Chapter 52: Darling, I'm Pregnant!

In Elena's guise, I listened to the report of my werewolves.

The latest meeting between the werewolves and the Aurors ended unsuccessfully for the werewolves. The Aurors left without losses, while the werewolves took the brunt.

A dozen werewolves in human form were hoisting three injured onto operating tables. Two dead werewolves lay slightly aside.

Using spells, I examined the wounded. Externally, they looked like ordinary people who had been beaten for a long time with something like a board with nails. Despite the resilience of werewolves, their wounds showed no signs of healing. And the most interesting thing was that I felt no trace of Dark Magic being used.

Unfortunately, finding someone to heal the werewolves turned out to be very difficult. Even the bribed healers from St. Mungo's refused. To be honest, I don't blame them: during my first operation, one of them tried to bite me. In fact, one was already under medication. But after I burned alive those who couldn't control their jaws—the attempts stopped.

Now I was casting scanning spells while listening to the report from their commander.

"While on patrol, we ran into Aurors. They worked their spells from a distance and apparated away. They used something new."

Of course, I have more important things to do than worry about the wounded werewolves, but it's not a bad way to boost my reputation. Moreover, it's training for my skills in delicate medical maneuvers and reducing irretrievable losses among werewolves, though we have no problems with their numbers: other countries pretend not to see how werewolves are fleeing to Magical England. We even have a few jaguar-werewolves now, but for them, I need to brew a special potion, for which I have no ingredients...

Soon the scanning spells revealed the diagnosis. Very interesting; it would be more humane to simply Avada Kedavra... I also need to learn how to...

I cast pain relief and sleeping spells on all three.

"Show me your memories," I said to the commander, aiming my wand at him.

Legilimency worked flawlessly. I saw the memories of the battle. The werewolves had lost most of their magical defenses against artifacts due to the long-range attack. There was a magical strike—some propelled objects and bursts—and then an instant retreat. After that, the werewolves gathered the dead and wounded and retreated to base.

"They were poisoned with a silver solution," I reported. "Extracting a piece of silver isn't a problem, but they dissolved the silver in transfigured liquid. The poison entered the bloodstream and infected the body. The breakdown of the transfigured substance, which partially absorbed into the cells, worsened the injury," I stated the unvarnished truth.

"This one won't make it," I pointed to the most severely wounded.

To be honest, he could still be saved. But he would need to be almost completely reworked; it would take about ten hours. It's like a text splattered with ink stains; you need to cut out the letters one by one and clean them up to reattach them to the same page. Meanwhile, the other two wounded would require at most an hour of work—the poisoning was much weaker since they had sustained fewer hits from transfigured projectiles.

"These two can still be helped," I said, activating the scalpel spell and beginning a blood transfusion. The internal organs would be more challenging, but I would give them a couple of potions. If they don't die immediately—they'll recover.

The response was a series of unfriendly glances.

"The one you discarded is named Mark. And he is my friend," one of the werewolves informed me.

I should throw a Cruciatus curse, but it would be pointless.

"You can try to save Mark yourselves. I can't do it; only the Dark Lord is omnipotent and immortal," I said, mechanically playing my role while keeping an eye on my new subjects. As a last resort, I have an emergency portkey and a phoenix. Blockage of movement? At the Death Eater base? They had four wands in their hands before they came to us! And their level—maximum third year at Hogwarts.

"If the Dark Lord is omnipotent, why is there this war? Why should we die?" one of the werewolves asked.

"You're saying dangerous things," I replied, not diverting my attention from my work as I began my propaganda. "Nothing is given for free; if you want something, you must pay. You pay with your service. And regarding what this war is about... The Dark Lord's plans are unknown even to me. Until the power changes, you can expect nothing good. You share the same goals as the Dark Lord. I suspect that Albus having the Elder Wand complicates matters. Moreover, it is not enough for the Lord to simply kill Dumbledore. He wants to make him suffer so that the old man's name is spoken like a curse."

This is not true. We need to kill quickly—mocking the enemy is categorically unacceptable. The ambitious goal is to convince everyone that black is white. But we need to try. From the outside, our black PR seems quite chaotic, but that's only for now… It's a pity I won't witness the fight between Albus and Aberforth, over the limit pumped with necro-energy, of which only the memory that Albus killed Ariana remains… And then the old man will have to either lie or justify himself at the trial. A Light Mage who kills his own relatives? Who are you after that, Albus? Right, an orphan.

