CHAPTER 13
[Date - REDACTED] - Old War Office Building - Whitehall, London - [Time - REDACTED]
A placid-faced Number 8 (DoM's Director of Muggle Relations and Interactions) quietly read through one of the news magazines artfully arranged on the side table in the expansive and tastefully decorated waiting room.
It was a rather detailed article regarding the American Muggle President and his plan to prevent the attacks of some terrorist organization. 'Hmm…seems to be going around.'
The older wizard faintly registered the slight fidgeting of Number 48, one of his more junior-level Department Associates whom he'd chosen to accompany him. Normally, his Associate Director Number 16 would join him for a visit to the office of the Muggle aide-de-camp, but she was currently securing the first set of…alms that would need to be paid to the Dementors.
Number 8 succeeded in swallowing back his bile with practiced ease.
He registered Number 48 fidgeting once more, prompting him to put aside his magazine and grant her a gentle smile. "Alright there?"
"Oh! Oh sorry sir." While her Glamour Charm rendered her a decade or so older than her true age, Number 8 was able to see her true visage. "It's just that…this is Whitehall!"
He chuckled good-naturedly at her excitement. His Division held the greatest amount of muggleborns in the DoM, fitting due to the nature of their jobs. As such, they were the most well-versed in British muggle history and politics, and thus had the propensity to become quite excited when they experienced the intersection between their two worlds.
"Quite so. Did you know that the Londinium ley-"
"Hem hem."
Both Unspeakables looked up at the delicate clearing of a throat to see the smiling visage of the office secretary, expertly outfitted in a sleek black women's suit complimented by a chic pixie cut. Sparkling gray-blue eyes complimented painted red lips, currently upturned in a cheeky little smile.
"Miss Moneypenny," said Number 8 genially. The man rose and approached the woman, giving a gentlemanly bow as he dusted a kiss on her raised hand.
"Monsieur Belette, enchanté." Her tone was flirtatious as she lightly dipped into a curtsy.
"Tout le plaisir est pour moi, mademoiselle." He turned towards Number 48, who was internally impressed by his flawlessly-lilted Marseillais. "My associate, Miss Pouvoir." The witch politely greeted Miss Moneypenny who responded in kind.
"So," said Moneypenny, looping her arms through Number 8's own. "How go things in the telecom world? Plenty of time for holiday I see?" She stared pointedly at the man's tanned skin, a handsome contrast to his bright blue eyes and deep dark hair.
"Indeed mon ami, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh? At least that's what my mother and Miss Pouvoir here tell me." All three laughed (Moneypenny girlishly tittered) as they made their way to their intended destination.
Mr. Belette then proceeded to properly butter up Miss Moneypenny, who was highly receptive to flirtatious banter and thus would be prone to dropping bits of innocuous (to her) 'office gossip' to the tall and rakishly handsome businessman.
What the secretary didn't know, was that 'Monsieur Belette' was one of many foolproof covers Number 8 utilized when visiting Whitehall to discuss matters with 'M', the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service and the DoM's Top Secret magical-muggle relations liaison that worked tirelessly to ensure the sanctity of their shared worlds. Monsieur Belette would appear when there was a meeting needed to discuss 'wireless protocol upgrades', which was code for 'imminent world-ending disaster'.
The last Blood War had been filled with many a wireless protocol upgrade.
The trio soon arrived at M's door. Moneypenny knocked, before ushing in the two guests at her boss' brusque command of "Enter!"
"Au revoir cherie." The secretary winked at Belette who teasingly returned the gesture, much to Number 48's amusement.
The light mood immediately faded when the two Unspeakables were seated behind M's desk, whose expression could only be described as one of polite irritation.
Quickly activating the room's magical security features, the trio proceeded to exchange pleasantries - a series of coded messages that would ensure each was who they said they were.
Whilst that occurred, Number 48 quickly reviewed all her mental notes on the man before her.
Gareth Mallory was the third-born and only son of Walmond Mallory, who'd been born Walmond Potter - younger brother to Fleamont Potter. When Walmond's Hogwarts Letter had failed to arrive on his 11th birthday, it confirmed what the family had long suspected - Walmond was a squib. Luckily for the younger Potter, House Potter did not believe in tossing their squibs to the wolves.
