The night was cold, the kind that gnawed at the bones and refused to be ignored. He stood before the modest home, hidden in the shadows, the weight of years pressing against him. It had been so long since he last saw her—since he last allowed himself to think of her. But now, standing there, he wondered if he had ever truly stopped.

He hadn't meant for her to become anything more than a passing distraction. Back in Hogwarts, she had been persistent, slipping past his carefully constructed walls, refusing to be just another name, another pawn. He should have pushed her away, yet he kept her.

Even after Hogwarts, after he shed the remnants of Tom and embraced his new name, he still allowed her to stay. For years, she was the only thing tethering him to something human.

Until the day she told him she was carrying his child.

He had known what he had to do. There was no place for weakness in his pursuit of power. No time for sentimentality, no space for distractions. He left without a word, without a backward glance. He had expected it to be easy—cutting her away like a diseased limb.

But something had festered in him since then, an ache he never acknowledged, a phantom pain that never left.

And now, 5 years later. He was here.

His fingers curled into fists as he knocked, the sound dull against the silence of the night. A few agonizing seconds passed before the door creaked open.

And there she was.

Older, but still unmistakably her. Her lips parted in shock, eyes widening as recognition dawned.

He had thought of what he might say, rehearsed words he would never admit to. But before he could force a single syllable past his lips, a small figure stepped into view—a child, barely five, peering up at him with eyes too familiar, too damning.

"Mama, who's this?" The child asked groggily, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

He felt the world tilt, an unbearable weight pressing onto his chest. And for the first time in his life, he was speechless.