Voldemort glares down at you, his voice dripping with authority. "You cannot have a boy in your bed!"

You scoff, crossing your arms defiantly. "I'm adopted. You can't decide that."

His eyes narrow dangerously. "But I raised you like—"

"Like cattle," you cut him off "Hopefully, the father of my child will do a lot better than you."

There’s a chilling silence before Voldemort’s head tilts slightly. "The father of your what?" he demands.

You don’t falter. "I'm pregnant. I'll give you a moment to let that sink in."

Voldemort’s mind races, the shock visible only in the brief pause before he gathers himself. You can see the gears turning. No one would dare to cross him, especially in this manner. His voice turns icy, and his gaze slowly fixes on Mattheo.

"No one would dare to…" Voldemort’s voice trails off, his suspicions clear.

Mattheo stands casually, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly enjoying Voldemort’s inner struggle. He chuckles softly. "I didn’t touch her. I wouldn’t dare."

Voldemort's gaze narrows, his frustration growing. "Then who would?" he hisses.

Mattheo’s grin widens as he looks over at you, but his expression shifts when he notices the small smile tugging at your lips. He follows your gaze, and that’s when he sees it—Tom, standing calmly with a smirk on his face.

"I would dare," Tom says, his tone unapologetic and calm.

Voldemort’s eyes flash with a mixture of disbelief and rage. "You…" He begins, but his words are cut off by the sheer audacity of Tom’s confidence.

Mattheo, standing off to the side, can't help but mutter under his breath, "Oh sweet Salazar…" He tries, and fails, to conceal his amusement as he watches the "golden child" of Voldemort’s favor step into the spotlight of his wrath for once.

"You would dare?" Voldemort hisses.

Tom leans casually against the wall, utterly unfazed by the rage bubbling up in Voldemort. "I didn’t exactly plan it, but…" he glances over at you, "I’m not complaining."