"Everyone, you all heard what I just said to Mr. Rouse."
Aside from the unconscious female Auror, the other three—though wounded—had already managed to climb to their feet, swaying unsteadily.
Tom twirled the wands in his hand and said, "Give Mr. Rouse one day. Just one day. You can use it to heal. As long as he leaves Britain, the rest is none of my business. How does that sound?"
The three Aurors exchanged glances. In each other's eyes, they saw the same hesitation, the same struggle.
Tom saw the crack in their resolve and gently nudged it wider. "We're all just trying to make a living here. I'm out here risking my life for gold. You guys are stuck with fixed salaries and dead-end risk pay. Why throw away your lives over a paycheck?"
He twirled a wand in his fingers. "But if you insist on pushing it, I'll have no choice but to break your wands."
Their expressions shifted drastically. "No! Don't—!"
"Alan, don't be stubborn now," Rouse cut in from behind Tom. "I just made one little mistake. Graves is the one abusing his authority here!"
"Shut it, Rouse!" growled the heavier-set Auror—Alan—his face dark with fury. "You call that a little mistake? Graves was your professor, for Merlin's sake! And you slept with his wife!"
…What the hell?
Behind the mask, Tom's mouth twisted violently, his eye twitching.
This was getting more and more bizarre by the second. So this Graves guy—Deputy Head of the International Auror Department—was Rouse's former teacher?
"Teacher? You forget what he did to me?" Rouse exploded. "I swore I'd get back at him the day he started targeting me. You think I wanted to sleep with his wife? Do you know how much effort it took to get it up for a woman who's five feet tall and weighs one hundred and fifty pounds?!"
This time, even Tom couldn't keep a straight face. The three Aurors looked visibly uncomfortable, their expressions shifting from stunned to… reluctantly empathetic.
Alan, the pudgy Auror, seemed to picture his boss's wife for a moment, grimacing. He looked at Rouse with something that resembled pity.
Still, the atmosphere had lightened.
"Fine," Alan muttered, clearly reluctant. "We accept your terms. We won't pursue Rouse today. But after that—we expect you to stay out of it."
Realistically, they couldn't chase even if they wanted to—Alan's internal organs were half-displaced. He needed urgent treatment. Besides, Tom had a point: what were they doing risking their lives for a paycheck that barely scraped by?
"Thank you for your cooperation," Tom said cheerfully, tossing their wands back without hesitation. He wasn't worried about betrayal—most wizards were quite afraid of death, especially the ones with real careers and bright futures. Aurors, despite their training, were no different—particularly the international ones. They were supposed to be society's elite, not suicidal maniacs.
And based on the interaction, it was pretty clear Alan and Rouse knew each other.
Sure enough, as soon as he retrieved his wand, Alan levitated the unconscious female Auror and slowly backed away with his comrades. Once they were out of range of the Anti-Apparition Field, they vanished with a soft crack.
Rouse exhaled in visible relief, finally dropping the act. He strode up and extended a hand warmly. "Brother, I owe you big time. If it weren't for you, I'd be on my way back in shackles. Name's Rouse Wilkinson. And you are?"
"Michael," Tom answered casually.
"Michael it is, then!" Rouse grinned. "Old Borgin really is well connected—to be able to call on someone like you." He knew the name was probably fake, but he didn't care. He grinned wide and offered up a thick dragon-hide wallet. "A whole day? That's way more than I paid for. This is all I have on me, brother—take it, even if it's not much."
Tom didn't take the wallet. Instead, he looked at him curiously. "You're a fugitive now. Don't you need some cash for the road? What'll you do without it?"
Rouse laughed breezily. "Ah, it's nothing. My destination's Germany. I've got relatives over there. And the German Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards don't get along, so the Aurors can't touch me once I'm there."
Tom nodded thoughtfully. Pure-bloods really were something else—always had relatives in high places, no matter the country.
Especially in America, where all the pure-bloods were immigrants from somewhere else. You never knew who was from the main branch or a side family.
