Fic: "The Riddle of Riddle," (1/1) BtVS/HP, Xander/Charlie Weasley, R
Finally, we come to the crux of it: the reason for Xander's existence.
The Riddle of Riddle
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 5400
Notes/Warnings: Set post-Chosen by ten years, and post DH/e by ten years. Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: I'm neither the Joss, nor the J.K.
Summary: Harry comes by with news, then it's off to the Ministry, yet again, where Xander learns the truth behind his birth, and gets some other news.
“Hey-wake up.”
Charlie snorts and snuffles, burying his face in the crook of Xander's neck and holds Xander tighter. He's more than prepared to ignore the voice trying to awake him-except that it starts swearing and shaking his arm. Then poking him with what feels like a wand.
“C'mon, Charlie, don't make me have to use my outdoor voice.”
Snorting again, this time with sleepy laughter, Charlie opens his eyes and rolls a little toward the voice. “Harry?” He squints in the lamp-light, and can make out those familiar glasses and wild fringe that never seems to cover the scar-not completely.
“None other than . . . why are you and Xander-congratulations on the apparent reconciliation, by the way-cozied up in Regulus Black's room? Especially when the fourth floor is off-limits till I officially show you around?”
“Erm,” Charlie, looks around at Xander, who's still sounds asleep, just a lump under the blanket, except for the very top of his head and the place where Charlie had pressed his face. “Ah, that is, we, got bored, and wound up . . . here.”
“'Bored'?” Harry's eyebrows shoot up above his eyes which, from this angle, are mere circles of reflected light. “You know this house's reputation and you went wandering around anyway because you were bored?”
“Keep it down, Harry. And we didn't go wandering. We just came straight up here.”
Now, Harry's frowning. “Why up here?”
“Er.” Charlie sighs. “Dunno. We just started climbing stairs and wound up on the fourth floor.”
Harry hmphs and puts his hands on his narrow hips. “Well, you're lucky your travels brought you here instead of other places. It just so happens this floor is clear. I sleep right next door.”
In Sirius Black's old room.
And that's not mental at all, Charlie thinks, in a voice that sounds a lot like Ron's. Then he shakes his head to clear the last of the grogginess. “Sorry. Won't let it happen again.”
“Well. You'll be getting the tour soon enough, and then it won't matter, I suppose.” Harry still sounds put-out. Perhaps because someone else is in his territory. Or perhaps because Harry Potter is always put-out, nowadays. “Anyway, that's not important. What's important is, we've come across some information in Xander's early memories that's . . . pretty important. Mad-Eye thinks Xander should be made aware of it. Should be shown what's in the pensieve.”
Now Charlie's all the way awake, sitting up and feeling under the pillow-which Xander has hogged-for his wand. “Give us a few minutes and we'll be ready to go,” he tells Harry, who nods briskly.
“I'll be waiting at the third floor landing. Don't dally.”
Then Harry's gone on noiseless feet.
Charlie retrieves his wand and slides his other hand under the covers, and down Xander's arm. He leans over and kisses the back of Xander's head. “Love? Time to wake up.”
Xander makes a whiny little moaning noise. “Just lemme sleep a little while longer. . . .”
“I would, if I could, love, but . . . well, Harry says it's important that we go down to the Ministry with him.” Charlie sighs when Xander's formerly relaxed body tenses up. “That woke you up.”
“No shit.” Xander stretches and rolls over so that he's facing Charlie. He looks exhausted: pale, circles forming around his reddened eyes. “What time is it?”
“Dunno. But it must be late. I feel like I had a full night's sleep. Almost,” Charlie adds, yawning. Xander smiles, and as lovely as that smile is, it makes him look even more weary than he already does.
“Well, let's not leave Harry waiting, I suppose,” he says, leaning in to kiss Charlie quickly, before rolling onto his other side to get out of bed. Charlie watches wistfully, just because he likes the view, as Xander stretches again.
“Accio Xander's clothes.” He flicks his wand, and Xander's clothes float up off the the floor and to the bed. Xander watches them do so bemusedly.
“That will never stop being cool.” He grins and Charlie laughs.
“Just you wait till you're Apparating.”
“Ugh, no, thanks!” Xander puts a hand on his abdomen, shaking his head. “Just the thought of having to do that again is making me nauseas. And kinda dizzy. . . .” Xander says, frowning, his other hand going to his head as he turns and sits heavily on the bed. “Yeesh, I feel craptastic. My stomach feels like it's rearranging my innards-a kidney here, a liver there-mazel tov!” He laughs weakly. “God, and if this room were spinning any faster. . . .”
Frowning, himself, Charlie gets out of bed and goes around to kneel at Xander's feet. Xander's hand, when Charlie takes it, is clammy and shaking minutely. Charlie places the back of his other hand on Xander's forehead and feels for a fever.
Nothing. In fact, Xander's forehead is as clammy as his hand.
“Perhaps we need to pay St. Mungo's another visit,” Charlie murmurs, worried, but Xander pastes on a smile that looks about as real as a purple galleon. “Might be you have a cold.”
“No, no, I'm fine, just-probably shaky from missing so many meals.” Xander catches Charlie's fever-seeking hand in his own and kisses it. “I'm fine.”
“You might have a bug or something.” Charlie stands up, pulling Xander with him. Xander goes, but slowly, his eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted.
“Accio wand,” Charlie says, and when he's got it, he taps it against the small of Xander's back. “Vestus Raimentum.
Suddenly dressed, Xander looks down at himself, then back up, grinning. “You'd be, like, the best butler, ever.”
Charlie smiles a little and sits Xander back down. “Hmm, would I get to call you 'Master Xander'?” he asks, and Xander chuckles.
“I'd insist,” he replies. “Now, vestus raimentum yourself, before I ravish you.”
*
After Apparating from one dank alley to another, this time, Xander does throw up. And nearly keels over face first in the puddle of puke he's made, but for Charlie's and Harry's hands on his arms, holding him up.
“You alright, mate?” Harry asks as they pull Xander back upright. Xander goes miserably, letting Charlie fold him into his arms. He tries to hold himself as still as possible, so Charlie can't tell he's shaking.
“Never better. Why do you ask?” Xander grits out, clutching his stomach as a huge cramp rolls through it like a tsunami of pain. What was in those roast beef sandwiches? he thinks, more than mildly alarmed.
Meanwhile, Harry and Charlie are staring at him worriedly.
“I think he might have a touch of the flu,” Charlie says softly, putting his warm-oh, so warm-hand to Xander's forehead again, for what must be the third time since they woke up.
Harry hmms. “Actually, you don't look so good. . . .”
“You silver-tongued devil, you.” Xander sighs, straightening up. “Let's just get this all over with so I can go back to sleep . . . uh . . . is anyone gonna recognize me or something? In the Ministry?”
