— — — — — —
On the small fishing boat, everyone else lay unconscious—except for two prisoners, struggling to catch their breath.
After a while, the woman finally propped herself up on her elbows, then let out a shrill, manic laugh.
"Lockhart, you bastard, you're a real talent. I've never seen anyone push the Memory Charm this far!"
"Lestrange," Gilderoy Lockhart replied proudly, "this is my specialty. I've forgotten everything a wizard should know—except how to make others forget."
The two escapees from Azkaban were none other than Gilderoy Lockhart and Bellatrix Lestrange.
During the Ministry's previous investigations, they'd dug deep into Lockhart's past and confirmed that—apart from his freakish talent for Memory Charms—he was basically as useless as a Squib.
What they hadn't realized was just how far he'd taken that talent. Lockhart had poured every ounce of skill into the single spell, becoming a kind of lopsided genius. Fueled by his hatred for Tom Riddle, he'd trained himself to cast Memory Charms without a wand—accurately, precisely, and ruthlessly.
Every time the Dementors came to patrol, he would simply erase the memory of that fear from his mind, keeping himself unnervingly calm and sane in the midst of despair.
Then one day, during a rare outdoor break, Lockhart struck. He ambushed a nearby Dementor with a Memory Charm, and while the creature floundered in confusion, he slipped away.
He hadn't planned to take anyone else—until Bellatrix happened to see him. And so, what started as a solo escape turned into a chaotic partnership.
"So, where are we going now? You sure the Dark Lord's really alive?" Lockhart asked, catching his breath.
"How dare you doubt it!" Bellatrix shrieked, eyes wild. "Of course the Dark Lord lives! His silence only proves he awaits the help of his loyal servants!"
"And you actually know where he is?" Lockhart didn't flinch at her madness. He'd seen that look before—adoring, hysterical, completely unhinged.
It reminded him of his old fangirls, the ones who used to scream his name at book signings. The only difference was, Bellatrix's obsession was with Voldemort—and Lockhart's was revenge on Tom Riddle.
He needed the Dark Lord's power to make that happen.
"I'll find him soon enough," Bellatrix said, tearing open a couple of chocolate bars she'd looted from a sailor's pocket. "First, we go back to Britain. Get ourselves a pair of wands. Then we kill Harry Potter—and your little enemy too."
She hesitated briefly. She knew exactly who that "enemy" was, and what that name represented.
That was precisely why she hated Tom Riddle just as much as she hated the boy who lived—one for daring to share her master's name, and one for causing his fall from power. Both deserved death.
Lockhart stared at her as if she had become a troll. "We're going to Hogwarts? To kill people? You do know who runs that place, right? Dumbledore's no joke—and even without him, do you really think you can take on Tom Riddle himself? The guy killed a Basilisk!"
"So what?" Bellatrix sneered. "You think that makes him special? One Killing Curse and he's done."
"We're supposed to serve the Dark Lord, not create more trouble for him," she continued sharply. "If you're too scared, Lockhart, find yourself a hole to hide in. I'll kill them both and come find you after."
The only reason she hadn't killed him already was because of his skill with Memory Charms—it might prove useful to the Dark Lord later.
Anyone else would've been dead the moment they'd stopped being useful.
In the end, Lockhart had no choice but to follow her. On his own, he'd be defenseless if the Ministry found him again.
At least with Bellatrix around, there was a small chance of survival.
---
After three days
In Paris, Tom finally received the news.
The Ministry was in chaos. Azkaban—supposedly an impenetrable fortress—had suffered a double breakout. The Daily Prophet had plastered wanted posters across the front page.
{Bellatrix Lestrange – 5,000 Galleons.}
{Gilderoy Lockhart – 10,000 Galleons.}
When Tom first saw the numbers, he thought it was a typo. Then he read the details and realized Lockhart had been the ringleader—the man's Memory Charm was apparently so potent it had even affected Dementors.
Not bad, Tom mused. Even he couldn't cast that spell so neatly.
A flicker of light flashed through his eyes as he tapped into his time magic. He wasn't yet fully adept, but he could glimpse pieces of the near future—no more than three months ahead.
In those brief visions, he saw Lockhart—in Britain, traveling with Bellatrix.
"So they're coming to Hogwarts?" Tom murmured, amused. "Well then. Saves me the trouble. I'll deal with them both at once."
He tossed the newspaper aside, stepped out of his bedroom, and knocked on the door across the hall. "You two ready? Your mom's waiting for us for lunch."
"Almost!" came the cheerful reply from Daphne's room, followed by giggles and a bit of sisterly chaos.
Tom shook his head with a resigned smile. "Almost," in Daphne-speak, meant not anytime soon.
He'd already burned through all his research materials and had no reason to linger in France. There was plenty to handle back in Britain, so he'd decided to head home earlier than planned.
...
Sure enough, Daphne didn't finish packing until nearly eleven. By the time she and her sister said their goodbyes, they made it back to the Greengrass estate just in time for lunch.
"Hello, Lady Greengrass," Tom greeted politely.
"Tom, dear," she smiled warmly and waved to a house-elf, who hurried over carrying a long wooden case. "This arrived today—your gift."
Tom raised an eyebrow as he opened it. "A Firebolt?"
Lady Greengrass nodded. "The workshop just launched production. We have a few shares in the company, so I made sure one was set aside for you. I thought you might like it."
