Chapter Text
Weeks passed quickly after the election.
The Ministry wasted no time.
Tom Marvolo Riddle was formally sworn in beneath the high, enchanted ceiling of the Wizengamot chamber, his oath echoing through ancient stone and binding magic alike. The medallion now rested against his chest as though it had always belonged there.
Minister Riddle.
The title fit him.
Power fit him.
But he wore it differently now.
Deliberately.
Legislation moved swiftly.
Pureblood families felt reassured almost immediately. Lineage protections were reinforced. Certain “heritage preservation” measures were formalised into law. Old families regained influence in Ministry advisory roles. Traditionalist rhetoric flourished under his careful phrasing.
The Sacred Twenty-Eight purred.
Yet beneath the surface, other changes unfolded.
Quietly.
Strategically.
Hermione stood beside him in nearly every public engagement – poised, intelligent, adored. The Prophet called her “the jewel of the Ministry.” Witch weekly ran an entire spread on her charitable interests.
The people adored her.
Tom was not foolish.
He capitalised on it.
Primary magical education centres were established in several counties – institutions designed to identify and assist children who displayed uncontrolled magical surges. Officially, it was framed as “protecting wizarding secrecy and supporting magical families.”
Privately, it had been Hermione’s insistence.
No more children frightened by accidental magic.
No more families ostracised.
Then came the werewolf legislation.
The Daily Prophet had titled it:
Minister Riddle Announces Employment Reforms for Registered Lycanthropes
The law granted registered werewolves access to Ministry employment pathways, regulated healthcare coverage, and legal protection against discriminatory termination.
It was presented as an efficiency measure – reintegrating capable citizens into the workforce.
But Hermione knew.
So did Remus.
Tom had signed the decree with a perfectly calm expression.
“For my wife,” he had murmured later that evening.
There were adjustments, too, regarding Muggle-born rights.
Subtle ones.
Education grants expanded.
Certain Ministry entry exams adjusted to be less “lineage-biased.”
Official rhetoric softened.
It was not equality.
Not entirely.
But it was… less overt.
Appearance mattered.
And Hermione’s reputation for righteousness shone brightly enough that even incremental reforms felt revolutionary.
Tom understood optics.
He understood legacy.
And he understood that being loved publicly while feared privately was an enviable position.
By late November, Britain had settled.
Minister Riddle’s approval ratings remained steady.
Opposition existed – of course it did – but it was fractured and disorganised.
And in Malfoy Manor, preparations for Christmas began.
The manor transformed as it always did in winter – garlands of enchanted holly lining the banisters, floating snowflakes that never quite touched the ground, silver and emerald ornaments shimmering against towering fir trees in the grand hall.
Hermione stood in the foyer one evening, watching house-elves direct floating boxes of decorations with military precision.
Tom appeared behind her, coat still draped over one arm from the Ministry.
“It looks different,” she observed softly.
“It looks like your home,” he replied.
She turned, smiling faintly.
“Ministerial life suits you.”
“It tolerates me.”
“And do you tolerate it?”
He considered.
“I enjoy shaping it.”
She studied him carefully.
“You haven’t regretted it.”
“No.”
A pause.
“Have you?” he countered.
Hermione looked around the manor – at the warmth, the laughter drifting faintly from the sitting room where Narcissa and Eileen were debating floral arrangements with excessive seriousness.
“No,” she answered honestly.
He stepped closer.
“Christmas at Malfoy Manor,” he said lightly. “Minister and First Lady.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That title is still absurd.”
“It is catching on.”
“Stop encouraging it.”
He smirked faintly.
“I make no promises.”
Outside, snow began to fall – soft, deliberate flakes against the manor windows.
Hermione slipped her hand into his.
“Are you ready for the scrutiny?” she asked. “The dinners. The expectations. The families watching every move.”
He looked down at her.
“I have faced far worse.”
“And now?”
He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Now I face it with you.”
She leaned into him.
The Ministry might have been his dominion.
But Malfoy Manor in winter –
With snow falling softly and their friends gathering near the fire –
Felt like something far more powerful.
A kingdom not of fear.
But of choice.
And as Christmas approached, Britain prepared to celebrate under a new Minister –
While he prepared to celebrate beside the woman who had reshaped his path entirely.
The drawing room at Malfoy Manor was warm with late afternoon light.
