Tom didn't immediately agree.
"Helping them is fine," he said, "but only if they're worth helping."
It was a blunt statement, but Grindelwald wasn't offended—in fact, he nodded in agreement.
Tom was realistic. And people should be realistic. If you always pander to others, all you'll do is harm your own interests, slowly losing yourself until you become nothing but a tool in someone else's hands.
If you want to rise to the top, the first thing you must protect is your own interests. Your own gain… is the greatest gain.
Tom's meaning was clear—if the Saints could offer him benefits and value, he'd step in.
Grindelwald gave a faint smile.
"A starved camel is still bigger than a horse, Tom. You're underestimating me."
His expression was tinged with arrogance as he continued,
"When I lost to Dumbledore back then, it wasn't that I couldn't escape—it was that I knew the tide had turned. Struggling on would only have cost me more comrades. So I offered my surrender in exchange for their temporary safety."
"These years they've been suppressed, yes… but their numbers and their foundations are not something a few decades can erase."
"What they lack…" He paused. "Is a leader."
Grindelwald fixed his gaze on Tom.
"You're my disciple. Naturally, you have the right to be that leader. I don't ask you to carry on my ideals—those are my path, not yours. I only hope you can make use of them, reward them accordingly, and restore their former strength."
"If, in the end, they truly can't be of use to you…" The once-mighty Dark Lord sighed.
"Then so be it. When you've fully risen, just do me one favor—let their bloodlines continue. For my sake."
This, Tom didn't refuse. He nodded.
Mainly because the Saints' ideology wasn't as extreme as the Death Eaters'.
The Death Eaters pushed pure-blood supremacy so far that even half-bloods and Muggle-borns were considered enemies. Voldemort once claimed Hogwarts only needed Slytherin House.
The Saints, however, believed in wizard rule over the world—if you were a wizard, you were an ally. Their goal was to abolish the Statute of Secrecy so wizards could cast magic openly anywhere, becoming the ruling class, without having to constantly hide from Muggles.
If Tom were a Muggle right now, he'd definitely see Grindelwald as a terrorist. But as a wizard, he had to admit—the man's vision wasn't bad.
Many who opposed him didn't think he was evil; they simply feared his ideals would bring disaster upon wizards. Right now, wizards could survive quietly in the shadows—so why risk everything by stepping into the light?
If it were people like Bellatrix or young Barty Crouch Jr., Tom would find working with them disgusting, even if they were useful.
Seeing Tom's agreement, Grindelwald smiled at last, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"Hey, Grindelwald—tell me, how exactly did that kid catch you? Did he let his magical beasts loose to bite you?"
Andros, having waited for their serious talk to end, now strolled over for his daily dose of gossip.
The smile froze on Grindelwald's face.
Merlin help him… what did he do in a past life to deserve a colleague and roommate like this?
"I was caught by a husband-and-wife team, you single mutt. You wouldn't understand." Grindelwald shot Andros a glare and returned his thoughts to Nurmengard.
And just like that, Andros' grin disappeared—while Tom's took its place.
…
The Saints' revenge was just a small interlude. Once the time was set, Tom didn't think about it again.
His real priority now was completing the Fourth Trial.
The next day, Newt wandered around the nearby town again, seeing if he could lure out any hidden stalkers to clean them up in one go.
Tom, meanwhile, began testing in the races.
The three-year-old division had already been ruled out—their Thunderbirds were far too mischievous, easily distracted mid-flight by random things. Racing them was more play than competition.
The five-year-old division was worth a shot—Thunderbirds at this age could breeze through a hundred kilometers without trouble. The only question was whether the trial's magic would recognize it.
Tom gave it a try… and, sure enough, the trial didn't react at all.
So that left… the ten-year-olds!
Any older than that, and the birds would be older than him, which was just depressing.
Sure enough, the ten-year-old group worked—the Fourth Temple lit up brilliantly.
The problem?
Tom's current top flight speed was 320 km/h. The ten-year-old Thunderbirds? They were hitting 350 to 380 km/h.
By Thunderbird growth standards, these were young adults—at fifteen, they'd be fully grown. They not only had near-adult speed, but could also summon weather phenomena mid-flight.
Tom was already slower, and on top of that, he had to dodge random lightning strikes from above. After a hundred kilometers, he was a full ten kilometers behind.
Helpless, Tom returned to working on merging two spells, dragging his young Thunderbird for daily practice laps, hoping for some miraculous breakthrough.
And so, the days passed—until the last day of July.
On a steep cliff, Tom and the Thunderbird stood at the highest point.
"Chirp chirp—!"
"Don't chirp at me. I've lost many times before, but today, I'm the one who's going to win."
"Chirp chirp—!"
"Oh, mocking me now? I dare you not to call down lightning on me."
"Chirp—!"