Georgette Weasley lay exhausted and panting in the hospital bed. "Tom, Tom, do let me hold our little one...oh my handsome Tommy, look at our son!"

Voldemort's lips curled up in a smile, one strangely free of cruelty, as he held his tiny son before his beautiful, exhausted wife. "Georgette my love, I am pleased with the results of our procreation. I know there will be many others, each as beautiful as the last, to come. We shall be together forever! Think of it, a dynasty to rule the entire world."

Normally Voldemort would have lapsed into evil sounding cackles at this point, but the joy welling within him overpowered even his maniacal impulses.

"My sweet," said Georgette softly, as she drifted off to sleep, "I think we should call him Thomas as well."

"Thomas Voldemort Jr, then?"

"It sounds lovely."

With a last, lingering kiss for his wife, Voldemort exited. The poor dear would need her rest, after all. He almost placed his first-born baby in the heavily-guarded nursery, but then changed his mind. Perhaps Georgette was right, he thought, I should have gone with Dementors instead of Trolls; they're less likely harm poor Tommy. Instead he sat up with the babe, late into the night, recounting tales of his life and times to his only son.