A fire crackled gently in the hearth. Winter sunlight filtered through tall frosted windows, casting everything in a soft, pale glow. The tea service gleamed between them – porcelain cups, sugared pastries, delicate lemon slices floating in amber.
Hermione sat curled elegantly on one of the velvet settees, hands wrapped around her teacup.
Across from her, Eileen listened fondly as Narcissa and Bella debated the merits of winter roses versus charmed silver ivy for the Christmas centrepiece.
Andromeda – Andy – sat quietly beside Bella, a faint smile lingering on her lips.
Hermione turned toward her.
“How is Remus managing his final year?” she asked gently.
Andy’s entire face lit up.
“He is thriving,” she said warmly. “Truly. The separation has done him good.”
Bella snorted lightly.
“Sirius being held back a year is a public service.”
Andy smiled faintly.
“Without that constant chaos, Remus is calmer. Focused. He’s been spending more time in the library. Even tutoring younger students.”
Hermione beamed.
“That sounds like him.”
“He’s… happy,” Andy admitted softly. “More confident than I’ve ever seen him.”
Hermione felt a quiet swell of pride.
“Good,” she murmured. “He deserves that.”
At that moment –
Pop.
Pipper appeared near the doorway, ears twitching with urgency.
“Little miss,” he announced formally, “a private letter has arrived. From Master Severus.”
Hermione perked up immediately.
“Sev?”
Pipper held the sealed parchment with exaggerated care.
Hermione rose at once.
“I’ll take it.”
She had only taken two steps –
When the world shifted.
A strange wave rolled through her – sudden, vertigo-like.
The room tilted.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
She blinked hard.
Hermione frowned faintly.
“That’s odd…”
Eileen was already on her feet.
“Hermione?”
“Just a bit dizzy,” she said lightly, reaching for the back of a chair. “Must have gotten up too quickly.”
But even as she said it –
Her hand missed the chair entirely.
The drawing room swayed violently.
A rushing sound filled her ears.
Her knees buckled.
Bella moved first.
She was already halfway across the room when Hermione’s eyes rolled back.
Hermione collapsed forward –
And Bella caught her.
“Bloody hell!”
Tea cups clattered to the floor.
Eileen rushed forward, hands trembling.
“Hermione? Hermione!”
Narcissa was instantly composed – already summoning water with a flick of her wand.
“Andromeda pressed her fingers gently to Hermione’s wrist.
“She’s breathing,” Andy said quickly.
But Hermione was limp.
Unconscious.
Eileen’s voice broke.
“Call Abraxas immediately.”
Pipper vanished with a sharp pop before she even finished the sentence.
“And a healer!” Eileen cried. “At once!”
Bella held Hermione carefully, brushing hair from her face.
“She just dropped,” Bella muttered. “One second she was standing –”
Narcissa’s eyes were sharp now.
“Move her to the chaise.”
They laid Hermione down carefully.
Her skin had gone pale – too pale.
Eileen knelt beside her, hands shaking as she brushed Hermione’s cheek.
“Wake up, darling. Please wake up.”
Hermione did not stir.
The fire crackled loudly in the silence that followed.
Then –
Pop.
Abraxas appeared, coat half-fastened, eyes wide with alarm.
“What happened?”
“She fainted,” Narcissa answered calmly, though her voice was tight.
“She said she was dizzy,” Bella added.
Abraxas moved to Hermione’s side immediately, gripping her hand.
“Call for Tom,” he said sharply.
Eileen looked up, panic flooding her features.
As though summoned by the weight of his name –
The manor’s wards pulsed faintly.
Far away, at the Ministry –
Something tugged sharply at the bond between husband and wife.
And Minister Riddle stilled mid-sentence in his office.
Because something was wrong.
*
Cornelius Fudge was talking.
He had been talking for nearly twenty minutes.
“…and I simply believe, Minister, that with the proper allocation of additional funding, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office could become a shining example of –”
Tom had stopped listening five minutes ago.
Not because he lacked patience.
But because Fudge’s enthusiasm for minor bureaucratic expansion bordered on the offensive.
They were seated in Tom’s office at the Ministry – tall windows overlooking London’s grey winter skyline. Lucius stood just off to the side, immaculate as ever, quill poised over parchment.
