— — — — — —
In the Study Space
"Huh?"
Tom jolted upright, eyes wide in shock.
Ariana, startled, looked at him. "What's wrong, Tom?"
"N–nothing. I'm fine," Tom muttered, looking baffled. "It's just… the old man's lost it. He actually signed the contract."
Tom blinked. For weeks, Grindelwald had been hesitating over whether to sign the soul-binding pact. Why did he suddenly sell himself?
Tom sighed. His system was annoyingly unhelpful; he couldn't directly see what was going on on Grindelwald's end. All he could do was wait for the man to appear—or drag him in by force.
But he didn't have to wait long. Before Tom could even summon him, Grindelwald appeared on his own.
"Old G, what the hell happened?" Tom asked the moment he saw him.
"I've figured it out."
Grindelwald looked unusually relaxed. "No point getting hung up on contracts. With or without one, it doesn't matter. The sooner I get out, the sooner I can witness the rise of a new era—and maybe even help an old friend get some justice."
He looked around at the others, his tone turning brisk. "Andros, Ariana—let me be the first to go out this time."
Having made up his mind, Grindelwald's eagerness was almost contagious.
Andros chuckled, as easygoing as ever. "Gellert, you shouldn't be rotting in that prison anymore. I'm really glad you finally made up your mind."
Ariana, on the other hand, was visibly annoyed. She'd wanted to be the first to go out and stay by Tom's side. Grindelwald had already taken Albus from her once, and now he wanted to take Tom too? A faint dark aura began leaking from the girl.
Still, she reluctantly muttered, "Alright, but when you're out there, you listen to Tom. If you don't, when I come back to life, I'll kick your ass."
Grindelwald couldn't help but laugh and nodded. "Relax. Once I'm out, I'll help Tom—help him grow stronger, faster than Scamander ever could."
Tom: "…"
He wanted to cry. Really.
His complicated feelings toward Dumbledore were one thing, but his resentment toward Newt Scamander? That was eternal.
Ariana's expression softened. She'd stepped aside not because she was happy about it, but because she knew the truth—out of the three of them, she was the least useful.
Andros was absurdly powerful. Grindelwald, though weaker, had followers, influence, and strategy—perfect for helping Tom consolidate power.
And her? Aside from serving as a pillow, she didn't bring much to the table.
And Tom had no shortage of pillows these days.
The thought made her slump. "Ugh. I really am useless."
"Hey, don't be sad. You will also get out soon."
Tom reached out and ruffled her hair gently. "You think creating a perfect body is that easy? Most likely the energy's ready, but the body isn't done forming yet."
According to Kel'Thuzad's notes, the method Tom favored involved growing a complete physical vessel from an embryonic stage—essentially, growing a body from scratch.
Of course, magic would accelerate the process; he wasn't about to wait decades for someone to be "born."
The key ingredients were flesh essence and a physical sample from the target. Ariana was simple—just dig up her old grave. But Andros... that was trickier.
Fortunately, Tom possessed Andros's magical affinity. He could probably simulate something close enough.
...
The next day, Tom brought Daphne and Astoria to visit the Flamels.
Nicolas greeted him with a glare so sharp Tom half-expected the man to hex him on the spot. The ancient alchemist even had his wand out—something he hadn't done in decades.
The great Nicolas Flamel, reduced to Tom's errand boy. The indignity was enough to make anyone want to curse.
He'd spent the past month cooped up in his lab, carving runes until his hands cramped. It was mind-numbing work—but if he didn't do it, who knew when this reckless boy would stop running around and develop the new features of The Codex?
Tom gave a sheepish smile, aware of the trouble he'd caused, and for once behaved himself.
But when Daphne and Astoria stepped forward, the old man's demeanor changed completely. Nicolas and Perenelle both softened, greeting the girls warmly and asking all sorts of questions about the Greengrass family.
Astoria, sweet as ever, answered politely, while Daphne immediately slipped into her refined "lady of the manor" persona—graceful posture, composed smile, perfect manners.
Tom was a bit confused. Fleur had visited before, and the Flamels hadn't interrogated her like this. It felt more like a background check than a chat.
In truth, Nicolas and Perenelle shared Tina's opinion: only a proper pure-blood witch was worthy of Tom. A half-Veela, no matter how stunning, wasn't exactly ideal wife material.
Their treatment clearly reflected that difference.
But the warmth came with a touch of seriousness. Which Greengrass...
For this, Daphne handled herself well. The ancient couple could tell she was putting on her best behavior, but they also saw intelligence behind the act—a little schemer, but one with elegance and composure.
They exchanged a subtle glance.
The older one's the better choice.
---
"Phew… I thought I was going to die back there," Daphne groaned later, collapsing face-first onto the bed.
"What's there to be scared of?" Tom teased, pinching her cheek. "Nicolas and Perenelle are good people. They were just curious, that's all."
He smiled. "Besides, the more they know about you two, the easier it'll be to find a cure for Astoria."
"Rest up today. Tomorrow I'll take you both to the Champs-Élysées. After that, though, I'll only be free half the day."
If he kept playing tourist in France, Nicolas might actually kill him this time. So from tomorrow onward, he'd be splitting most of his time in the lab.