But this was the first time he'd heard about friction between the German Ministry and the Confederation.
Suddenly, Tom said, "You've still got a Tracking Charm on you, don't you? I can remove it for you."
"Seriously?" Rouse' face lit up—but then he hesitated. "I… I don't have any money left. What if I transfer it to you from Gringotts once I get to Germany? Have Borgin collect it—safe and secure."
"That works." Tom nodded, smiling. "But you have to agree to one more thing."
"What's that?" Rouse' brow furrowed.
"I want to hear the whole story—between you and that Deputy Minister."
"No problem!"
Rouse lit up immediately, clearly proud of the tale he was about to tell. And as he spoke, Tom began to understand the full context of the drama he'd just stumbled into.
Rouse Wilkinson, graduate of Ilvermorny.
The feud between him and Graves went back generations—beginning with their families. The American wizarding world had once been governed by twelve original Aurors—the first magical immigrants to the continent. After their deaths, their families inherited their legacies. Some of those families had grown into massive, influential dynasties over the centuries.
The Wilkinson and Graves families were two of those twelve bloodlines, and now powerhouses in the American magical hierarchy.
But not all "legacy families" were cut from the same cloth. Some hailed from Britain—like Abraham Potter, a member of the famous Potter line and an ancestor of Harry Potter himself.
The Wilkinsons were German immigrants. The Graves were French.
And those two nations… well, anyone with a brain knew what that meant.
Their blood feud didn't stop just because they'd moved to a new continent. On the contrary—it had only grown worse.
Still, Graves hadn't initially gone out of his way to target a student. It all started because Rouse couldn't keep his mouth shut.
One time, while joking with friends about Percival Graves, Rouse was overheard by a professor—Robert Graves—who just so happened to be Percival's grandson.
Yes—that Percival Graves. The same one whose identity was stolen and impersonated by Gellert Grindelwald back in the day.
Grindelwald, in an oddly chivalrous move, had spared Percival's life—maybe out of respect for Albus Dumbledore, whose own middle name was also Percival.
But when the truth eventually came out and Graves was rescued, he lived in endless shame. The trauma ate at him for years—he even began to question whether his son was truly his, given that his wife had become pregnant during the time he was being impersonated.
And Robert Graves? No way he was letting Rouse off the hook.
Relying on his status as a professor and his equally noble lineage, Robert began ruthlessly bullying Rouse. No one could've expected that Rouse, who had always endured in silence, would wait until graduation… and then secretly sleep with Robert's wife.
And he didn't just stop there—he even left a handwritten note for Robert:
"Rest assured, your son is definitely your son."
If Robert could tolerate that, he wouldn't be a man at all. He slapped Rouse with a random charge and mobilized the International Auror network to hunt him down.
Tom, upon hearing this chaotic tale, could only marvel at the tangled web of relationships.
Still, there was one thing he was now sure of: Robert's father was most certainly a true Graves by blood—after all, Grindelwald had long since given his heart to someone else.
Once his thirst for gossip was satisfied, Tom kept his word and cast an Anti-Tracking Charm on Rouse, canceling out the trace left by the International Aurors.
Rouse immediately felt lighter, and after thanking Tom profusely, the two finally parted ways.
The next day, Tom used Polyjuice Potion again to take on Michael's appearance and returned to Borgin and Burkes.
"Ah, there you are!"
Borgin greeted him with his signature plastic smile. "Mr. Wilkinson couldn't stop praising you. Here's your payment—and an extra 500 Galleons. I've advanced it on his behalf."
Tom didn't stand on ceremony and took the money. With that, he'd already gathered half the funds needed to buy a dragon heart.
"Mr. Borgin," Tom asked, "any more jobs like that?"
"None for the time being." Borgin shook his head. "Clients like Mr. Wilkinson are rare. Most jobs now are either long-term or involve exploring ancient ruins—high risk, unstable returns."
Tom nodded. "If anything comes up, send word to Michael's address."
"Of course," Borgin replied with a smile.
With that assurance, Tom left Knockturn Alley and turned his attention back to the Muggle world.