Instead, his parents Henry and Sarah-Jane had covertly worked to have the boy adopted by the well-to-do muggle Mallory family, who were unable to have children of their own. Ensuring his son would want for nothing, Henry had instructed the Gringotts' Potter Account Manager to create a Lloyd's Bank account with a 100,000 galleon nest egg - a very comfortable half a million pound cache for the boy's future.
John and Sarah Mallory loved and cherished their son, ensuring the boy wanted for nothing. In the tradition of the English peerage, Walmond had boarded at Eton then onwards to Selwyn College at Cambridge, pursuing an illustrious military career that led to him becoming a founding member of the Secret Service Bureau, currently known as MI5. It was there that he'd caught the eye and attention of the DoM's Control, when Walmond had recognized the danger Hugo Pepper's Obscurial had posed.
Though he hadn't been a member of the Wizarding World in decades, Walmond still cherished his secret copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
It was thanks to Mallory's quick thinking that the Hugo Pepper situation had only been an Incident, and not a Complete Catastrophe.
Recognizing the benefit of having such an ally in the muggle world (especially in the throes of Grindelwald's war), Control and Saul Croaker had succeeded in forging a partnership that saw Walmond Mallory become the official Muggle aide-de-camp.
Likewise, Gareth had followed in his father's path, rising to become a lieutenant colonel in the British Army. He served in Northern Ireland with the Special Air Service during the Troubles, where he had been held hostage by the Irish Republican Army for three months, as part of a daring covert recon mission that had ultimately succeeded with surprisingly few casualties. Gareth's success had earned him several military accolades, rising to become the Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee in 1964, then MI6 in 1966.
Once his father officially retired from the role (along with a Knighthood for services in honor of Queen and Country), Gareth succeeded his father in carrying the mantle.
So far, the relationship had been passably agreeable.
Soon pleasantries were complete, and the three could get into the heart of the visit.
"So, I have been briefed on all the pertinent details that inspired your visit today." Gareth gestured towards the dossier on his desk. "Naturally, I can assume that's not the entirety of the facts at hand. Please," he gestured with feigned magnanimity, "tell me the facts."
Number 8 and Number 48 exchanged a quick glance that communicated quite a bit.
With a sigh, Number 8 told Gareth the sordid truth.
Exactly Thirty-One Minutes Later…
'This is definitely not good.'
That was the only thought running through Number 48's mind as she watched the head of MI6 digest the unfortunate news they'd dumped at his front door. While his expression seemed calm enough, his icy blue eyes were flashing with a keenly dangerous anger.
A few uncomfortable beats passed before Gareth sighed and reclined in his office chair, feigning relaxation as his thin lips stretched into amused contempt.
"Well well well…it seems you wizards have gone and properly bullocked things up, haven't you?" He snickered, though his tone was far from amused. "I distinctly recall when these murderous terrorists first darkened my door with their antics. It started with that damned man, oh what was his name?...Ah yes, the Toymaker - a murderous terrorist who used magicked children's toys to murder innocent victims. He'd racked up quite the kill count with his big splash in '71, but because those victims were mere muggles, your government didn't really see it fit to arrest and imprison the bastard." He chuckled again, though at this point his eyes were starting to burn in earnest outrage.
"Come to find out, this murderous terrorist was an esteemed member of your government, a Lord of an Ancient and Noble House! So, even if your government saw fit to get off its arse and arrest the man, he'd more than likely succeed in bribing his way out of proper punishment!"
Number 8 hid his wince well. "Yes but-"
"Said murderous terrorist continues on his jolly way wreaking unchecked havoc in both our worlds, your countless messes that I have to help BLOODY CLEAN UP! Almost 3% of my annual security budget goes towards cyber-surveillance for Hamleys! 3%!"
"I understand that-"
"And if that wasn't bad enough, turns out, there's a group of them!" Gareth gestured as though he were amazed. "An entire group of murderous terrorists, the bulk of whom are also esteemed members of your government! Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, gallivanting about in the dark of night rampaging, raping, and murdering innocents unchecked!"
