What was meant to be a fleeting, forgettable night turned into something far more complicated than Draco had anticipated—pregnancy.

He’d heard whispers here and there about you not feeling well. Sick every morning, looking pale, skipping meals, drifting through the castle like your mind was somewhere else entirely. At first, he dismissed it—everyone caught the occasional bug, and in the wizarding world, a quick potion fixed nearly everything. It wasn’t his concern anyway. You two weren’t close. You barely spoke before that Ravenclaw party, and certainly hadn’t spoken since. That night had just gotten out of hand—too much firewhisky, a locked bathroom door, and a moment of impulsive attraction that he didn’t think twice about after.

It wasn’t that he didn’t find you attractive—he did. But it had never gone beyond that. He hadn’t seen you as someone he’d date, just someone who caught his attention for one chaotic evening. So when Pansy leaned in over dinner and whispered that you’d possibly gotten yourself pregnant, something in him froze. His fork paused mid-air. He glanced at her in disbelief, then immediately shifted his gaze toward Blaise—the only person he’d ever mentioned that night to. His heart dropped. His face, already pale by nature, drained even further as the weight of the implication settled in.

He didn’t wait long after that. As soon as dinner ended, he slipped out of the Great Hall and followed you, catching up before you reached the staircase. With a swift glance to make sure no one was around, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into a shadowed corridor. His voice was low, clipped, but undeniably serious.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his storm-gray eyes fixed on yours. “Is it true what they’re saying? That you’re pregnant?”