About a Boy

About a Boy

Twenty-five year-old Harry Potter peeled off his jacket with a heavy sigh. His nose was slightly wrinkled. He liked cooking and all -- he just didn't like the smell of onions on his clothes at two in the morning.

He trudged off to his refrigerator, grabbing his carton of milk, a spoon and what was left of his favourite ice cream, chocolate mint.

He heaved himself into a chair and dug in.

After the war, Harry had taken to a much quieter lifestyle. Even though the Ministry had been throwing job offers at him left and right, Quidditch scouts were knocking on his door along with the press, Harry had fled to a very hidden and private flat in London. He was now a cook at a rather nice restaurant.

He'd also taken to casual dating every once in a while, and with all the money he'd made, he bought himself a computer, a nice television, brand new clothes that fit, and some other things.

The only people from the magical world that knew his whereabouts were his good friends. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the rest of the Weasley's, and his most recent friends Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy (oddly enough).

Harry checked his watch. It was midnight. He needed sleep.

Knock, knock, knock!

Harry frowned. "Who is it?" he called.

"Potter, it's Blaise," said a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"Open your door and you'll find out," Blaise said.

Harry clicked open his three locks and saw Blaise standing there, dressed for dinner, beside him a little boy. The boy had blonde hair and big bright green eyes. Harry gasped.

"He's been sitting out here," Blaise offered as explanation.

Beside the boy was a duffel bag, and he wrapped his jacket more securely around himself.

"Erm . . ." Harry lowered himself to the boy's height. He wasn't good with kids. "What's your name?"

"Mark," the boy said quietly. He had an American accent.

"Were you looking for someone?" Harry asked.

"Yeah -- Harry Potter."

Harry blinked for a moment, and Blaise blinked right back.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said.

"Then . . ." the boy thought for a moment. He pulled a note from his pocket. "You're my dad."

Harry's heart dropped to his knees. He was gaping at the boy, the colour drained from his face and he shook slightly.

He couldn't have a son. There was no way -- he would have married the woman first.

"N-no," he said. "I--I think you may have the wrong--"

"Eight years ago you dated a girl named Gwen Faulkner," Mark said. "I'm her son."

Harry rose back to his feet, looking at him with disbelief.

"Gwen Faulkner?" Blaise repeated, his voice low. "Back at school in Hufflepuff?"

Harry suddenly remembered. Things had gotten serious but then she broke it off a few weeks after they . . .

"She was having a baby and she never told me?" Harry asked. "That's why she . . ."

After they had been together, she left shortly after that night. About three weeks. He should have known. . . She was claiming that she had been sick, always in the morning. . .

Harry felt hurt. He had loved her.

"Then where is she?" he asked, feeling empty.

Mark averted his eyes. "She's dead."