Chapter Text
Harry Potter had been called many things over the years.
The first divorced omega in Britain. A controversial author. An outspoken advocate for omega rights. A former Quidditch star whose name still lingered long after he had retired from the pitch. To many, he had become a symbol that change was possible, but to the others, particularly those who clung stubbornly to old traditions, he remained nothing more than an embarrassment, an omega who had turned his back on centuries of custom and expected everyone else to applaud him for it.
People had spent years deciding which version of Harry Potter they preferred to believe in. But Harry had never seen much point in helping them decide. They were welcome to argue amongst themselves. It had never changed anything before, and he doubted it ever would.
Of everything he had ever been, however, none of those titles had prepared him for the one that mattered most.
Being a single father.
It had happened sooner than anyone expected. Harry had asked for a divorce the moment Draco Malfoy raised a hand against him. Perhaps Draco had believed that pregnancy would make him hesitate, that carrying their, now only Harry’s child would leave him frightened enough to stay, not vulnerable enough to fight back, and too dependent to imagine building a life anywhere else. He had been catastrophically wrong. Harry still remembered how his fingers had shaken so badly that the signature barely resembled his own, the quill in his hand finally granted him release, as he signed the papers, though it hadn't been doubt that made them unsteady. It had been the realization that, after months of convincing himself there had to be another way, he didn't have to survive another day of convincing himself that he loved the alpha who had been emotionally abusing him for months. The slap on his cheek was just the last straw.
His parents had stood beside him without question. As had Sirius and Remus.
Not one of them had asked whether he was certain. They hadn't spoken about any appearances or flimsy family reputations or the child growing safely beneath his heart. They had simply opened their door, re-made space for him without hesitation, and reminded him, in all the ways that mattered, that home had never stopped being his. The rest of magical Britain had been less generous. Some called him brave, while the others called him selfish. Traditionalists declared he had disgraced omega customs that had been endured for centuries, insisting his divorce would encourage others to forget their place.
Harry had stopped reading those articles years ago. People were entitled to their opinions. And he was equally entitled not to waste his time on them.
Life had settled into peace after that.
He still lived with his family despite having more than enough money to buy a home several times over. Years in professional international Quidditch had left him comfortably provided for, and his books had become successful enough that publishers no longer asked whether he intended to write another, as had been the case first. These days they simply asked how many copies they should expect to print. His dad insisted the house became unbearably quiet whenever Harry spent more than a night or two away. While his mum argued that Elara deserved grandparents who intended to spoil her shamelessly while they still could.
Sirius maintained, with complete confidence, that he was an exceptional influence on children. But… nobody believed Sirius.
Least of all Harry and Remus.
Harry had long since accepted that arguing with any of them was an impossible task. Besides, they weren't entirely wrong. Home had never really been a place.
It had always been people.
Which was precisely how he found himself wandering through one of London's busiest magical shopping streets on an unusually pleasant afternoon, several neatly packed shopping bags hooked over one arm while his daughter rested securely against his chest. The streets bustled around them, conversations drifting together beneath the warm afternoon sun, shop windows crowded with enchanted displays that shimmered and shifted to catch wandering eyes.
For a while, Elara, his adorable six-month old daughter, had seemed perfectly content to watch the world from the safety of his arms. Then a tiny, unhappy whimper broke the comfortable rhythm of the afternoon. Harry looked at her immediately. Elara's face had scrunched into the sort of expression that only babies seemed capable of producing, soft black curls clinging to her forehead while watery green eyes blinked up at him with unmistakable accusation.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
He shifted her a little higher against his chest, one hand supporting the back of her head while the other rubbed slow, familiar circles between her tiny shoulders.
"I'm sorry."
Another unhappy sound escaped her, somewhere between a complaint and the beginnings of tears. Harry adjusted the shopping bags, which he had charmed to be weightless, further up his forearm before beginning a gentle bounce, careful enough not to jostle her too much.
"We're almost finished," he promised softly. "Just a little longer."
As though thoroughly unconvinced, a tiny fist wriggled free from the blanket, waving determinedly through the air before coming to rest squarely against Harry's chest. He couldn't help smiling.
"So fierce."
