— — — — — —
"About that…"
Tom paused for a moment before saying, "Dementors drain away a person's happiness. When all the joy is stripped out, what's left bubbling up are the sad, painful memories you've been carrying. You know that much, right?"
Harry nodded. He'd learned those basics at the start of term and hadn't taken them seriously back then. Now he felt painfully aware of how naive he'd been. No wonder Ron curled up like a terrified hedgehog whenever Dementors were mentioned, or why Hagrid, that giant of a man, had nearly burst into tears last year at the idea of going to Azkaban.
"But my reaction isn't like anyone else's," Harry said quietly. "Those scenes… they're…" He hesitated, then slumped a little. "They're of Voldemort killing my parents. But I was just a baby. I shouldn't be able to remember any of that. And there were even scenes from outside the room, clear as if I were standing there again on that awful night."
"First of all… babies do have memories. They're just buried deep in the mind and only surface under special conditions. A lot of people think those flashes are dreams, or hallucinations."
Tom explained calmly. Lately he'd been doing intensive research on memory. In that field he could be considered an expert, though of course still far from monsters like Ravenclaw.
"And you told me before that your dreams sometimes showed parts of that night. Dreams are still a form of memory."
"That's what sets you apart from everyone else. You've carried far more pain than most people your age. Naturally, your reaction to Dementors is much stronger."
"And last…"
Tom's gaze shifted to Harry's scar. Harry instinctively reached up to touch it. "You mean Voldemort is affecting me?"
"Something like that." Tom didn't deny it. "The Killing Curse cast at you was full of dark magic and violent negative emotion. You survived, but the imprint didn't vanish."
In truth, Tom was certain it was the fragment of Voldemort's soul lodged inside Harry. Normally, Harry's own spirit was strong enough to keep it suppressed, prevent it from leaking into his life.
But when a Dementor weakened his mind and amplified all his negative emotions, that fragment naturally stirred.
Harry thought back carefully and realized that the moment before he fainted yesterday did feel disturbingly similar to the times he'd come close to Voldemort.
"So… if I learn the Patronus Charm, will that get rid of the influence?" Harry asked, hopeful. He'd already heard from others what had happened after he passed out, and he knew now that the Patronus was a Dementor's natural counter.
"It's one way," Tom said. "If you can't solve the problem, then deal with the thing causing it. But the Patronus is a difficult advanced charm. Plenty of graduates still can't cast one. And using it against real Dementors is far tougher than practicing it in a classroom. You'll have to be ready for that."
"Can you teach me?"
"Me? I don't have time." Tom shut that down instantly. "Here's a better idea: ask Lupin. He's an expert on dark creatures. Dementors fall into that category."
Between studying until dawn and doing all the grunt work for himself, he barely had time left for his girlfriends, let alone tutoring Harry.
And as for paying him? Tom made more in a minute than Harry got in pocket money for a year. Even with a wealthy godfather, that didn't change much.
Lupin, though…
Harry frowned. Lupin had visited him yesterday. Why hadn't he said anything about teaching the Patronus?
Before Harry could recover from his thoughts, Tom slipped out of the hospital wing and sent Hermione a message, asking her to bring the twins.
...
Fifteen minutes later, Tom met Fred and George in the small courtyard. They looked miserable.
Gryffindor had still lost the match yesterday. Cedric hadn't noticed Harry's collapse or the Dementors' intrusion. He'd seen the Snitch and caught it. Only afterward did he realize something was wrong with Harry.
Being a proper, fair-minded Hufflepuff, Cedric had asked for a rematch, but that technically broke the rules. Wood refused, and then spent who-knew-how-long wandering in the downpour before returning to the castle looking like a drowned ghost.
"I have a business opportunity," Tom said. "But I need your help."
"Sir, please, use us as you wish!" x2
Those words were apparently the activation phrase for some internal switch, because both twins instantly snapped back to life, practically glowing as they circled Tom eagerly.
Tom twitched his lips. "Don't get ahead of yourselves. Whether you make money or not depends on your own skills. I need to test you first."
The twins agreed even though they looked nervous, but once Tom fired a few alchemy questions at them, they relaxed.
Say what you will about the rest of their academics, but the pair who vowed to outdo Zonko's Joke Shop had poured plenty of effort into alchemy and potions. Their foundations were solid.
Tom was satisfied. Their skill barely reached the line he'd set. It was normal that they didn't know some of the core theory. They had taught themselves everything, after all, with no formal alchemy training. Before Nicolas Flamel started tutoring him, Tom's own studies had been the same: all over the place and a complete mess.
Once the evaluation was done, Tom pulled out the anti-curse cloak and demonstrated its effect. Then he finally got to the point. "Making money is simple. For every cloak you produce, I'll pay you ten Sickles."
