One piece of information—sold for the price of a Nimbus 2000.
Tom didn't hesitate for a second.
He handed over the Galleons without blinking.
Power is everything. Who cares about money?
Borgin's grin stretched even wider as he swiftly stashed the coins away.
Clients this generous were rare. If someone without power or background had acted this flashy, Borgin would've long since had them robbed blind and buried in Knockturn Alley.
But this man… this "Michael"—Borgin still couldn't pin him down.
None of the pure-bloods he knew matched this one's style.
It was as if he'd crawled out from under a rock—or more likely, come from abroad.
Until Borgin could figure out exactly who he was dealing with, he'd stay in character: a greedy but honest merchant—one who always charged a bit too much.
"Sir, I assume you've heard the news from up north?" Borgin asked slyly, instead of jumping straight into the intel.
Tom nodded. "More new Ministries of Magic have popped up these past few days than in the past few decades."
He'd subscribed to the international edition of the Daily Prophet.
These days, just the announcements of newly established Ministries took up several full pages.
Borgin leaned in, lowering his voice mysteriously.
"With all this regime upheaval, certain places have slipped into chaos. Take Romania's dragon reserve, for example. Two Fire Dragons escaped."
"Both of them are Hebridean Blacks—the most savage kind."
Tom's breath caught for a second. "Alive?"
Borgin rolled his eyes. "Come now, sir. If it were dead, we'd call it 'transported,' not 'escaped.'"
"Where is it?" Tom shot the question immediately, not wasting time on chit-chat.
This intel was pure gold.
Find a dragon, and you didn't just walk away with rare materials—you might even complete a Trial.
"One of them disappeared without a trace," Borgin said, "but the other one's in the Vosges Mountains."
Tom frowned, thinking. He quickly connected the dots. "The range between France and Germany?"
"That's the one." Borgin nodded with a tsk.
"It's a mess over there right now. Northern wizard refugees, scavengers catching the scent… and now, a whole bunch of dragon poachers swarming in."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "How many people have you sold this info to?"
Borgin gave him a theatrically offended look.
"You think Old Borgin is that kind of man? Please. The moment I got word two days ago, you were the first I thought of. I've told no one else—yet."
He raised a warning finger.
"But if I don't hear back from you within five days… well, I'll have no choice but to find another buyer."
"I can promise you this: no more than five wizards in all of Britain know about this. And none of them are interested in dragons."
Tom caught the implication.
"But you can't say the same for other countries, can you?"
Borgin shrugged, the picture of innocence.
"There's no such thing as a secret that doesn't leak. Especially not this kind of secret. The way I got it—others can too."
"So if you've got plans for that fire-breather… you'd best move fast."
"My people are always ready."
Tom turned on his heel and strode out of the shop, his cloak billowing behind him.
Borgin rubbed his chin, watching him go.
"Hmph. So he's not working alone… That makes it even more interesting."
…
Tom wasted no time. Using his "Michael" identity, he bought a plane ticket to Lorraine, France.
Technically, you still needed a visa to get from Britain to France these days.
But with a well-cast Confundus Charm, Tom slipped through the bureaucracy easily.
That same night, he landed in the city of Épinal.
If you've never heard of the Vosges Mountains or Vosges Forest, you're not alone.
But cross the Rhine River into Germany, and you'll find the legendary Black Forest—same range.
The region was sparsely populated—less than a million in the entire province.
But in magical terms? It was teeming with life.
The forests were home to countless magical beasts and creatures.
Tom rested for the night in the city.
At dawn, he would set off to find the wizarding outpost deep in the mountains.
…
That evening, while studying inside his learning space, Tom turned to Grindelwald with a hint of doubt in his eyes.
"You're sure it's safe to use my wand out here?"
"Distance-wise, I'm not even that far from London—maybe as far as Hogwarts is from the capital. Won't the Trace still activate?"
Grindelwald gave a knowing smile.
"The Trace is Britain's surveillance system. Once you're outside their borders, it doesn't work."
"No country likes foreign Ministries poking around in their territory. Trust me—use your magic freely."
"And when your Confundus Charm is good enough, you won't even need to worry about any of this."
