— — — — — —
"Hahaha! What's so surprising about that?"
The broad-shouldered man laughed heartily, radiating the same easy confidence he had the day he first met Tom. His presence practically glowed with warmth and vitality.
"Tom," Andros said with a grin. "You've got limitless potential. Who knows how far you'll go? For all we know, you might be the next god of magic."
"By then, how long will I be stuck here with you? A hundred years? Two hundred? Hell, maybe ten thousand?"
He threw a punch at the air, energized. "If that's the case, then instead of sitting here watching you from the sidelines, I'd rather come back to life and see the world with my own eyes. As for those so-called rules?"
He chuckled. "I've been with you long enough to know what kind of person you are."
"Maybe you're not what people would call a good man, but you treat your friends right, like that Seth boy. That's enough for me. This contract? Doesn't change a damn thing."
"And when I'm alive again, anyone who stands in your way—I'll crush them with my Patronus until they're begging for mercy!"
That was that. Andros accepted the system's conditions and became Tom's second subordinate soul.
The decisiveness even caught Tom off guard.
"Even so," Tom sighed, "you could've taken a little time to think about it. What if one day you regret it and start blaming me? Wouldn't that hurt what we have?"
Andros shook his head firmly. "I've never regretted a choice in my life, and I'm not about to start now. Besides—" he cracked a grin "—when you make my new body, make sure it's durable this time. I'd rather not die from my own magic again."
That was how Andros had died young—no heirs, no legacy, just too much raw power for his frail body to contain. The world had given him magic beyond comprehension, but a body too weak to hold it. A tragic genius, through and through.
Tom nodded. "Once I'm done with my current projects, I'll start researching it properly."
"Your trial comes first," Andros said, knowing full well what Tom was preparing for.
"Ah…" Grindelwald let out a long sigh. "I envy that decisiveness of yours, Andros. If I were dead, maybe I'd make the same choice. But since I'm still inconveniently alive, I don't quite have your courage."
He turned to Tom. "Sorry, I'll need some time to think."
Tom didn't mind. It made sense. Ariana and Andros were dead, but Grindelwald was still alive—and proud. Submitting to a contract like that went against every fiber of his nature.
"Old G," Tom said with a faint smile, "I told you before—I'll respect whatever choice you make. No rush. Take your time. Even if you die later, you can still say yes then."
Grindelwald's face darkened. He hated that Tom had a point. If he died, his soul would stay in the Study Space anyway.
And honestly… if he was going to end up here regardless, why not just agree now and enjoy the benefits? Regaining his prime body and full magical strength was no small temptation.
Still, he didn't give an answer yet, stretching out in his chair, eyes half-closed as he weighed the pros and cons.
Tom, meanwhile, turned his attention to testing the new system functions.
First was time acceleration. Whether he doubled or tripled the flow, it felt seamless as long as his entire consciousness was inside the space. But if even a small part of his awareness remained in the real world, the desynchronization hit hard. Two times speed was tolerable—three was disorienting.
Then came the Claircognition Mode, costing five hundred Credits per ten minutes. Tom gritted his teeth and activated it once, just to feel the difference.
The space shimmered. Even the magical fluctuations from Kel'Thuzad's notes now felt real, fully materialized in the upgraded simulation. He stepped into the meditation room.
The instant the mode started, his mind ignited—thoughts racing, old memories and half-forgotten insights bursting forth like sparks. Concepts collided, fused, evolved into entirely new ideas.
If "Turbo Mode" was like driving a sports car on the highway, then "Claircognition" was a jet taking off into the sky.
Ten minutes later, his notebook had two full pages of breakthroughs. His research into fleshcrafting magic had leapt forward by weeks, maybe months. Soon he could hand it off to Grindelwald for testing.
"Expensive," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "but worth every point."
He hadn't triggered the Eureka bonus this time—those moments were pure luck. With his Credits running low, gambling for a random insight wasn't worth it. He'd have to plan his usage carefully: use "Turbo Mode" for general learning, and save "Claircognition" for critical moments.
His current priority was clear. Blood and flesh magic came first. He'd need it for bloodline fusion and crafting physical vessels.
He glanced at his remaining points, grimaced, and—after a moment of hesitation—activated "Turbo Mode" again.
...
For the next stretch of days, Tom worked relentlessly. Credits flowed away faster than water through a sieve.
At night, he cranked the Study Space to triple time. When he hit a bottleneck, he switched on Turbo Mode, pushing himself until exhaustion blurred into focus.
By day, he spent mornings with Fleur and afternoons raising his pandas.
Once Tom had mastered the care routines, Newt rarely showed up anymore, not wanting to interfere with Tom's bonding process. The pandas, thankfully, were easy to please—keep them well-fed, give them massages, let them hum contentedly, and they adored him.
If things kept up, Tom would meet the trial's intimacy requirement before summer's end.
Occasionally, he also found time to tutor Cassandra. True to her "rich girl" reputation, she'd paid him fifty thousand Galleons up front—almost certainly from her family. Tom didn't know what reason she'd given them to get that much money, but whatever it was, it worked.
After that argument with her mother—and her flustered claim that the "sugar mama" thing had just been a joke—Cassandra had been desperate to prove herself.
Even though Chloe hadn't fully believed her, she'd still handed over the gold. It wasn't until recently, when she saw how quickly her daughter was improving, that she finally accepted the truth.