But let's not forget about constant vigilance; these werewolves seem relatively sane, and I send all the lunatics to Grey, but who knows…

"If any of you want to help your people, so that you finally have magical support and not just artifacts, then we need volunteers capable of magic," I began my agitation.

In Elena's guise, I participated in battle alongside the werewolves a couple of times, which led to a slight increase in my popularity among the "furry guys." As a result, everyone except Snape stopped greeting Lily-Elena. Yes, managing werewolves through trusted agents is one thing, but going into battle with them? That's unacceptable! Wizards are so shortsighted—an enormous, obedient, intelligent army that can instantly replenish its ranks, unlike the self-sustaining Dementors, which have no food base and can only exist in peacetime, yet wizards continue to play at racism.

Out of those present, two were willing to volunteer. Well, after refining the ritual, the Source of the Princes will be waiting for you. The survivors will become powerful Dark Wizards... Though this won't give you any combat experience or increase your chances of hitting a target with a spell. But even if my experiment fails from a combat perspective, I shouldn't forget about advertising and cleaning the Source.

Soon, I took on my usual male form at another base and loaded my brain with new work.

Then, at a different base, I prepared for a special experiment. For my latest idea, I needed to scan a wizard who had been kissed by a Dementor in detail. After that, I'd check what possession was.

I hadn't thought of this before, but while refining my Ritual for gaining power, a question arose: how do I actually cast magic?

I mean, if I don't have Tom's soul, how am I capable of magic?

The most obvious answer is that I am Tom Riddle, only I've completely lost my mind. Actually, that's not the worst option—it would be much sadder if I imagined myself as a flobberworm. Essentially, who I am isn't critical; what matters is what to do.

But right now, my interest is not idle. The question is simple—what is responsible for magic? The body? The soul? Something else?

If it's the body, then we could stamp out wizards on an industrial scale. And it would be much easier with homunculi.

The soul? That seems very plausible. My resurrected wizard with a Horcrux could cast magic after being revived, even though his body was different.

But I have at least one counterargument against this theory. Tom Riddle created five Horcruxes and could cast magic. And he didn't notice any loss of magical power. Insensitivity, inhumanity, lack of emotion—yes, but a weakening of magic—no. I seriously doubt that one could properly cast magic after five successive divisions of the soul, meaning only one thirty-second of the soul remains.

Many pureblood wizards interpret things this way: the souls of wizards and Muggles are different because the former can cast spells while the latter cannot. Therefore, Muggles are animals. Squibs are half-animals. I'm not so sure about that, since Dementors don't care who they kiss. And although there are no Muggle ghosts, I was able to summon both Muggles and Squibs I had killed using the Resurrection Stone.

From this arises a paradoxical hypothesis—the soul is not the main thing for casting spells. The soul is more about personality and, probably, the afterlife. And now I'm going to test this: my resurrected wizard, who created a Horcrux from a copy of Slytherin's locket, will possess the body of the wizard from whom a Dementor sucked out the soul. Then we'll conduct similar experiments with the body of a Muggle and check the difference. I'll also see if he can cast spells... As far as I remember from the Secrets of the Darkest Arts, if the possessed takes over a Muggle's body, he cannot cast spells.

Now, let's start the experiments on the newly immortal wizard. The risk is minimal—there's multilayered protection here. If the subject happens to escape, I can simply take his Horcrux from my new hideout and destroy it. And no one can reach the hideout: Fidelius where the keeper is me.

The process of taking over the body lasted about half an hour. I watched through a triple barrier as the intruder tried to penetrate the unresisting body of the unconscious wizard. Once he got inside, he began to struggle, casting spells ineptly. Then he started to convulse, and I noticed the body beginning to change. It resembled failed Siamese twins, where another body began to form on one.

In neither ordinary nor magical sight could the process be called interesting: just a grayish mist was entering the body like a suit. And then the flesh started to change.

The problem with all possessions is that the foreign body is destroyed during the invasion. Even if the body is in perfect condition, the host is unwilling, or the body is freed from the soul. This had been a mystery to me, but now, with Pandora's help, I saw the answer.