Grindelwald had taught Tom a clever trick: use the Confundus Charm on the Trace itself, making it believe the wand's owner was already over seventeen—thus automatically lifting the restriction.
Unfortunately, Tom's Confundus still wasn't advanced enough to deceive magical law enforcement.
So, for now, he had to rely on location and subtlety.
…
The next day, Tom followed wizarding code signals and found the Vosges Outpost—a gathering place for magical folk in the mountain range.
The Vosges held a unique status in France.
Rich in resources—rare herbs, magical creatures, precious ores—it was also home to goblin tribes, dwarven settlements, and even a Veela enclave.
With so many rare ingredients and rare beings, it had become a goldmine for adventurous witches and wizards.
Naturally, a thriving hub had formed over time.
At the center was a massive square, with buildings fanning out in a 2-kilometer radius.
Every few houses, there was a tavern or inn—and every one of them was bustling.
Tom picked the cleanest-looking inn he could find and checked in.
Then he headed straight for the liveliest bar in town to start gathering intel.
How?
The old method: baiting the hook.
He swaggered in, dropped a fat pouch of Galleons on the bar, and ordered the most expensive drinks and food on the menu. Then, pretending to be drunk, he stumbled out of the tavern, weaving like a fool.
Sure enough, four figures tailed him out.
Two were working together. The other two were lone wolves.
Tom didn't spare any of them.
One ambush later, all four were tied up neatly and served a spoonful each of Veritaserum.
Then, the interrogation began.
Truth be told, Tom knew almost nothing about the Vosges Mountains.
What little he'd learned came from books—and he'd only just bought a map that morning.
So first, he asked them about general facts, geography, the basics.
Then he got down to business: the dragon.
The story had already made the rounds.
Even low-tier, back-alley wizards like these knew a Fire Dragon had entered the Vosges.
But not many dared to go after it.
Why?
Two reasons.
First: the dragon was registered—officially cataloged as part of the Romanian Dragon Reserve.
And that reserve was under joint jurisdiction of several Ministries of Magic.
Your average wizard wouldn't dare pick a fight with that kind of international trouble.
Second: dragons are absurdly dangerous.
Sure, everyone wanted that gleaming hoard of treasure wrapped in living muscle and magic.
But most weren't ready to die for it.
This was just the opinion of most ordinary wizards. In recent days, however, flocks of professional poachers had begun arriving in waves. Even combining the intel from these four captured stalkers, there were already six or seven known teams active in the area.
In other words, Tom had no shortage of competition.
But the Vosges Mountains were vast, and tracking down a fire-breathing dragon capable of soaring through the sky wasn't exactly easy.
With his goal for the day achieved, Tom left the four captives behind and returned to his hotel, entering the study space to plan his next moves.
With two ancient and cunning minds in his corner, it would be foolish not to make use of them.
"There's only about ten days left until school starts. I need to find that dragon soon, or I'll have to come up with an excuse to request leave," Tom said.
Andros didn't care whether Tom took leave or not; he earnestly began brainstorming.
Grindelwald, on the other hand, frowned slightly.
If you ask for leave, won't that delay when I finally get to see Dumbledore again?
After a moment's thought, he suggested a dark spell perfectly suited to the current situation. "The Blood Tracker Charm. It lets you detect places with the densest scent of blood. Dragons consume huge amounts of food—there will definitely be remnants near its lair."
Tom's eyes lit up. "Teach me."
Within a single night, he'd mastered the charm.
The sensing radius stretched roughly five kilometers. Combined with his increasingly proficient Apparition, Tom began systematically sweeping the Vosges, using the local wizard outpost as his center point.
Two more days slipped by.
Bad news: no results. Good news: no one else had found the dragon either. At least Tom wasn't falling behind.
The most anxious one now was Grindelwald. If things dragged on any longer, Tom really would have to request leave.
Then, on the third day, Tom encountered a group.
More accurately—a group of people and... Veela?
Over a dozen human wizards were hunting down eight Veela. And these weren't the radiant, enchanting Veela one might imagine, but rather their battle form: terrifying birdlike creatures with feral red eyes and flaming crimson hair.