Both sisters nodded, perfectly understanding. As long as they had his evenings, they weren't complaining.
Before he left, Tom showed them how to use some of the castle's alchemical tools, summoned a house-elf to help them get familiar with the place, and then headed for the lab.
Nicolas was already waiting.
The room was stacked wall to wall with finished Codexes.
"Professor," Tom said with a sheepish grin, trying to sound polite. "How many did you finish?"
Nicolas let out a huff. "Exactly four thousand. You've nearly drained the last of the materials you brought. Did you bring more?"
"Yeah," Tom replied quickly. "Grandpa Newt helped collect a bunch of Whomping Willow branches and leaves. Should be enough for another ten thousand copies, going by the previous formula."
"Good," Nicolas said coolly. "Then don't even think about going back to school until you finish them. Even if Dumbledore himself comes, he won't be able to save you. My word."
After tossing out that dramatic threat, Nicolas leisurely walked out of the room.
He'd been buried in work for a month straight—it was about time the kid suffered a little, too.
But the old man had underestimated one thing. While his alchemical skills were far superior, Tom's stamina and mental energy were on a completely different level. Given the same amount of time, Tom's efficiency easily crushed his.
By the end of a single afternoon, Tom had produced over fifty thousand pages. Since each Codex contained a hundred pages, that was enough for five hundred copies. The covers were even simpler—engraving an identity code took less than ten seconds per book.
On average, five hours of work yielded five hundred books.
Still, Tom wasn't satisfied. There were hundreds of thousands of wizards across Europe alone. If even one in three decided to buy a Codex, he'd need tens of thousands of copies—and that didn't even include future upgrades.
He couldn't possibly keep handcrafting them forever. He needed to break alchemy's conventional limits and invent a fully automated production line.
For now, he'd hand the idea off to Nicolas and study it together later.
...
That evening, after dinner, Tom explained his plan to the old alchemist. Nicolas didn't look surprised—he'd been thinking along the same lines.
"Simple machines won't cut it," Nicolas said, folding his arms. "The issue with alchemical constructs is that Acromantula venom isn't consistent. Each batch varies in quality, so the production process has to adjust accordingly. And those identity sigils you designed? Their magic output is too rigid. And activation requires more than just energy—it needs emotion, a wizard's will."
He'd hit on the two biggest problems. Raw magical power and emotionally infused magic weren't the same thing. The first was just energy; the second was what turned ordinary spells into miracles.
Tom pulled out his latest notes—research on flesh-based magic. It was far more dynamic than standard magical energy, almost mimicking the state of power when a wizard was casting.
Nicolas flipped through the pages, his eyes widening. He looked up at Tom as if he were seeing a ghost. This wasn't something you could just theorize. To create this, one needed extensive experiments and a deep understanding of flesh, spirit, and even the soul.
What in Merlin's name had Tom been studying at Hogwarts? And where did he even get materials to test this?
"Don't get me wrong!" Tom quickly raised his hands. "I haven't actually experimented yet. This is part of a legacy left behind by a powerful mage. His ideas are completely different from modern theory. Once I've organized everything, I'll share it with you."
Only then did Nicolas let out a breath and nod. "Tom… you're still young. You shouldn't stain your hands with too much blood. There are depths here you're not ready to face."
Tom nodded obediently.
Then the old man added, "But I've lived long enough to handle it. So hurry up and organize those notes—we don't have time to waste."
Tom: "…"
He'd forgotten who he was dealing with. This was the man who'd lived through the Black Death and the witch hunts. To him, human life was just another number on a research ledger.
In truth, Nicolas wasn't cold-hearted—just practical. He worried about Tom losing himself too soon. Once the boy matured a bit, he'd stop meddling. Unlike Dumbledore's moral fussing or Grindelwald's grand ambitions, Nicolas only cared about one thing: alchemy. Life and death were just raw materials to him.
...
Two days later, Tom finished compiling everything he could. Nicolas dove straight in, completely absorbed, muttering incantations and formulas to himself as if nothing else existed.
Tom didn't bother disturbing him. Until they managed to create something close to an "arcane-powered workhorse," he'd have to keep grinding on his own.
On good days, he produced five hundred codexes; on lazy ones, he'd stop at three hundred and rest. Most of the finished copies were distributed across Britain, France, and Germany—the first regions where the magical bank cards would be released. He wanted the Codex and the cards to roll out together.
---
Then, on a quiet night in mid-August—
Somewhere in the North Sea, two people clambered aboard a fishing boat with the help of exhausted sailors.
"What the hell are you two doing out here?" one burly sailor asked, frowning as he looked over the man and woman they'd just rescued. Both were dressed in prison uniforms.
Weird. There weren't any prisons near this part of the sea.
The woman kept her head down, silent. The man, on the other hand, smiled widely—showing a perfect row of eight filthy teeth.
"Ah, we're just a couple of unlucky souls who survived a shipwreck," he said cheerfully. "Don't mind the prison clothes—they were perfect for hiding the gold, so we changed into them before escaping."
He reached into his pocket as if to show them.
The sailor's curiosity overcame his caution, and he leaned in to take a look.
The moment they were close enough, the man's hand shot out, a flash of green bursting from his palm.
"Obliviate!"
.
.
.
(Guess which two just escaped from Azkaban.)