“This late at night, there's no one at the Ministry but aurors and janitors, and they both know how to keep their mouths shut,” Harry says dismissively, marching toward the entryway of the alley. Xander and Charlie share a glance, shrug, and follow him. Charlie with an eye to catching Xander should he go keeling over again, Xander with an eye toward keeping his guts where they belong: on the inside.
*
After being dragged down through the Ministry for forever, Harry finally brings Xander and Charlie to a large room filled with what looks like big stone basins on pedestals.
Many of the basins have someone standing over them-someone in grey and black robes usually, what Xander's come to recognize as auror colors.
“Where are we?” he asks quietly, his hand leaving his stomach to feel for Charlie's. When Charlie's hand closes around his own, Xander heaves a quiet sigh of relief.
“This is where we keep the official pensieves that the aurors and the Ministry uses,” Harry says, glancing around as if searching for someone. Then he smiles and strides across the large space toward Mad-Eye Moody, Auror Langley, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“Potter-you're just in time. Langley has the pensieve ready to go and, ah, Kingsley will be coming with us on this little trip down memory lane,” Mad-Eye says, his good eye on Harry, his mad eye on Xander.
Then, both eyes are on Xander, widening with what might very well be . . . surprise. He squints the good eye till it's practically closed, and the mad eye roves up and down Xander, pausing at stomach-level for long moments, till Xander's rather uncomfortable.
Holy crap, can he see my food poisoning-or whatever it is? he wonders, the hand not being held by Charlie coming up to rest on his stomach. Mad-Eye grunts and meets Xander's gaze.
“Well. You two certainly didn't waste any time,” he says tersely, then turns to Auror Langley before Xander can ask what he means. “Alright, we're all here. Note the time we went under and the time we come back.”
“Will do, sir.” Langley says, smiling. “Whenever you're ready.”
Mad-Eye beckons Harry, Charlie, and Xander closer. “C'mon, you three. Potter, at least, is no stranger to pensieves.”
Harry nods. “That's right. Xander, Charlie, you just . . . lean over the bowl and peer into the depths. Let your mind relax. The pensieve will handle the rest.”
Xander looks at Charlie. “And this is safe? Walking through my memories like this?”
“Perfectly safe,” Charlie promises, leaning in to kiss Xander's forehead and squeezing his hand. “Nothing you see will be able to touch you or hurt you. No one in the memories will be able to see you.”
“He's absolutely right, Xander,” Harry says, smiling briefly. “Whatever you see, will have already happened. There'll be no changing it and it can't change you in any way.”
“That remains to be seen,” Xander mutters, stepping up to the basin. He leans warily over it and looks into silvery-white depths, and sees . . . nothing. Lets his mind relax, inasmuch as it's able, and still sees . . . nothing.
Hey-this thing's broken, he's about to say, when all of a suddenly the world is nothing but silvery-white light, and Xander's on an invisible roller-coaster ride, the only reminder of the world he'd just left being Charlie Weasley, still holding his hand.
*
The first thing Xander notices about the scene he finds himself in is . . . himself.
Or rather, Tom Riddle, going by the wizarding attire and the wand clenched in Riddle's fist. He's pacing back and forth in front of a roaring fireplace, clearly agitated. Just then a door near where Mad-Eye and Kingsley are standing opens and a short, bespectacled, older man with a receding hairline, and a bushy auburn beard and mustache enters the room. His robes are a dusty-looking black and he's holding a carefully-wrapped bundle in one arm.
Behind him, timid as a mouse, is a small young man, no older than thirteen, with glasses and auburn hair, and dusty-looking grey robes. He's staring at Riddle as if he's got two heads.
At their entry, Riddle stops pacing and approaches the newcomers almost like a supplicant, his face worried and intent.
“The child?” he asks in Xander's voice, version 1-point-Brit. “Is it. . . ?”
“Yes, yes, the child is healthy,” the other answers in a thick accent that could be Romanian-Now wouldn't that be a weird coincidence?-or maybe something else. He offers the bundle to Riddle, who suddenly looks horrified.
“I-I-” Riddle stammers, putting both hands behind his back and mustering up a glare that looks like it wants to be a triumphant grin. “And Quentin . . . he'll also be fine.”
The older man doesn't answer at first, simply hands the bundle to the young man, who takes it carefully and smiles down at it.
“I . . . was unable to save the other father. I am . . . sorry.” The older man adjusts his glasses and takes a breath, looking everywhere but at Riddle's face . . . which is almost hideous in its shock and dismay. “It was either the child or the father, at the end, and both you and he specified that the child be saved, if it came to that-“
“Yes, yes, I remember what we specified, Herr Krakauer,” Riddle grits out, his pale face suddenly mask-like with holding back what appears to be a great and terrible rage. He turns away from the pair, one hand going to his mouth as he regards the fire. Xander can't see his face, can't imagine what expression is on it, now. He's still trying to figure out all this “other father” business and what that has to do with the birth of the bundle that kid is holding.
Said bundle has begun to squirm and cry.
“That'd be you, of course,” Mad-Eye says gruffly, pointing at the bundle and looking at Xander. Xander's mouth drops open.
“Me?” he asks numbly, shocked. Charlie's arm slides around his waist. “I'm-that's-but-Riddle's all grown up! How can I be his twin or whatever if he's a grown up and I'm just being born?”
Mad-Eye grunts. “That bit's going to take some explaining. For now, what you need to know is, that child is you, and-”
“And what's all this talk about the 'other father'?” Xander demands.
Mad-Eye, Harry, and Kingsley exchange glances then, as if coming to silent decision, leave Harry to do the explaining.
“You see, Xander, when two wizards love each other-“ Harry begins almost delicately. For Harry, anyway. And Xander interrupts him with a laugh.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” he says sarcastically. Harry's eyebrows shoot up.
“When two wizards love each other,” he repeats icily, “much as you and Charlie do, and they decide that they want to have children, they sometimes choose to use alternative means to have those children.”
Xander nods impatiently. “You mean like a surrogate mother, or adoption?”
“No, I mean like one of the wizards can allow his partner to impregnate him, thus creating a child of their bodies, and with both their magical signatures."
Xander's mouth drops open again. “Get the fuck out,” he breathes. Harry snorts.
“It's all true. In wizarding society, men can bear and/or carry children. From the sound of things, Riddle chose his male companion to carry you.” Harry pauses. “Unforunately, male pregnancies can be . . . tough on the father doing the carrying, and the birth especially so. The child has to be Apparated out, for obvious reasons, but doing so runs the risk of the wizard suffering internal hemorrhaging, resulting from the-”
“Gah! I get it, I get it!” Xander covers his ears for a moment. “Okay, men can carry babies in the wizarding world-gotcha. But if this Merope Gaunt is my biological mother, how come Riddle's . . . male companion carried me, and apparently died giving birth to me?”
Harry shrugs. “Quentin Oliver was the surrogate, not an actual parent. The child-you-were implanted in him by magical means. Just as you were no doubt created by magical means.”