During the possession of a wizard's body, a conflict began between two patterns—one belonged to the donor, the other to the recipient. Observing how the object convulsed, I had to admit that the life of this body would be very short. Obviously, the conflict of parts in "astral sight" destroys the body… I would have to make a new body for the Horcrux holder. Fine, this was the only option to check what possession is.

Now, let's destroy the wizard's body and offer the "gray mist" the body of a Muggle. The gray mist doesn't want to enter the offered body? Let's add my spell against "ghosts." My spell can't destroy it, but it can easily cause pain. As it began to scream, the gray mist rushed into the offered body.

In ordinary and magical sight, the same thing was happening. The same "tumors" and "Siamese twins." But in astral sight, there was something different, though I didn't understand what. It didn't resemble a conflict of two patterns; it looked like… some kind of imprint…

"Pandora, describe what you see!" I commanded.

"Traces of wrinkled kyzlyaks," she responded.

And I felt that she was telling the truth. I wanted to cast Cruciatus, but it would be pointless: even under the truth serum, she would say the same.

However, there was a result. The wizard who created the Horcrux, possessing the Muggle's body, could not cast spells! He could only seize the body and exit it, that was all! If magic were solely tied to the soul, this would be impossible!

It's amusing that, according to the Secrets of the Darkest Arts, the bodies of some animals, especially magical snakes, allow some form of casting spells during possession.

The simplest explanation is that a wizard consists of three parts: a body, which can be easily killed physically; a soul, which can be destroyed with Horcruxes; and an "astral part," which for simplicity I'll call the spirit, and I don't know how to destroy it.

I began to see a new theory of what happened on Samhain. Instead of Tom's soul, now it's my soul. But the body and "spirit" still belong to Tom, which is why I can cast spells and why, when using the Resurrection Stone, all the "ghosts" recognized me as Tom. The Dark Mark sees no deception. If I'm right, then in my authorial Ritual, I can use fragments of Tom Riddle's relatives. But Dark Magic with necro-energy and Horcruxes is tied to the soul, just like the Patronus. And this confuses me.

What exactly happened on that past October 31 is still undetermined, but I lean toward an excessive number of Horcruxes, necro-energy (killing James with Avada filled the system), and the night of Samhain—there was a spontaneous magic outburst, and this was a spontaneous ritual. I've never heard of such a thing, but who knows. I'm not omniscient, and sometimes things happen for the first time. It's a weak hypothesis, but let's leave it as it is for now.

That's probably enough for today. It's time for a break, taking care to preserve the sample. With a wave of my wand, the gray mist was sucked into a spirit trap, then placed in an isolating container. I checked the lab's protections and went out.

Why is everything so complicated? My brain ties itself into knots worse than the Marriage Knot when I try to figure this out!

It seems that when it comes to large-scale rituals, one must be very careful. I need to double-check everything at a new level. And I mustn't forget to think about the Deathly Hallows: "The last enemy to be destroyed is death." What if each of the Deathly Hallows corresponds to one of the parts of a wizard? Nonsense? I feel like a schoolboy unable to comprehend the Resurrection Stone!

If this is someone's prank, then that someone must be incredibly powerful and skillful.

Deathly Hallows: the wand, the stone, the cloak. The wizard: body, soul, spirit. The Elder Wand presumably corresponds to the body. What if collecting all three Deathly Hallows grants power over all three components of a wizard and allows one not to die? This idea is a good alternative to horcruxes, if only because it requires no sacrifices. I am truly bothered by the fact that at least one Deathly Hallows is with Albus, possibly two. Even if I win, Dumbledore would be clever enough to laugh and break the Elder Wand, burn the remains, and then kill himself. So there's no point in hoping for the other Deathly Hallows; for now, let's limit our dreams to the Resurrection Stone. What a shame... Even using the Elder Wand like Salazar's wand, one could extract spells from it that many great wizards have cast over the centuries...

How to make the Resurrection Stone work? So far, this item resembles a powerful hallucinogen. I have only two ideas left: a ritual during the solstice or attempting to separate the horcrux from the Deathly Hallows. Although I have no idea how to do the latter.

Loading my brain with work, I headed to the Lestrange house. As soon as I entered my office, Bellatrix came in.