Ilvermorny confiscated students' wands over break, but that kind of restriction was meaningless to pureblood families. Borrowing an elder's wand was more than enough to skirt the rules.
Both mother and daughter had quietly agreed not to tell Andrew anything about Tom's time in New York. Cassandra worried the two men would end up dueling, and her father—ever the pragmatist—might just report Tom to the Magical Congress afterward.
Chloe shared that concern but had a second motive too. She knew her daughter's temper better than anyone. Cassandra had always been wild, headstrong—just like her father. But lately, she'd changed. Softer. More grounded. More… normal.
And all of that change traced back to one person: Tom Riddle.
Letting them stay in touch wasn't just safe—it was good for her. At least her daughter finally had a real friend.
"Any other questions, just write to me," Tom said, handing Cassandra a small folded note. "Keep this safe. In a month or two, you'll know what it's for."
They were standing in the middle of Manhattan's Central Park, the evening sun slanting across the grass. Cassandra was drenched in sweat after a sparring session, still catching her breath.
Before she could even recover, Tom had already tucked the note into her hand.
The girl blinked, startled, then looked up sharply. "You're leaving? You said you'd stay until the end of the month!"
"I said I'd stay in North America until the end of July," Tom corrected patiently. "I'll be in the Arizona preserve for the next few days. Won't have time to keep training with you."
Cassandra frowned. She'd just gotten a taste of what rapid progress felt like, and now her teacher was leaving?
But she couldn't exactly complain. They'd agreed from the start that Tom would only train her while he was in New York.
"Write to me, okay?" Tom reminded her.
"Yeah…" she muttered, tucking the note away, shoulders slumped. She trudged out of the park, mood sour.
Was it because she didn't pay him enough?
If she had more money, could she have rented more of Tom Riddle's time? Not just for sparring lessons, but maybe… for anything she wanted?
For someone who'd always treated money like dirt, Cassandra suddenly realized just how powerful a handful of Galleons could be.
A dangerous spark flickered in her mind.
'I need to make money.'
...
Before heading back to Newt's place, Tom stopped by Gringotts again to deliver the first batch of five thousand magic bank cards and a hundred card readers to Famur.
The rollout was going according to plan—starting in Britain and gradually expanding across Europe. That had been the goblins' decision, not Tom's. He'd only come to America to meet the higher-ups in their headquarters, not to launch the expansion there first.
And still, the problem was that the current numbers were nowhere near enough. A hundred machines barely covered Diagon Alley and a few shops around London.
The goblins, eager to expand, were unimpressed. Tom, however, promised them that before September, he'd deliver another thirty thousand cards and two thousand more readers—and keep up that supply every month after.
He'd recently designed several alchemical automatons that could handle most of the production process on their own. All he had to do was finish each one with a touch of his magic and a built-in anti-theft enchantment. The operation was entering full automation.
Given that the global wizarding population, his new output was already more than enough.
But the goblins didn't entirely believe it. In fact, they were so sure he couldn't deliver that they signed a wager contract to "teach him a lesson."
If Tom failed to meet his quota next month, the profit split would drop to fifty-fifty. But if he did deliver on time, the goblins would have to raise the purchase price of each card and reader by fifty percent.
They thought they were being clever. No way a human could scale production that fast.
---
The Next Day
"Tom, when are we leaving?"
Early morning sunlight spilled into the dining room. Fleur came downstairs dressed in a pale blue silk dress, travel bag in hand.
"After breakfast," Tom replied, taking a sip of milk and flipping open the North American Edition of the Daily Prophet. He paused mid-page, blinking at a headline.
{MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE!}
The photo showed the entire Weasley family—nine of them—cheerfully waving in front of a giant golden pyramid.
Tom chuckled. Ginny had mentioned this a few days ago, but seeing it in print was another matter.
The Weasleys were remarkable in their own way. Dirt poor most of the time, yet the moment they won seven hundred Galleons from the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw, they blew it all on a trip to Egypt without hesitation.
In the photo, Ron was grinning from ear to ear, no rat on his shoulder this time—just a small owl perched proudly instead.
Ginny had said Sirius Black gave it to Ron as compensation, and the moment Ron got the owl, he completely forgot about everything.
"What are you reading?" Fleur asked, leaning over his shoulder. "Planning a trip to Egypt?"
"Not really. Though, they say there's a lot of gold buried in the pyramids," Tom said with a faint smirk. "And you know, I've been pretty broke lately."
"That's a scam," Fleur said flatly. "All the real gold was stolen centuries ago. What's left is junk ore and fake trinkets. My father bought one as a souvenir once—it turned out to be made in China. He was furious."
"Then maybe we'll skip Egypt," Tom said, grinning. "Wouldn't want you to get sunburned."
They chatted casually for a bit before Tom folded the paper and set it aside. He was quietly pleased—next term at Hogwarts would be much more relaxed.
Peter Pettigrew was probably decomposing nicely by now, Sirius Black had been released, and the Ministry had no reason to send Dementors to Hogwarts anymore.
Tom didn't particularly fear Dementors—he just didn't want to deal with them. Like any sane person avoiding dog crap on the sidewalk, it was best not to step anywhere near them.
What he didn't know, though…
— — —
Azkaban
Lockhart's hands trembled as he clutched an old, crumpled newspaper—one that had only just reached the prison a month late, recycled from Ministry offices.
On the front page was a headline in bold letters:
{The Youngest Recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class – The Undeniable Genius, Tom Riddle!}
.
.
.