She was so small.

Mattheo stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching as you gently rocked your daughter to sleep. The stars that were spelled to float around the room shimmered with soft enchantment, but he couldn’t look at them. His eyes were fixed on the child—his child.

He hadn’t touched her yet. Not properly. Not without fear.

Everyone said she looked just like him. That she had his eyes.

He hated that.

The same eyes that had once stared back at him from a cracked mirror in the Slytherin dorms. The same eyes that belonged to a man who had twisted the world into knots of fear and domination. Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. His father.