"Trust me I'm-"
"All of the horrific casualties!" He choked out a hysterical laugh. "London. Appleby. Upper Flagley. Tutshill. Kenmare. Wigtown. Falmouth. Holyhead. Guildford. Ilkley. Little-fucking-Whinging (Number 8 flinched). Which, dare I say, is lucky to still be standing, considering one of your murderous terrorist shits unleashed a fucking earthquake spell that almost sunk all of Surrey into a fucking crater!"
"Gareth, I am aware of-"
"TEN YEARS!" Number 48 jumped at his harsh volume as her superior merely sighed. "Ten. Long. Blood-soaked. Years. I've had to play coverup and clean up crew for a merry band of inbred murderous terrorists and their buggering Dark Lord, because magicals, with their sullen sense of unearned superiority believe that the so-called purity of their blood grants them carte blanche to unleash horrific violence against innocent citizens whose only wrong, was not being born of magic and, 'pure-of-blood'." He sneered viciously.
"I'm aware of pureblood pol-"
"As if that's not bad enough, your law enforcement refuses to use matching lethal force in curtailing these violent criminals, thanks to a persistently incompetent Ministry bolstered by a Wizengamot composed of the same terrorists who bend the law to protect themselves from punishment for their crimes. It is only thanks to the Knights of Walpurgis not choosing to sit on their arses did those Death Eater raids not end in complete massacres!"
"Yes, the Knights did-"
Gareth actually snarled, before jumping out of his seat to stand by his massive office window. "Then, according to some ridiculous Prophecy, the so-called Boy-Who-Lived emerges in 1981 and 'vanquishes' the Dark Lord. A seemingly impossible crock of shite considering one was a baby and the other an entire adult, but, nonetheless, seemed to curtail the sheep and stave off the violence." Number 8 had the brief sensation of Number 6's scandalized visage flashing in his mind's eye at Mallory's scathing dismissal of the Trelawney Prophecy.
"You finally succeed in capturing and imprisoning a fair few - but not all - of your murderous terrorists, locked away in a supposedly impenetrable tower in the middle of the North Sea surrounded by soul-sucking wraiths. A little macabre, but, I'm told several times, 'quite effective'."
"The Dementors aren't-"
"But now…now…you tell me, that these convicted murderous terrorists are somehow, absconded from a fucking supermax prison with outside help, and, because of some arcane contract with said soul-sucking wraiths, they are free to leave Azkaban en masse to pursue the criminals! Oh, and they have to be fed souls of convicts in some grotesque alms-paying clause! Do I have the long and short of it?!"
"Gareth, the contract clearly states that they can only pursue the escapees-"
"DO YOU THINK THOSE FOUL CREATURES WILL KEEP THEIR WORD?!"
Number 8 could only sigh, not too upset at the man's outrage. He himself had been utterly furious when Number 2 and Control had debriefed him regarding the Dementor Menace, screaming almost non-stop for a record 32 minutes.
"As of now Gareth," said the Sr. Unspeakable as calmly as possible, "our arrangement with the
Dementors is that they will surveil the Hogwarts Grounds from the Forbidden Forest. We strongly suspect that the Death Eater escapees will try to breach Hogwarts School in pursuit of the Boy-Who-Lived and or his little brother. It was the only means we could keep the creatures bound to one location with the highest amount of individuals on record who can cast the Patronus Charm, the only known means of repelling the creatures."
"What about killing them? Is the Patronus Charm capable of that?" The grimace both Unspeakables responded with was all the answer he needed.
"How…how long is this entire alms-paying clause again?"
"Until the escapees are apprehended and imprisoned once more. The timeline is set per the details in the dossier provided."
A few more uncomfortable moments passed as the head of the MI6 gazed out of his office window.
"What happens if the deadline passes and the Death Eaters are still not captured, leaving the Occupancy Clause unfulfilled? What then?"
Number 8 cleared his throat as delicately as possible. "We were hoping you would be able to assist with that."
Almost Two Hours Later…
As the door clicked shut behind his unwanted guests, Gareth Mallory took a deep and calming breath and settled back into his chair, barely resisting the urge to hurl his water pitcher in the door's direction.
