Because of that photo splashed across the newspapers, Tom had, in the span of a single morning, become one of the most recognizable names in the French wizarding world. In the Hidden Alley, heads turned wherever he passed.
Most witches and wizards simply kept their distance, whispering as their eyes followed him with open curiosity. But some were bolder—stepping right up to him with the eagerness of fans chasing a celebrity.
France was different from Britain. Alchemy here wasn't some obscure elective—it was ingrained in wizarding culture. By third year at Beauxbatons, students could already begin specialized study. Achieve something notable in the field, and you were treated with respect.
One flaxen-haired young wizard came barreling forward, newspaper in hand, eyes alight.
"Riddle? You're the same Riddle as in the article, aren't you?"
Tom inclined his head with practiced calm. "Yes. Did you need something?"
He did not let down his guard. The stranger had approached too quickly, and even without wand in hand, Tom's instincts pricked at him.
The blond man jabbed his finger at a particular figure printed in the paper. "This is Bussweill, isn't it? He's one of my idols! His automatic cauldron stirrer is genius—absolutely changed potion-brewing forever."
Tom's gaze flicked briefly at the face in the article. "Yes. So? If you're looking for an autograph, I'm afraid I can't help. Mr. Bussweill returned to Austria already."
The young wizard flushed crimson, flailing his hands. "No, no! Nothing like that. I just… I wanted to ask… With so many masters and scholars gathered all together, what are you researching? It must be something extraordinary."
Tom smiled politely, lips curving but eyes revealing nothing. "I'm afraid I can't disclose anything. But… when it succeeds, you'll see it yourself."
Disappointment flashed across the man's face, but he'd clearly expected no less. With a rueful shrug, he slipped back into the crowd.
And still more came—one eager boy pushing a notebook toward Tom for a signature. This one was a half-blood, a self-proclaimed devotee of Tom's essays on pure-blood lineage. Alchemy meant little to him. He only wanted to know when the next volume of The Chronicles of the Magical World would be published. Tom assured him there would be a continuation, and only then did the fan leave, glowing with satisfaction.
When they were finally alone again, Fleur teased lightly, eyes dancing. "Look at you. A few days in France and already a famous name. Even signing autographs."
Tom sighed dramatically, hand pressed to his chest. "If only it had been a beautiful witch asking… Then perhaps I'd have gained a confidante."
Her silver brows arched high. "Dream on." Her hands were full, one holding Gabrielle's little fingers, the other balancing an ice cream cone. Not convenient to box his ears, or she might have tried.
"How else am I supposed to bond with my fans if not by… deeper exchanges?" Tom murmured, just to watch her flush.
But as he leaned close to smooth a strand of loose hair from her temple, his eyes flicked sideways. Into the alleys. Into the shadows.
Yes. There.
Those eyes on him were not Aurors. He could tell by the crude, obvious way they trailed him. The Ministry's trackers would never be so sloppy. These men hadn't even tried to mask themselves properly. They weren't observers. They were predators.
Tom's smile never faltered, but inside he was already calculating. When to move. How to strike.
"Come," he said lightly. "Let's try that cake we ordered."
The pastry shopkeeper recognized him at once, bowing with enthusiasm as he ushered the party to a polished table. Moments later, the famed bicorne-cream cake arrived.
At fifty Galleons apiece, these cakes cost more than most wizards earned in a month. Only the wealthy or powerful could afford such indulgence.
Tom sampled one forkful. The cream melted luxuriously across his tongue—softer, smoother, richer than ordinary dairy could ever hope to be.
Gabrielle's face was soon ringed in white, happily munching until she looked like a cherubic milk-beard, forcing Tom to juggle spoon and napkin, cleaning her even as he ate his share.
Midway through, he glanced up at Fleur. "It's been weeks since we last visited your parents. Why don't we go tonight?"
Her eyes widened. Then she ducked her head, suddenly sheepish. Of course—Christmas had passed, the New Year too, and she and Gabrielle had remained at the Flamel estate the entire time.
"You're right," she murmured. "We should go."
After finishing, Tom bought every last bicorne-cream in the shop, had them boxed, then swept through a tailor's next door for new robes. Only at dinner-time did they finally return to the Delacour home.
Two daughters returned at once. For Monsieur Delacour, it was like receiving two warm coats after a winter of bare shoulders. His eyes grew misty with gratitude.
Tom, of course, was the perfect gentleman. He left the sisters in their parents' care, dining with them only briefly before excusing himself.
"I still have lessons waiting with Master Flamel," he explained smoothly.
The night streets of France were emptying fast, lanternlight glowing pale along the cobbles. The farther Tom walked, the fewer souls crossed his path.
Until, at last, no one remained.
CRACK!
Six black-robed figures Apparated into the lane, forming a half-circle around him. Three before, three behind. Every wand raised.
"Riddle," one rasped. "You're coming with us."
The accent gave them away. Not French. Not English either. Something rougher, harsher. Eastern, perhaps.
Tom tilted his head, amused. "Your voice betrays you. Not locals, then."
"We are what we are," the leader sneered. "Mercenaries. We don't care who you are—only that we're paid well to deliver you."
But as he spoke, unease rippled through him. Riddle stood there too calmly. As if he'd been expecting this.
Tom's smile widened, boyish and almost kind. "With you? Certainly. But first, why not be my guests for a moment?"
"Attack!" the leader barked.
Too late.
Before the syllables of their curses even left their tongues, Tom's body exploded. Not in blood—but in a storm of black, swirling motes. A thousand smoky fragments of him swirled upward with a banshee's howl, wind howling through the alley.
No banter. No patience.
He would tear answers straight from them. And if he wished… their entire family trees along with it.