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"Good day, Mr. Riddle. I'm Famur, regional director for the American branch."
On the thirty-eighth floor of Gringotts headquarters, a goblin greeted Tom with an enthusiasm rarely seen. It wasn't because goblins were known for good customer service, nor because Tom's fame and reputation had reached such terrifying heights that even a regional director came smiling.
No—this was simply what money could buy.
A thousand Galleons had already gone to the Diagon Alley branch manager, and another three thousand sat quietly on this office floor.
Goblins were simple and complicated all at once. If you had enough gold, everything suddenly became much simpler.
Fortunately, Tom's trial task was to earn five million Galleons. Whether he spent it or not didn't matter to the quest progress, otherwise, he'd already be planning how to reclaim that "deposit" later.
"Famur, I'm here to discuss a business proposal." Tom leaned back in the chair, twirling a gold coin in his fingers—not a Galleon, but a coin made of pure gold. Famur's gaze followed it up and down, clearly intrigued.
"What kind of business? How much are we talking?"
"More than you can count. If it were a small deal, I wouldn't have bothered coming to headquarters. I'd have just spoken to Bills, the British branch manager."
Tom leaned forward, his voice low and persuasive. "This is the kind of business that could change the entire wizarding world."
A flash of greed crossed Famur's sharp eyes, quickly replaced by skepticism. He knew Tom Riddle by reputation—these days, the boy was practically a celebrity among wizards—but fame didn't equal business sense. Making money required a different kind of brain entirely.
"Then let's skip the mystery, Mr. Riddle," Famur said impatiently. "Our time is valuable."
Tom smiled and placed a silver card on the desk. Its surface was engraved with intricate magical lines, and in the center gleamed the Riddle family crest: a Dragon, a Thunderbird, and a Phoenix.
"What is this?" Famur frowned. Even with his expertise, he couldn't make sense of the runes etched on it.
Goblin craftsmanship was legendary, but it was an entirely different discipline from wizarding alchemy.
"Gringotts often deals with Muggle currencies," Tom said casually. "So you should know about bank cards."
"This," he tapped the silver card, "is a wizarding version of a bank card. I've designed a whole system to go with it. With this, wizards won't need to fuss with currency exchange or carry bags of heavy coins everywhere. Just one swipe records the payment, and Gringotts handles the balance."
"At the end of each month, Gringotts processes the statements—simple, efficient, and far less hassle."
Of course, compared to Muggle cards, it was clunkier. But it fit perfectly with the wizarding world's mindset: Gringotts was the guardian of vaults, not an institution that touched others' money directly.
If Tom had proposed real-time transfers, most wizards would have rejected the convenience outright.
But he had a solution for that too. A prepaid card—you load it with Galleons in advance, then spend freely.
Best part? It didn't need to be registered and could even be given as a gift.
Ah, gift cards—the timeless secret weapon of Muggle retail. That single invention had kept half the supermarkets and shopping centers of his previous life alive.
Famur's eyes practically turned into golden coins as Tom explained.
He knew perfectly well how convenient Muggle bank cards were. If something like this spread, it would supercharge the wizarding economy. And Gringotts, despite being "just a bank," had its claws in plenty of other industries.
They'd tried to create a magical version of a bank card before. Ten years of failed research later, they'd abandoned the idea entirely.
And now, a student had walked in with a working prototype.
"Mr. Riddle," Famur said eagerly, "name your price. Fifty thousand Galleons—just say yes, and I'll have it in your vault within the hour."
Tom chuckled. "Don't waste my time, Famur. I'm not one of those clueless wizards. I grew up among Muggles—I know their financial tricks better than you do. Fifty thousand? That's pocket change. I could turn that into explosives and blow your precious bank sky-high."
Famur froze mid-grin. His little attempt to lowball had clearly backfired.
Still, goblins were nothing if not pragmatic. Losing face was cheap; missing profit was costly.
He quickly recovered with another smile. "My apologies, Mr. Riddle. You're right, of course. Negotiations are all about leverage and information. I respect that you understand this as well as I do."
"Then stop with the excuses." Tom's tone stayed calm. "Here's my offer: I provide the equipment and cards for free. In exchange, I get eighty percent of the one-percent transaction fee."
"Eighty percent?!" Famur nearly fell out of his chair. "Impossible! My authority caps at ten percent. We'd still have to convince merchants and teach wizards how to use the system. That costs time and Galleons."
Tom didn't flinch. His faint smile never wavered. "But once it succeeds, the profit will be enormous and constant. Think about it—all the Galleons exchanged every single day around the world. Even twenty percent of that one percent would be a river of gold flowing endlessly into Gringotts."
"And the best part," he added, voice soft but cutting, "is that once the cards are in use, the money never really leaves Gringotts. All circulation happens within your system. No more vault withdrawals. No more wizards taking their gold out."
Famur sucked in a sharp breath. His wariness of Tom spiked instantly.
The boy had pinpointed the goblins' deepest obsession—not just profit, but possession.
Making money mattered, yes, but keeping every ounce of gold inside Gringotts? That was paradise. As long as the gold stayed in their vaults, wizards might own it on paper, but the goblins would control it in truth.
And for goblins, who treated treasure as sacred, that was more tempting than any amount of profit.
