The opera house was empty after rehearsal—dust motes drifting in golden shafts of lamplight, the air carrying faint perfume and the echo of your voice shouting at the chorus earlier. You thought you were alone when you bent to gather scores, trench coat slipping off your shoulders. You weren’t.

Barty stood at the far end of the hall, too sharp against the velvet shadows. His hair was unkempt, his robes rumpled but still deliberate, arrogance painted across every line of him. That smirk—mocking, familiar, infuriating—tilted his mouth. But his eyes… those weren’t sneering. Those were locked on you, and then—on her.

Your daughter clung to your hand, curls bouncing as she tried to peer around your coat. She shouldn’t have been here tonight, but babysitters fell through, and you’d thought no harm could come from bringing her to the rehearsal room. She was five now. Sharp-tongued. Curious. Too curious.

“Barty,” you hissed, your voice sharp enough to cut the air.

He tilted his head, aristocratic disdain in every inch of his frame, but he didn’t answer you. He didn’t even blink. His gaze had fixed itself on the small girl peeking at him with wide eyes—the girl with freckles dusting her nose and eyes a shade too sharp, too blue, to deny.

No. No, it’s not—Merlin. It is. My eyes. My bloody eyes staring back at me. How did she—? How did we—?

The silence stretched, heavy, unbearable. Your heart thudded in your ears. And then your daughter tilted her head, her voice piping high, curious, unafraid:

“...Dada?”

The word ripped through the room like a curse.

Barty froze. His smirk collapsed, torn right off his face, leaving something raw and unguarded in its place. His wand hand twitched, useless. His lips parted, but no sound came. His eyes—usually sharp enough to cut glass—blurred at the edges, blue cracking into something softer.

She said—she thinks—I’m—

You stepped in front of her too fast, trench coat billowing like a shield. “No,” you snapped, your voice trembling despite your steel. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Don’t—don’t you dare.”

But he wasn’t listening to you. He was staring at the girl. At his girl.

She can’t know. She shouldn’t know. I shouldn’t want this. I’m not him. I’m not a father. I can’t be. I’ll ruin her, ruin them both. But—Merlin, look at her. She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s proof I’m not just my father’s shadow. Proof that I made something—someone—good.

The little girl blinked at him, wide-eyed, before turning into your coat, shy now. He exhaled like a man punched, running a shaking hand over his face.

“Is it true?” His voice was hoarse, cracked in the middle. “Is she—?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The way he looked at you—like he might break, like he already was—left your throat sealed shut.

He laughed then, a brittle, hollow sound. Not triumphant, not cruel—just… lost. “Merlin help me,” he whispered, eyes dragging back to that small, innocent face. “How did I make something so lovely out of hatred?”

For the first time in years, there was no arrogance in him. No smirk, no cruelty. Just a man stripped bare by a child’s single word.

Maybe I don’t deserve this. Maybe I don’t deserve her. But for once… I want. I want her. I want—