Elara though, remained entirely unimpressed. Her lower lip trembled, as the tiny face crumpled. Harry saw it a heartbeat before it happened.
"Please don't..."
The first tear escaped, followed almost immediately by another, and then she was crying, small, broken little sobs that caught in her throat more than they escaped it, thankfully, not yet loud enough to draw the attention of the entire street. "Oh, love..."
Harry swayed gently where he stood. "Let us find somewhere ok, El?" he soothed, pressing a careful kiss into the dark curls at the top of her head.
She answered with another trembling sob, her tiny body shuddering against his chest. Around them, Diagon Alley carried on exactly as it always had. Wizards and witches passed by with shopping bags swinging from their hands, conversations blending together beneath the warm afternoon air. A few glanced over before continuing on their way. Others lingered for only a moment longer before deciding it wasn't any of their business. But Harry barely noticed them. He had long since learned that the rest of the world became remarkably unimportant whenever Elara needed him. She always came first. He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head, closing his eyes for only a second as he listened. His fingers smoothed gently over the back of her tiny head before checking the blanket wrapped around her almost automatically. Exactly the way his mum had shown him. Another little sob escaped her.
Merlin.
His gaze lifted at once, scanning the busy street with growing hope. A café… but every table was occupied. There was another further along, but it seemed to have an even worse crowd. His eyes caught on a bench beneath a flowering tree, though the two elderly witches seated there seemed entirely absorbed in an animated debate over their tea, hands waving enthusiastically enough that Harry doubted either intended to leave anytime soon. He turned slowly, searching the opposite direction. There was not a single quiet corner. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. Feeding Elara should never have been something he needed permission for. She was his daughter, who was very hungry at the moment.
But experience had taught him that people rarely left well enough alone. He knew exactly what would happen if he sat down in the middle of the street. Some stupid people would politely pretend not to stare while watching him from the corners of their eyes. Others, even more stupid, would make no effort to hide it at all. Some little fuckers would whisper, and someone else would almost certainly have an opinion ready by tomorrow morning.
Harry could live with people talking about him.
What he couldn't bear was the thought of his baby girl becoming another excuse for strangers to debate whether he was raising her correctly. Another louder cry pulled him from the thought before it could settle. Harry immediately gathered her closer again, resuming the gentle sway that had never failed to comfort her for long.
"I know El," he murmured, kissing her forehead once more. "I'm trying."
Her tiny fingers curled into the front of his jumper with surprising determination, clutching the fabric, asking for food, and Harry felt his temper flare again at the stupid so called decency.
"I'm trying so hard, sweetheart."
He looked around one last time, slower now, hoping he had simply overlooked somewhere tucked away from the crowds. There was nothing. Harry let out the smallest breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and defeat. The one afternoon he desperately needed a little privacy, London had apparently decided the entire magical population ought to do their shopping at exactly the same time.
Wonderful.
"Mr Potter?"
He looked up almost automatically, one hand still rubbing slow, absent circles across Elara's back. She had almost stopped crying, but those little hiccupping breaths still escaped every few seconds, her tiny body tucked securely against his chest, one small hand fisted stubbornly in the front of his jumper as though she had no intention of letting go anytime soon. Harry couldn't blame her. The wizard standing a few feet away inclined his head politely.
"Forgive the interruption."
Harry recognized him immediately, for it would have been rather difficult not to.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. The youngest wizard ever appointed to the position. One of the Ministry's brightest political figures. And, according to what felt like every witch between the ages of sixteen and one hundred and sixteen... the most handsome alpha alive.
Harry had always considered that particular claim a little exaggerated, but ... looking at him now... perhaps only slightly.
He stood almost two heads taller than him, dark robes falling neatly over broad shoulders, every crease exactly where it ought to be, and every button fastened without looking overly meticulous. Everything about him seemed composed in a way that didnot feel overdone, as though he had simply always carried himself like that. Harry noticed the faint trace of his scent only after a moment, subtle enough that it never crowded the air between them, unlike most of those bloody, self-pompous alphas. It was warm, dare he say… comforting? In a way Harry hadn't quite expected from an alpha. Most of them had a habit of making their presence known long before they spoke.