Come to think of it, his entire holiday had revolved around making money.
First, it was Galleons. Now, he was chasing pounds.
That's right—even in the UK, pounds sterling remained a hard currency. Their influence was undeniable.
Tom pulled a few strings to help "Michael" get a National Insurance Number and driver's license—basically the Muggle equivalent of an identity card in the UK.
With these in hand, he could finally open bank and trading accounts. He threw his entire stash of savings into military industrial stocks, even leveraging them 2x.
With trouble brewing up north, Tom didn't need to know the exact numbers to guess that defense stocks would surge. A few years down the line would come the infamous bubble, and when that burst, he'd go all-in on Microsoft, cash out when it peaks, and that'd be enough.
He wasn't chasing endless riches—just enough for financial freedom and a few holiday estates scattered across the countryside.
Sure, the most profitable move would be to go north himself and exploit the industrial infrastructure directly, but that would take too much time and attention—neither of which he wanted to waste on money. Lazy methods were fine.
In the days leading up to Christmas, Tom was constantly busy. Letters arrived from both Hermione and Daphne, with Hermione even inviting him over for the holidays.
He declined.
He wrote brief replies, updating them on his recent activities, but didn't engage in deeper conversation.
From Borgin, he accepted two more tasks. One was to "convince" a wizard to sell an artifact he'd found in some ruins to the shop. The other was debt collection.
Borgin hadn't been wrong. Clients like Rouse were rare.
These two jobs together only netted him 200 Galleons.
But on the bright side, he'd finally managed to master both Apparition and Disapparition, which made things much more convenient.
Still no news on the dragon heart, though. Tom had already lowered his expectations—he'd take slices if whole ones weren't available, as long as they were properly preserved.
Desiccated hearts were useless—their magical vital essence had already dissipated.
Tom considered seeking help from Snape. With his connections, a few dragon heart slices shouldn't be too hard to procure.
But that might remind Snape of the... "zero-dollar shopping" incident.
After weighing the risk, Tom decided to hold off for a few more days. If nothing turned up by the time the new term began, he'd take the risk.
Even if he got caught, he was confident he could calm Snape's fury.
Perhaps... by handing over Peter Pettigrew as a gift?
That'd be quite the trump card.
But it was too valuable to play so easily. He'd wait for a bigger prize.
And so, the calendar flipped to December 24th.
London gave the city a proper winter wonderland—snow drifted gently across the rooftops, adding to the festive spirit.
Fir trees, dressed in twinkling fairy lights and shimmering lucky stars, stood proudly in front yards.
Tom, too, set up a Christmas tree in front of the orphanage. In his past life, Christmas had never meant much to him. But this time around, the environment had changed him—he'd begun treating Christmas like a second New Year.
Humans were social creatures. When everyone around you celebrates something, you eventually start doing the same.
This was the power of collective will, or perhaps shared belief—an invisible force that slowly, subtly reshaped behavior and thought.
That afternoon, Ms. Armon came by. She was surprised to see Tom back and chatted with him for a bit before heading home.
Originally, she'd come to clean the house for the holiday. But seeing everything already tidy, she didn't stay.
Once she left, Tom made himself a decent Christmas dinner. Nowhere near Hannah's level, of course, but edible.
He skipped the most iconic dish: turkey. He'd once tried it out of curiosity and still remembered that dry, chewy texture vividly.
The long table was set with all sorts of dishes. Tom sat at the head—facing empty chairs.
For a moment, the teenager just stared into space.
This... might be the loneliest Christmas he'd ever had.
In past years, there had always been other orphans. This year, he was the only one left.
Wait. Not alone.
With a thought, Tom opened his Learning Space.
"Andros… Merry Christmas."
The ancient sorcerer stirred from his slumber, expecting Tom to ask a question—but was instead greeted with a holiday blessing.
Even the mighty King of the Century couldn't help but smile.
"Merry Christmas, Tom."
[Andros' Recognition Level has reached 100. Congratulations, Host…]