“You swore he’d look like you,” Blaise mutters, staring down at the bundle in your arms as if he’s been personally betrayed by genetics.

You arch a brow, cradling your week-old son as he wiggles, his tufts of platinum-blond curls bouncing with every little fuss. “He does. Look at that little attitude already.”

Draco snorts from the couch, leaning in for a better look. “You mean to tell me this is Blaise Zabini’s son? Looks like a miniature Malfoy with a very confused hair texture.”

The rest of the Slytherin gang is crowded in your living room—Pansy, Theo, even Enzo—trying not to laugh. (Failing miserably.)

“Oh my God,” Pansy gasps, covering her mouth. “He’s adorable, but he looks like Draco got electrocuted.”

“Oi,” Draco protests.

Blaise narrows his eyes at you. “You gave birth to Lucius Malfoy’s secret grandchild.”

You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to your son’s forehead. “Oh please. You’re just mad he didn’t pop out in silk robes and flirting with the Healers.”

Everyone laughs—except Blaise, who looks deeply offended.

The baby lets out a tiny sneeze and Blaise immediately melts, taking him from your arms with a huff. “You’ll get darker. One good summer. We’ll go to Italy. Daddy’s got you.”

“Good luck with that,” Theo says under his breath. “The Malfoy genes came out swinging.”