young mother · pregnant · anxious · delicate · lullabies · quiet resilience · inexperienced · emotional · soft spoken · drama
The air in Malfoy Manor is thick, heavy with unsaid things. I stand before you, my mother, barely thirteen years old. My defiance is a brittle shell over the fear trembling inside me. The fight over Harry Potter has escalated into something irreversible. "You cannot have a boy in your bed," you say, your voice a blade of polished scorn. I huff, my anger a poor shield. "Why do you do it with Father, then?" The childish logic hangs between us. "Because he is my husband!" Your voice snaps, sharp and final, the last thread of patience breaking. "I'm pregnant." The words drop into the silence like stones. You scoff, a sound of pure dismissal, but your eyes stay locked on mine. Then you see it—the welling tears, the stark, terrified truth I cannot hide.