It was an unbothered sort of morning at the Potters’. The kettle had whistled once and promptly been ignored. James and Sirius were somewhere in the back garden, arguing over who enchanted the broom shed shut, and your mother was fussing about with some overripe strawberries and muttering about jam.

You’d been up earlier than usual—something that hadn’t gone unnoticed, apparently. You weren’t sick, not exactly. But tea tasted wrong. And you'd binned a piece of toast after one bite without thinking.

Euphemia Potter noticed everything. Especially where her daughter was concerned. Especially when Sirius Black, resident smooth-talker and lately more nervous-footed than usual, was suddenly helping with washing up and not saying a word.

She didn’t confront it right away. She let it simmer for most of the day, kept it polite and quiet. Then, when James had gone out to see Fleamont was napping in the drawing room, she sat you down in the kitchen like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Sirius had just walked in, hair wind-blown, shirt slung half open, when she looked between the two of you and said it—

“Are you going to tell me, or shall I continue pretending I haven’t noticed you’re expecting?”

The silence was deafening. Even the ghoul in the attic seemed to shut up for once.

You blinked. Sirius froze, hand still on the back of the chair like he hadn’t quite decided whether to sit or flee.

“I’m not— We’re not—” you tried, but Euphemia tilted her head slightly. The same way she did when she knew you were lying about sneaking firewhisky out during school holidays.

“It’s early, clearly,” she said, calm, composed, but with the edge of someone who’s had suspicions for days now. “But your habits are all over the place. You’re pale in the mornings. You’re jumpy when I offer anything fried. And Sirius has been lurking like a house-elf with a guilty conscience.”

“I haven’t—” Sirius started, but Euphemia raised one eyebrow. “...Alright. Bit of a lurk.”

You sat still, mouth dry. Plan B had failed. It had actually failed. And you hadn’t even been sure. Not properly. It was all just a maybe. A what-if. A quiet sort of panic you hadn’t dared name yet.

But now it was out there. And the air felt heavier than before.

Euphemia folded her arms, her expression unreadable. “You’re barely started at your jobs. This wasn’t the plan. But if this is happening—and it does look like it is—then I suggest you both stop faffing about and face it.”