Tom snapped back from his thoughts with a grin.
"Please. The reason Grindelwald once made the Ministry tremble wasn't just his wand—it was his mouth. He could talk a mountain into moving."
"Again," he said, raising his wand. "My casting is still too slow. Once the flames grow too wild, I can't keep them in line."
Grindelwald nodded, though behind his eyes flickered something he would never admit aloud.
Tom's hunger—for power, for mastery—was unrelenting. Andros and Grindelwald, when they had been boys, had shared that same fire. But by Tom's age, if either of them had possessed such talent, such impossible gifts, they might have grown complacent. Why hurry to climb, when the peak was guaranteed?
But Tom never slowed. The more he conquered, the hungrier he became.
After a few more rounds, Grindelwald finally snapped, throwing up his hands. "Enough. You don't want a duel—you want to annoy me. Andros, he's yours."
Andros grinned wolfishly. His Patronus erupted, massive and radiant, swiping a colossal paw through the blazing vortex Tom had conjured. The fire shattered, sputtering out in sparks. Fiendfyre's Bane—snuffed out in an instant.
Tom: …
To hell with the dream of magic.
…
The next morning, Tom slipped out after a brief word with Newt. He didn't mention the ambush. Why bother? Newt would only blame himself, and what good would that do?
Problems didn't need guilt. They needed solutions. And Rosier would handle the roots. The Saints would cleanse the rot. Tom Riddle's hands stayed clean.
…
At the Rosier estate.
When Tom's apparition cracked through the air, Vinda Rosier was already waiting at the gates. She bowed low.
"Lord Riddle."
Tom inclined his head. "Let's go. I want to see the meteors first."
She gestured gracefully, leading him along. As they passed through manicured gardens, several Rosier kin stopped and bowed as well, reverence in their eyes. Clearly, Vinda had told them who walked among them now.
Through a courtyard filled with blooming jacaranda, Vinda tapped her wand against the trunk of a great banyan in a precise rhythm. The tree split apart, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. Torches lit themselves as they stepped down, stone doors punctuating the corridor every few dozen meters.
"The first vaults hold nothing but coin," Vinda explained lightly. "From here forward are the family treasures. Please, if anything catches your eye, it is yours."
Tom spared only a glance, then turned away. "Gold and trinkets are useless to me. Art. Materials. That's what matters."
She inclined her head, smiling faintly. She had expected as much.
They moved on.
France—the center of Europe's rebirth. After the Renaissance, wealth and art had flowed here in rivers, and the Rosiers had never lacked the appetite to collect.
Tom's eye was selective. He didn't choose for value but for taste—pieces that might one day adorn a home, lend gravitas to a chamber. Vinda, ever the curator, recited histories as he picked. He listened with polite interest, though inwardly he thought: Decoration. Nothing more.
But in the materials vault, he was merciless. Racks of rare reagents, ores, dragon-bone dust, bottled vapors that shimmered with half-sentience—Tom stripped the shelves of nearly everything difficult to source. Better to hoard now than hunt later.
At last, they reached the meteor vault.
The moment the air shifted with that metallic tang, a pocket bulged. With a triumphant shriek, Usagi burst free, scales flashing, and dived headlong into the pile of meteors. She tore into them greedily, shards crunching like candy.
Vinda blinked, startled. So this was the purpose? She had thought the meteors fed some new alchemical process, perhaps even tied to the mysterious invention WhatsApp. But no—the mighty resource was feed for a dragon-like beast.
Tom chuckled, watching her devour. "It's been a while for her. Three tons isn't much, but enough to push her along. Next time she throws a tantrum, even Fawkes won't match her."
He rubbed his stomach. "And now she's making me hungry."
"I'll see to it," Vinda said swiftly. She summoned a house-elf, who vanished with a snap.
Leaving Usagi to her feast, Tom followed Vinda back aboveground. In a side chamber, steaming plates were already being set down. Tom started with mushroom soup, savoring the warmth before asking casually:
"So. Yesterday's little visitors—have they sung?"
Vinda's smile was like ice.
"Oh, yes. Every note. And they've… gone where they needed to go. Let's just say next year's golden laurels will bloom prettier than ever."