Tom’s fingers rested lightly against the desk.
Then –
His wedding band burned.
Not physically.
Magically.
A pulse.
Sharp. Violent. Wrong.
His spine went rigid.
“…and if we consider the public perception –”
Another pulse.
Faster.
Her magic.
Racing.
Something was wrong.
Tom stood abruptly.
Fudge flinched.
“My lord?” Lucius asked immediately, sensing the shift before it became visible.
Hermione.
The name echoed through him like a struck bell.
Her pulse surged again through the bond – chaotic, unsteady.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Collapse.
His chair scraped back.
“Minister?” Fudge blinked.
Tom did not look at him.
“Hermione,” he said quietly.
Lucius went pale.
“What –?”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Tom was already moving.
“Meeting adjourned,” he snapped.
“But we haven’t –”
Fudge’s protest died as the air in the office seemed to constrict.
Tom’s magic coiled violently around him – controlled, but lethal.
“Reschedule,” Tom said coldly. “Or do not.”
The ring burned again.
Lucius stepped forward instantly.
“My lord?”
Tom’s jaw clenched.
“She is not well.”
That was all he needed to say.
Lucius nodded sharply.
“Go.”
Tom did not wait.
He did not inform the Ministry.
He did not cloak it in courtesy.
He vanished.
The crack of apparition reverberated through the office, rattling parchment and extinguishing the candles nearest the desk.
Fudge stumbled backward.
Lucius turned slowly to face him.
“The Minister,” Lucius said evenly, “has more pressing matters.”
*
Malfoy Manor’s wards felt his arrival before he breached them.
He did not wait for formal entry.
He tore through.
The air in the drawing room shifted violently as he materialised – black robes snapping behind him like storm-torn banners.
Eileen gasped.
Abraxas looked up sharply.
Bella did not move from where she knelt beside Hermione.
Tom’s eyes found her instantly.
Pale.
Still.
Unconscious.
His world narrowed to a single point.
“What happened?” he demanded.
His voice was calm.
Deadly calm.
“She fainted,” Narcissa answered. “Just stood and fell.”
Tom was already kneeling at her side.
His hand slid beneath her neck, lifting her carefully.
“Hermione,” he breathed.
No response.
He could feel her pulse through the ring.
Erratic.
But present.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
Control.
Do not unravel.
He pressed his forehead lightly to hers.
“Come back to me,” he whispered.
Behind him, the healer burst through the doors.
But Tom did not move.
Because for one terrifying moment –
The Minister of Magic did not care about legislation.
Or optics.
Or the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Only the woman lying limp in his arms.
And the fragile thread of magic still binding her to him.
*
The corridor outside their suite felt far too narrow.
Tom paced.
Back and forth.
Measured strides that were anything but calm.
Abraxas stood near the window at the end of the hall, arms folded tightly across his chest. Lucius remained beside him – composed outwardly, though his jaw betrayed tension.
Bella leaned against the wall with forced stillness. Andromeda sat quietly on a nearby chair, hands clasped together in anxious patience. Narcissa stood closest to the suite door – poised, watchful.
The healer had gone inside nearly fifteen minutes ago.
Fifteen minutes.
Tom stopped pacing abruptly.
“She’s my wife,” he said tightly. “I should be allowed in there with her.”
No one mistook the restraint in his tone for calm.
Abraxas turned slowly toward him.
“Her mother is with her, Tom,” he said evenly. “She will be alright.”
Tom’s eyes flashed.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting until the healer comes out.”
Silence fell heavily again.
Tom resumed pacing – slower now, but the tension in his shoulders made the air hum faintly around him.
Lucius stepped closer.
“My lord.”
Tom halted.
“You are frightening the staff,” Lucius added quietly. “The wards have pulsed twice.”
Tom inhaled sharply through his nose.
He forced his magic down.
Control.
You are the Minister.
You are not unraveling in a corridor.
Bella pushed off the wall.
“She fainted,” she said bluntly. “That’s all. No curse. No blood. No dark magic.”
Tom looked at her sharply.
“I checked,” Bella added quickly. “The moment she fell.”
He believed her.
He still did not relax.
Andromeda spoke softly from her seat.
“Sometimes fainting is… something else.”
Tom’s gaze snapped to her.
“What do you mean?”
Andy hesitated.
