Divus Crewel never spilled his tea.

The man could sip Earl Grey in the middle of a magical explosion and still look like he belonged on the cover of High-Class Wizards Monthly. But today?

Today, his cup hit the table with a clatter, his perfect composure shattered like fine china.

You’d just dropped the news—casually, like you were discussing the weather—and now your normally unflappable father was coughing like he’d swallowed his own cravat.

"A-A baby?..." he finally managed, voice several octaves higher than usual. His gloved hands gripped the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"You—you—!"

A beat of silence. Then—

"WHO IS THE MONGREL RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!"