles away.

"Cos I'm a nutter, that's why."

"You're not a nutter. You're special."

"Again with that special business. Trust me, Mr Whatever-your-name-is, I ain't special in the slightest."

"You're magical," Harry said. At Elizabeth's red-faced confusion, he asked, "Books come down from high shelves to you? Do you also teleport places sometimes, randomly change hair colour, strange things always happen around you that you can't explain?"

In the fluttering breeze that caressed his face, Harry spotted that familiar recognition flooding her stormy eyes.

"Yeah…all of that" Elizabeth said. "Like I said, I'm a nutter."

"No, you're magical."

In a moment of brashness, Harry took his wand out and placed it on the table—to muggles passing by, it was just an odd-shaped piece of wood. He hoped beyond everything that he wasn't breaking a law by doing what he planned.

"Hold it," Harry said, as the swirling smells of pastry and coffee mixed into the air he breathed.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "You sure you ain't more of a nutter than me? What is this anyway? Some random stick?"

"Just hold it."

Elizabeth did so, hand tentative and soft, then nearly jumped back in surprise. Harry could tell that magical sensations were rushing through her, just like they had him all those years ago. Tingles across every part of your body, and a deep rooted sense of being that couldn't be explained by anything other than personal experience.

"You feel it, don't you?" Harry said. "You're magical, just like me. And there's loads of us. How old are you now, by the way?"

"Turn eleven in a few days."

"You should get your letter soon, then. To a school of magic. You can keep running away from the orphanage, but come September, you'll get your escape forever."

Except Harry knew the truth—that it wasn't an escape, not really. Because he'd—

Gone back home every summer after a year at Hogwarts, and enter the Dursley's prison again, trapped mentally as well as physically, writhing against the bounds of both societies he didn't really belong to, an ostracised celebrity in one and an ostracised freak in another, and all he wanted to do was leave them both and say—

"I'm not going back," Elizabeth said, shaking her head violently and whipping her hair around. "Ain't no way. Not a one. Not today."

"Where are you going then? You can't exactly be homeless, can you?"

Harry took his wand back, quickly cast a discreet warming charm on the remaining coffee. He pocketed his wand and watched as Elizabeth's eyes widened after sipping the previously cold beverage.

"This is well wicked," she said, setting the cup down. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Magic, like I said. And you didn't answer my question."

"Whassat?"

"You can't exactly be homeless here, can you? You can't run away forever. Where will you go?"

Elizabeth let out a grin, in equal parts mischievous as it was earnest.

"That's easy," she said, swiping a lock of hair back from her stormy grey eyes. "I'm going with you."

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed that first chapter of this new fic. Comment/review your thoughts since I love reading them and responding where I can.

Just to reiterate, this fic is primarily focussed on the relationship between Harry and his adopted daughter. Though there will be a romantic subplot later on between Harry and Hermione, that definitely won't take centre stage at any point. Think of this as a gen fic with a bit of romance much later, since Harry's main focus will be on his daughter more than anything else.

As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!