Tom couldn't help but laugh. He'd never actually bought a broomstick, yet somehow he kept ending up with the newest models.
The Nimbus 2000 he'd 'borrowed' from Newt. The Nimbus 2001 Malfoy had gifted him. And now—a Firebolt.
The Firebolt's price was never listed in shops, but at least it sold for somewhere between four and six thousand galleons. If you were willing to wait, it might be cheaper, but a rush order would cost more.
Even Lucius Malfoy, who spoiled his son rotten, wouldn't spend that much on Draco.
But given Tom's relationship with the Greengrass family, the price didn't matter.
...
In Diagon Alley, Lady Greengrass and Tom stepped into a small shop not far from Ollivander's.
The place had opened just last year. Aside from a few odds and ends, it mostly sold alchemical trinkets Tom had sent over. Business wasn't great—combat-focused alchemy tools didn't appeal much to most wizards, and the prices weren't exactly friendly either.
"My lady," the shop's only clerk, a young witch, greeted when she saw Lady Greengrass enter.
Lady Greengrass glanced around, then said, "Take down everything on the shelves. We'll be restocking tomorrow."
The clerk blinked but didn't ask questions. As any good employee knew, the less work there was, the better. As long as the shop wasn't shutting down, she was happy.
"Think the space is big enough?" Lady Greengrass asked, turning to Tom.
He nodded casually. "A single sales window will do. We might need a few extra hands, though. Did you get the ad sorted out?"
"The Daily Prophet reserved the page already," she said. "I'm meeting an old friend later to help with staffing. You sure we shouldn't just hire full-time workers?"
"Depends on how it goes," Tom said, shaking his head. "It's not like this is a fast-moving product. We'll be busy at launch, but demand will drop after that."
They weren't whispering, and the clerk couldn't help overhearing. Both the elegant lady and the handsome young man seemed convinced their new product would be a massive hit. She couldn't imagine why.
...
After finishing their inspection, Lady Greengrass headed to the Ministry, while Tom walked straight to Gringotts.
When he placed the agreed-upon stack of devices and bank cards on the goblin manager's desk, the creature nearly dropped his jaw.
"Th-this… how is this possible?"
Tom leaned back, resting his boots on the edge of the desk with a grin. "It's only thirty thousand cards, Raphael. Don't look so shocked. Now, pay up."
When he'd first learned the goblin's name, Tom had been speechless for an hour. A goblin named after an archangel—how's that for irony?
"Mr. Riddle, you're certain everything is… functional?" Raphael dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. Losing this wager would cost Gringotts dearly—three Sickles per card and five Galleons per terminal. Individually, that wasn't much, but in bulk it added up to tens of thousands of Galleons.
"I guarantee there won't be a single faulty card," Tom said with a lazy smile. "If someone tries to sabotage them, though, I'll know. Want to test that theory?"
Raphael forced a laugh. "You must be joking. We'd never do such a thing."
He actually had considered tampering with them—but this wasn't the time for that. And it certainly wasn't his decision to make. Better to hand over the money and stay on Tom's good side.
And at fifteen Sickles for every two cards and fifteen Galleons per machine, Tom walked away with just over forty-three thousand Galleons. After costs, that still left him with nearly forty thousand in profit.
(Wait—you thought he sold them at cost? Hahaha~ You're so naïve it's kind of cute.)
After finalizing the payment deal with Raphael, Tom left Gringotts and headed toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour to grab something cold for Daphne.
Fortescue was a bit of a history nerd.
Despite Professor Binns's best efforts to bore him to death, he'd graduated top of his class in Magical History. Ever since Tom had published The History of the Wizarding World, the man had been a regular correspondent, sending letters full of obscure facts and trivia.
Tom figured he could use that scholarly friendship to score a few free ice creams today.
...
With September fast approaching, Diagon Alley was crowded with students stocking up for the new school year. On his way, Tom ran into plenty of classmates. The Slytherins greeted him warmly—whether sincere or fake, their politeness was impeccable.
Students from other houses waved from afar, slowing his progress.
By the time he reached the ice cream shop, the sun was dipping low. He spotted Fortescue sitting outside under a sunshade, but before he could call out, someone shouted behind him.
"Tom?"
He turned around to see Harry Potter—and beside him, a tall man with long black hair and a charmingly reckless air.
Harry walked up, beaming. "Tom! Didn't expect to see you here. I wrote to Hermione, and she said you had gone to France."
"Just got back today," Tom said easily. "Pure coincidence."
Harry grinned and gestured to his companion. "This is Sirius—my godfather."
Compared to the half-dead, starved wreck he'd been after Azkaban, Sirius Black looked like a new man. He was still lean, but his body had filled out again, and his sharp features paired with that roguish energy gave him the look of a dangerously charming artist.
More than one girl passing by sneaked a glance at him.
Sirius smiled broadly and extended his hand. "Tom, mind if I call you that?"
Tom shook his hand. "Of course not. And congratulations on your acquittal."
Sirius laughed, his voice rich and bright. "I should be the one thanking you. If you hadn't found Pettigrew, I'd have died a miserable ghost in that cell."
"I've been meaning to thank you in person," he added. "Didn't expect to run into you like this. Come on—let's talk inside."
.
.
.