— — — — — —
Amelia Bones's laugh was complicated—half self-mockery, half disbelief at the Ministry and Fudge's utter incompetence.
The so-called "top-secret" information that the Minister had ordered sealed off was now blaring on the front page of The Daily Prophet: {Death Eaters Return! Peter Pettigrew Silenced Forever!}
The article didn't go into much detail, but the essentials were dead accurate: two Death Eaters had attacked and killed Pettigrew while he was under Auror protection.
That alone was enough to make Fudge stomp and scream in his office.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Riddle," Amelia sighed. "I've been at the Ministry all night, coordinating searches. I didn't even have time to glance at a newspaper."
"The reason we're buying from you in such a rush," she explained, "is that the Aurors were the ones insisting on it. They finally realized how useful your gear is. They want the Ministry to issue it officially."
"And the guardian necklaces?" Tom asked with a skeptical tilt of his head. "You make it sound noble, but I doubt the Ministry's suddenly generous enough to hand out premium equipment."
At that, Amelia looked visibly awkward. "Well… let's just say some people are a little scared right now. The Ministry will pay part of the cost, and, um… some private donations will cover the rest."
Tom's lips curved. "For your sake, Ms. Bones, I can sell a small batch of guardian amulets. But the crafting process is extremely difficult—rare materials, immense concentration, and a high failure rate. Naturally, the price won't be low."
He held up one hand, spreading his fingers. "Five thousand Galleons apiece. If they agree, I'll release the stock I have. If they want to bargain, even one Galleon less, I'm not selling."
Amelia's eyes widened. That was nearly her entire annual salary, even counting bonuses.
But thinking of the necklace's legendary defense and built-in emergency Apparition feature, she couldn't say it was unreasonable.
"I'll tell Fudge," she said finally. "What about the rest of the order?"
"Three days," Tom replied easily. "You'll have everything then."
It lined up nicely with his planned trip to New York.
...
Next, Amelia left, and Tom returned to his lab.
He already had plenty of enchanted cloaks and guardian necklaces in stock; only the Eyes of Warning needed fresh production. Those had always been a bit underwhelming anyway—anyone with anti-tracking charms or concealment magic could disable them.
Like Snape, for instance. The Eye hadn't gone off until the man was already mid-attack.
Tom had better designs on paper, of course, but he couldn't be bothered to build them. Too much work, more haggling, more stress. The current version would do.
He always kept a system: one batch in use, one in reserve, one under development. The guardian necklaces were the same—two new versions were already in progress, so the old ones were perfect to sell off.
...
The next day, Amelia came back—this time with good news and a heavy bag of gold.
Fifty-seven thousand Galleons in total. Of that, the cloaks and the Eyes barely made up seven thousand.
Tom couldn't help but smile. "Ah, the rich are such easy customers."
It had only been a few days into his "vacation," and he'd already cleared over a hundred thousand. At this rate, five million didn't seem out of reach.
Still, he knew this was a one-time deal. Once the panic faded, that faucet would close. Real money had to come from somewhere else.
He handed over the goods right away—no delays, the first batch—and Amelia left soon after.
...
These days, the Daily Prophet article had hit the wizarding world like a curse. Old fears came rushing back.
Wizards started avoiding anyone wearing a pointed hat. People tiptoed through their own homes, wondering if their loved ones might be under the Imperius Curse—ready to whisper a deadly green spell while they slept.
And the Dark Mark—no one even dared speak of it. The sight of it in the sky was still a nightmare that could empty an entire town in minutes.
Fear hadn't vanished, only slept. And now, Peter Pettigrew's death had woken it again—a brutal reminder that Voldemort's servants were still out there.
The Ministry's owl room overflowed with letters. Every other witch and wizard claimed to have spotted a "suspicious person." Aurors were stretched to the limit, chasing ghosts and wasting manpower.
Diagon Alley was deserted. Parents forbade their children to go out. Even though it was summer break, young witches and wizards were practically grounded.
Fudge didn't even have time to worry about Crouch anymore. Surviving this panic came first.
He ordered investigations into every "likely suspect"—Lucius Malfoy, Nott, Avery. They had all escaped punishment once, but everyone knew the truth behind it.
Scrimgeour led the raids personally, knocking on doors and making "friendly visits." The purebloods were furious, but Fudge let him continue.
Normally, Fudge would have been bending over backward to calm his donors. But now? He was too busy protecting his seat. If Scrimgeour's intimidation kept them quiet, all the better.
He even brought Dumbledore in for help. The old man agreed immediately—he didn't want Snape's little act of revenge spiraling into a full-blown crisis.
And it worked. After two days of Dumbledore's reassuring presence in Diagon Alley, the public calmed considerably.
When Dumbledore was around, Death Eaters didn't seem nearly as frightening.
Bit by bit, normal order returned.