“Dizziness. Sudden drop in blood pressure.”
Narcissa’s eyes flicked briefly toward Tom.
Abraxas looked between them.
“You’re suggesting –”
The suite door opened.
Every head turned.
The healer stepped out first – composed.
Behind her, Eileen emerged slowly.
Her eyes were red.
Tom crossed the corridor in two strides.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
The healer bowed her head respectfully.
“She will be fine, Minister.”
Tom did not care for reassurances.
“What happened?”
Eileen’s lips trembled.
“She fainted,” the healer said gently. “Likely from a sudden drop in blood pressure.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“And?”
The healer hesitated only a moment.
“And from what I can detect… there is a very strong possibility that Lady Riddle is with child.”
Silence.
Absolute.
Total.
The corridor felt as though all the air had been sucked from it.
Tom did not blink.
“Repeat that,” he said quietly.
The healer inclined her head.
“It is early. But all indicators suggest pregnancy.”
Abraxas exhaled sharply.
Bella let out a stunned laugh.
Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth.
Lucius went completely still.
And Tom –
Tom did not move.
For one long, suspended heartbeat, the world shrank to a single word.
Child.
Eileen stepped closer to him.
“She’s awake,” she whispered. “She’s asking for you.”
That was all he needed.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t burst in.
He opened the door carefully.
Because for the first time in a long time –
The Minister of Magic was afraid to hope too loudly.
Tom closed the suite doors behind him.
The latch clicked softly.
The world beyond it – politics, family, celebration – fell away.
Hermione lay propped against the pillows, pale but unmistakably herself. Her hair spilled over one shoulder, slightly mussed. The afternoon light framed her in gold.
She looked small.
Too small.
Too fragile.
And yet –
When she saw him, she smiled.
That smile.
It struck him harder than any political victory ever had.
He crossed the room immediately.
“My love…” he breathed.
She studied him for half a second, then huffed softly.
“You look like hell.”
He almost laughed – the sound catching somewhere in his throat.
“I came home to my wife limp on the floor,” he said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I am allowed to be out of sorts.”
“So dramatic,” she murmured.
He reached for her hand, careful – as though she might shatter.
“Is it true?” he asked.
Her eyes softened.
“I think so,” she admitted. “I wanted to wait for you to check for certain.”
He swallowed.
“Are you late?”
“Yes.”
The word hung between them.
Yes.
Tom inhaled slowly.
Exhaled carefully.
Steadied his breathing like he would before entering the Wizengamot chamber.
But this –
This felt infinitely more precarious.
He moved closer, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, not accusatory – just quiet.
She smiled faintly.
“Because I didn’t realise. And we’ve been so busy with your work and the legislations….”
His jaw flexed.
“You look like you’re trying not to conquer something.”
He huffed a soft breath of laughter.
“I am.”
He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers.
“I am trying not to hope too loudly.”
Her free hand slid up his arm.
“It’s alright to hope.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
Silence settled – not tense, but fragile.
After a moment, he shifted, his hand hovering for a second before settling carefully over her abdomen.
Tentative.
Reverent.
“If it is,” he said quietly, “then you are carrying the future.”
She smiled softly.
“I’m carrying ours.”
That was what undid him.
Not legacy.
Not power.
Ours.
He opened his eyes and looked at her fully.
“You fainted,” he said, the worry surfacing again.
“I stood up too fast,” she replied. “And perhaps I’ve been… distracted.”
He leaned closer.
“You will not push yourself.”
“Yes, Minister.”
He narrowed his eyes faintly.
“This is not amusing.”
She brushed her nose lightly against his.
“It is a little amusing.”
He shook his head, but there was no bite in it.
“Rest,” he murmured.
“I am.”
“And we will confirm.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her forehead.
Slow.
Lingering.
When he pulled back, his composure was steadier – but his eyes were brighter.
He exhaled slowly.
And for once –
The Minister of Magic allowed himself to imagine a future not shaped by ambition.
But by something far smaller.
And infinitely more powerful.
The knock was soft.
Professional.
Measured.
Tom straightened instantly.
“Enter.”
The healer stepped inside, calm and composed, a small crystal vial balanced carefully on a silver tray. Beside it, a narrow phial already holding a single drop of Hermione’s blood.
She inclined her head respectfully. “Minister. Lady Riddle.”