"Plutonium bombs, conflict diamonds-for-arms, 006 going fucking rogue, and the KG-bloody-B damn near kidnapping 007 and I have to deal with magical terrorists and a horde of soul-sucking skeletons in cloaks running amuck! All because these idiot stick-wielding little twits think they're too good for capital-bloody-PUNISHMENT!"
Gareth felt his heart rate spike dangerously. Sighing, he took a few more deep practiced breaths, feeling his racing heart slow and calm. His stress and anger slowly ebbed away, allowing him to better focus.
Pressing a unique groove on the underside of his desk, causing a hidden drawer to emerge from under the desk. Carved on the drawer were a series of raised symbols of Algiz, Ehwaz, and Uruz. Pressing the symbols in seemingly random order opened the drawer, revealing two seemingly innocuous objects.
The Little Black Book.
The Beacon.
The former was a rolodex containing the contact information of the less than…reputable resources the Head of MI6 could utilize in situations that required a more…delicate hand that the 00-Program could lend. The beacon was a hand-held satellite phone, a custom and untraceable prototype created exclusively for the Head of MI6.
With a deep breath, Gareth flipped through the Little Black Book until he landed on the contact information he required. Turning on the phone, he quickly dialed the country code and corresponding number.
"Operator speaking," said a lightly accented female voice.
"Mike-India-6, seeking Alpha-Charlie-Charlie-Tango."
"Confirmed, go for Alpha-Charlie-Charlie-Tango."
The line paused and beeped, before another more accented female voice sounded.
"Alpha-Charlie-Charlie-Tango, Menu Loading. Select Option?"
"Option Lima-India-Alpha-Bravo-India-Lima-India-Tango-Yankee, 2-9-0-0."
A beat passed.
"Confirmed. Connecting…" The line beeped thrice more, before clicking as the intended recipient finally responded.
"How may I assist?"
"Baxter, it's good to hear your voice." The voice at the other end chuckled, knowing the situation could not be good if he was the one calling.
"I acknowledged the code. To what or whom does it concern?"
"...Those of the stick-wielding variety." Gareth could practically hear the man clench up in tension. Like he and his father, Baxter was also a squib. Unfortunately, this magical family had been entirely too impoverished and socially lacking to provide the cushion Henry and Sarah-Jane Potter had provided for Walmond.
Instead, the 11 year-old had been deposited on the front door of an orphanage in Muggle London. Through sweat, blood, and tears, he'd clawed his way out and become quite a successful man, acquiring a unique set of skills that Gareth was in need of today.
"...Go on."
As succinctly as possible, Mallory gave Baxter a rundown of the situation at hand, along with the 'solution' he and the Unspeakables had devised in the event of the Death Eaters not being apprehended before the deadline. Or, by some miracle, getting killed.
"Hm… so this will inevitably involve some of my clients. You know I don't discuss client business Gareth."
"I'm well aware, but this isn't about your clients (Baxter snorted), not really. This is about…the mutual enemies your clients have in common with each other. It's not my fault the damn thing is a bloody Venn diagram." Baxter snorted again, but otherwise didn't respond.
"So this will involve the Black Hand, Le Milieu, and La Garduña…"
"Yes…each has a common magical enemy, all of whom have committed serious crimes on English soil. Therefore, perfectly within the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic to try and imprison them. I…I wouldn't ask if it weren't critical. The Dementors-"
"Yes, yes, I understand. Still…"
"I will, of course, make it worth your while."
"Ha! You know I have no need of money, my clients make certain of that."
"I am aware…though we both know I've never had to pay you in money."
"Yes, yes, immunity on British and American soil is nice. I would like to get it on French and Albanian soil too…"
Gareth sighed. "I…I will work to get it done Steven."
A beat passed before Steven Baxter chuckled with true sincerity. "Excellent. The Accountant is now at your service."
17 August 1993 - Section 19, Janus Thickey Ward - St. Mungo's, 9:14AM
Sniffling pitifully, Hestia readjusted her position by her sister's bedside so she could better grip her hand. The gentle beep-beep-beep of the monitoring orbs provided an odd sense of comfort, an audial guarantee that her beloved sister was still alive.
