Chapter Text
Amara stared up at the wall clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Each one was louder than the last. A metronome to the slow, cavernous ache growing in her gut—and the supposed baby.
They had flown back the night before. A late-night flight. The kind you didn’t really board so much as survive.
Tom hadn’t spoken much. Not out of coldness—but out of caution. He’d kept his hand over hers during takeoff. Held her bag for her when her arm refused to lift it. He even sat next to her in the car ride from the airport, shoulder-to-shoulder, as though some part of him knew distance right now might feel like abandonment. And yet—even with his warmth—Amara hadn’t slept.
Not even for a second.
The ache in her collarbone certainly didn’t help. But it wasn’t just the pain. It was the thoughts. The thoughts that refused to settle. She had considered reaching for her pills. The ones she only took when the nightmares refused to end, when sleep was worse than wakefulness. Her hand had hovered over them on her nightstand. Then, it dropped.
Would it hurt the baby?
That single question had rattled through her like a pinball in a box. Every time it stopped, it just bounced back again.
She let herself fall back onto the bed, limbs splayed out, as though the weight of her thoughts had finally pressed her into the mattress. She had been sitting like that for half an hour now, staring at the ceiling, occasionally glancing at the floor, then back up again.
Downstairs, she could hear Tom. The low scrape of a suitcase zipper. The muffled rhythm of utensils clinking together. Cabinets opening, closing. Dishes? No. A glass. A spoon. Something being stirred.
Her throat closed around a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in her skull, louder than the ticking clock. It filled all the empty space inside her.
Pregnant. Her hand moved of its own accord, fingertips pressing lightly against her lower abdomen. There was nothing to feel. No movement. Not even a visible change. Just the knowledge—28 days.
A month.
One month since the night of Ron and Hermione’s engagement party. One month since that particular night in the room where the floor had been littered with articles of clothing and the air had been filled with need. She could still hear it.
“I don’t have a condom,” he had muttered against her neck.
“It’s fine,” she had replied.
And apparently, it wasn’t fine. Not at all. She let out a bitter breath that was half a laugh. What were the odds? She had been told months ago it might never happen for her. Something about complications. Possibilities. Scar tissue. She had believed it. Had wrapped that belief around her like armour. A truth she didn’t like, but had accepted.
And yet. One month. That’s all it had taken. It was almost cruel.
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Her chest felt too tight. Her mind too loud. The room—too quiet.
The knock came softly. She startled slightly. He never knocked. That was the first clue. He was being careful. Gentle.
She opened her eyes and sat up, brushing the hair off her face. By the time Tom pushed the door open, her arms were wrapped around her middle like they could hold in all the uncertainty threatening to pour out of her.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in and extended the glass in his hand. Green. Green juice. She blinked at it. Except—something about the smell was off. It wasn’t spinach. Or kale. It was...
Metallic.
That sharp, dry scent that clung to the roof of your mouth. Like blood. Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t say it. But she saw it. Folic acid. Crushed. Dissolving slowly near the surface of the drink. A small pill. A small decision. A quiet suggestion. Tom knelt slightly to meet her gaze, offering the glass again.
“Just drink it,” he said gently. “It’s not much. Just in case.”
She took the glass with slow fingers. Didn’t sip. Just held it, her palm warming the condensation on the glass.
“You think I’ll keep it?” she asked, not looking at him.
Tom was quiet. “I think I don’t know.”
That honesty, strangely, was a relief. He sat down beside her on the bed. Not too close. Not touching. She finally took a sip, swallowing without flinching at the taste. “I’m not against it,” she murmured. “But I’m not for it either.”
He nodded once, slow.
She exhaled. “I keep trying to think about it. To feel something about it. But every time I do... nothing comes. It’s like my brain is trying to access a file that doesn’t exist.”
Tom’s eyes stayed on her face. “You’re in shock.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’m just empty.”
Another sip. The bitterness didn’t bother her anymore.
“I keep thinking about all the other things. Caleb. The fire. The car crash. You. Your blood. That stupid Christmas market. Vivienne. The Institution. Everything. I can think about everything else except this one thing that actually matters right now.”
She gestured to her stomach. “I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know if I want to feel anything about it. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and be sure. Maybe not. But right now, I don’t have anything left in me to give.”
Tom didn’t respond right away.
Then, quietly: “That’s okay.”
Amara turned her head to look at him.
His gaze was steady. “You don’t have to decide today.”
Her voice came out dry. “You mean before the folic acid takes effect?”
He let out a small laugh—just enough to soften the air between them. “That’s just... just a precaution.”
“You think I’ll decide to keep it?”
Tom paused. Then: “I think... I want to be someone you can trust with that decision.”
Amara stared at him for a long moment. The clock ticked again. Dull and even. She looked back down at the drink. The glass was almost empty in her hand now. Neither of them spoke. Tom was still sitting beside her, silent, steady — like an unmoving pillar next to a storm. His presence was grounding, but also infuriating in its calmness.
“I don’t feel it,” Amara said abruptly.
Tom turned his head slightly. “Feel what?”
She kept her eyes forward, toward the window. “That maternal instinct people talk about. That… wave of emotion. That rush of purpose. I don’t feel anything.”
There was a pause, then she added, “There’s a whole-ass human growing inside me. And I feel absolutely nothing.”
Tom didn’t speak. He let her go on. She was unravelling—and maybe, finally, untangling.
“And you—” she turned to look at him, almost accusingly, “—why the hell aren’t you freaking out? You’re gonna be a father. The Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord. A dad. Are you kidding me?”