"My Lord, I'm pregnant," she delightedly announced as she crossed the threshold, as if fearing she wouldn't have the courage to do so later. She smiled as if she had just killed Albus.

Now I need to encourage her and express my joy enthusiastically... And subtly send her off to find books on "Sex During Pregnancy."

"My joy knows no bounds," I told her, mirroring her smile. "Have you already chosen a name?"

"I just conducted a magical diagnosis in the early stages. Two weeks along. The child has no pathologies. It will be a girl. I want to name her Delphi."

An odd name, but I didn't care. In my opinion, two weeks is not a child, but a zygote. And something about Bella seems tense.

I pour her some wine and offer her a drink.

"Is something bothering you?" I asked.

"I won't drink," she replied. "It's bad for the baby. What if... what if..."

"Don't worry. I can protect you. Rabastan has already finished building our house; the Keeper of Fidelius is Edward. I trust him completely."

"My Lord, I won't be a burden to you!"

I need to sort out the source of Slytherin before she gives birth or find another place to live. But I will come up with something; I'll also collect statistics on connections to the source.

"Of course. I have no doubts about your skills and strength. No one intends to limit your freedom of movement. But be careful. Unable to reach me, our enemies will try to reach you and the child. And now you need to rest more often until I resolve the issue with the source of Slytherin. I can even suggest that another woman carry the child."

As for her pregnancy... There are such rituals, not even Dark ones. An fertilized egg can be surgically removed from the mother and placed in a surrogate. And the surrogate can even be a non-magical woman. If everything is done without mistakes, there are no consequences for the surrogate. In principle, one could even create an artificial vessel for carrying the child, but that's more complicated.

"No. I want to carry the baby myself. But what if…"

Just say it already. I even tried Legilimency but only sensed some panic.

"What if I give birth to a squib?" she exhaled, staring at the floor.

Strictly speaking, there's always a chance of giving birth to a squib. With the right pairing, it's minimal. But we didn't conduct compatibility calculations.

But I don't care—whether it's a wizard or a squib. I just need family blood.

Strangely... She's a rational woman, but right now it feels like she's turned into a polyp, stuck to the chair and starting to process her brain.

"Bella, don't panic," I said, hugging her shoulders. "Look at yourself, look at me. What squib? I'm sure it will be a wizard. You handle Neville well; Delphi will definitely love you. And me."

So, judging by her state—today I have a day off. I need to hug her and reassure her that everything will be fine. And looking at her, I realize—there won't be any intimacy today. I didn't need a pregnant Bellatrix with morning sickness! Is it too early? Or maybe she just worked herself up?

But Dumbledore has no days off or family. So I need to use the time-turner and calm Bellatrix while I handle business in another time stream. And I should warn the Lestranges; Edward will be glad that the Lord has an heir, and Rudolfus will also be aware that Bellatrix will finally have her child, and he didn't let her go in vain.

POV Rabastan Lestrange.

Sometimes Rabastan read newspapers and texts of politicians' speeches. He laughed every time Albus mentioned "the power of love."

But it seems that the Dark Lord took Albus's words seriously. First, Sirius Black received the Dark Mark. Yes, yes, the very Gryffindor and traitor of blood. In truth, both the acceptance of the mark and the marriage—it was all collective and unconscious for Sirius. It seems that his whole life has been like that. But that's not the main thing—Alecto Carrow will give birth this winter. And formally, it will be a pure-blood Black.

Narcissa Malfoy has gathered to give birth. How? Probably, the greed of the Malfoys is stronger than some curse. Lucius likely took the Lord's words about increasing the number of purebloods very seriously. Or this is a peculiar way to one-up the Weasleys—having more children than them?

At first, this seemed like a ridiculous coincidence to Rabastan. Then his father announced that he would soon marry Diana Crouch, whom he was drugging with "Love Potion" without bringing to consciousness. At that moment, Rabastan started to feel uneasy.

When Bellatrix went to the Dark Lord, it didn't surprise him. But the fact that the Lord married her and they would have a child—it astonished him. Poor Magical England; I hope Albus dies before Delphi goes to school. I wonder, with parents like that, will her first word be Crucio or Imperio? I need to think about buying new house-elves... And talk to Bellatrix: "Hogwarts is a dreadful place. Your child should study at Durmstrang!" Let Karkaroff deal with her...