The Death Eater Menace was harrowing at best, and now more than ever, she wished her sister could be properly beside her. It'd taken everything in her to not set up camp in the Janus Thickey Ward, though she imagined the Healers would frown upon it.
Still though…
Wiping her tears, Hestia leaned a bit more of her body against her sister's bed. Gwenog's comatose form lay prone on stark white hospital sheets, her head covered by an All-Healing Orb interwoven with Stabilization and Permasanitation Charms. They kept her head perfectly steady and unperturbed, especially important considering the gleaming orichalcum sword plunged directly into head, entering the left side and emerging on the right. Hestia choked back a cry at the ghastly sight, forcing herself to not have another breakdown.
It'd been exactly 1 year and 19 days since Gwenog's incapacitation. Part of Hestia was angry at Gwenog for interfering, but her anger never lasted long when she realized that it would be her on the hospital bed with a dark magic sword sticking out of her head. She sniffled piteously.
"You were always so brave Gwennie, so foolishly brave." Her sister had always been the adventurous sort, a fearless Gryffindor to the core. Her most precious memories of the girl had been her zipping circles around in their meadowed backyard chasing dragonflies, all while her terrified parents urged the girl to slow down. Hestia would always be tucked under her favorite tree, giggling at Gwennie's antics.
Not only did they differ in temperament, but also in appearance. Where Hestia was pale and lithe, Gwenog was dark and curvaceous, coupled with a powerful athletic strength that made her such a formidable Beater. While so many wondered how two so diametrically opposed in appearance could possibly be sisters, it became readily apparent once their histories were laid bare.
Hestia Jones was born Hestia Callaghan to Darragh and Liban Callaghan, who resided in Farran village in Cork. The two had been very close friends with Gladys and Owen Jones since their First Years at Hogwarts, all three Sorted into Gryffindor. As such, both had become the godparents for each other's daughter, born within a month of the other.
Familial bliss was shattered a day after Hestia's 8th birthday, on the Callaghans' chance visit to Donnybrook, civilian casualties in a bombing by the UVF during the North Ireland Troubles. Thankfully, the parents had been able to use their emergency Portkey to send their daughter away to safety to Gladys and Owen. Terrified and grief-stricken, the witchling had found a home with her second family, who helped her mourn the loss of her beloved parents. Hestia was officially adopted once the girls started Hogwarts. Though Hestia had been sorted into Ravenclaw and Gwenog into Gryffindor, the girls had been inseparable.
As with these things, tragedy had struck once more in the girls' Fifth Year; Gladys and Owen had been murdered - casualties in a Death Eater raid in Holyhead. The sisters had been devastated, spending almost a week in the Hospital Wing in matching catatonic states. It'd taken a lot of time and a lot of work to heal, but thankfully (with the help of their grandparents), things had gotten better.
"But everything's changed now, Gwennie. Everything's changed." She squeezed the witch's hand tight, desperately wishing she could squeeze her hand back.
In between handling the affairs of her and Artie's clients, Hestia had dedicated every bit of free time to researching some way - any way - to heal Gwennie of the awful dark magic that had befallen her.
She'd devoured the shelves at Flourish and Blotts, Tomes and Scrolls, and the Restricted Section at the Hogwarts Library, guilting Dumbledore into allowing her limited access.
To Hestia's dismay, she'd found nothing useful beyond overly detailed descriptions as to what orichalcum was.
Undeterred, she'd journeyed to Knockturn Alley in search for more answers. Borgin and Burkes had been a waste of her time and Moribund's had only allowed her a one-time entry. 'Not that there was anything useful in there.' Hestia snorted in memory of the old bookkeeper's rudeness.
Growing desperate, she'd reached out to her contacts she'd made during her Law Mastery years. They'd all been quite acquiescing, though Hestia imagined having a famous celebrity sister was the true encouraging factor.
Benoîte Montmorency had managed to secure her a full day of unfettered access in the Restricted Section of the Bibliothèque Magique, slated for the coming weekend. It helped that Benoîte worked as a Consulting Solicitor for the Bureau de la Justice Magique and did quite exceptional work.