The Veela flew above the trees, hurling fireballs toward the wizards below. They had the aerial advantage, but the wizards were crafty—several had cast Shield Charms in unison, forming a protective barrier that blocked every blazing projectile.
The rest of the hunters fired spells upward without restraint. The Veela were faltering. Some had been injured midair and were now being carried by their comrades, further weakening their counterattack.
But it wasn't the monstrous Veela that caught Tom's eye—it was a lone figure among them.
A silver-haired girl.
Roughly thirteen or fourteen, her face was delicate and otherworldly. Though not yet fully grown, her beauty already hinted at the Veela's natural allure.
A half-blood Veela...
Tom narrowed his eyes. He had a hunch about her identity.
Without hesitation, he Apparated to the battlefield's edge and roared:
"STOP! Let those Veela go—leave them to me!"
Both sides froze in surprise.
A scar-faced wizard among the humans scowled impatiently. "If you don't want to die, get lost. They're our prey!"
"I'll leave... if you answer one question first." Tom's gaze was steady, his tone serious.
The scarred wizard snorted. "What question?"
"Do you know where the dragon is?"
"The dragon?" The man burst into uncontrollable laughter, as if he'd heard the most ridiculous thing in the world. "You want to hunt the dragon? If I knew where it was, I'd happily tell you—just to watch you get eaten alive."
"I'll take that as a no," Tom sighed.
Then, he raised his wand.
"Infernal Grasp."
BOOM—!
Hellfire exploded upward. Before the horrified eyes of the wizards and Veela, silver flames erupted from the ground, forming a massive, blazing hand that lunged toward the clustered hunters.
The Shield Charms that had effortlessly blocked dozens of fireballs now cracked and shattered with a hideous crrrack-crack sound. The hand closed into a fiery fist, crushing over half of the wizards into smoldering ash.
"NO!"
The scar-faced wizard had narrowly escaped, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He raised his wand and fired a flash of green light at Tom.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Tom sidestepped with ease, dodging the curse. His wand snapped forward.
"Confringo!"
The explosion spell hit directly.
Flesh and blood burst into the air. Fireballs rained down like comets, directed by Tom's will. They slammed into the remaining enemies, leaving no survivors.
Within seconds, the clearing had fallen silent.
Only the crackle of fire remained, searing the air.
The Veela were frozen, too stunned to move. Not a single one dared to breathe too loudly. Overhead, balls of hellfire still hovered, blocking their escape.
Tom gave a slight nod of approval. He was pleased with the results of his recent training. That thousand-odd merit point investment hadn't been wasted.
He'd mastered Protego Diabolica and Grindelwald's many deadly variations. Drop him into Paris during the war, and he could've torched half the city himself.
Looking over the shivering Veela, Tom smiled slightly.
"Shall we talk?"
He gave a polite nod.
"But maybe calm down a bit first. In your current state, I'm worried I might lose control."
To be safe, he switched to fluent French, in case they didn't understand English.
A few Veela still looked terrified and confused, but two seemed to understand, chirping something in a strange, high-pitched language.
Slowly, all eight descended from the sky, keeping their distance and forming a protective wall in front of the silver-haired girl.
To show he meant no harm, Tom recalled the floating flames, pulling the blazing orbs into his palm. They vanished in a golden shimmer.
One of the Veela, still in her birdlike form, stepped forward and spoke in halting French, her voice harsh and scratchy.
"Respected human... Thank you for aiding us."
Tom understood the transformation wasn't their fault. It was like a cat puffing up its fur in fear—Veela assumed their birdlike form as a defensive response to emotional stress. Right now, they were still too shaken to revert.
He decided not to press them.
"You heard what I said earlier," he continued calmly. "I'm looking for a dragon, nothing more. I saved you. All I ask is this—return the favor. Help me find it."
The French-speaking Veela translated his words. The others exchanged glances, uncertain how to respond.
Both options were dangerous—the fire dragon... and this terrifying wizard.
But if they refused him, they might not leave this place alive.
"Fleur!"
Suddenly, a shout echoed through the forest.
More winged shapes swooped in from the treetops—a second wave of Veela had arrived.