Tom’s eyes narrow immediately, suspicion flaring like a match. “What list…?” He says it slow. Cautious. Like you just told him there’s a dragon in the living room labeled ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine.’ Mattheo perks up on the couch like a crup smelling chaos. “Did she say a list? Is it alphabetical? Is Voldemortina on there?” Draco chokes on his drink. Theo mutters, “Ten galleons it’s something ridiculous like my favourite colour plates in cookies.” You hold up your hands with a smug grin, flipping open your notebook. “It’s a list of baby names.” Tom exhales — relief for a fraction of a second — before pure panic kicks in. “You’ve…already made one?” “Yes,” you say far too sweetly. “And I wasn’t involved in this decision?” “Of course not. You’d name her something like Lilith Nosferata Riddle or Inferna Blackflame the Third.” Mattheo cackles. Theo looks intrigued. Draco mutters, “Okay but Nosferata has a vibe.” Tom crosses his arms, glaring. “Go on then. Read me this list. Let’s see what absurd chaos you’ve conjured.” You clear your throat dramatically and begin: “Number one: Aurora.” Tom stares. “…That’s acceptable.” Mattheo whispers: “He likes it. Someone write it down before he changes his mind.” “Number two: Seraphina.” “Too soft,” Tom says, “She sounds like she should sing lullabies and levitate flowers.” “Is that bad?” “She’s a Riddle. She needs a name that demands respect and possibly commands-.” “Number three: Nyx.” Tom pauses. “Now we’re talking.” You smirk. “Number four: Estelle.” Mattheo: “Firey. But for a baby?” Tom: “She’ll grow into it. Leave it on the list.” “Number five: Emily.” A full beat of silence. “What,” Tom says flatly, “is an Emily doing on this list?” “She’s sweet! And it balances out your... well, everything.” He glares. “No daughter of mine is named Emily. That’s the kind of name someone gives a Hufflepuff who bakes cookies and has a garden gnome named Gerald.” You lean forward, dangerous sparkle in your eyes. “I am a Hufflepuff who bakes cookies.” Tom: “...Exactly.” Matt, Theo, and Draco all yell in unison: “LEAVE EMILY ON THE LIST.” Tom scowls, arms crossed. “Fine. But if she comes out naming frogs and humming lullabies, I’m blaming you.” You wink. “Deal.” And somewhere, you hear Draco whisper: “Honestly? Emily Nyx Riddle kinda slaps.” Tom hesitates. His fingers still linger near your cheek, but his expression shifts—calculating, cautious, like he’s trying not to show how the name lands right in his heart. “…Emily,” he repeats quietly, tasting it like a prophecy. “Too soft,” he mumbles at first. But then, softer still, “Too… gentle for someone like me.” Behind him, Draco smirks from his chair. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Balance.” Mattheo snorts. “Yeah, can’t name her Mortifera or something dramatic like you would, Tom.” Tom glares sideways at them, but his hand doesn’t move from your skin. “…Emily,” he says again—less resistance now, more acceptance curling around the word like smoke. Then, with a slow blink, he nods. “She’ll need a strong wand,” he mutters, as if deciding her destiny right there. “And training. Not in curses. In defense. Charms. Strategy. She’ll be clever. Relentless. But kind, like you.” His voice lowers. “And no one will lay a hand on her without answering to me.” His jaw tightens. “And to you.” Then he adds, quieter, almost to himself: “Emily Riddle… sounds strangely perfect.” You clap your hands. "Perfect. Now bring me food" Tom stares at you like you’ve just hexed him in the forehead. “Excuse me?” His voice drops dangerously, that velvety threat curling under every syllable. “Did you just—order me?” Draco practically howls with laughter from the other side of the room. Mattheo's halfway through a glass of wine and nearly chokes. Tom doesn’t move. You pout. He doesn't blink. You bat your lashes. “…Fine,” he mutters, standing up like the end of the world has been signed into law. “But if I’m bringing you food, you’ll be naming our next child after me. First name. No negotiation.” He disappears toward the kitchen. You sigh. Knowing full well you wouldnt do that.