Haaibre Magdy's wife Nenet was a Cursebreaker for Gringotts Cairo, and thus had more access to the more arcane things of the world. Unfortunately, Nenet's 'solution' had been a vague reference to an obscure (and highly illegal) ritual from the Book of the Dead that could transfer one's soul to an identical homunculus form. The prospect was entirely too horrifying for Hestia to seriously consider, but she nonetheless appreciated the effort.
Obediah Prewett - in that gratingly obsequious way of his - had promised that he would reach out to his contacts to see what leads he could "scrounge up" to assist his past classmate.
"I'll get you better Gwennie, I swear it! I swear it!"
Main Parlor - Longbottom Manor, 2:18PM
"Kindly repeat that. I don't think I properly heard you."
Tom tiredly sighed, having expected the Regent Longbottom's reaction. He registered Regulus and Lucius' matching winces, and even Severus flinched. Lily was stone-faced, though Tom noticed the distinct tightening of her form as she readied herself to attack or defend if need be.
'Let's hope it doesn't come to that.'
"I said Augusta, that based on mine and Severus' joint scan into Bellatrix Lestrange's mind, she is, technically, not responsible for the Cruciatus attacks on Frank and Alice. It was a false-"
"Not responsible…" Augusta's whisper was harsh with a hysterical edge. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair in a vice grip. Lucius felt mild relief, knowing her wand was temporarily out of her grasp.
"You…expect me…to believe…her repeated Cruciatus torture of my son…my only son…was a mistake?!" The dowager was quickly hurtling past hysteria and into full-blown rage.
"Not a mistake I-"
"OF COURSE IT WASN'T A MISTAKE!" Augusta jumped out of her chair in a fury, not noticing that the force of her enraged magic had caused the tea set to explode in a flurry of broken china.
"That murderous bitch along with her murderous thug husband, brother-in-law, and my own filthy cousin, broke into my family's manor and torture my poor son and his poor wife! Bloody hell, Alice can't ever have any more children because of what those degenerate Lestrange brothers did to her! WAS THAT A MISTAKE TOO?!" Everyone winced at that bellow.
"No," replied Tom quietly. "Rodolphus and Rabastan are fully responsible for their actions - they are sadists in every sense of the word, and they took the Dark Mark willingly. Not much brainwashing was required to encourage them to rape and murder." Tom sneered viciously, the action calming Augusta down a touch. "However, that is not the case for Bellatrix." It was Augusta's turn to sneer.
"It doesn't matter," she hissed furiously.
"Augusta," replied Tom with as much patience as he could muster up. "It does." The witch snarled, too angry to muster up words. "Her true mind was locked away in a psychic iron maiden, weakened by months of brainwashing from Rookwood's corrupted Occlumency text. It made it easier to isolate her true mind and implant two fake Personalities - Bellatrix Lestrange and Miss Demeanor. And now, thanks to Dementor exposure, the Bellatrix Lestrange and Miss Demeanor Personalities can't seem to agree on who is the right owner of their body. Though neither is the proper owner of either."
Augusta made an odd choking sound, beginning to shake in earnest. Lucius and Lily allowed their wands to slip into their hands, just in case they needed to cast a Protego.
"It doesn't matter," said the Dowager viciously. "It doesn't matter what Personality of that demented bitch's was in control of her, I. Don't. Care. It was still her wand and her magic that cast Cruciatus - multiple times - against my son and his wife, robbing them of any sort of life and robbing my grandson of his parents! They are all going to die."
"Augusta please listen-"
"THEY WILL ALL DIE!" The large mirror above the mantle cracked, on the verge of shattering. "They. Will. All. Die. You swore I would have my revenge. You swore me an Unbreakable Vow - their deaths are mine to command."
"YOU WHAT?!" exclaimed Lucius incredulously, his horrified expression matching the remaining three occupants who were completely unaware of such a Vow ever being made.
'Bugger.'
The Solarium - Castle Basilicus - 8:29PM
Ever grateful for his trifurcated thoughtstream, Tom listened and responded when appropriate whilst conversing with Libra. He'd had a particularly stressful afternoon consisting of shouting, outraged accusations, and even spellfire exchange. He definitely needed a break.