Xander sighs, leaning into Charlie, his head spinning both literally and figuratively. Charlie's chin rests atop his head. “Lemme guess: dark magic?”
Harry comes over to Xander and puts a hand on his arm. “Not necessarily dark. But old. Very old. Magic that's fueled by will and desire. Whatever else he wanted, Tom Riddle wanted you to be born very badly. Badly enough that he was willing to sacrifice the life of his lover to get you here, because he apparently trusted no one else in his circle to carry you. Not even that mad bitch, Bellatrix Lestrange.” Harry shakes his head. “Frankly, we're still reeling over this . . . companion of Riddle's. No one in Riddle's circle that we've ever spoken to made any mention of him, or to the fact that Riddle had ever taken a lover.”
Xander frowns. “Then how do you know they were lov-“
“Avada Kedavra!” The thus far silently grieving Riddle suddenly hisses, whirling on Herr Krakauer. And in a flash of eldritch green light, the man is laying on the floor, stiff as a board.
“Oh . . . oh, my God,” Xander exhales, covering his mouth much the way Riddle had before. He wants to turn away, but can't. He can only be thankful for Charlie's arms around him.
Riddle, meanwhile, is still standing over the body, breathing hard, his face nearly purple with rage. His wand is still pointed at the body and there are tears running down his face.
Unnoticed, the boy holding the bundle backs into the other room and shuts the door quietly. . . .
And suddenly, the scene changes-to a bedroom, pin-neat, but for the area immediately around the bed. In the bed, itself is another dead body.
The boy pauses only a moment to look at it-it's naked, but the lower half of it is covered with a blue sheet. Still-damp ash-blond hair covers a pale face, but Xander can still make out green eyes-the color of spring grass-and fine, aristocratic features.
“Is that-“
“Quentin Oliver,” Harry says, nodding. “We were able to find some information on him-not much. The Oliver family-old money and old magic-basically kept him hidden away for most of his life because he was a Squib. Then, in 1975, he disappeared so completely, he was never heard from again. We can only surmise that's when he met Riddle. The next five years are a blank that we can't yet fill in.”
In the scene, the boy has placed the bundle-the baby-me, Xander thinks, irritated with himself-down on the night table and is opening the window carefully. It squeaks, but only a little. When it's open wide enough, the boy hesitates and looks back at the baby, then at the body in the bed. Then back at the window.
Finally, he goes back for the baby-and for something else on the night table. A gilt-framed photo-and a familiar one, at that. In it, Riddle is smiling and winking at the camera. Or the person behind it.
The boy tucks it, frame and all, into the baby's blanket, then hurries back to the window.
It takes some doing, getting out with only one free hand, but he does it. The baby has just started to cry again. He's probably hungry.
The scene whirls around again in that way that means its about to change, but Mad-Eye waves his wand, and suddenly Xander's leaning over the basin once more, his hand still in Charlie's. His other hand is clenched on his stomach, which is roiling worse than ever.
He straightens up as a fresh wave of cramps and nausea assaults him, and turns to Harry, who's adjusting his glasses and still staring broodily into the pensieve.
“Nothing but more riddles,” he mutters, and Xander couldn't agree more.
Then his stomach's in complete revolt. “Can someone point me to the nearest toilet? I'm about to be sick,” he says, more calmly than he expects. Mad-Eye merely stares at him-at his stomach-and Harry's still enrapt in the pensieve.
It's Kingsley Shacklebolt who finaly offers to show him the way. Xander barely makes it to the stall in time, and it's only after he's purged his stomach of everything it'd ever had in it that he realizes Charlie's been holding his hair back.
*
Once in Moody's cramped office, all of them sitting in transfigured chairs, knees bumping into someone or something, Moody breaks out the Ogden's Old and six tumblers. Charlie takes a tumblerful gladly.
“Oh . . . no, thanks,” Xander says absently, one hand on his stomach, the other in Charlie's. He's staring at the evening edition of the Prophet on Moody's desk. The front page article features another photo related to Riddle. It's of his graduating class at Hogwarts. Every teen in the photo is abuzz and a flutter, quite unable to be bothered to face the camera for long enough to be photographed clearly. Except for one student, standing a little off to the left of center, smirking his Salazar Slytherin-smirk at the world.
A Riddle From Beyond the Grave? the headline reads, with a byline of: Will the true extent of Riddle's legacy finally disclose itself?
“Hey,” Charlie says, squezing Xander's hand, and Xander tears his gaze away from the photo. Charlie smiles. “It'll be okay, love.”
Xander tries gamely to return the smile. “Keep saying that, and maybe I'll believe it, in a year, or two.”
Moody clears his throat and knocks back his firewhisky in one great swallow that makes even Charlie-no stranger to firewhisky-wince and rub his throat.
“Now,” he says shortly. “From what we've seen, so far, the boy who was assisting the Medi-wizard, Herr Krakauer, managed to make his way, without being caught by Riddle's followers, from somewhere in Poland-we believe near Warsaw-to the States. It took him months of hand-to-mouth living and doing things no one should have to do, let alone a child, but he got away. We believe this was, partially, because Riddle didn't chase after him, immediately. He may have been too busy with other . . . projects, but it's more likely he was too aggrieved at the death of Quentin Oliver to start an effective pursuit of boy and babe.” Moody pauses to pour himself another tumblerful. “It is believed that after the loss of the babe, that Riddle began working in earnest on his horcrux scheme. Which further leads us to theorize that-“ he glances at Potter, who shrugs. “That you, Harris, were initially fashioned to be a horcrux.”
Xander shakes his head, smiling a little. “Pretend I'm new to the wizarding world, and please explain what a horcrux is,” he says calmly. It's that calm that has Charlie worried. Xander's been taking this all-for Xander, anyway-far too calmly. More calmly than Charlie would have, in his place.
“A horcrux is, to put it simply, a vessel for containing a soul, or part of a soul. So that even if the body dies, the soul can be . . . kept on this plane. Even re-incarnated,” Kingsley says quietly, as though just speaking of horcruxes is enough to conjure one. “It's very dark magic.”
Looking as if he suddenly understands, Xander nods. “Okay. Like an Orb of Thessula. I get it.”
Moody looks startled and his mad eyes whirling. “You know about those? They're illegal in forty countries. Even to speak of them is run the risk of being investigated by aurors!”
Xander shrugs. “Must not be illegal in the good ol' US of A. I've seen one in use. Hell, I think my ex-fiancee did a brisk business in them, in her magic store.” He shrugs again. Moody looks like he's about to have an apoplectic fit.
“Leaving that aside, for now,” Kingsley Shacklebolt says firmly, putting a steadying hand on Moody's arm. “The horcrux theory is only one theory. My theory is a simpler one: Riddle intended to create the seven horcruxes, and keep you, Xander, hidden away somewhere, till Riddle was otherwise wounded or killed-a thing he seemed to anticipate happening-and then, well . . . displace your soul from your body, and collect his soul from the horcruxes and have it transferred into your body.”