Tom’s jaw flexed at the title, but he said nothing.
The healer approached the bedside table and placed the tray down between them.
“I have prepared the diagnostic potion,” she explained gently. “It reacts to your blood, Lady Riddle. I’ll use the sample we took earlier.”
Hermione nodded, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around Tom’s hand.
“How does it work?” she asked.
The healer lifted the clear vial.
"The blood will be mixed into the solution. If the potion turns pink, the result is positive.”
“And if it remains clear?” Tom asked, voice even but razor-focused.
“It will turn blue if negative. Clear would indicate a fault in the potion.”
Silence followed.
Tom’s gaze did not leave the vial.
“And what then?” he asked.
“If it is positive,” the healer continued calmly, “we can perform a gestational charm to determine how far along you are. Given that Lady Riddle is unsure of her last cycle…” she offered Hermione a reassuring smile, “I would estimate approximately eight weeks. First trimester.”
Eight weeks.
Tom’s hand tightened unconsciously.
Eight weeks.
Eight weeks of a life he hadn’t known existed.
He looked at Hermione.
Her eyes were wide now – not frightened.
Just aware.
This was real.
The healer held the vial poised above the blood.
“Are you ready?” she asked gently.
Hermione swallowed.
Tom felt it – the tiny tremor in her fingers.
He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a firm, steady kiss against her knuckles.
“I am here,” he said quietly.
Her eyes softened.
“I know.”
She drew in a breath.
“Yes,” she told the healer. “We’re ready.”
The healer tipped the drop of blood into the potion.
The room seemed to shrink.
The liquid swirled once.
Twice.
Tom didn’t blink.
Hermione’s nails pressed faintly into his palm.
For one suspended second, the potion remained perfectly clear –
And then –
A blush of colour unfurled from the centre.
Soft.
Delicate.
Spreading outward like the first bloom of dawn.
Pink.
Unmistakable.
The healer smiled.
“Congratulations,” she said warmly. “It appears, Minister and Lady Riddle, that you are expecting.”
Hermione exhaled a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
Tom did not breathe at all.
Pink.
He looked at the vial.
Then at Hermione.
Then very slowly, his gaze dropped to her abdomen again.
Eight weeks.
There was a life there.
His life.
Theirs.
His composure cracked in the smallest, most devastating way.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers.
“You did it,” he murmured, voice rough.
She let out a teary laugh.
“I did not do it alone.”
The healer cleared her throat gently.
“Shall we perform the charm?”
Tom straightened, but he did not release Hermione’s hand.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
But his eyes never left his wife.
His voice lowered – only for her.
“My clever girl.”
And for once, there was no ambition in his gaze.
Only awe.
The healer lifted her wand once more.
“Just relax, Lady Riddle,” she said softly. “This will not hurt.”
Hermione shifted back against the pillows, Tom seated beside her on the edge of the bed, one hand still wrapped firmly around hers as though he feared she might dissolve if he let go.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured to him.
“I am aware,” he replied. “That does not mean I intend to loosen my grip.”
She chuckled.
The healer traced a slow, deliberate circle over Hermione’s abdomen. A faint golden light bloomed beneath the wand tip, warm and steady. The air in the room shifted – not heavy, not ominous – but sacred.
Tom felt it before he saw it.
A second rhythm.
Subtle.
Gentle.
Alive.
The golden glow condensed, sharpening into a tiny pulse of light just beneath Hermione’s navel. It flickered softly, like a star glimpsed through morning mist.
The healer smiled.
“Well,” she said warmly, lowering her wand. “That is quite strong for this stage. I would place you closer to ten weeks.”
Hermione blinked.
“Ten?”
“Yes. Nearly ten.”
Tom’s mind calculated instantly.
Ten weeks.
He did not need parchment.
He did not need a calendar.
That placed conception –
Right around the week of the election.
The healer continued speaking, something about rest, tonics, reduced stress, but her voice faded into the background as Hermione slowly turned her head toward her husband.
His expression was unreadable for half a second.
Then –
Realisation.
Hermione’s lips twitched.
“Minister Riddle,” she said softly, mischief threading through her voice despite the lingering weakness. “It would appear your victory celebrations were… productive.”
Tom’s composure cracked completely.
A slow, dangerous smile curved across his mouth.
