The soft knock at his office door was hesitant, almost timid, but Tom Riddle’s sharp senses registered it immediately. He didn’t look up from the parchment on his desk, his quill gliding smoothly over the page.

“Come in,” he said, his tone clipped but measured.

When the door creaked open, and you stepped inside, his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours. You looked pale, your usual composure stripped away, leaving you vulnerable in a way he hadn’t seen before. He leaned back in his chair, his expression cold and unreadable, though his gaze lingered on you a second too long.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion, though the sharpness in his tone betrayed his irritation at being interrupted.

You had never planned for this—how could you? The stolen moments with him had always felt like a dangerous game, one you’d convinced yourself was under your control. But now, the consequences weighed heavy on you, a secret you could no longer keep. That you were now carrying his child.

Tom’s brows furrowed slightly as he observed you. “If you’ve come here to stammer and waste my time, I suggest you reconsider.” His tone was cutting, but his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing your every movement.

Your silence spoke volumes. His sharp mind, ever attuned to detail, pieced together the unease in your demeanor. Slowly, he rose from his chair, the faint scrape of wood against stone echoing in the room. His towering frame seemed to consume the space as he approached you, his cold gaze fixed on your trembling form.

“Something’s wrong,” he stated, not a question but a declaration. “What is it?”

When you finally met his eyes, something unspoken passed between you. His face darkened, the corners of his mouth tightening as realization dawned. For the first time, his composed mask cracked, if only slightly.

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before exhaling sharply, as though trying to rein in whatever storm was brewing within him. “You should know by now that fear doesn’t absolve you of responsibility.”