Tom blinked. “I am freaking out,” he said, calmly. “Just... internally.”
She huffed, standing up and pacing across the room. “Well, maybe you should do it externally for once. Maybe one of us should lose our goddamn mind, and I’d rather it not be me.”
He blinked again, slowly, borderline offended. “I—pardon me for not panicking at a level you deem theatrical enough.”
She shot him a look, like she wanted to laugh and scream at the same time.
“And we’re not even married, Tom! We’re not even engaged! I mean, we were once. But that was years ago!” she gestured wildly with her left hand. “There’s no ring. There’s no proof. Legally, I’m dead to the world, yes, but professionally? What the hell am I supposed to say when I start puking during a meeting? Or snapping at my colleagues because I’m hormonal? Or worse—showing?”
He was about to respond, but she wasn’t done.
“And God forbid, what about my workplace? What if they start noticing I’m not going on field missions? The Director is going to start asking questions. Vivienne knows, sure, but she’ll be the only one who does and people talk, Tom. People judge. And when they realise there’s no husband, no fiancé—just some mysterious partner—do you know what they’ll say?”
"Vivienne—?"
“And that’s not even counting the Weasleys. I mean—what do I tell them? That I’m pregnant? And not just that—but with your baby. That Tom Riddle, who by some cosmic stroke of luck Ginny never remembered from her first year, is not only alive, but also the father of my child, who conveniently stayed out of her line of sight at the party?”
She looked at him like he should say something. Like he should fix this. But he couldn’t. He just sat there, quietly, eyes following her as she spiralled.
Her pacing quickened.
“My heart,” she added, more to herself than to him. “The doctors said pregnancy might worsen my condition. And what if something goes wrong during delivery? Or before? What if I collapse in the middle of the second trimester? What if I get put on permanent leave? What if—what if something happens to the baby—because of what Caleb did to me—?”
Her voice cracked.
“Hey,” Tom stood, reaching for her arm.
But she jerked it away. “Don’t.”
“Amara—”
“Don’t!”
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself like she needed to hold her body together, chest heaving. Tom’s eyes softened. Without asking, he stepped behind her, reached gently for her waist, and pulled her back — carefully — onto his lap, easing them both down to sit on the bed. She didn’t resist, not really. Her limbs stayed stiff, but she didn’t pull away.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his breath at her temple. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re not the one carrying it, Tom. I am. I’ll be the one who can’t sleep because I’m too heavy. Who can’t wear her clothes. Who loses all her shoes. Who can’t bend down to pick up a pen. And even if that’s months away—I’m already giving things up. I can’t take my meds. I read the label last night. Can’t have them while pregnant. I can’t keep food down. I can’t even drink my green juice without wondering what’s in it. My throat’s sore. I’m nauseous. My heart burns. I thought it was the duck from the market, but now I know—it’s the baby.”
Tom started, softly, “That’s just a wives’ tale. The hair—”
“What if it has thick hair, Tom?” she practically snapped, whirling to look at him. “What if it does and the heartburn gets worse and I’m already choking at night—?”
“I don’t think it has a head yet, love.”
“I don’t care!” she nearly shouted. “And my collarbone, Tom—what if it’s actually fractured and I can’t get it checked because no x-rays are allowed? What if I never heal properly? And look—is that a pimple?”
She turned her face slightly, jabbing at a spot near her jawline, eyes wide. “That’s a pimple. Isn’t it?”
He squinted. “That’s... barely visible.”
“So it’s a pimple.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You shook your head!”
She stopped. Her mouth was still parted, breath hitching, eyes glassy—but the words had dried up. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. She looked exhausted, unravelling at the seams.
Tom didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. Not the smug one. Not the dangerous one. The soft one. The real one.
“You’re thinking about the baby now,” he said quietly.
She blinked, confused.
He brushed a knuckle gently down her arm. “Before, you said you couldn’t think about it at all. Like your mind went blank. But now...”
His hand rested on her waist again. “Now you’re thinking. That’s what it took. A rant about hair and pimples and gaining weight—"
Her mouth twitched at that. She looked away. He didn’t push. He just leaned in a little, resting his chin against her shoulder. He glanced down at her belly. Then, as if unsure of himself, he gently reached out — fingers brushing the fabric of her shirt, smoothing out a wrinkle near her stomach. It was subtle. Barely anything. But his face softened. His eyes stayed there.
Just to touch.
Just to feel.
“Tom.”
She snapped him out of it.
His gaze darted up, expression instantly innocent. “I wasn’t insinuating anything.”
“No, of course not. Just casually caressing my shirt.”
“I was smoothing it.”
“Sure.”
She looked at him, then down at her own belly, then away again. He still didn’t move his hand. Inside, he was hoping.
God, he wanted it. He didn’t think he ever would. But now? The idea of something his and hers—someone. A person. An actual person they created. But if he clung to that, if he let her see how much he wanted it, then it would be his choice too. And that wasn’t fair. Not to her. Not with everything she’d been through. Her body. Her trauma. Her health. Her right.
If he made it about him, then it would no longer be hers to choose freely. So he just stayed quiet. Still. Present. She inhaled deeply. Then again. Sniffling. Her voice was softer now. “I should unpack the suitcases. Or make breakfast or something.”
It was the oldest trick in the book. Do something. Avoid the decision.
He nodded. “Alright.”
“And you should shower.”
His brows furrowed. “I took a shower an hour ago.”
She blinked.
“Oh.”
He looked off to the side. Was this a pregnancy symptom or did he genuinely smell?