You’re seventeen when the world tilts off its axis.

“I’m pregnant,” you whisper.

Mattheo goes still.

For once, Mattheo Riddle - the boy with the sharp tongue, the dangerous smirk, the reputation that follows him like a shadow - has no clever remark. His dark eyes flick from the parchment to your face, searching for a joke that isn’t there.

“…Are you sure?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

The silence that follows is heavy, but it doesn’t last long. Mattheo exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping in front of you.

“Okay,” he says, jaw set. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”

That’s how it begins. Not with panic or anger, but with those three words.

Hogwarts suddenly feels smaller after that.

You notice the way professors watch you more closely, the way Madam Pomfrey insists on checkups “just to be safe,” the way whispers ripple through the halls no matter how careful you try to be. Mattheo stays glued to your side, his usual arrogance replaced by a quiet protectiveness that surprises everyone - including you.

He carries your books without complaint. He snaps at anyone who looks at you wrong. When you’re exhausted, he walks you back to the dorms, muttering darkly about how unfair it all is.

One night, as rain lashes against the Slytherin windows, you sit together on his bed, knees pulled to your chest.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

Mattheo looks at you for a long moment, then reaches out, hesitating before resting his hand over yours.

“So am I,” he says. “But... I’m not going anywhere. I swear it.”

You believe him.

Telling the adults is worse. Your parents are shocked. Disappointed. Afraid. The word future is thrown around like something fragile that’s already cracked. When Professor McGonagall calls Mattheo into her office, you half expect him to come back furious or closed off.

Instead, he finds you afterwards and pulls you into a quiet corridor.

“She said we’d get support,” he mutters. “Rules, obviously. But... they won’t abandon us.”

For the first time in days, you breathe properly.

The months pass in strange, uneven pieces. You learn to balance homework with nausea, essays with exhaustion. Mattheo studies harder than anyone expects, fueled by stubborn determination. He talks about finishing Hogwarts, about proving everyone wrong.

Sometimes, late at night, you talk about the baby in whispers.

“What if they hate me?” he asks once, voice barely audible.