Xander goes even paler. “But in either case . . . what would've happened to me? To my soul?”
“What, indeed,” Moody says sharply. “Your soul would likely have been left to wander the earth or move on to the next life.”
His mouth pursing, Xander snorts, looking at the newspaper again. “What a swell guy you were, Tommy . . . so I am a clone of him, right? A carbon copy?”
Moody clears his throat. “There are spells-mostly old magic, that deal with creating copies of one's self, yes. Some are dark magic, others are not. We've no way to tell which spell was used to create you, only that from creation, to birth, you were carried by Quentin Oliver.”
Charlie's brow furrows and he shakes his head. “But how did Xander end up being raised by muggles? If this boy-do you even know who he was?-was caring for him, for months, you say, how-?”
“He Obliviated a young couple in a place called Oxnard, California, into thinking they'd had a child out of wedlock. And that they had to leave Oxnard because of the shame. We don't know why he chose them.” Moody says, holding up a hand before Charlie can ask another why. “Nothing in Xander's memories tells us why, only that he did do these things.
“After the new memories took and the couple seemed to accept the child as their own . . . more or less . . . the boy disappears from the picture.”
“And speaking of picture, the one that the boy took from Riddle's cottage is the same one that appeared on the front page of the Prophet, yesterday morning. Xander was right, it appears: that picture didn't come from any photo library of any newspaper. It came fom Quentin Oliver.” Harry leans back in his chair and sips his firewhisky. “The question becomes, how did it make it's way to the front page of the Prophet? And who was able to get his hands on that illustration of Xander?”
“And why were they so eager to see this 'story' break?” Kingsley asks softly. “Money? Or some sort of . . . scheme?”
No one, it seems, has an answer for that. Except for Xander, who's rubbing his stomach, they all sip their firewhisky in silence.
Finally, Xander breaks the silence. “Who named me?” he asks quietly, almost desperately. Moody blinks, surprised.
“The boy did. He called you Aleksander consistently over the months he traveled with you, and apparently the name stuck, because your adoptive parents kept it,” he adds, and Xander suddenly looks away with a low groan and a grimace.
“Xand?” Charlie says solicitously. Xander smiles wanly, rubbing his stomach.
“Sorry. I think I might have a mild case of food poisoning from a rogue roast beef sandwich.”
Charlie's immediately attentive. “Food poisoning? And you're just now mentioning that's what you think it is?” he chides, reaching out to caress Xander's understandably pale face. “There's a Medi-witch on the premises, I believe. We can get you looked over, right now. They can give you a potion that'll cure you in no time at all.” He looks at Moody for confirmation. Moody snorts.
“Weasley, if he's got food poisoning, I'm a three-tailed crup!” He laughs, gravelly and amused. “Harris, what's ailing you isn't a bad bloody sandwich. It's the fact that your body's is trying its damnedest to accommodate a womb!”
This time, Charlie's the one who's mouth drops open. But Xander merely blinks. “I'm sorry, accommodate a what?”
“No, Harris, accommodate a womb.” Off Xander's still blank look and Charlie's gobsmacked one, Moody rolls his eyes-the mad one keeps on going round and round even after the normal one's stopped. “For the child you two went to the trouble of creating?”
Xander's shaking his head. “Hey, look, it's great that wizards can carry babies, and all, but I think you're seriously mistaken. I am not carrying a baby-“
“Well, not yet, but if that womb finishes forming unimpeded, you will be.” Moody's mad eye focuses on Xander's stomach. “And from the looks of things, it'll be finished quite soon.”
Xander laughs, patting his stomach. “Yuh-huh. Sure, it will. Charlie, can you believe this guy? Charlie?”
But Charlie's only half there. The other half of his mind is hearkening back to last night. He remembers very clearly he and Xander making love in Regulus Black's narrow bed. He remembers Xander arching up against him, coming, and moaning as he did. More importantly, he remembers himself saying . . . something, and tracing patterns on Xander's abdomen in sweat and come. Patterns that'd felt, even at the time, almost . . . rune-like.
He remembers coming, himself, so hard, it felt like he might die when it was over. That he'd given Xander everything he had, mind, body, soul, magic . . . even life-force, he'd thought at the time.
“Esse fecundum . . . something-something concepit amore-” Charlie murmurs. He's quite certain that's part of what he said. It has the general ring of a spell, but it's not constructed like any spell he's ever heard. Not even the silly ones Fred and George used to make up and practice on Scabbers.
Moody huffs. “That's not any modern fertility spell, as far as I know, but that'd do it, if there were enough . . . will and intent behind it. Enough desire.”
Charlie's the one shaking his head, now. “But-we-doesn't there have to be a Medi-witch present, to perform that sort of spell?” Surely a child can't just be wished and wanted into existence. . . .
Huffing again, Moody cracks a smile that's at least as intimidating as his regular expression. “Considering what two people usually have to do to conceive a child, most fertility spells only require the, er, presence of the parents-to-be. The Medi-witch comes into play before, to make sure they know the risks and can actually complete the spell correctly, and after, to make sure everything's gone according to plan.” He sighs. “So, I suppose you'll be needing to see the Medi-witch, now, to make sure the spell takes completely?”
Charlie nods absently, still trying for the life of him to remember the whole spell-if spell it was-that he'd performed. But he discovers one's best moments of recall are not when one is coming harder than one ever has before in one's life. “Yes, please. We have to make sure. . . .”
That Xander's pregnant? That he's not? That this isn't all some kind of strange mix-up? Merlin!
“Excuse me,” Xander declares, holding up his hands, still laughing, but it's not a very mirthful laugh. It's rather shrill and hyena-like. “But of all of us here, I think I'd be the one to know if I was pregnant, please and thank you, and I'm not! Christ!”
Harry frowns. “Well, have you ever been pregnant before?”
“No, but-“ Xander blushes, and crosses his arms. “But I've had food poisoning before, and this is what it feels like. End of story.”
Moody snorts. “Well, then, hadn't you better see a Medi-witch about your . . . food poisoning, Harris? Before it gets any worse?”
Still blushing, Xander stands up, one hand still on his stomach, his dignity drawn around him like a cloak. “That's a fine idea, Auror Moody. I believe I will. Charlie-c'mon. We're going to see the Medi-witch.”
“Not without an escort.” Harry jumps up, too, staring speculatively at Xander's stomach as if he expects a child to immediately appear. Noticing this, Xander's quick to cover his stomach with both hands and glare at Harry.
“Esse fecundum . . . something. . . .” Charlie mutters, standing up, as well. His legs feel rubbery and strange, and his vision is suddenly narrowing like a tunnel.
Xander rolls his eyes. “Yeah, babe-isn't that what you said last night when we were-alone together?” he finishes delicately. Then he frowns. “Hey, what's that mean, anyway?”