Death Eaters: let's have more children! Only he didn't quite understand how a bunch of toddlers would help win the war. The Weasleys didn't help. Although... Dumbledore has prejudices about murder. There will be a living shield. And then one could shout in court that "we didn't do any of this; we had no time for terrorist activities."

Time... His fingers clenched around the time-turner chain under his clothing. My precious... Finally, he's well-rested! He had never thrown himself at the Dark Lord's cloak with such haste and sincerity as he did when he received the time-turner...

But while he thinks, the merciless power of love continues to claim victims among the Death Eaters.

Right now, Rabastan is carrying out the head of the family's orders. He really didn't want to do this, but gathering his will and tightening his grip on the folder of documents, he finally decided to knock on the door.

"Come in!" he heard his brother's voice.

Rabastan entered Rudolfus's office. Rudolfus looked slightly rumpled and tired but sober. His desk was cluttered with ritual schematics. Nearby lay calendars and network diagrams. Naturally, everything was encrypted. As his tutor from Russia used to say: "Without a bottle, you won't figure it out." As if confirming this, a bottle of wine stood on the desk, with two-thirds still remaining. Moreover, it was the same bottle as yesterday—meaning his brother had thrown himself into work.

"Hello, Rudolfus. Can I talk to you?" he asked.

"Yes, go ahead," came the reply without looking up from work.

"Just can your wand stay with me while we talk?" he suggested.

Rudolfus paused his work and stared at Rabastan.

"I hope you're not about to tell me you've defected to the Order of the Phoenix and want to deliver them a valuable prisoner?" Rudolfus joked.

"Of course not. But I'll feel more at ease if your wand rests with me," he said.

After a moment of hesitation, Rudolfus handed over his wand to Rabastan.

"You know that after her divorce from you, Bellatrix married the Lord on the same day?" Rabastan immediately asked.

"Yes. It was expected," came the response.

To his mind, it was quite unexpected.

"She's pregnant. A magical scan says it will be a girl. No pathologies found."

For a brief moment, Rabastan thought he saw a shadow cross Rudolfus's face. Maybe he imagined it; perhaps his brother just composed himself.

"I'm happy for them. Bellatrix has always wanted a child. And the Dark Lord will have an heir," Rudolfus replied. "Do you know how the Master solved her problem?"

"No. He didn't explain anything to anyone. As always."

Bellatrix got pregnant faster than a month after the wedding. If she had any issues, the Lord didn't notice them.

Although maybe it's much simpler: Rudolfus just hadn't been able to find his wife's vagina in over ten years of marriage. That's why Bellatrix had been so angry all this time: just promises, everything through the rear. Yes, Magical England is in for a great future with such administration...

"If that's all, you can return my wand," Rudolfus suggested.

"So, you and Bellatrix are no longer connected?" Rabastan asked.

"No, we aren't," came the reply.

"That's only half the news. Father decided it's time for you to make Rod an heir. He's picked out a match for you."

"And?" Rudolfus asked, hiding his anxiety. "This is expected too. The first time, Father allowed me to choose myself, but since the marriage was unsuccessful, he will choose now."

Rabastan was silent.

"What, is she that ugly? We can fix her appearance; worst case, there's a transformation potion. In the most extreme case, there's 'Madness of Passion.'"

Rabastan remained silent.

"Poor? Nothing terrible; we're a wealthy family, and money has gotten even better lately."

Rabastan still remained silent. Now he could feel the impact of Legilimency on himself, but as far as he understood, his defenses had held. And that was good—one more all-knowing Legilimens their house couldn't handle.

"Cursed? Why would Father want that? Alright, the Lord managed to heal us and Diana Crouch; he'll heal this one too."

Interpreting Rabastan's silence as a "No," Rudolfus began to guess further.

"Mudblood?" Rudolfus suggested in horror.

Only the most Muggle-loving considered those with both parents as wizards to be purebloods. Normal wizards considered those with a wizard father, a mother, and wizard grandparents to be purebloods. Naturally, these "purebloods" didn't stand a chance of being related to the Lestranges; to have a chance to intermarry with the Lestranges, one had to be ancient and noble, meaning having at least ten generations of pureblood wizards.

