"No wonder you have the confidence to say such things." Penelope's voice carried a faint trace of envy, even bitterness. "If I had your talent and strength, I wouldn't be sitting here, trembling in fear."
Tom chose not to respond. He knew better than to peel at that wound. In truth, Penelope's magical aptitude wasn't particularly remarkable. Later in history, when Voldemort's reign swept across the wizarding world, she had vanished from public record—rumor claimed she'd been imprisoned in Azkaban simply for her Muggle-born heritage. A life extinguished quietly, forgotten.
"Senior," Tom said instead, his tone measured, "what I said was only my perspective. Everyone is different. In the end, it's your choice to make."
He rose, brushing down his robes. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Once you're discharged, I'll hold you to that dinner in the kitchens."
With that, he left the infirmary without further argument.
…
Herbology was still in session, but Tom had no interest in rejoining class. Instead, he slipped into an empty classroom, pulled out his enchanted notebook—the "WhatsApp"—and tapped out a message.
[Tom]: Are you there, Lady Rosier?
The reply came swiftly.
[Lady Rosier]: Riddle, I am here.
[Tom]: You're still in the Bastille, aren't you?
[Lady Rosier]: Yes. With the chatbook you gifted me, secrecy has improved greatly. At present, we already control over five hundred confirmed adherents.
Tom skimmed through her report. More than five hundred vetted followers, spread across dozens of countries on the Continent—most of them pure-blood wizards, each backed by their respective families. And while an individual's loyalty didn't guarantee the entire clan's, it meant leverage. Influence. Power waiting to be harnessed.
Even long-dormant old families had begun stirring again, stretching their influence into various Ministries of Magic.
[Tom]: Well done. I'll inform Grindelwald of your progress—he'll be very pleased.
With a flick of his will, Tom activated the Learning Space, projecting the conversation directly before Grindelwald. Efficiency at its finest.
Lady Rosier, on her end, grew almost breathless with emotion. She dictated words for Tom to pass on: her undying loyalty, her longing, her promise to devote everything to restoring the glory of wizardkind.
Grindelwald fell silent.
There were very few people in the world who could stir guilt in the Black King of Europe. Ariana Dumbledore had been one. Rosier, in her way, was another.
[Tom]: I'll relay your words exactly, Lady Rosier. Now tell me—how much control do you have over the press?
[Lady RosierThe Old Rose of France]: One moment, let me confirm.
Minutes later, her handwriting appeared again.
[Lady Rosier]: The press is difficult. Too fragmented. Most papers are owned by a dozen shareholders each. But in France and Italy, consolidation could be arranged quickly. The Romier family, for example, has sway over celestial publishing interests…
Tom's lips curved.
[Tom]: Good. I want to publish—not one, but many articles. For that, I'll need media resources. I'll be traveling to France in December. We'll meet then.
Rosier's mind worked quickly, sharper than her age suggested. She recognized the weight behind his words.
After some consideration, her reply came:
[Lady Rosier]: Riddle, Christmas is still some ways off. Allow me to travel to Britain instead, to see you directly.
[Tom]: Aren't you still in the Bastille?
[Lady Rosier]: Staying here has served its purpose—secrecy, habit, comfort. But now that you need me, there's no reason to remain. I'll leave.
Tom didn't argue. He needed what she could provide—media reach, dissemination of his academic works, expansion of his influence.
The Greengrass family's base was solid in the British Isles, but their reach was limited. To influence the globe, he needed Rosier and her Saints.
[Tom]: Very well. Handle it as you see fit. Contact me once you arrive in Britain.
[Lady Rosier]: As you command, Riddle.
…
When the link closed, Tom slipped back into the Learning Space.
"Old man," he said, smirking, "shall I come visit you this Christmas? Bring a little warmth to a lonely old hermit?"
Grindelwald's mouth twitched. Lonely old hermit? He wanted to snarl. There was still a Squib guard in the depths of Nurmengard, shadowing him every waking moment. But outwardly, he conceded, "Come, if you wish. I have things for you—items that will serve you better once Rosier reemerges. She can put them to proper use."
His eyes gleamed. "The wards around Nurmengard? I deciphered them years ago. Enter by the method I teach you—you'll slip in unnoticed."
"Excellent." Tom laughed. "Andros—let's spend Christmas bringing warmth to our lonely prisoner."
Andros roared with mirth. "Splendid idea!"
…
That evening, the Great Hall erupted in thunderous applause as Penelope Clearwater finally returned from the infirmary. She smiled graciously, nodding to friends, professors, and fellow students. For a moment, she looked every bit the heroine of a tale.
But when her eyes swept across the hall, they lingered on Tom. Just for a second too long. And then—subtly—she winked at him, lips forming a single, silent word.
Stay.
Tom understood.
She had made her choice.
…
The applause had barely faded when another announcement lit up the hall. Dumbledore appeared at the High Table, his eyes twinkling, and revealed news from the Ministry itself:
The judgment on Gilderoy Lockhart had finally been passed.
Tomorrow, the Ministry would deliver his punishment.
The hall buzzed with excitement.