"No wonder you wrote these Pureblood articles," Famur said after a moment, smiling thinly. "You really are a scholar."
Then, with a more measured tone, "Still, eighty percent is far too high. Give me time—I'll see if I can push it up to thirty."
Tom flicked his wrist, and a top hat appeared in his hand. Famur tensed immediately. Had the deal fallen apart?
The boy stood, nudging the silver card across the desk. "You have seven days to think about it. Try to reverse-engineer my system if you like."
His eyes glinted. "But if I don't get the result I want in seven days, I'll just take my idea to the British, French, or any other branch of Gringotts. You goblins are famous for your 'unity,' after all."
Tom gave the speechless goblin a polite smile, turned, and walked out.
In the wizarding world, "as united as goblins" was the ultimate punchline.
Every goblin rebellion in history had ended the same way: wizards throwing money at the problem until the rebels sold each other out.
Once, three leaders were all bribed—then started fighting among themselves over the payout. The rebellion collapsed overnight.
Famur sat frozen for a long moment before letting out a low, awed whistle.
This wasn't just business. Tom Riddle had just walked in, offered him a future, and held Gringotts' greatest temptation right in front of his greedy little heart.
If Tom floated the right terms and handed out a little profit, plenty of Gringotts branches would turn on management.
What mattered most, though, was that his card was more than a novelty. It used his knack for magical cryptographic authentication and remote communication, plus a few experimental tricks he'd picked up from Master K's notebooks.
If someone like Nicolas Flamel took a crack at it, maybe in a few years they could unravel it. But for goblins, alchemists, or ordinary wizards, a lifetime wouldn't be enough.
That technical monopoly was Tom's real leverage. If he weren't racing to finish his trial, he could have taken his time and built an entire financial system of his own. Opened a bank, recruited clients.
---
Back at Newt's place, Tom spent the afternoon with Fleur inside a pocket world, teasing a Horned Serpent.
Although classified as a Tier 5 magical creature, the Horned Serpent was surprisingly docile. Then again, that might've had something to do with the dragon predator circling overhead, keeping it on its best behavior.
And so no matter how Tom and Fleur prodded and played, the snake was obliging. It even carried the two of them around the tiny environment for a long while.
By the time Fleur tired, they returned to the villa. The moment each went to their room, Tom dove into his study space.
"Ariana, ready?" he called.
"Yeah! I'm winning this time for sure!" Ariana pumped a small fist, confidence ringing in her voice.
Within minutes the training ground outside the meditation room was swept clean and set up again as the duel arena for Ariana and Grindelwald.
It had been more than half a year since Ariana first faced Grindelwald and dared him to a duel. In the months since, they'd skirmished relentlessly — small fights every three days, a bigger clash every five. Each and every one ended the same: with Ariana losing.
Especially after Tom left for his break, Grindelwald had improved another year's worth. He was now at the level he'd shown in fifth year, dangerously close to the age when he once tangled with Dumbledore.
That made victory far harder for Ariana. She'd been brooding for days over her defeats, but today she'd summoned Tom as referee and seemed determined.
"Go ahead, Ariana," Tom said.
Grindelwald smiled and pointed his wand at the girl. "Avada Kedavra."
Green light flared. No one in the arena flinched; they came to expect Grindelwald's nasty habit of opening with a killing curse.
Ariana didn't blink. She swept her wand and two iron golems rose from the floor. Grindelwald's curse struck one hard enough to dent its chest, but the armor held. With a flourish of his robes he vanished and reappeared behind Ariana, launching two more hexes.
The two golems were faithful guardians, blocking everything that came their way.
Andros watched appreciatively as Ariana twirled her wand to command them. "Tom, I remember you said your headmaster excelled at Transfiguration. Seems to be a family trait of the Dumbledores."
"From a blank slate to an excellent young witch in half a year," Andros continued, "that's remarkable."
"It's a shame," Tom murmured, "if Ariana had lived to her potential, she might have been the second most powerful person in the wizarding world."
Her talent was off the charts, close to the system's designation of 'king for the century.' But raw talent alone wasn't enough to beat a dark wizard of Grindelwald's caliber.
A few rounds in, Grindelwald took the duel seriously. His wandwork sharpened. Lurid bolts cut the air and hammered the golems. If Ariana hadn't been constantly repairing them, the two constructs would have been torn apart long ago.
Using an Unforgivable on transfigured things was stupid, but Grindelwald was improvising rather than relying on etiquette. He jabbed his wand to the floor and a stream of acidic vapor hissed up. Then with a graceful flick he conjured a massive hammer from the ceiling and let it fall.
The hammer's weight and momentum shattered one golem into pieces. The weapon then split into several venomous snakes that coiled around the second golem, pinning it while the acid ate away at its surface. The floor was slick with corrosive fluid, blocking Ariana from morphing as freely as she liked.
At this point most duelists would have yielded.
But Ariana stared at Grindelwald with pure, feral hatred. Black energy coalesced around her. "You old bastard," she snarled. "You stole my brother and tormented me. Today I'll tear you apart."
In the next heartbeat Ariana exploded. A black fog billowed out, a choking, all-consuming mist. The wind became a roar as a silent, destructive force rushed toward Grindelwald.
Tom's face broke into a gleeful grin. "Old G's in for a rough time."
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