“I'm pretty sure it's means you're about to be pregnant,” Charlie says-or means to say. Instead, he laughs and swoons, and the world goes gently dark for a little while.
End
The Riddle of Riddle
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 5400
Notes/Warnings: Set post-Chosen by ten years, and post DH/e by ten years. Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: I'm neither the Joss, nor the J.K.
Summary: Harry comes by with news, then it's off to the Ministry, yet again, where Xander learns the truth behind his birth, and gets some other news.
“Hey-wake up.”
Charlie snorts and snuffles, burying his face in the crook of Xander's neck and holds Xander tighter. He's more than prepared to ignore the voice trying to awake him-except that it starts swearing and shaking his arm. Then poking him with what feels like a wand.
“C'mon, Charlie, don't make me have to use my outdoor voice.”
Snorting again, this time with sleepy laughter, Charlie opens his eyes and rolls a little toward the voice. “Harry?” He squints in the lamp-light, and can make out those familiar glasses and wild fringe that never seems to cover the scar-not completely.
“None other than . . . why are you and Xander-congratulations on the apparent reconciliation, by the way-cozied up in Regulus Black's room? Especially when the fourth floor is off-limits till I officially show you around?”
“Erm,” Charlie, looks around at Xander, who's still sounds asleep, just a lump under the blanket, except for the very top of his head and the place where Charlie had pressed his face. “Ah, that is, we, got bored, and wound up . . . here.”
“'Bored'?” Harry's eyebrows shoot up above his eyes which, from this angle, are mere circles of reflected light. “You know this house's reputation and you went wandering around anyway because you were bored?”
“Keep it down, Harry. And we didn't go wandering. We just came straight up here.”
Now, Harry's frowning. “Why up here?”
“Er.” Charlie sighs. “Dunno. We just started climbing stairs and wound up on the fourth floor.”
Harry hmphs and puts his hands on his narrow hips. “Well, you're lucky your travels brought you here instead of other places. It just so happens this floor is clear. I sleep right next door.”
In Sirius Black's old room.
And that's not mental at all, Charlie thinks, in a voice that sounds a lot like Ron's. Then he shakes his head to clear the last of the grogginess. “Sorry. Won't let it happen again.”
“Well. You'll be getting the tour soon enough, and then it won't matter, I suppose.” Harry still sounds put-out. Perhaps because someone else is in his territory. Or perhaps because Harry Potter is always put-out, nowadays. “Anyway, that's not important. What's important is, we've come across some information in Xander's early memories that's . . . pretty important. Mad-Eye thinks Xander should be made aware of it. Should be shown what's in the pensieve.”
Now Charlie's all the way awake, sitting up and feeling under the pillow-which Xander has hogged-for his wand. “Give us a few minutes and we'll be ready to go,” he tells Harry, who nods briskly.
“I'll be waiting at the third floor landing. Don't dally.”
Then Harry's gone on noiseless feet.
Charlie retrieves his wand and slides his other hand under the covers, and down Xander's arm. He leans over and kisses the back of Xander's head. “Love? Time to wake up.”
Xander makes a whiny little moaning noise. “Just lemme sleep a little while longer. . . .”
“I would, if I could, love, but . . . well, Harry says it's important that we go down to the Ministry with him.” Charlie sighs when Xander's formerly relaxed body tenses up. “That woke you up.”
“No shit.” Xander stretches and rolls over so that he's facing Charlie. He looks exhausted: pale, circles forming around his reddened eyes. “What time is it?”
“Dunno. But it must be late. I feel like I had a full night's sleep. Almost,” Charlie adds, yawning. Xander smiles, and as lovely as that smile is, it makes him look even more weary than he already does.
“Well, let's not leave Harry waiting, I suppose,” he says, leaning in to kiss Charlie quickly, before rolling onto his other side to get out of bed. Charlie watches wistfully, just because he likes the view, as Xander stretches again.
“Accio Xander's clothes.” He flicks his wand, and Xander's clothes float up off the the floor and to the bed. Xander watches them do so bemusedly.
“That will never stop being cool.” He grins and Charlie laughs.
“Just you wait till you're Apparating.”
“Ugh, no, thanks!” Xander puts a hand on his abdomen, shaking his head. “Just the thought of having to do that again is making me nauseas. And kinda dizzy. . . .” Xander says, frowning, his other hand going to his head as he turns and sits heavily on the bed. “Yeesh, I feel craptastic. My stomach feels like it's rearranging my innards-a kidney here, a liver there-mazel tov!” He laughs weakly. “God, and if this room were spinning any faster. . . .”
Frowning, himself, Charlie gets out of bed and goes around to kneel at Xander's feet. Xander's hand, when Charlie takes it, is clammy and shaking minutely. Charlie places the back of his other hand on Xander's forehead and feels for a fever.
Nothing. In fact, Xander's forehead is as clammy as his hand.
“Perhaps we need to pay St. Mungo's another visit,” Charlie murmurs, worried, but Xander pastes on a smile that looks about as real as a purple galleon. “Might be you have a cold.”
“No, no, I'm fine, just-probably shaky from missing so many meals.” Xander catches Charlie's fever-seeking hand in his own and kisses it. “I'm fine.”
“You might have a bug or something.” Charlie stands up, pulling Xander with him. Xander goes, but slowly, his eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted.
“Accio wand,” Charlie says, and when he's got it, he taps it against the small of Xander's back. “Vestus Raimentum.
Suddenly dressed, Xander looks down at himself, then back up, grinning. “You'd be, like, the best butler, ever.”
Charlie smiles a little and sits Xander back down. “Hmm, would I get to call you 'Master Xander'?” he asks, and Xander chuckles.
“I'd insist,” he replies. “Now, vestus raimentum yourself, before I ravish you.”
*
After Apparating from one dank alley to another, this time, Xander does throw up. And nearly keels over face first in the puddle of puke he's made, but for Charlie's and Harry's hands on his arms, holding him up.
“You alright, mate?” Harry asks as they pull Xander back upright. Xander goes miserably, letting Charlie fold him into his arms. He tries to hold himself as still as possible, so Charlie can't tell he's shaking.
“Never better. Why do you ask?” Xander grits out, clutching his stomach as a huge cramp rolls through it like a tsunami of pain. What was in those roast beef sandwiches? he thinks, more than mildly alarmed.
Meanwhile, Harry and Charlie are staring at him worriedly.
“I think he might have a touch of the flu,” Charlie says softly, putting his warm-oh, so warm-hand to Xander's forehead again, for what must be the third time since they woke up.
Harry hmms. “Actually, you don't look so good. . . .”
“You silver-tongued devil, you.” Xander sighs, straightening up. “Let's just get this all over with so I can go back to sleep . . . uh . . . is anyone gonna recognize me or something? In the Ministry?”
“This late at night, there's no one at the Ministry but aurors and janitors, and they both know how to keep their mouths shut,” Harry says dismissively, marching toward the entryway of the alley. Xander and Charlie share a glance, shrug, and follow him. Charlie with an eye to catching Xander should he go keeling over again, Xander with an eye toward keeping his guts where they belong: on the inside.
