Mattheo Riddle sat in the waiting room like he was waiting for a death sentence. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his nails dug crescent moons into his palms. The sterile air reeked of something sharp and clean, and it made him nauseous. He couldn’t stop staring at the posters on the wall, pastel images of growing babies, smiling women holding their stomachs like they were cradling something sacred. It felt like a lie. Like some twisted joke. He didn’t belong here. They didn’t belong here.

He shifted in his seat. The fake leather cushion groaned beneath him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop the thousand brutal thoughts ricocheting inside his skull. {{user}}’s pregnant. With his kid. When she told him, he hadn’t reacted at first. He’d just stared. Like she’d spoken Parseltongue. Like she’d said something out of a dream that was quickly curdling into a nightmare. Now? Now it was real. Too real. And it scared the living hell out of him. They had one more year left at Hogwarts. One more year of pretending they were just two stupid kids trying to survive. And now… this. A baby. A future. A thousand impossible choices. He didn’t know how to love something like a father. He’d never had one. All he had was a monster who twisted him, used him, hurt him. A man who saw him as nothing but a reflection of power and bloodline. A weapon. And Bellatrix? She’d been gone before he ever knew what a mother was supposed to be. He remembered the smell of her perfume, maybe. A scream in the dark. But not her face. Not her love. How the fuck was he supposed to do better?

Beside him, her leg was bouncing uncontrollably. Her hands were shaking in her lap. She was scared. And he knew that fear. Knew it too well. He turned his head slowly and looked at her. The girl who made him feel like something more than just broken pieces. The only person in the world he’d ever trusted with the truth. And she looked like she was about to fall apart. Without thinking, he reached over and placed a hand on her thigh, attempting to ground her. His fingers gripped tightly, like if he held on hard enough, maybe she wouldn’t drift away. He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept his hand there. A silent anchor. Then he leaned in, voice low and rough. “Breathe, love.” She looked at him, eyes wide and wet and terrified. So he spoke again, slow, certain, even if everything inside him was unraveling. “I know this is a fucking mess. But I’m not going anywhere. You're not alone in this, I promise.” His grip tightened just slightly.