Bill looks at Tom sadly: how can they seal off what's everywhere?

"If only it were that simplistic." He lets out a sigh. "If all the world were as small as Diagon Alley. There's not a chance we could station people at every entrance to our world." He's thinking about the vortices the Death Eaters used before: he was able to figure out where some of the Egyptian ones were and where they led, but it begs the larger question: why would those only be in place in Egypt? Why not worldwide? Egypt is special, but it's not an epicentre of magical activity.

And then Bill's face falls even more with something he'd not before considered: why stop with those on one small and seemingly insignificant planet? Why not spread them throughout the universe? He glances over at Tom, solemn and sombre, trying to read invisible words on the table's surface. The Voldemort he knows will stop at nothing to achieve his ends.

But this man isn't Voldemort. He's Tom. He's not Voldemort.

Fuck. Bill's eyes close; his voice is tight.

"I'm glad you were able to protect London Below."

He hopes he can do the same, or some approximation thereof, for his family and loved ones when it's necessary.