— — — — — —
Newt, fleeing the lounge in embarrassment, hurried Tom off to check on the Runespoors just to avoid the awkward atmosphere.
After a careful inspection, he said, "They're doing better than before, but the success rate for breeding still isn't very high."
"I get it," Tom replied immediately. "I'll write to Snape later, and I'll send him his Christmas gift while I'm at it."
The strengthening potion was bait. Once you'd tasted the rush of your body surging with new power from the inside out, who could turn down a second bottle? Certainly not Snape. His hunger for strength was far greater than most.
"Your professor seems like a good man," Newt said approvingly. He waved his wand and made a few adjustments to the snakes' habitat. The changes were subtle, things Tom would never have noticed on his own, yet the effect was clear.
The Runespoors became livelier, slipping out from the rocks to bask and explore.
Tom couldn't help shaking his head.
Newt had never kept his methods secret—he'd explained the key points of raising Runespoors in detail over the notebook. Tom had followed those instructions down to the letter, yet his results were still full of issues.
Some things just came down to talent. If you had the spark, you understood; if not, no textbook or teacher could take you beyond the ordinary.
"You plan to plant the Whomping Willows here?" Newt asked, glancing toward the flattened stretch of grassland by the lake.
Tom caught his hesitation. "Is that a problem?"
"I know you're planning to grow them with nutrient potions, but… natural is always best," Newt said. "Whomping Willows thrive in places saturated with magic. Your pocket world isn't fully developed yet. Too few magical creatures. If you plant them here, they'd be weaker than if you gave them to Nicolas."
Plenty of magical beings could only exist where magic was dense. That's why ghouls and other creatures common in wizarding households almost never appeared in Muggle homes.
Tom thought for a moment. "What about your case, Grandpa Newt? That should work, right?"
Newt nodded. "It'll do. But ten trees is too many. I could manage five."
"Five's plenty." Tom grinned. "Grandpa Nicolas is too old to be babysitting dangerous plants anyway. Please help me raise five Whomping Willows."
"And the rest?" Newt asked.
"The rest go to Hogwarts." Tom shrugged. The words made Newt pause.
Six Whomping Willows surrounding the castle… wouldn't that set off some of those hot-blooded Gryffindor brats' ancestral instincts?
"You think Dumbledore will agree?" Newt asked doubtfully.
Tom just smiled. "He'll agree."
...
What made Tom happiest about visiting Nicolas? Easy—having free run of all those rare and priceless alchemy materials.
Lady Greengrass wanted more guardian necklaces. Bones needed them to boost her support. So, Tom would need to craft at least a dozen more just to keep everyone supplied. Not to mention Megatron's upgrades…
And so when Tom slipped into Nicolas' laboratory, it was like a rat falling into a rice barn—or a Niffler let loose in a vault. No one could drag him back out.
The next morning, Nicolas had to send an elf to drag Tom away from his work.
When Nicolas entered the lab and saw rare ingredients scattered everywhere, with piles of precious remnants already used up, his vision went black.
Now he understood the saying, 'Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations.'
He swept everything off the table, grabbed Tom by the arm, and hauled him out. "You're still a child, yet you hole yourself up like an old man every day. There are beautiful girls waiting for you outside, and you can sit here without moving?"
"They're not going anywhere," Tom muttered. "You just don't want me wasting your materials."
Nicolas glared. "You're right. I don't. I've hoarded this fortune for centuries, and you burn through it in a week. Fine—when I'm dead, you can have the lot. Then you can waste it however you like, and I won't have to see it."
Anyone else would've fainted with joy at hearing that. Nicolas Flamel's centuries of savings could turn a pauper into one of the richest men in Europe overnight.
Tom, however, just pulled a face. "That means waiting decades. By then I probably won't even need it."
Nicolas nearly choked.
So you're just waiting for my funeral, is that it?
"Careful, boy. Say that again and I'll make another Philosopher's Stone just to spite you."
Tom perked up. "You will really make one? The materials these days are way richer than centuries ago. We could go to North America—most of their resources have broken out of the plantations. I could collect from all over the continent and no one would even notice."
"When you give me a reason to want to keep living, then we'll talk," Nicolas said with a weary shake of his head, ending the subject.
After breakfast, Perenelle shoved Tom out of the house. For all her centuries of devotion, she still sighed every time Nicolas locked himself away in alchemy.
She didn't want Tom following the same path. Youth was for play, for joy. What was the point of ending up like Nicolas—getting thrills only from experiments?
Unless Tom brought Fleur back with him, he wasn't allowed to return.
So there he was, standing outside Fleur's home, scratching his head.
It was Christmas Eve. How could he possibly drag Fleur away now? Monsieur Delacour would skin him alive.
But maybe… taking the little one wouldn't be a problem?
As Tom hesitated, the door flew open and a tiny figure launched itself at him.
