Chapter Text
“Of course, we all wish to believe that parents have the best interests of their children in mind,” Tom says with a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, some Muggles hold extreme prejudice against the concept of magic, and their magical children are forced to suffer the consequences.”
With narrowed eyes, Tom watches as Rita Skeeter’s acid-green quill moves across the parchment, transforming his perfectly rehearsed responses into unrecognizable drivel. Not for the first time, he wishes that he had forgone this slow, tedious ascent up the political ladder and chosen to forcefully bend the Wizarding World to his will instead.
He imagines Skeeter’s head on a pike, blonde ringlets and smug smile included. It soothes him, if only briefly. Then he forcefully tamps down his hostility and waits for the next question.
“Readers of the Daily Prophet are dying to know,” Skeeter says, leaning in eagerly. “Are you planning on settling down soon and having children of your own?”
Tom blinks once.
“I do not see how that question is relevant to our discussion of the Magical Child Welfare Act,” he says stiffly.
“I believe it is relevant,” Skeeter insists. “Much of your platform centers on families and increasing the wizarding population. Yet you do not have a family of your own. Some might say you are not doing your part.”
The audacity.
“As I have said many times, Miss Skeeter, we all have a role to play,” Tom says smoothly. “At the moment, I am focused on serving the magical population of Great Britain as Minister for Magic. Pursuing marriage at the moment would divide my attention.”
Skeeter’s thinly plucked brow arches higher. Tom leans back in his chair, folding his hands loosely in his lap, already bracing for the next invasive probe into his private life.
When the interview finally ends and Skeeter sweeps from the premises in a cloud of harsh floral perfume, Tom remains seated at his desk, pressing his fingers to the stabbing ache at his temple.
Right on cue, his assistant appears.
Harry Potter steps to his side without a sound, a headache-relief potion already in his hand.
Tom takes it without looking at him, pops the stopper free with his thumb, and downs the phial in a single swallow.
“Do you need me to cancel your scheduled lunch with Lord Malfoy, sir?” Potter asks. “It seems that you may be in need of a rest.”
Tom sets the empty phial aside. “No. I will proceed with the remainder of today’s itinerary as planned. I appreciate your concern.”
“Very good, sir. I will see you at two p.m. for your meeting with the Head of the DMLE.”
Potter has served as Tom’s assistant for the past year and is, by every measurable standard, exemplary. He follows all of Tom’s orders to the letter without a single complaint. He doesn’t spend his time currying favor with Tom like so many assistants who came before him.
Potter is quiet, polite, and efficient. He does not volunteer stories about his personal life. In other words, he is perfect.
Yet, for some reason Tom cannot quite comprehend, he is bothered by Potter’s perfection. It's too artificial. There must be a crack somewhere upon the crafted mask he wears.
Tom wants to find it. To press his thumb to the fault line and feel it split.
But first, lunch with Lucius.
With a wave of his wand, Potter conjures a stream of cool, lemon-flavoured water into Tom’s glass.
The day’s tasks have been completed. If Potter is eager to be dismissed, his face gives nothing away. He stands before the desk with the same blandly pleasant expression as always—composed and attentive.
It makes Tom’s skin crawl.
“Potter,” Tom says, a slight smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “What do you think of Rita Skeeter’s insinuations earlier?”
For only a moment, there’s a flicker of what appears to be surprise that crosses Potter’s brow. Then it is gone just as quickly.
“I don’t believe they’re anything you should concern yourself with, sir. Her writing thrives on sensationalism. I doubt the average voter will be persuaded to alter their opinion of you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Tom steeples his fingers. “I want to know what you think. Should I be doing my part? Pursuing marriage? Producing heirs?”
Potter’s gaze drops briefly to the edge of the desk. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
Something within Tom purrs in satisfaction at Potter’s obvious discomfort. He wonders how far he can push.
“I’ve noticed you never offer me your opinions,” Tom says lightly.
“You have never asked for them,” Potter replies. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Sir.”
Tom gestures toward the chair opposite him. Potter hesitates only a moment before sitting, spine rigid, hands resting neatly in his lap.
“I find that I wish to request one now,” Tom says. “What do you truly think of the Magical Child Welfare Act? You were raised by Muggle relatives, were you not? I would value your perspective.”
Potter shifts in his seat. His eyes are no longer soft, but instead appear wary.
“Yes,” he says. “I was raised by my Muggle relatives, who hated magic. I suppose you could say that I would have benefited from the Ministry intervening on my behalf.”
Potter crosses his arms.
“But there are many Muggle parents who support their magical children. My friend Hermione’s parents, for example. I fail to see the benefit in treating them as criminals. It hardly fosters goodwill.”
His voice gains steadiness as he continues.
“And I noticed the bill does not address abuse within pure-blood households. Or Squibs abandoned in the Muggle world.”
It seems that Potter has briefly dropped his act. Fascinating. Not wanting to disrupt the momentum, Tom inclines his head in silent permission to continue.