*
After being dragged down through the Ministry for forever, Harry finally brings Xander and Charlie to a large room filled with what looks like big stone basins on pedestals.
Many of the basins have someone standing over them-someone in grey and black robes usually, what Xander's come to recognize as auror colors.
“Where are we?” he asks quietly, his hand leaving his stomach to feel for Charlie's. When Charlie's hand closes around his own, Xander heaves a quiet sigh of relief.
“This is where we keep the official pensieves that the aurors and the Ministry uses,” Harry says, glancing around as if searching for someone. Then he smiles and strides across the large space toward Mad-Eye Moody, Auror Langley, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“Potter-you're just in time. Langley has the pensieve ready to go and, ah, Kingsley will be coming with us on this little trip down memory lane,” Mad-Eye says, his good eye on Harry, his mad eye on Xander.
Then, both eyes are on Xander, widening with what might very well be . . . surprise. He squints the good eye till it's practically closed, and the mad eye roves up and down Xander, pausing at stomach-level for long moments, till Xander's rather uncomfortable.
Holy crap, can he see my food poisoning-or whatever it is? he wonders, the hand not being held by Charlie coming up to rest on his stomach. Mad-Eye grunts and meets Xander's gaze.
“Well. You two certainly didn't waste any time,” he says tersely, then turns to Auror Langley before Xander can ask what he means. “Alright, we're all here. Note the time we went under and the time we come back.”
“Will do, sir.” Langley says, smiling. “Whenever you're ready.”
Mad-Eye beckons Harry, Charlie, and Xander closer. “C'mon, you three. Potter, at least, is no stranger to pensieves.”
Harry nods. “That's right. Xander, Charlie, you just . . . lean over the bowl and peer into the depths. Let your mind relax. The pensieve will handle the rest.”
Xander looks at Charlie. “And this is safe? Walking through my memories like this?”
“Perfectly safe,” Charlie promises, leaning in to kiss Xander's forehead and squeezing his hand. “Nothing you see will be able to touch you or hurt you. No one in the memories will be able to see you.”
“He's absolutely right, Xander,” Harry says, smiling briefly. “Whatever you see, will have already happened. There'll be no changing it and it can't change you in any way.”
“That remains to be seen,” Xander mutters, stepping up to the basin. He leans warily over it and looks into silvery-white depths, and sees . . . nothing. Lets his mind relax, inasmuch as it's able, and still sees . . . nothing.
Hey-this thing's broken, he's about to say, when all of a suddenly the world is nothing but silvery-white light, and Xander's on an invisible roller-coaster ride, the only reminder of the world he'd just left being Charlie Weasley, still holding his hand.
*
The first thing Xander notices about the scene he finds himself in is . . . himself.
Or rather, Tom Riddle, going by the wizarding attire and the wand clenched in Riddle's fist. He's pacing back and forth in front of a roaring fireplace, clearly agitated. Just then a door near where Mad-Eye and Kingsley are standing opens and a short, bespectacled, older man with a receding hairline, and a bushy auburn beard and mustache enters the room. His robes are a dusty-looking black and he's holding a carefully-wrapped bundle in one arm.
Behind him, timid as a mouse, is a small young man, no older than thirteen, with glasses and auburn hair, and dusty-looking grey robes. He's staring at Riddle as if he's got two heads.
At their entry, Riddle stops pacing and approaches the newcomers almost like a supplicant, his face worried and intent.
“The child?” he asks in Xander's voice, version 1-point-Brit. “Is it. . . ?”
“Yes, yes, the child is healthy,” the other answers in a thick accent that could be Romanian-Now wouldn't that be a weird coincidence?-or maybe something else. He offers the bundle to Riddle, who suddenly looks horrified.
“I-I-” Riddle stammers, putting both hands behind his back and mustering up a glare that looks like it wants to be a triumphant grin. “And Quentin . . . he'll also be fine.”
The older man doesn't answer at first, simply hands the bundle to the young man, who takes it carefully and smiles down at it.
“I . . . was unable to save the other father. I am . . . sorry.” The older man adjusts his glasses and takes a breath, looking everywhere but at Riddle's face . . . which is almost hideous in its shock and dismay. “It was either the child or the father, at the end, and both you and he specified that the child be saved, if it came to that-“
“Yes, yes, I remember what we specified, Herr Krakauer,” Riddle grits out, his pale face suddenly mask-like with holding back what appears to be a great and terrible rage. He turns away from the pair, one hand going to his mouth as he regards the fire. Xander can't see his face, can't imagine what expression is on it, now. He's still trying to figure out all this “other father” business and what that has to do with the birth of the bundle that kid is holding.
Said bundle has begun to squirm and cry.
“That'd be you, of course,” Mad-Eye says gruffly, pointing at the bundle and looking at Xander. Xander's mouth drops open.
“Me?” he asks numbly, shocked. Charlie's arm slides around his waist. “I'm-that's-but-Riddle's all grown up! How can I be his twin or whatever if he's a grown up and I'm just being born?”
Mad-Eye grunts. “That bit's going to take some explaining. For now, what you need to know is, that child is you, and-”
“And what's all this talk about the 'other father'?” Xander demands.
Mad-Eye, Harry, and Kingsley exchange glances then, as if coming to silent decision, leave Harry to do the explaining.
“You see, Xander, when two wizards love each other-“ Harry begins almost delicately. For Harry, anyway. And Xander interrupts him with a laugh.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” he says sarcastically. Harry's eyebrows shoot up.
“When two wizards love each other,” he repeats icily, “much as you and Charlie do, and they decide that they want to have children, they sometimes choose to use alternative means to have those children.”
Xander nods impatiently. “You mean like a surrogate mother, or adoption?”
“No, I mean like one of the wizards can allow his partner to impregnate him, thus creating a child of their bodies, and with both their magical signatures."
Xander's mouth drops open again. “Get the fuck out,” he breathes. Harry snorts.
“It's all true. In wizarding society, men can bear and/or carry children. From the sound of things, Riddle chose his male companion to carry you.” Harry pauses. “Unforunately, male pregnancies can be . . . tough on the father doing the carrying, and the birth especially so. The child has to be Apparated out, for obvious reasons, but doing so runs the risk of the wizard suffering internal hemorrhaging, resulting from the-”
“Gah! I get it, I get it!” Xander covers his ears for a moment. “Okay, men can carry babies in the wizarding world-gotcha. But if this Merope Gaunt is my biological mother, how come Riddle's . . . male companion carried me, and apparently died giving birth to me?”
Harry shrugs. “Quentin Oliver was the surrogate, not an actual parent. The child-you-were implanted in him by magical means. Just as you were no doubt created by magical means.”
Xander sighs, leaning into Charlie, his head spinning both literally and figuratively. Charlie's chin rests atop his head. “Lemme guess: dark magic?”
