So he paced, and fretted, and waited for the Portkey at his feet to turn blue. If it didn't, they had problems. But he had a few minutes before he had to consider the ramifications of that. And in those few minutes he could think about his daughter, so pure and happy and a bundle of joy. And how his heart would be ripped to pieces if Tom Riddle ever slashed at her throat ... as he'd so mercilessly done with the Queen of England.