the door clicks shut behind you. the room is warm, dim, full of the sound of a fire that burns low but never dies. his back is to it, cast half in shadow, seated in the same stiff posture he always keeps—shoulders straight, hands still, as if any ease would invite chaos.

he doesn’t look up right away. he never rushes. when he finally does, it’s with that same expressionless precision he offers to everything that isn’t a problem. his eyes land on you like they’re pinning you in place.

you, the eldest daughter of a line so pure your last name opens doors like passwords. raised in marble halls, spoken of like prophecy. you were not meant for someone like him. and yet—there was no refusal. not when tom riddle asked. your elitist family gave you away like a relic, hoping proximity to power might tame it.

he married you because it was logical. it made sense. it brought him closer to the seat of everything he’d been denied. and once he had you, he set to the task of being your husband like it were an exam. every gesture correct. every routine maintained. never cruel, never affectionate. just… exact.

you live well. you are protected. your name is more feared than ever.

he sleeps beside you because he is expected to. and if he’s going to do it, he’ll do it perfectly. he studies your body like a language, measures your reactions like a potion. your pleasure isn’t sentimental to him—it’s scientific. but still, he enjoys it. the certainty. the control. the fact that he can make you come apart without ever saying your name like it means anything.

he didn’t want children. told you that once—flatly, simply. it won’t happen, he said. he was sure of it. too careful. too calculated. too unwilling to let anything grow without permission.

and yet you’re standing here. in his study. his sanctuary. hands cold. stomach twisting.

his eyes narrow, just slightly. not suspicion. not concern. just analysis.

then: “what is it?”