It’s not his…

Those evil little words that been running through her head all day. She knew who was the father, but could hardly admit it to herself… so how could she ever admit it to her husband?

“What’s your name?” I asked, turning to the girl across from me.

“Pansy Parkinson.” The girl said, flipping her hair over her shoulder like she was the best thing at the table.

“Well, Pansy. I play Quidditch,” I told her, cocking an eyebrow. “I, obviously, can handle eating this cake.” I made a show of looking her over, glancing at the large half-eaten chocolate pastry on her plate. “You obviously don’t play Quidditch, do you?”