“And giving incentives for starting families is all well and good, but it doesn’t do much if you aren’t addressing the causes of the low birth rate in the first place,” Potter continues, heat rising in his tone. “Namely, inbreeding among pure-bloods.”
Then Potter blinks and looks around, as if just noticing where he is and to whom he is speaking.
“But I am only an assistant, sir,” he adds, voice smoothing. “There are individuals far more qualified than I am to comment.”
Tom studies him.
“It seems,” he says softly, “that you have given the matter considerable thought.”
Before he can press further, the Floo explodes to life in a rush of green flame.
Potter is on his feet instantly, wand drawn with startling speed. His movements seemed honed, almost instinctive.
Nobody should be able to access the Minister’s floo unannounced.
Tom rises as well, conjuring a shield broad enough to encompass them both. He checks the wards on the Floo personally each morning. If there has been a breach—
A picnic basket tumbles onto the carpet.
The flames die.
Potter does not lower his wand. “It could be cursed, sir. You should evacuate. I’ll summon the Aurors.”
“If it is cursed,” Tom replies coolly, “I am more than capable of handling it. You may evacuate, however, if you wish.”
Potter’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t move.
Keeping his shield raised, Tom approaches the basket. He senses no magic coming from it—malignant or otherwise. Slowly, he lowers the shield.
Nothing happens.
He exhales and begins to perform a variety of diagnostic charms, all of which produce no results.
Frowning, Tom shoots a burst of magic into the wicker.
It jolts.
And then—
A wail.
Potter’s brows knit together. “Was that… a baby?”
Tom lifts the lid, revealing a scrunched pink face mid-cry.
“It would appear so,” Tom says, though his stomach turns.
Tom did not order an infant. He despises children—has since he was a child himself. He briefly considers sending the basket back through the Floo, forcing it to become someone else’s problem.
He could always Obliviate Potter afterward.
When he turns, Potter is staring at him—not the basket—with wide green eyes and wand still raised.
Tom nudges the basket with the toe of his Oxford. The baby hiccups and stops crying, looking up at Tom with large, wet eyes.
“Is there—er—a note?” Potter asks.
There isn’t a note attached to the basket. Perhaps there is one inside. But if Tom wants to investigate, he’ll have to reach inside… touch the wretched little thing.
Two chubby arms rise from the basket, grasping at empty air.
The baby’s gaze locks onto him.
“Dada,” it says solemnly.
Then more insistently, “Dada!”
Tom stands frozen, his chest tightening.
He hears a huff of breath followed by what sounds suspiciously like, “For fuck’s sake,” before Potter moves past him, bends over the basket, and lifts the infant out.
It immediately settles in his arms as if it has always belonged there.
Potter adjusts his hold, bouncing the baby lightly. A warmth spreads across his face that Tom has never seen directed at him.
“I saw an envelope tucked inside,” Potter says. “It was addressed to you.”
Tom forces himself to inhale. To move. He retrieves the thin envelope from the basket and casts several more diagnostic charms over it for good measure before breaking the seal.
Dear Minister Riddle,
This child’s former guardians were found unsuitable. In accordance with the Magical Child Welfare Act, the child has been placed in your care until a more suitable permanent guardian can be found.
Sincerely,
The Office for Magical Family Services
The parchment crumples in Tom’s fist.
“This is a mistake,” he says, scowling. “Summon the Head of the MFS at once.”
“Sure,” Potter replies, calm as ever.
He turns back toward Tom, lifting the infant slightly. “Would you mind, er—”
The baby’s arms shoot forward immediately.
“Dada!” it declares.
Tom recoils.
“Never mind,” he says quickly. “I will take care of it. You carry on tending to—that thing.”
Potter’s lip twitches. “He’s not a thing,” he says mildly. “He’s a baby.”
“Regardless,” Tom says with a sniff, “I don’t want him near me.”
Potter laughs under his breath and—
Yes.
That was, indeed, an eye roll.
Tom's gaze sharpens.
Potter is speaking to the infant in a low, gentle tone, appearing completely at ease. He’s softer this way—not as guarded.
Apparently comfortable enough to roll his eyes at the Minister for Magic.
But Tom cannot dwell on that—not at the moment. Admittedly, he is grateful that Potter is still present to mitigate this crisis.
“What’s your name, little one?” Potter coos. “We found you in a basket. Shall we call you Moses?”
Tom grimaces. “Do not grow attached, Potter.”
He strides to the fireplace, snatches a handful of Floo powder from the glass jar, and casts it into the flames with more force than necessary. Green fire roars upward.
Dropping to one knee, he thrusts his head into the hearth.
“The Office for Magical Family Services!”
This has to be a clerical error. An unfortunate misinterpretation of his own legislation.
He is the Minister for Magic.
He is not anyone’s “Dada”.
This will be corrected shortly, he tells himself.
It is not.