Curiously enough, there was a keen lightness to his wife's mood he found peculiar, though not unwelcome. She'd requested they have dinner in the Solarium, and Tom was always willing to oblige his darling Libra.
Dessert soon arrived (a Molly Weasley double chocolate tart special), and the two moved to the balcony to enjoy the soft glow of the magically-enhanced view of the stars.
"So…" said Libra teasingly, cuddling fully into Tom's side. It's a lovely night tonight."
Tom smiled indulgently, dusting a gentle kiss across her forehead. "Indeed it is, despite everything that's going on out there."
"Hm…" the witch nuzzled her face into Tom's neck, sighing contentedly. "I have a gift for you…just confirmed its availability today."
"Really?" said Tom, setting his dessert plate aside so he could properly wrap his arms around his witch. "What is it?"
Libra giggled sweetly. "Well…said present is extra special, made for you and me, by you and me." Lord Gaunt quirked his brow at that teasingly cryptic statement. "And like all things, will come in due time. Say…by late spring?"
She fondly watched her husband's expression wrinkle adorably as his brilliant mind slowly but steadily put the pieces together. When it clicked, his eyes widened as he dropped to his knees in front of her.
"You mean?..."
"Yes mon amour, I'm pregnant."
She watched several emotions flash across his eyes, the crystalline blue orbs turning glassy in amazement and wonder. Slowly, he raised his large hands to cup her still-flat abdomen.
"Oh Libra…I'm…I'm going to be a father." He tenderly kissed her stomach through her robes, causing his wife to tearfully laugh as she kissed his forehead in kind.
Several thoughts raced through Tom Riddle's mind. He'd sworn on his very soul that if he were ever to have a family, he would love and cherish them above all else. His children would never be abandoned, would never know the horrors of rotting away in a muggle orphanage. Seeds of joy slowly took root in his heart, making him feel delightfully light-headed
Then…slowly…Tom realized that he was going to be a father, and that he was going to be responsible for shielding his child from all the horrible things in the world, wizarding and muggle alike. Horrendous images flashed through his mind's eye, causing his actual eyes to slowly widen in horrified alarm.
"Tom darling," said Libra worriedly, wondering what could have caused such a rapid change in his mood. "What's the matter mon amour? What is it?"
Her husband choked as he continued staring at her stomach with terrified eyes. "I'm…I'm going to be a father."
And with that whispered statement, Tom Riddle fainted dead away.
AN 1: The image of Tom Riddle fainting dead away after finding out he'd be a father was just too damn good to pass up, LOL!
AN 2: RE - Walmond Potter/Gareth Mallory: I thought it amusing that one aspect of the fate of the Wizarding World would still lie on the shoulders of a Potter. It's also a rather interesting twist to two Potter sons - both of whom were candidates for fulfillment of the Potter Prophecy - ending up on such different paths. To me, the curse Nathaniel & Cassandra devised to stave off the Prophecy resulted in the son who would have become a Slytherin Prince turning out to be a squib. As with these things, Fate got the upper hand and her 'revenge' with the Potter Twins.
AN 3: The role of Gareth Mallory is of course, played by Ralph Fiennes (who played canon Voldemort in the films). Another bit of irony I thought quite amusing. I'm thinking Michael Caine in The Whistle Blower for Walmond. Miss Moneypenny is played by Samantha Bond, specifically in The World is Not Enough - the film inspiration for this chapter's title. Arthur's Monsieur Belette disguise is the ever charming Pierce Brosnan in that same film. 'Belette' is French for 'weasel', a clever reference to Number 8's true name and identity (Arthur Weasley). If you recall in PoS, TSM stated the Weasleys are the French expats whereas the Malfoys were not, thought to add a little twist to that.
AN 4: If you recall in AD Book 2 Ch 4., Harry observes that his friend Davy Baxter looks and acts so much like the Weasley Twins he pondered if they were related. Well, as luck would have it, his father is Molly Weasley's squib cousin that was sent away when they were children. He is an accountant for the criminal underworld, but he's also a world-class assassin. Think Ben Affleck's character in The Accountant film. Casting-wise, I'm thinking Damian Lewis in A Spy Among Friends.