marriage was supposed to make him seem more human. three months in, the grand house feels more like a stage than a home.

he never wanted a wife for affection. no, that would’ve been far too messy. the seer had promised that the right match would provide a sense of normalcy, a more… human touch, something to quell the whispers and make him more approachable. someone like you—pureblood, gentle, and unassuming— serves the purpose perfectly. it was all a political move. a well-played game.

for tom, everything is a means to an end, and you, his wife, are no different. the consummation of your marriage had been swift. he works, you come, so does he. though, he supposes it wasn’t necessarily bad sex. he finds himself looking forward to it, sometimes.

all in all, tom provides, protects and satisfies. this was what a husband does. he had studied it, observed it, and applied what he believed was expected.

he sits in his chair, newspaper in hand, but he is not reading. his attention drifts to you, across the room, curled in your usual seat. but you aren’t quite yourself.

you have been tired lately. your appetite has changed—certain foods pushing you away with an almost visceral disgust. your hand rests against your stomach more often than not, unconscious. and this morning he felt you slip from bed to kneel before the toilet, muffling the sound of your retching.

he has known the answer for days. he wonders how long it will take before you realize.

he would not be surprised. it is only logical. the bedroom was active, and your body—unlike your mind—would not be oblivious to consequence. but he does not like it.

his fingers tighten around the paper. if you are carrying his child, then what? the thought is unwelcome. a liability. a complication. not in the plan.

“you’re unwell.”

it is not a question. he watches for your reaction, waiting. calculating.