"Whoa—"
He caught the little girl, who'd just lost her balance after a clumsy "rocket tackle."
"Gabrielle, you'll hurt yourself like that," Tom scolded gently.
She just giggled. "I knew you'd catch me, Tom!"
Tom pinched her cheeks in mock anger. "Tom? No big brother anymore?"
"Fleur doesn't, so I don't either."
"Is that so? Then I'll make her call me Brother later."
"Hm?" Fleur's voice floated over. She came walking in, draped in a flowing sky-blue gown, her expression feigning irritation. "You want to be my brother now?"
Tom's own grin spread as he looked at her.
Half a year apart, and Fleur had bloomed even further, like a rose opening another layer of delicate petals. Her beauty was enough to make most people feel clumsy and plain beside her.
Most Veela shared a standardized, almost uniform kind of beauty—stunning, yes, but often lacking individuality. Fleur was different. Her beauty was striking, yes, but she had her own allure, her own presence. Especially those eyes. Holding her gaze for even a few seconds could unmoor you.
"Maybe?" Tom arched an eyebrow and carried Gabrielle inside. The house was warm to the point of stuffy, which explained why Fleur could wear such a dress indoors in winter.
"You've grown so fast," Fleur remarked softly as she watched him walk ahead.
The first time they'd met, Tom had been much shorter than her. After that dragon hunt, he'd nearly caught up. Now, a year later, he'd already overtaken her in height.
"I don't mind growing fast," he teased, "but you'd better stop. Too tall and you'll end up looking like a human lamppost."
"Tom, dear, come sit. Have a snack before dinner."
Madame Delacour emerged from the kitchen with a tray of cookies. Tom thanked her politely, then helped himself to one and slipped another to Gabrielle.
Fleur sighed. "She's already eaten plenty before you came. Don't let her stuff herself or she'll turn into a little piglet."
"It's fine. Kids can slim down later."
"Whaaat? No, no, I don't want to be a pig!"
Tom shrugged, but Gabrielle was horrified. She crammed the last three macarons into her mouth at once and squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at the dessert tower again.
"You're really stingy," Tom said, pointing accusingly at Fleur. She only smiled in triumph.
Not wanting to be labeled a piglet, Gabrielle pulled out the homework puzzle her school had assigned and began working in earnest. That finally gave Fleur a chance to talk properly with Tom.
She chatted with Tom about school and, not-so-subtly, tried fishing for news about the Greengrass sisters and Hermione.
But her information was already a little outdated.
"So you didn't come until yesterday because you were off with them?" Fleur asked.
"Of course not!" Tom protested loudly. "I just moved into a new house. There's still so much to set up, and I haven't finished half of it. On top of that, my teachers keep dumping assignments on me. This holiday's been busier than term time."
He sighed. "There's still a pile left undone. I'll have to work overtime once I'm back."
He'd even thought of setting up a full smart-home system like Nicolas Flamel's, but the workload was insane. So far he'd only finished the living room and kitchen. The rest hadn't even been touched.
"You don't even get to rest on holiday?" Fleur huffed on his behalf. "Your teachers are too much."
Tom nodded quickly. "Totally inhuman. Once I get strong enough, I'll make them pay it back."
A Dark Wizard and an ancient fossil. Neither of them counted as "human" in his book anyway.
And with no study-space open at the moment, he wasn't worried about Grindelwald or Andros eavesdropping.
"Always talking nonsense," Fleur countered. "Strict teachers are for your own good. I'd love to have one so strong and responsible. Sadly, with my talent, none of them would ever bother with me."
She assumed, of course, that Tom was talking about Dumbledore. Who else but the world's greatest wizard could train a student like him?
"Tom, play fishing with me!" Gabrielle broke in after growing bored of puzzles, waving a toy fishing rod.
Naturally, Tom obliged. He abandoned Fleur without hesitation and sat cross-legged on the floor with Gabrielle, grabbing a second rod to compete with her.
The little toy pond held enchanted fish that bit if you kept the hook steady.
Tom reeled them in one after another, while Gabrielle struggled without a single catch. The girl was near tears before begging her sister to team up.
With both sisters working together, the loss wasn't quite as crushing.
"Children, dinner is ready!" Madame Delacour finally called, carrying out a feast.
Foie gras, boeuf bourguignon, duck confit, bouillabaisse, scallops Saint-Jacques—all the classics of French cuisine.
Normally Fleur had to keep an eye on Gabrielle during meals, but with Tom there she was free at last.
Tom especially enjoyed the bouillabaisse. Dipping garlicky bread smeared with aioli into the broth gave the dish layers of rich flavor.
Halfway through dinner, Monsieur Delacour hurried in, tired yet smiling, fresh from an hour's work at the Ministry.
With everyone finally gathered, Tom shared Nicolas Flamel's invitation.
.
.
.