"Ten Sickles?" Fred's eyes lit up like he'd cast a Spark Charm. George looked just as dazzled.
"That's right. The Ministry ordered a batch of anti-curse cloaks for the Aurors. I can't keep up alone, so I'm outsourcing."
He added, "And I'm not hiding anything. They're paying ten Galleons each. Materials cost money, my enchantment method costs money, so giving you ten Sickles per cloak is already generous."
Tom trusted the Weasley family. The twins, Charlie, Percy, even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were reliable. He wasn't worried they'd steal the technique and run to the Ministry behind his back. They didn't have the gall, and definitely didn't have the bargaining power.
Just as he expected, the twins weren't the least bit unhappy. If anything, they looked thrilled. "No problem, Tom. Leave the job to us. How many do you want?"
"As many as you can make," Tom said. "But listen. I'll allow some rejects and failures, but you need to keep that under twenty percent. Once you're familiar with the process, the final rate should drop to five percent."
"Fair enough." Fred nodded. "We're almost out of research funds anyway. And McGonagall's been cracking down so hard we haven't opened shop in ages."
"Then let's not waste time. Come on, I'll teach you the process."
Tom led them to the Potions classroom. The sooner he trained them up, the sooner he could free himself from some of the workload.
But… he really needed people. What he lacked most right now was someone who could operate openly, handle problems, take chores off his hands. He couldn't run to his future mother-in-law every time an issue cropped up.
His original plan had been to hand everything to Andros after reviving him, but thinking about Andros's personality, plus that half-finished artificial-body project of his, Tom had zero confidence in that working out.
If only Penelope had already graduated. Shame… he'd have to wait another year.
---
Outside the castle, the Dementors had abandoned their usual posts at Hogwarts's gates and by the known secret exits. Even the ones at Hogsmeade had vanished.
They weren't idiots. They had a certain level of intelligence; otherwise Voldemort wouldn't have been able to recruit them. After yesterday's devastating losses, they were heading straight to the Ministry to complain. And they didn't dare linger anywhere near Hogwarts, terrified that the "slaughter god" might burst out with his giant Patronus again and crush them like bugs.
Since Dementors couldn't Apparate, they had no choice but to wheeze and shuffle their way back to London.
Cornelius Fudge was a mess, listening to a pale-faced Umbridge relay the Dementors' accusations. He refused to meet those disgusting things in person and had sent Umbridge instead.
Facing over a hundred Dementors had made her feel like she'd been trapped in an ice cellar for an hour. Even so, she sounded almost pleased when she reported:
"Minister, Tom Riddle is utterly lawless. According to the Dementors, he killed over a hundred of them yesterday. Monster or not, they're Ministry employees. Killing them like that shows he has zero respect for the Ministry!"
"And besides, why does a student even know such destructive magic? Clearly suspicious. I recommend a full investigation."
"Enough!" Fudge slammed his desk so hard the sound drowned out the rest of her words.
"Investigate! Investigate what, exactly? Investigate your head, maybe!"
"You think I don't know what's going on in that pink little brain of yours? This is about him calling you a pink toad last year, isn't it? And that wasn't even an insult. It was a statement of fact!"
"Minister nnh! I'm only thinking of your best interests," Umbridge said quickly. "Azkaban was already understaffed, and now the Dementors have taken heavy losses. If there's another jailbreak, the public won't blame Riddle. They'll blame you and the Ministry."
For all her boot-licking, Umbridge wasn't completely useless. What she said was unpleasant but true. Fudge's fury deflated a little. He took a long drink of strong tea.
"You said he killed over a hundred Dementors?" he asked.
"Yes, Minister. Two hundred fifty went to Hogwarts. Barely over a hundred came back."
"That's… absurd…" Fudge rubbed his chin. A hundred Dementors. How many Aurors would it take to do that?
If Dumbledore had done it, or even McGonagall, Fudge wouldn't be shocked. But Tom was still a student. No matter how much of a prodigy he was, most adults still unconsciously treated him as nothing more than an exceptionally talented kid. Almost no one took his true strength seriously.
Now Fudge was stuck. Punish Tom?
Not a chance. After their last negotiation, Tom had gained terrifying connections. Two of his products—no, several of them—were influencing the entire magical economy. Fudge wasn't dumb enough to antagonize him over a swarm of monsters.
But he still had to give the Dementors something, or they might riot, and then Azkaban would be in chaos again.
He was caught in a no-win situation. Whichever side he appeased, the other would be furious.
While Fudge massaged his temples, someone knocked hard on the door outside.
"Minister, Dumbledore is here!"
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