Harry comes over to Xander and puts a hand on his arm. “Not necessarily dark. But old. Very old. Magic that's fueled by will and desire. Whatever else he wanted, Tom Riddle wanted you to be born very badly. Badly enough that he was willing to sacrifice the life of his lover to get you here, because he apparently trusted no one else in his circle to carry you. Not even that mad bitch, Bellatrix Lestrange.” Harry shakes his head. “Frankly, we're still reeling over this . . . companion of Riddle's. No one in Riddle's circle that we've ever spoken to made any mention of him, or to the fact that Riddle had ever taken a lover.”
Xander frowns. “Then how do you know they were lov-“
“Avada Kedavra!” The thus far silently grieving Riddle suddenly hisses, whirling on Herr Krakauer. And in a flash of eldritch green light, the man is laying on the floor, stiff as a board.
“Oh . . . oh, my God,” Xander exhales, covering his mouth much the way Riddle had before. He wants to turn away, but can't. He can only be thankful for Charlie's arms around him.
Riddle, meanwhile, is still standing over the body, breathing hard, his face nearly purple with rage. His wand is still pointed at the body and there are tears running down his face.
Unnoticed, the boy holding the bundle backs into the other room and shuts the door quietly. . . .
And suddenly, the scene changes-to a bedroom, pin-neat, but for the area immediately around the bed. In the bed, itself is another dead body.
The boy pauses only a moment to look at it-it's naked, but the lower half of it is covered with a blue sheet. Still-damp ash-blond hair covers a pale face, but Xander can still make out green eyes-the color of spring grass-and fine, aristocratic features.
“Is that-“
“Quentin Oliver,” Harry says, nodding. “We were able to find some information on him-not much. The Oliver family-old money and old magic-basically kept him hidden away for most of his life because he was a Squib. Then, in 1975, he disappeared so completely, he was never heard from again. We can only surmise that's when he met Riddle. The next five years are a blank that we can't yet fill in.”
In the scene, the boy has placed the bundle-the baby-me, Xander thinks, irritated with himself-down on the night table and is opening the window carefully. It squeaks, but only a little. When it's open wide enough, the boy hesitates and looks back at the baby, then at the body in the bed. Then back at the window.
Finally, he goes back for the baby-and for something else on the night table. A gilt-framed photo-and a familiar one, at that. In it, Riddle is smiling and winking at the camera. Or the person behind it.
The boy tucks it, frame and all, into the baby's blanket, then hurries back to the window.
It takes some doing, getting out with only one free hand, but he does it. The baby has just started to cry again. He's probably hungry.
The scene whirls around again in that way that means its about to change, but Mad-Eye waves his wand, and suddenly Xander's leaning over the basin once more, his hand still in Charlie's. His other hand is clenched on his stomach, which is roiling worse than ever.
He straightens up as a fresh wave of cramps and nausea assaults him, and turns to Harry, who's adjusting his glasses and still staring broodily into the pensieve.
“Nothing but more riddles,” he mutters, and Xander couldn't agree more.
Then his stomach's in complete revolt. “Can someone point me to the nearest toilet? I'm about to be sick,” he says, more calmly than he expects. Mad-Eye merely stares at him-at his stomach-and Harry's still enrapt in the pensieve.
It's Kingsley Shacklebolt who finaly offers to show him the way. Xander barely makes it to the stall in time, and it's only after he's purged his stomach of everything it'd ever had in it that he realizes Charlie's been holding his hair back.
*
Once in Moody's cramped office, all of them sitting in transfigured chairs, knees bumping into someone or something, Moody breaks out the Ogden's Old and six tumblers. Charlie takes a tumblerful gladly.
“Oh . . . no, thanks,” Xander says absently, one hand on his stomach, the other in Charlie's. He's staring at the evening edition of the Prophet on Moody's desk. The front page article features another photo related to Riddle. It's of his graduating class at Hogwarts. Every teen in the photo is abuzz and a flutter, quite unable to be bothered to face the camera for long enough to be photographed clearly. Except for one student, standing a little off to the left of center, smirking his Salazar Slytherin-smirk at the world.
A Riddle From Beyond the Grave? the headline reads, with a byline of: Will the true extent of Riddle's legacy finally disclose itself?
“Hey,” Charlie says, squezing Xander's hand, and Xander tears his gaze away from the photo. Charlie smiles. “It'll be okay, love.”
Xander tries gamely to return the smile. “Keep saying that, and maybe I'll believe it, in a year, or two.”
Moody clears his throat and knocks back his firewhisky in one great swallow that makes even Charlie-no stranger to firewhisky-wince and rub his throat.
“Now,” he says shortly. “From what we've seen, so far, the boy who was assisting the Medi-wizard, Herr Krakauer, managed to make his way, without being caught by Riddle's followers, from somewhere in Poland-we believe near Warsaw-to the States. It took him months of hand-to-mouth living and doing things no one should have to do, let alone a child, but he got away. We believe this was, partially, because Riddle didn't chase after him, immediately. He may have been too busy with other . . . projects, but it's more likely he was too aggrieved at the death of Quentin Oliver to start an effective pursuit of boy and babe.” Moody pauses to pour himself another tumblerful. “It is believed that after the loss of the babe, that Riddle began working in earnest on his horcrux scheme. Which further leads us to theorize that-“ he glances at Potter, who shrugs. “That you, Harris, were initially fashioned to be a horcrux.”
Xander shakes his head, smiling a little. “Pretend I'm new to the wizarding world, and please explain what a horcrux is,” he says calmly. It's that calm that has Charlie worried. Xander's been taking this all-for Xander, anyway-far too calmly. More calmly than Charlie would have, in his place.
“A horcrux is, to put it simply, a vessel for containing a soul, or part of a soul. So that even if the body dies, the soul can be . . . kept on this plane. Even re-incarnated,” Kingsley says quietly, as though just speaking of horcruxes is enough to conjure one. “It's very dark magic.”
Looking as if he suddenly understands, Xander nods. “Okay. Like an Orb of Thessula. I get it.”
Moody looks startled and his mad eyes whirling. “You know about those? They're illegal in forty countries. Even to speak of them is run the risk of being investigated by aurors!”
Xander shrugs. “Must not be illegal in the good ol' US of A. I've seen one in use. Hell, I think my ex-fiancee did a brisk business in them, in her magic store.” He shrugs again. Moody looks like he's about to have an apoplectic fit.
“Leaving that aside, for now,” Kingsley Shacklebolt says firmly, putting a steadying hand on Moody's arm. “The horcrux theory is only one theory. My theory is a simpler one: Riddle intended to create the seven horcruxes, and keep you, Xander, hidden away somewhere, till Riddle was otherwise wounded or killed-a thing he seemed to anticipate happening-and then, well . . . displace your soul from your body, and collect his soul from the horcruxes and have it transferred into your body.”
