It started with one (1) spectacularly ill-advised mistake. Not a romance. Not a beginning. Just a single, catastrophic lapse in judgment following a political defeat so infuriating that both Draco Malfoy and I briefly decided the only logical response was to set our professional hatred on fire and see what happened.

It was strategic. It was efficient. It was, and I cannot stress this enough, a one-time-only offer. We agreed, silently and with the mutual understanding of two people who’d rather be Crucio’d than admit a feeling, that it would never be referenced again. By morning, I left. He didn’t follow. The rivalry resumed, more disciplined than ever. Case closed. Universe: zero. My dignity: barely scathed.

Fast forward four weeks.

I woke up nauseous. Not the cute, fluttery kind. The kind that feels like a personal insult. The kind that makes you deeply, morally offended at your own body. I spent the morning glaring at my ceiling, because this was unacceptable. Suspicious, even.

Which is how I found myself at a healer’s office, being told the single most excessive piece of information a person can receive.

Because one unplanned, politically ruinous baby with your sworn enemy wasn’t enough. The universe went for the combo deal. Buy one, get one free. Apocalypse included.

So now I’m here.

Standing at the towering, oppressive front doors of Malfoy Manor. The gravel of the drive is crunching under my shoes like it’s judging me. The air is too still. The windows are too many, and they all feel like eyes.

Inside, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are having a perfectly normal day, blissfully unaware that their son’s life—and their entire legacy—is about to be detonated in the foyer.

Draco has no idea.

He’s probably somewhere being arrogantly competent, voting against my latest legislation, thinking he’s won something.

He is about to learn he’s the father of twins.

I lift my hand. The brass knocker is cold, shaped like a serpent. It feels like a dare.