Fudge, though relieved, began to feel something else too—unease. Dumbledore's influence was enormous. If wielded properly, it stabilized the Ministry… but what if, one day, Dumbledore decided he wanted the Minister's chair for himself? Or supporting someone else to be the Minister?
In the corners of his mind, an invisible crack began to form.
A quiet fracture between Fudge and Dumbledore.
— — —
Tom, meanwhile, ignored the chaos outside. He handed off the last batch of goods to Amelia on the third day and started preparing for his trip.
"At home, you'll listen to your mother," he told Daphne seriously. "Don't lose your wand again. I'll be checking your assignments when I get back, understood?"
Only Daphne could make him sound this much like a worried parent.
The little witch nodded obediently, but then wrapped her arms around Tom's arm, her face full of pleading."Can't you really take me with you? I'll behave, I promise."
Tom sighed helplessly. "I'm going there for work, not fun. I won't have time to keep you company, and you don't know anyone there—it'd just be boring. Besides, if you go, what about Astoria?"
"I can come too!" Astoria blinked her big eyes eagerly. "I'll look after Daphne!"
That logic was a bit off, but Daphne jumped on it immediately. "Right! If we both go, it'll be fine!"
Tom groaned and raised his hands in surrender. "Spare me, will you? I barely got home for the holidays, and you want me to pack you both up and run off again? Your mother would have my head!"
"Didn't we agree that when I get back, I'll take you two to France to meet Professor Nicolas?"
"And I'll....."
Finally, it took a good while to calm the sisters down. After dropping them back at Greengrass Manor, Tom stopped by the Grangers' for lunch, before finally setting off… for France.
Yep, you heard it right. France.
Tom had already pushed his time management to its limits. The reason he wasn't taking the Greengrass sisters—or Hermione—on his North American trip was simple: this time, he was taking Fleur.
He only dared promise to bring Daphne and Astoria to Nicolas's place later because, by August, Fleur and Gabrielle would be visiting their grandmother in the Vosges Mountains.
Everything was arranged neatly, no risk of emotional disasters. Just perfect management.
---
Once he arrived in France, Tom went straight to Nicolas Flamel's home and dumped a mountain of newly prepared materials on him.
Nicolas looked at the towering pile and felt his pulse quicken. He turned to Tom, deadpan. "You trying to work me to death so you can inherit my estate?"
Tom gave him a sheepish grin. "Hard work builds character. I'm not forcing you to make a specific number—just however much you feel like. The more we have, the faster we can expand production. For the Codex."
"Oh, and you might want to invent some auxiliary tools to automate the repetitive stuff. Let the machines handle the grunt work."
Alchemy could never be fully automated—each piece needed a craftsman's personal touch, a spark of intent to truly come alive. Machines could never replicate that.
But for routine tasks—engraving standard runes, assembling components—a bit of mechanization could save a lot of time.
Nicolas listened, then snorted and lightly punched Tom in the arm. "So I'm supposed to do all the hard work while you run off on a holiday with your little girlfriend?"
Tom threw his hands up. "Hey, I'm doing research too! Inspiration doesn't wait. Besides, it's not like you're coming up with new ideas these days—who else should I give this to?"
"Oh?" Nicolas's eyes brightened. "And what new scheme have you cooked up this time?"
Tom outlined his latest project. Nicolas listened carefully, then gave a small nod. "Hmm. That's actually useful. Fine, you're off the hook for now."
Tom grinned. "Then I'll get going. Fleur's waiting for me at home."
"Go already. You're giving me a headache."
Nicolas waved him off irritably, but Tom only chuckled, pocketed a few extra materials from the storeroom, and left the manor humming.
---
The next day.
Under Gabrielle's tearful gaze, Tom and Fleur boarded a plane to America. Eight hours later, they landed at the airport.
It was Fleur's first time in North America, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity—until they reached the city center.
Her nose wrinkled immediately. "This is supposed to be one of the Muggle world's grandest cities? It smells awful!"
Tom snapped his fingers, creating a faint barrier that kept the stench away for a few meters. Fleur finally dared to breathe again.
"Typical," Tom said lightly. "Most big cities are all shine on the surface and rot underneath. Even Paris isn't much better once you get past the nice districts, right?"
Fleur nodded in reluctant agreement.
After some chatting and taking turns insulting most of the world's big cities, he took Fleur's hand and stepped forward. In an instant, they appeared before a familiar wrought-iron gate.
The gate opened automatically. Tom strolled right in.
"You're not going to wait for someone to let us in?" Fleur asked, startled. "Isn't that rude?"
"It's fine," Tom said with a grin. "Grandma Tina gave me full access. If I stood outside like a guest, that would annoy her."
That seemed to reassure Fleur.
They followed a winding path through a garden overflowing with flowers until they reached a cozy villa. Tom pressed the doorbell.
Moments later, the door opened. The boy's face lit up with a brilliant smile as he stepped forward and threw his arms around the elderly woman.
"Grandma Tina! I missed you so much!"
.
.
.