But it seemed like the Senior Undersecretary didn't. And Harry found himself appreciating that more than he probably should.
Harry respected him.
Tom had spoken publicly in favour of omega rights more times than Harry could count. He had argued before the Wizengamot for stronger protections for victims of domestic abuse. He was funding research into improving healthcare for pregnant omegas and single parents, and Harry had quoted one of his speeches in his latest book almost word for word because, frankly, it had been difficult to improve upon it. Even though that didn't stop Harry from believing the Ministry itself remained spectacularly inefficient.
Elara shifted restlessly against his chest before letting out another tiny, unhappy noise.
"I'm here," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of her curls as one hand adjusted her almost automatically. Only then did Harry look back up.
"I'm extremely sorry," he said quietly. "You were saying?"
Tom's gaze rested briefly on Elara before returning to Harry.
"I hope I haven't disturbed you."
"You haven't."
Harry shifted Elara a little higher against his shoulder, supporting her head as she tucked herself closer.
Tom watched the movement, noticing the shopping bags hanging awkwardly from Harry's arm, the tiredness sitting beneath bright green eyes despite the easy smile Harry had offered him. He noticed, too, the almost unconscious way Harry's gaze kept drifting across the street whenever Elara stirred. He seemed to be searching for a private place.
"You appear to be trying to find somewhere private."
Harry blinked, he hadn't realised it had become so obvious. "My daughter," he said softly.
"I suspected."
Harry glanced down again as Elara made another unhappy little sound, then, almost apologetically, he told Tom, "She's hungry. I've been trying to find somewhere ...without Britain deciding it suddenly has an opinion."
Tom didn't answer straight away, as his gaze followed Harry's instead, taking in the crowded cafés, and the occupied benches where the steady stream of witches and wizards passing between them before returning to Harry. "I was on my way to lunch."
Harry looked at him questioningly.
"The restaurant just across the street."
Tom gestured towards an elegant building overlooking the square, enchanted windows gleaming softly in the afternoon light. "I have a standing reservation."
Only then did Harry follow his gaze. Of course he did.
Senior Undersecretary, private dining, expensive restaurant. Bloody rich politicians.
"They reserve one of the private rooms for me," Tom continued before Harry had the chance to refuse. "You're welcome to use it."
Harry hesitated, but Tom seemed to recognise it for what it was almost immediately. "I would be grateful if you allowed me to lend it to you."
Harry looked at him for a long moment. Tom's expression hadn't changed, still no expectation written across it and no sense that Harry owed him anything for the offer.
Elara chose that exact moment to begin crying again, and Harry felt every tiny sound somewhere beneath his ribs.
"I'd appreciate that… so very much." he admitted quietly.
"Then please," he said, stepping aside to give Harry room to pass. "Allow me."
Harry returned the smile almost instinctively before his attention drifted back down to the little girl in his arms. His hand settled against the back of her head once more, thumb brushing lightly over the blanket as he started rocking her gently, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"We've found somewhere, sweetheart," he murmured. Elara just answered with another tiny, miserable hiccup. Harry smiled despite himself.
"I know."
Tom watched the exchange without saying a word.
He had seen photographs of Harry Potter before. Countless ones, in fact. Newspapers seemed incapable of printing an article without finding an excuse to include his face somewhere alongside it. He had read Harry's books, listened to recordings of his speeches before the Wizengamot, even watched old Quidditch matches out of idle curiosity after discovering Harry had once been considered one of Britain's finest Seekers.
But none of it had prepared him for this.
For the way Harry never seemed to stop moving, the slow, absent sway that continued every few seconds without conscious thought, even while speaking. For the little kisses pressed so naturally into dark curls that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the next began. For the quiet reassurances spoken in the same calm voice whether the child was crying or merely shifting in his arms, as though Harry had long since learned that children understood gentleness just as well as words. There was something profoundly tender about him.
Tom found himself thinking that the newspapers had been wrong.
They had called Harry Potter beautiful. Some had gone further, insisting he was a once in a generation, ethereal beauty.
It occurred to Tom, as he watched Harry disappear through the restaurant doors with his daughter tucked safely against his chest, that ethereal was a rather inadequate word.
Entirely inadequate.