“Ah,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed reverently across her knuckles.
“I do recall that evening rather vividly.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“I should hope so.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping to something only she could hear.
“You were the one who insisted I take you upstairs before the final numbers had even finished being announced.”
“You were insufferably smug,” she countered. “I had to distract you.”
His hand slid gently – reverently – over the blanket covering her stomach.
“And now,” he murmured, awe bleeding into every syllable, “we have this.”
Hermione’s teasing faded. Her fingers intertwined with his.
“Tom…”
His eyes lifted to hers.
There was no arrogance in them now.
No ambition.
No strategy.
Only something vast and almost frighteningly tender.
“I won the election,” he said quietly. “And then I won again.”
Her throat tightened.
He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.
Then, unable to help himself, he lowered further – resting his palm carefully over the place where that tiny pulse of light had shimmered – and whispered, voice reverent and almost disbelieving:
“My heir.”
Hermione huffed softly.
“Or daughter.”
He paused.
Considered.
Then nodded once.
“Or daughter,” he conceded.
And somehow, that possibility softened him even further.
Outside the suite, the manor waited.
The family waited.
Britain waited.
But inside that room, in the quiet golden light of winter afternoon –
There was only them.
And the small, steady future already growing between them.
Tom stepped out of the suite and closed the door quietly behind him.
For a brief moment he remained there, hand resting against the polished wood. He drew in a steadying breath.
Minister. Husband. Now –
Father.
The corridor was crowded.
Abraxas stood ramrod straight, whisky abandoned on the console table beside him. Lucius hovered close, outwardly composed but pale. Narcissa’s hands were clasped tightly together. Bella was pacing. Andromeda looked as though she might start praying despite not believing in anything.
Every pair of eyes snapped to him the moment he moved.
“Well?” Abraxas demanded, voice low but tight.
Tom did not draw it out.
He did not grandstand.
He did not smirk.
He simply looked at them – and for once, there was no calculated expression on his face. No politics. No control.
“We’re having a baby.”
Silence.
Then –
Eileen made a sound that could only be described as a sob of pure joy.
She covered her mouth with both hands as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. “Oh – oh, my darling girl –”
Abraxas exhaled sharply, as though someone had struck him in the chest. For a split second, the formidable Lord Malfoy looked entirely undone.
“A child,” he said quietly. “Already.”
Tom nodded once.
“Nearly ten weeks.”
Lucius blinked.
“Ten –” He looked horrified for half a heartbeat before comprehension dawned. “The election.”
Bella burst into wild laughter.
“I bloody knew it! I said the way you two disappeared that night was indecent!”
“Bella,” Narcissa hissed, though she was grinning helplessly.
Andromeda pressed her hands to her heart. “She fainted because she’s been carrying this for weeks and didn’t even know.”
Abraxas stepped forward then.
Tom instinctively straightened – the Minister returning for half a breath – but it dissolved the moment Abraxas gripped his forearm.
“Take care of her,” Abraxas said, voice steady but thick. “She is everything.”
Tom did not flinch.
“I know.”
Eileen crossed the space between them and threw her arms around Tom before anyone could stop her. He stiffened for a fraction of a second – unused to such unrestrained affection — but then he allowed it.
“You’re going to be parents,” Eileen whispered tearfully. “My baby is going to have a baby.”
Tom’s expression softened.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She is.”
Narcissa stepped forward next, composed but shining.
“You look smug,” she observed.
“I am,” he replied.
Bella grinned wickedly. “God help Britain. A Riddle heir.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed.
“God help anyone who dares threaten it.”
The air shifted slightly at that – a reminder.
He might be softened.
He might be in awe.
But he was still Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Lucius clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Tom’s gaze flicked briefly toward the suite door behind him.
His voice lowered.
“She’s resting. No excitement. No chaos.”
Bella groaned dramatically. “You’re no fun.”
“I am about to become a father,” he replied coolly. “Fun is now secondary.”
Lucius smirked. “You were never fun.”
Tom arched a brow.
“Careful, Malfoy.”
The tension broke into laughter – soft, relieved, joyful.
Inside the suite, Hermione slept.
Outside, the family buzzed with wonder.
And Tom –
Tom felt something he had never allowed himself before.
Not ambition.
Not conquest.
Not immortality.
But legacy.
