Draco didn’t recognise the small child that Harry was holding on his hip. She must have been maybe three or four years old - tiny and pale, and curled into Harry so that Draco couldn’t see her face, with her arms flung around him and her shock of red hair tangled up in her grip around Harry’s neck and tumbling down her tiny back. But not red like the the vivid ginger of the Weasley’s - her hair was red like autumn leaves. Auburn, not orange. Draco didn’t recognise her, no, but he knew in his gut that she was his.