Xander goes even paler. “But in either case . . . what would've happened to me? To my soul?”
“What, indeed,” Moody says sharply. “Your soul would likely have been left to wander the earth or move on to the next life.”
His mouth pursing, Xander snorts, looking at the newspaper again. “What a swell guy you were, Tommy . . . so I am a clone of him, right? A carbon copy?”
Moody clears his throat. “There are spells-mostly old magic, that deal with creating copies of one's self, yes. Some are dark magic, others are not. We've no way to tell which spell was used to create you, only that from creation, to birth, you were carried by Quentin Oliver.”
Charlie's brow furrows and he shakes his head. “But how did Xander end up being raised by muggles? If this boy-do you even know who he was?-was caring for him, for months, you say, how-?”
“He Obliviated a young couple in a place called Oxnard, California, into thinking they'd had a child out of wedlock. And that they had to leave Oxnard because of the shame. We don't know why he chose them.” Moody says, holding up a hand before Charlie can ask another why. “Nothing in Xander's memories tells us why, only that he did do these things.
“After the new memories took and the couple seemed to accept the child as their own . . . more or less . . . the boy disappears from the picture.”
“And speaking of picture, the one that the boy took from Riddle's cottage is the same one that appeared on the front page of the Prophet, yesterday morning. Xander was right, it appears: that picture didn't come from any photo library of any newspaper. It came fom Quentin Oliver.” Harry leans back in his chair and sips his firewhisky. “The question becomes, how did it make it's way to the front page of the Prophet? And who was able to get his hands on that illustration of Xander?”
“And why were they so eager to see this 'story' break?” Kingsley asks softly. “Money? Or some sort of . . . scheme?”
No one, it seems, has an answer for that. Except for Xander, who's rubbing his stomach, they all sip their firewhisky in silence.
Finally, Xander breaks the silence. “Who named me?” he asks quietly, almost desperately. Moody blinks, surprised.
“The boy did. He called you Aleksander consistently over the months he traveled with you, and apparently the name stuck, because your adoptive parents kept it,” he adds, and Xander suddenly looks away with a low groan and a grimace.
“Xand?” Charlie says solicitously. Xander smiles wanly, rubbing his stomach.
“Sorry. I think I might have a mild case of food poisoning from a rogue roast beef sandwich.”
Charlie's immediately attentive. “Food poisoning? And you're just now mentioning that's what you think it is?” he chides, reaching out to caress Xander's understandably pale face. “There's a Medi-witch on the premises, I believe. We can get you looked over, right now. They can give you a potion that'll cure you in no time at all.” He looks at Moody for confirmation. Moody snorts.
“Weasley, if he's got food poisoning, I'm a three-tailed crup!” He laughs, gravelly and amused. “Harris, what's ailing you isn't a bad bloody sandwich. It's the fact that your body's is trying its damnedest to accommodate a womb!”
This time, Charlie's the one who's mouth drops open. But Xander merely blinks. “I'm sorry, accommodate a what?”
“No, Harris, accommodate a womb.” Off Xander's still blank look and Charlie's gobsmacked one, Moody rolls his eyes-the mad one keeps on going round and round even after the normal one's stopped. “For the child you two went to the trouble of creating?”
Xander's shaking his head. “Hey, look, it's great that wizards can carry babies, and all, but I think you're seriously mistaken. I am not carrying a baby-“
“Well, not yet, but if that womb finishes forming unimpeded, you will be.” Moody's mad eye focuses on Xander's stomach. “And from the looks of things, it'll be finished quite soon.”
Xander laughs, patting his stomach. “Yuh-huh. Sure, it will. Charlie, can you believe this guy? Charlie?”
But Charlie's only half there. The other half of his mind is hearkening back to last night. He remembers very clearly he and Xander making love in Regulus Black's narrow bed. He remembers Xander arching up against him, coming, and moaning as he did. More importantly, he remembers himself saying . . . something, and tracing patterns on Xander's abdomen in sweat and come. Patterns that'd felt, even at the time, almost . . . rune-like.
He remembers coming, himself, so hard, it felt like he might die when it was over. That he'd given Xander everything he had, mind, body, soul, magic . . . even life-force, he'd thought at the time.
“Esse fecundum . . . something-something concepit amore-” Charlie murmurs. He's quite certain that's part of what he said. It has the general ring of a spell, but it's not constructed like any spell he's ever heard. Not even the silly ones Fred and George used to make up and practice on Scabbers.
Moody huffs. “That's not any modern fertility spell, as far as I know, but that'd do it, if there were enough . . . will and intent behind it. Enough desire.”
Charlie's the one shaking his head, now. “But-we-doesn't there have to be a Medi-witch present, to perform that sort of spell?” Surely a child can't just be wished and wanted into existence. . . .
Huffing again, Moody cracks a smile that's at least as intimidating as his regular expression. “Considering what two people usually have to do to conceive a child, most fertility spells only require the, er, presence of the parents-to-be. The Medi-witch comes into play before, to make sure they know the risks and can actually complete the spell correctly, and after, to make sure everything's gone according to plan.” He sighs. “So, I suppose you'll be needing to see the Medi-witch, now, to make sure the spell takes completely?”
Charlie nods absently, still trying for the life of him to remember the whole spell-if spell it was-that he'd performed. But he discovers one's best moments of recall are not when one is coming harder than one ever has before in one's life. “Yes, please. We have to make sure. . . .”
That Xander's pregnant? That he's not? That this isn't all some kind of strange mix-up? Merlin!
“Excuse me,” Xander declares, holding up his hands, still laughing, but it's not a very mirthful laugh. It's rather shrill and hyena-like. “But of all of us here, I think I'd be the one to know if I was pregnant, please and thank you, and I'm not! Christ!”
Harry frowns. “Well, have you ever been pregnant before?”
“No, but-“ Xander blushes, and crosses his arms. “But I've had food poisoning before, and this is what it feels like. End of story.”
Moody snorts. “Well, then, hadn't you better see a Medi-witch about your . . . food poisoning, Harris? Before it gets any worse?”
Still blushing, Xander stands up, one hand still on his stomach, his dignity drawn around him like a cloak. “That's a fine idea, Auror Moody. I believe I will. Charlie-c'mon. We're going to see the Medi-witch.”
“Not without an escort.” Harry jumps up, too, staring speculatively at Xander's stomach as if he expects a child to immediately appear. Noticing this, Xander's quick to cover his stomach with both hands and glare at Harry.
“Esse fecundum . . . something. . . .” Charlie mutters, standing up, as well. His legs feel rubbery and strange, and his vision is suddenly narrowing like a tunnel.
Xander rolls his eyes. “Yeah, babe-isn't that what you said last night when we were-alone together?” he finishes delicately. Then he frowns. “Hey, what's that mean, anyway?”
“I'm pretty sure it's means you're about to be pregnant,” Charlie says-or means to say. Instead, he laughs and swoons, and the world goes gently dark for a little while.
End