And this time –
It would have her eyes.
Tom slipped back into the suite and closed the door softly behind him, sealing the world — and the noise — out.
The room was quiet.
Warm.
Golden light spilled through the tall windows, catching on the pale curtains and turning everything soft. Hermione lay nestled amongst the pillows, one hand resting unconsciously over her abdomen.
His wife.
Carrying his child.
Tom crossed the room without a sound.
He stood beside the bed for a long moment, simply watching her. The faint rise and fall of her chest. The way her lashes rested against her cheeks. The stubborn little crease between her brows that appeared even in sleep, as if she were solving legislation in her dreams.
“Good girl,” he murmured softly.
She had been pale earlier. Fragile.
He did not care for fragile.
But this –
This was different.
This was strength doing something extraordinary.
A tiny life.
His legacy.
Their future.
His hand hovered over her stomach before he finally let his palm settle there gently, reverently. He felt nothing yet. Of course he didn’t.
But he knew.
A slow, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth.
A soft pop echoed near the fireplace.
Tom did not turn.
“Pipper,” he said quietly.
There was a dramatic sniffle.
“My lord,” Pipper croaked, already teary-eyed. The elf was wringing his ears in emotional distress. “Little miss is making an heir.”
“Yes,” Tom replied evenly. “She is.”
Pipper dissolved into fresh sobs.
Tom sighed, though there was no real bite behind it.
“Compose yourself.”
Pipper attempted to, though it looked physically painful.
Tom finally turned to face him.
“We have a mammoth task ahead of us.”
Pipper straightened instantly.
“Anything for little miss. And little miss’s little miss. Or little master. Or little –”
“Enough.”
Pipper clamped his mouth shut.
Tom folded his arms.
“You know as well as I do that Lady Riddle will be impossible.”
Pipper nodded gravely.
“She will insist she is perfectly capable.”
“She will attempt to attend every engagement.”
“She will argue that pregnancy is not an illness.”
“She will attempt to rewrite Ministry policy from bed if confined.”
Pipper nodded harder with each point.
“Yes, my lord.”
Tom glanced back at the sleeping figure in the bed, affection softening his tone.
“She is stubborn.”
“She is,” Pipper agreed reverently.
“And she will not rest unless made to.”
Pipper gasped softly. “You is meaning to force little miss to rest?”
Tom’s lips curved faintly.
“I mean to ensure she is cared for. Properly.”
He stepped closer to the bed again.
“She will eat on time.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“She will sleep.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“She will not overextend herself.”
Pipper hesitated.
Tom slowly turned his head.
Pipper swallowed.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And if she attempts to overrule me,” Tom added quietly, “you will inform me immediately.”
Pipper blinked.
“My lord wishes Pipper to spy on little miss?”
Tom considered that.
“…Monitor.”
“Ah.”
A small silence fell between them as they both looked at Hermione.
“She has carried this for nearly ten weeks without knowing,” Tom murmured.
Pipper’s expression softened.
“She is strong, little miss.”
Tom’s gaze grew distant for a moment.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She is.”
He adjusted the blanket slightly around her shoulders.
“And she will remain so.”
Pipper sniffled again.
“Pipper will makes soups. And broths. And teas. And snacks. And fruit. And little pastries. And Pipper will scream at anyone who upsets little miss.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed faintly.
“Good.”
He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, posture still dignified but softened in a way few would ever witness.
“For the next seven months,” he said calmly, “Britain may believe it answers to me.”
His fingers gently brushed Hermione’s knuckles.
“But this household answers to her.”
Pipper beamed.
“Yes, my lord.”
Tom leaned back slightly, watching her sleep.
His wife.
His child.
His world.
And he would guard it – mercilessly.
Pipper did not question him.
Not this time.
Tom stood in the doorway of his study, gaze distant, jaw tight with something far older than rage. When he spoke, his voice was quiet – controlled – but threaded with steel.
“And send for Nicholas.”
Pipper blinked once.
“The bookkeeper, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“At once, my lord minister.”
The title still sounded strange in the air.
Minister.
Husband.
Father.
Pipper vanished with a crack.
Tom crossed the study slowly. The fire was low. The room smelled of parchment and ink and old magic – comforting things. Familiar things. Once, this room would have been filled with strategy. Expansion. Control.
Now his thoughts were singular.
