— — — — — —
Ireland reclaimed the Quidditch World Cup after a hundred and thirty-six years.
That should have been the biggest headline in the wizarding world. Instead, it was shoved into a tiny corner of the papers.
What dominated the front pages were things like:
{The Most Horrifying Riot in History! Tragedy After the Finals!}
{Over a Thousand Dead. The Darkest Day the Wizarding World Has Ever Known!}
{Thirteen Years Later, the Dark Mark Returns. Fifty Years On, the Name Grindelwald Still Haunts Us. But Both Were Defeated by a Single Organization!}
{Unbelievable! A New Sun Rises Over England!}
{The Dutch Ministry of Magic Requests International Aid: The Acolytes Are Coming.}.
Headline after headline blurred together, accompanied by graphic photos from the scene. The wizarding world was in uproar. No one had expected a grand celebration to end as a massacre.
To be fair, every World Cup had casualties. When you gathered enough people, trouble was inevitable. Past tournaments had drawn fifty or sixty thousand, sometimes seventy or eighty thousand spectators.
But even if you added up the deaths from hundreds of previous Cups, they probably would not match this one.
The most chilling images were the photos of hundreds of charred bodies. Turn the page, and there was Tom's handsome face, smiling brightly.
Anyone who finished the article found that smile deeply unsettling.
From that day on, the twin thrones occupied by Grindelwald and Dumbledore had room for a third name.
Tom Riddle.
Not even Voldemort qualified. Many people still had no clear idea of his true strength, and his influence across the world did not come close to those three.
---
Voldemort, still hiding out in southern Albania, nearly burst a blood vessel when he saw the papers.
Back then, he must have been completely out of his mind to lock himself into a death struggle with Dumbledore in Britain. That choice had left him lagging far behind Grindelwald in both momentum and historical standing. Now even Riddle had surpassed him.
Voldemort cursed as he studied, desperately absorbing the experiences of both his predecessors and his successors. No matter what, he had to raise his image and stature first. He could not stay confined to Britain forever. The level was too low.
---
Back in Britain, thanks to Fudge behaving himself and Tom mercifully letting him off the hook, public opinion toward the Minister remained relatively friendly.
The Daily Prophet pulled a neat little trick and swapped the framing of the story.
Yes, people died here. But didn't that just prove that foreign wizards had poor standards?
Look at the troublemakers. Koreans, Indians, plenty from the United States, and the largest group were Russians. British wizards, on the other hand, were pure and spotless, untouched by such filth.
What? Someone cast the Dark Mark?
And who proved it was one of us? Don't spread rumors without evidence.
That move neatly redirected the anger. The Ministry followed up with a flood of investigation reports, enough to fill an entire issue of the paper. Over fifty thousand words. It was enough to make anyone's head spin.
The public did not need the truth. The truth only made things complicated. Clarifications were not meant to reveal reality anyway, just to scrub someone clean.
On top of that, most of the media attention focused on Tom, sparing no effort to polish his image.
Stories about Riddle saving foreign wizards in danger. Riddle stopping the Acolytes. Riddle getting kissed by a girl he saved.
Several "television stations" even tried to invite Tom onto their programs. He didn't have the time. He hadn't even bothered to read their invitations, but he was pleased with what the spread of the Lume-Lens had accomplished. This was one of the reasons his New World Mission had progressed by twenty percent.
...
After two days, everyone stranded at the tournament site finally left Britain and returned to their home countries. Lady Greengrass dumped Astoria and Daphne on Tom, scolded him for five straight minutes, then went home to catch up on sleep.
Tom could not afford to offend his future mother-in-law, so he redirected his frustration toward easier targets.
Like the Ministry officials who came to ransom people back.
Did anyone really think the rioters were all unemployed nobodies or low-level common wizards?
Wrong. Completely wrong.
Savage violence is baked into human blood. Everyone has a destructive impulse. The death toll had not even been fully counted yet, let alone everyone's identities.
As for those who survived and were arrested, there were over fifteen hundred of them. Their backgrounds were a mess. Among them were employees of various foreign Ministries of Magic, even officials.
Take the head of the Russian Magical Sports Administration, for example. He had been captured alive, but refused to behave. After waking up, he kept causing trouble and was instantly taken out by Ikaros with a single move.
"If you want your people back, pay the fine."
On the second floor of the Astra Abyssum Guild, inside the main conference room, Tom showed no courtesy whatsoever to the group of foreign diplomatic officials sitting across from him. He laid out his terms bluntly.
