A/N: It's Father's Day in the US. So this is a story that's a little about being a father, but mostly about being human.

The story is a sequel to Daydreams, Gifts, and Clouds. I suggest you read those first. It's in the style of Impressionism, meaning that it's meant to leave the reader with a particular mood or feeling. I chose a different emotion for each story in the series (and kudos if you can figure them all out!). Your Impressionist song for this is Debussy's "Jimbo's Lullaby." I wrote this at the request of those who asked me to tell them what became of Harry and Draco after the last story.

Just so you know, I don't do male pregnancy. So you can imagine they have their baby through either adoption or surrogacy.

Warnings: This is not a happy story. It has a happy (more or less) ending, and no one dies. But it may trigger some people. Advance notice for themes and mentions of suicidal ideation, self-harm, and depression. There's also a fair amount of swearing and some smut.

I

On an ordinary Saturday afternoon in January, with nothing better to do at the moment, Harry wandered around the house, making sure all was ready. It seemed that they had accomplished everything they could, though he hadn't been able to stop himself from double checking their work every day from the moment they'd finished baby-proofing. His nervous energy made Draco rather cross, but he couldn't help it. The waiting was agony, worsening as their child's due date drew near.

Several friends had kindly loaned them various items they would need over the next year, and Molly had been unable to resist sending them a very tiny Weasley jumper—pale peach—and a hand-knitted layette. She spent several weeks teaching them a good number of her favorite useful spells, and even Draco had grudgingly admitted he was grateful for her enthusiasm. Narcissa had been as bad as Molly; she planned a huge affair for after the baby arrived home. Everyone knew it was just an excuse to begin lavishing gifts on her grandchild, so no one minded much. In fact, she had firecalled Molly for help with the party, which had unsettled both Harry and Draco but didn't seem to trouble either of the older women in the least. They were like giggly schoolgirls again.

At that point, it was only a matter of waiting. They had agreed that Harry could have the first six months' leave, and Draco would take the second. That left them an entire year to build a healthy bond and find a long-term carer before both of them returned to work. Several friends had already been through the same process—Ron and Hermione twice over—and their advice had seemed sound.

Draco was on the couch, reading. Just as Harry was about to ask if he wanted tea, the fireplace flared and an unfamiliar head appeared.

"Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy?" the young woman asked.

Both men crouched down to see her. Draco replied, "Yes. May I ask what this is about?"

"I was told to inform you that Althea March is in labour, and the baby should be born any minute now."

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco. His heart was suddenly in his throat and a flock of birds seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach. "Oh," he whispered.

"All right to come through?" Draco clearly had the more level head at the moment.

"Certainly," the mediwitch replied. "When you arrive, you'll find yourselves in the waiting area on the fifth floor. Whoever is at the desk will give you instructions." The mediwitch pulled her head out of the fireplace and the green flames died.

Draco stood up and pulled Harry to his feet. He grabbed the Floo powder without complaint, and Harry understood he was just as excited. "Let's go, then. We can firecall the others from St. Mungo's."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Harry asked.

"What? Oh, damn. The bags. I'll get them." He rushed up the stairs, and Harry bit back a snort. Apparently he'd overestimated how level-headed Draco actually was.

Fifteen minutes later, they were tossing in Floo powder and shouting, "St. Mungo's, fifth floor!" They arrived in time to be intercepted on their way to the desk by the young mediwitch and a healer. "You have excellent timing," the healer said. "Follow me."

They hurried behind the healer to the end of the corridor, stopping outside the last door. The healer knocked once and opened the door when a voice called out, "Come in." She motioned for Harry and Draco to enter as well.

The pale woman in the bed looked up and smiled when they entered. "Hello," she said. "Would you like to meet your new daughter?"

For a moment, Harry's breath caught. They had a daughter? Obviously, it could have gone either way, and he wasn't disappointed—merely surprised. Something in him twisted, though, wondering if Draco would be all right. He'd always assumed Draco wanted a son, though they'd never really talked about it.

Seeing that Harry was momentarily speechless, Draco nudged him before answering, "Of course we would."

Althea crooked her finger, beckoning them closer. She held out the bundle in her arms, and Draco accepted it. His eyes shone. "She's amazing," he whispered.

Harry hung back slightly until Draco turned towards him and gave him a puzzled look. He shook himself and stepped over to the bed. He peered around Draco's arm at the tiny, pink infant and sucked in his breath. Draco was right; she was amazing. He grinned up at his husband and extended his arms. Smiling, Draco handed over the baby.

Her voice laced with exhaustion, Althea asked, "Will you tell me what she's called?"

Harry and Draco exchanged a look. "Maia Aster Black," Draco replied smoothly. That was the feminine name they had chosen; the surname was the result of a long debate on whose she would have. They didn't hyphenate their names, and they didn't think it sounded right for their child, either. As they both shared Black heritage, it seemed the most logical choice. Surprisingly, even Draco's parents had agreed—though Harry thought Narcissa had probably spent some time persuading her husband, and he honestly didn't want to know how she accomplished that.

Althea smiled. "It's a lovely name."

"Do you want to hold her again?" Harry asked.

She shook her head. "She's yours now."

The healer spoke up. "The baby needs to stay for a bit to make sure she's healthy. You're more than welcome to spend the night with her, however. We'll give you a room."

Harry laid his hand on Draco's arm. "Do you want me to stay by myself? That way, at least one of us has another night's sleep before we take her home."

"Of course not. I want to stay too," Draco assured him. "I only have to go to work on Monday long enough to tell them I'll be out for the week. I can deal with a bit of sleep loss until then."

"Are you sure?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't bother asking me that again. You know what my answer will be."

"Okay. I'll need a few minutes to send an owl about starting my leave." Harry handed the baby to Draco.

"I'll see you in our room?"

"Ten minutes," Harry said, leaning up to give Draco a light, chaste peck on the cheek.

On his way out, Harry reflected that as much help as their friends had been, and as pleased as he was to finally hold Maia in his arms, he still felt utterly unprepared for fatherhood. He wished, neither for the first nor the last time, that he still had his own father. Somehow, a portrait miles away in a castle gallery wasn't quite the same thing.