Hermione.
The child.
The cost.
Another crack echoed through the manor nearly an hour later.
Nicholas arrived cloaked in travel dust and discretion. He was older than most gave him credit for, sharp-eyed and steady-handed. A man who had handled grimoires that made lesser wizards tremble.
Tom received him alone.
“Minister.”
“Nicholas.”
They did not shake hands.
They did not need to.
Tom gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. Nicholas declined it. So did Tom. This was not a conversation for comfort.
“I need a favour,” Tom said evenly. “And it requires the utmost discretion.”
Nicholas inclined his head. “Anything.”
Tom did not circle the subject.
“I need you to find every single text you can on the reversal of Horcruxes.”
Nicholas did not flinch.
“And,” Tom continued, voice lower now, “soul reabsorption.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
“I see,” Nicholas murmured.
Tom’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Hermione is pregnant.”
Nicholas’s expression shifted – not shock, not fear. Something warmer.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Tom nodded once.
“Thank you.”
There was no arrogance in it. No grandiosity.
Only gravity.
“You are a dear friend,” Tom continued. “You know what this will mean to me.”
Nicholas studied him carefully.
“Yes,” he said.
Tom moved around the desk now, hands braced against its polished surface.
“I began reconsidering them in Albania,” he admitted. “When I first told her.”
Nicholas did not interrupt.
“I did not intend to live in a world without her.”
The words were not dramatic.
They were factual.
“I already chose to reclaim them, if possible. Before this.”
His hand flexed against the wood.
“Now it is… more pressing.”
The fire crackled behind them.
“I will not outlive my wife,” Tom said quietly. “Nor my children.”
Nicholas watched him for a long moment.
“You understand,” Nicholas said carefully, “that reversing such magic is… unprecedented.”
“Yes.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And incomplete research may result in –”
“ –Death,” Tom finished coolly. “Or madness. Or instability.”
He met Nicholas’s gaze evenly.
“I am aware.”
Nicholas folded his hands in front of him.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” Tom repeated softly.
His eyes drifted briefly toward the window, toward the gardens where Hermione had walked only hours before.
“She deserves a husband who is whole.”
He did not say the rest aloud.
Not fractured.
Not tethered to unnatural anchors.
Not bound to immortality born of rage and abandonment.
Nicholas nodded once.
“I began searching before Albania,” he admitted. “When you first brought my lady to the shop.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened.
“You did?”
“I suspected,” Nicholas said gently, “that love might alter your priorities.”
Tom huffed softly through his nose.
“It has.”
Nicholas moved closer to the desk.
“There are a handful of texts. Fragmented. Obscure. Some buried in continental archives. A few references in Romanian and Balkan magical manuscripts.”
“Get them,” Tom said immediately.
“I will.”
Nicholas hesitated.
“You understand,” he said quietly, “that soul reabsorption is not simply a matter of reversal. You are asking about reintegration.”
“Yes.”
“You would need to retrieve them.”
“I have them,” Tom replied evenly.
The ring.
The diary.
Locked away. Hidden. Contained.
Nicholas studied him again.
“You are certain?” he asked carefully. “About relinquishing that protection?”
Tom’s expression did not waver.
“My wife is protection enough.”
Nicholas’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Very well.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather-bound notebook.
“I will begin immediately. I will require time.”
“You have it.”
“And absolute privacy.”
“You have that as well.”
Nicholas inclined his head.
“Then I will return within a fortnight with what I can gather.”
Tom stepped forward.
“Thank you.”
Nicholas paused at the door.
“For what it is worth,” he said quietly, “the wizard you were when you first came into my shop… would never have asked this, you are different. But that is not a bad thing.”
Tom did not look offended.
He looked thoughtful.
“Yes,” he agreed.
The door closed behind Nicholas.
The study fell silent again.
Tom stood alone for several long moments.
Then he reached into his inner coat pocket.
From a hidden compartment charmed against detection, he withdrew the Gaunt ring.
It gleamed darkly in the firelight.
Heavy.
Cold.
Once, it had felt like triumph.
Now it felt like a chain.
Tom stared at it.
“For you,” he murmured under his breath.
For her.
For the child growing inside her.
He closed his fingers around it tightly.
And for the first time since he had split his soul –
He felt the weight of wanting it whole again.