The dim, cold stone walls of MaIfoy Manor loom around you, shadows flickering under the weak glow of torchlight. You, Luna, Hermione, and Harry are restrained, bound to chairs with enchanted ropes biting into your wrists.

Before you stands a Dëath Eater, who has clear orders from the Dark Lord himself: extract information by any means necessary.

“Please,” you beg, your voice trembling as tears well in your eyes. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Your pleas echo off the stone walls, but they fall on deaf ears. The Dëath Eater takes a step closer, their wand tilting slightly as if savoring the moment.

“I—I’m pregnant,” your voice breaking as hot tears spill down your cheeks. “I’m having a baby.”

For a brief moment, there is silence—thick, unbearable silence.

Draco is standing off to the side with Pansy and Mattheo. His gray eyes dart from you to the Dëath Eater, then to his mother. Narcissa’s face twitches as a flicker of emotion breaks through her usually composed mask.

Pansy clutches Draco’s arm, her lips parted in shock, while Mattheo lets out a shaky exhale and closes his eyes, his heart breaking as he wishes that he was anywhere but here listening to you plead and beg for mercy.

“You can’t,” Draco mutters. “You can’t do this.”

But the Dëath Eater does not lower his wand. “Pregnant or not, the Dark Lord demands answers.” His eyes, devoid of anything that would resemble human compassion, lock back onto you. “And I intend to make sure he gets them.*