"One thousand Galleons per person. But even after paying, they'll still be locked up for three months. Let it teach them a lesson. From now on, if it's an event hosted by Astra Abyssum, they'd better behave. How many lives do they think they have to waste?"
The officials exchanged glances. Riddle was treating them like sheep waiting to be slaughtered.
One thousand Galleons was no small sum. For many families, it was half a year's income, even a full year. For the Weasleys, it would mean instant bankruptcy.
Of course, the Ministry would not be paying. The bill would fall squarely on the families behind those troublemakers.
Fifteen hundred people. That meant 1.5 million Galleons in ransom alone. A staggering sum.
The real issue was that even after paying, they would still have to wait three months. Who could guarantee those people would still be alive at the end of it? And even if there was a promise, if anything went wrong, the families would come knocking on the Ministry's door.
They were furious. But no one dared voice an objection.
Every time anger rose to their throats and words of protest nearly slipped out, the image of yesterday's mountain of corpses flashed before their eyes, reminding them how fragile life really was.
And so Tom's demands passed with shocking ease. Not a single person dared oppose him.
That was the power of momentum. When the tide was set, even the authority of a Ministry of Magic became insignificant.
But this was not the end. It was only the beginning.
The fines were aimed at individuals. They were a statement, a warning to anyone who might consider testing the Guild in the future.
But if he did not seize this opportunity to expand Astra Abyssum's influence, then would not yesterday's dead have died for nothing?
Especially Russia.
Tom had long had his eye on its rich mineral reserves and rare arctic herbs. If he could extend his reach there, it would not take long before his collection surpassed even his teacher, Nicolas Flamel. Forget a hundred Transformers. If he wanted, he could build thousands.
An hour later, when the representatives from various countries stepped out of the conference room, their faces were as dark as if they had just left a funeral.
The situation was stacked against them. They had no right to bargain, not even the courage to try.
Whatever conditions Tom proposed, they could only nod and accept. Whether those terms would ultimately be honored depended on what their respective Ministers thought.
Still, most of them doubted there would be any surprises.
Riddle was not someone you could afford to cross.
Unless…
Unless Dumbledore stood on their side.
"Professor Dumbledore?" one department head muttered absentmindedly as he looked up and saw the old wizard walking toward them.
Dumbledore smiled and gave them a polite nod, but did not greet anyone by name. Everyone knew him. That did not mean he knew all of them.
"It seems your discussion with Tom was not particularly pleasant?" he asked gently.
The group forced bitter smiles and shook their heads without answering directly.
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Young people are sharp-edged. It's understandable. I believe Tom's intentions are to bring greater stability to the wizarding world. As his elder, all I can do is avoid clashing with that sharpness and lend a hand if he stumbles. It's for the greater good."
With that, he stepped into the conference room. The door closed behind him, and the sound of two familiar voices greeting each other faded into silence.
The representatives exchanged glances.
Their last hope had just vanished.
Dumbledore did not think Riddle had done anything wrong. And they had expected him to oppose his own student?
They sighed.
Two great wizards standing on the same side. What chance did anyone else have?
...
Inside the conference room, Dumbledore's purpose was not so different from the others. He did not understand why Tom insisted on holding thousands of wizards in detention.
A prison hobby?
Tom did not hide his reasoning.
"Professor, I've reached an agreement with the Dementors. Fudge has also granted the Astra Abyssum Guild limited law enforcement authority and permission to build our own prison. Those people will be helping construct it. And in the meantime, they'll serve as food for the Dementors."
He then calmly outlined his plans for deploying the Dementors at future events.
Dumbledore sucked in a sharp breath.
Using Dementors to magically cool down overexcited wizarding tourists.
Who even came up with an idea like that?
When it came to questionable humanity, Tom remained consistently impressive.
Still, beneath the exasperation, Dumbledore felt a sliver of relief.
He had been worried Tom might be drunk on blood, unwilling to release anyone. Or worse, that he would use the captives as leverage to blackmail foreign Ministries into even harsher concessions.
Compared to that… this was almost reasonable.
They chatted for a while longer. At the appointed time, Crouch arrived. The Lume-Lenses along the walls flickered to life, and the heads of the major magical schools appeared on the screens. Vinda Rosier stood in for Grindelwald as always.
Tom smiled politely at Madame Maxime, then let his gaze linger briefly on Agilbert Fontaine before nodding to Crouch.
Crouch rose to his feet and gave a measured nod to each image around the room.
"Headmasters, thank you for attending. Today's meeting is not directly related to the Triwizard Tournament. However, what we discuss may well shape the future of the wizarding world."
As he spoke, he sent the prepared proposal to each of their Codex.
.
.
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