"No, Rudolfus. It's much simpler," Rabastan placed a folder of documents before Rudolfus.

Rudolfus began to nervously look through the papers.

"So, an ancient Spanish family," Rudolfus said with relief, and he started to flip through the contents of the folder more slowly, glancing diagonally. "14 generations of wizards… No curses. Currently not wealthy. They're marrying off their youngest fourth daughter to me to improve their financial situation. A standard marriage of convenience," here he found a photo of his bride. "Hmm… Dark-skinned, but basically nothing wrong. Why is there only a picture of her face, and no full-length photo? Are her legs crooked?"

"No, her legs are fine," Rabastan replied. "You can read the whole thing in your spare time. So, you're not against it?"

"I'm not against it. What were you expecting? That I'd start throwing a tantrum? That I'd leave the family, renouncing my inheritance?"

Rabastan really wanted to just leave. He knew that honesty wasn't the best policy, but he'd rather say it right away than let his brother get caught up in work and miss this moment. And during the introduction of the newlyweds, there would be… an awkward situation. He didn't care, but he felt sorry for the girl—his brother might blow up, and they'd have to live with that.

"The de Torquemada family. Her name is Isabella. And she's thirteen years old," he said.

For a second, awkward silence fell.

Soon Rudolfus began to leaf through the folder until he reached the part about her age.

"Thirteen years? What am I supposed to do with her? Play dolls?" he inquired.

"Father guarantees your biological compatibility and healthy children. I remind you that no one trades their own children; if she's being married off, they're confident that she's already grown up and capable of bearing children," Rabastan said. "As for her age… This way, it will be easier for her to get used to her new home."

"An engagement? Wait four years for the wedding. Then she'll be of age!" Rudolfus suggested aloud.

"They need the money now. Besides, there are so many Avadas flying around that no one can guarantee you'll live through these four years, or that the Dark Lord will be able to resurrect you. Goyle is dead, Rosier has disappeared. And Father needed heirs ten years ago," Rabastan informed him.

"Brother, maybe you should marry her? You're younger, so you'd be less of a pedophile than I am," Rudolfus mumbled hopefully.

"I have to decline. Look at the report—she's one hundred sixty centimeters tall. She'll still grow. I'd say she looks about seventeen now. As a last resort, you can try a transformation or aging potion."

"How about I say I'm gay?" Rudolfus suggested.

"Not an option. You can't fool Father. And even if he has a moment of confusion… Father loves you; he might start looking for men for you. And for an heir, he'll look for a manly woman for you. So it will only get worse," Rabastan informed him.

"I take it Father has already arranged everything, and I was just presented with the fact?" Rudolfus presumed.

You don't have to be brothers and live under the same roof your whole life to understand—Rudolfus is boiling over.

"You guessed it. Look at things positively," he suggested to his almost married brother.

"Positively? How is that?" Rudolfus inquired.

What could he say to encourage his brother without it sounding like mockery?

"At least she's definitely a virgin," Rabastan thought to himself, retreating toward the door. No, Rudolfus won't appreciate that. A name similar to his previous wife's, easier to remember? He won't appreciate that either. Unlike Bellatrix, she won't torture you with Crucio as she leaves? Isabella won't run off to the Master? Nothing good came to mind…

"I don't know. You could prepare her for the O.W.L.s when she gets older," he said aloud. "There are so many new subjects lately; maybe something will be useful for your professional activities."

I need to get out. Fast.

An unprintable scream rang out. Then Rudolfus started throwing things from the desk at him. They were stopped by Rabastan's passive protective charms. Among the improvised bludgers, there was nothing heavy or sharp—so his brother still loves him.

But Rabastan hurried to leave the office, calling for house-elves and instructing them to calm Rudolfus.

Soon he was knocking on his father's office door.

Instead of the usual "Enter," his father opened the door himself.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Wonderful. Her photo awakened a primal passion in him," he lied.

"The house-elves have already told me everything," his father informed him.

"And?" he managed to squeeze out. Just don't say his happy bachelor life has ended.

He was too young and promising to get married. Watching his brother's family life had killed any desire he had to get involved with marriage.

"They'll get along. I'm sure," Edward replied.