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There's a technique in psychology: when someone is confused, you observe, you listen, then you say exactly what hits them in the heart. You gain trust fast, along with a lot of goodwill. It's called cold reading.
The key, of course, is to strike the sore spot and recognize the point they need you to validate.
Tom was a master at that. He saw Cassandra's state at a glance: low confidence, and a very real fear of being abandoned.
This… had he accidentally beaten Stockholm syndrome into her last year?
"Cassandra, I've never cared about money."
Tom cleared his throat and straightened his back. The girl stared in disbelief. "You don't care about money? Who ran all the way to North America just to collect debts from me? And who makes me send weekly sales reports?"
"That was to push you," Tom said patiently. "I discovered your talent and wanted you to work hard in business. To do that, you need a bit of pressure. Now that you're a competent little profiteer, I don't need to focus on the money anymore."
"So that's how it is…"
The last speck of light faded from her eyes.
Of course. She'd always suspected money meant nothing to Tom. If he ever needed any, Daphne—pampered heiress extraordinaire—would dump piles of it at his feet.
Which meant Cassandra Vole had no real value after all.
The classic trick: break a person's confidence, then "save" them from the low point to bind them firmly to you.
Tom had used it so often it was practically instinctual.
Seeing Cassandra about to spiral into questioning her entire existence, he finally continued, "But what you're doing now matters a lot to me."
The girl snapped her head up.
Tom placed his hands on her shoulders and spoke seriously. "You have so much more potential, Cassandra. I've been researching new products, and with your distribution network, once I'm done, we'll be able to launch them across North America in no time."
"So don't think what you do is pointless. Money is just numbers. We don't need it personally, but numbers can be traded for the things we do need. When you go back, keep pushing. Make sure every wizarding household has something we sell. That way I can work with less pressure. Understand?"
Cassandra's defeated aura evaporated. Her beautiful green eyes lit up again. She nodded hard at Tom's earnest expression, then quickly tilted her chin up, pretending she hadn't been that eager.
"Knew you couldn't live without me. Just wait. The Vole family will be the strongest business house in North America soon."
Tom piled on more encouragement. And though she tried to keep her cool, her eyes were crescent-shaped the whole walk back to the castle, and her steps were light like she was walking on cotton.
Watching her disappear up the stairs, Tom figured that for the next few months, maybe even a year or two, he wouldn't need to feed Cassandra any more motivational soup. She'd handle the self-delusion herself.
At that moment, Ginny popped out of nowhere like a ghost. "Bagged another one?"
"Ow!"
Tom flicked her forehead without looking. Ginny pouted and rubbed the spot. "What? Am I wrong? Did you see Vole's face? Her grin was about to launch into orbit."
"Don't talk nonsense." Tom turned around and patted her hair. "Cassandra and I were having a serious talk about expanding product distribution. She's happy because she's about to make a lot of money."
At the mention of money, Ginny's eyes practically turned into Galleons.
"Tom, I also want to make money."
The Weasley household wasn't exactly thriving. Even with two graduates working, nothing changed. The family was bizarre: the older generation didn't care about money at all. Their vault could echo and they'd still be cheerful.
The younger generation, on the other hand, valued money more than life. The twins had cut back on pranks so they could work odd jobs for Tom. Ron dreamed of Galleons at night.
And Ginny… well, she was a tiny money-goblin too. Beyond saving.
But Ginny never asked Tom for money directly. She wanted to earn it, like the twins. Unfortunately, she had zero talent for alchemy, so Tom had to find other ways to top off her little wallet.
"If you want to make money, get stronger. After you graduate, you can be my bodyguard."
Ginny blinked. "Me? Guard you?"
On what planet? She had no idea how strong Tom was, but she was sure he could wipe the floor with her a hundred times over.
"What's the problem?" Tom asked, dead serious. "Any random trash-tier enemy deserves me personally? In the past I handled things myself because none of you were strong enough. It was embarrassing. Once you can hold your own, if I still do everything myself, why did I bother training you?"
That actually made sense.
She got hustled without noticing. She promised solemnly that next time Knockturn Alley-level trash showed up, it would be her problem.
They chatted casually on the way to the Great Hall. Halfway there, Ginny suddenly remembered why she'd been looking for Tom in the first place.
"Keep an eye on Hermione. She's acting weird today. After class she went straight to the common room and buried herself in books. She's snappier too. Ron and Harry were talking a bit loud and she tore into them."
"Weird?"Tom thought back over Hermione's behavior that day. He didn't comment any further, just nodded. "Alright. I'll keep that in mind."
Ginny's observation was spot-on. Hermione really wasn't acting normal. The photos Grindelwald showed had clearly set her off again. She'd gone back into that obsessive problem-solving mode, determined to end the tragedy on her own terms.
But how?
Her only path was to dig through books, trying to find similar cases and borrow the wisdom of predecessors. But that topic was too sensitive—almost no books recorded Muggle curiosity or research on wizards, and even medieval history only skimmed the surface.
More importantly, even if Hermione figured out an idea, what identity, what authority did she even have to put it into practice?
Which meant Tom gained yet another task these past few days—guiding his beloved Miss Know-It-All back onto the right track.
Dreams and ideals aren't what matter most—what matters is whether your ability and position actually match them. Otherwise you'll never reach a point where thought and action align.
But with Hermione's stubbornness, even Tom's silver tongue—good enough to sway almost anyone—couldn't fix things overnight.
It wasn't until the weekend that the little witch finally began to shift her focus.
...
Saturday rolled around, and compared to the last two weeks this one was special: not only was the fourth-year dueling tournament scheduled, but there was also a Quidditch match.
To keep spirits high, the schedule was adjusted—Quidditch first to relax everyone, then dueling afterwards.
The teams on the pitch were Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Because of the dementors last term, Gryffindor had lost their first match. Now they were already on the edge—if they lost again, or even won by too small a margin, taking the championship would become nearly impossible.
So Wood treated this match like it was life or death—more important even than his upcoming NEWTs. He dragged the team through three days of extra training, tailoring tactics specifically for Ravenclaw.
And then—before the match even started—Wood got sucker-punched.
Ravenclaw's Seeker was riding a Firebolt too.
Commentator Lee Jordan spotted it immediately. After hearing Slytherin's jeers, he understood—Tom Riddle had lent the Ravenclaw's Seeker his broom. He grumbled about fairness until Professor McGonagall warned him repeatedly to cut it out.
Truthfully, McGonagall was suffering just as much, but no rule forbade borrowing brooms. Completely legal.
Equipment was part of Quidditch, after all.
Thankfully, what comforted McGonagall was that a single broom couldn't erase the difference between the two teams. Ravenclaw's Seeker flew well, but others had swapped out over half their lineup this year—there was zero coordination. Everyone played like their own separate unit, perfectly displaying what "disorganized Ravenclaw" really meant.
In the end, Harry comfortably caught the Snitch. Gryffindor won 240–30 in a blowout.
---
Up in the top seats of the stands, Grindelwald watched as Harry was celebrating wildly with his teammates; Wood was so excited he was grinding Harry's hair into a bird's nest.
"Dumbledore, this is the 'savior' you've been raising?" Grindelwald's eyes were sharp, as if they could pierce straight through the scarred boy. After a few seconds he shook his head. "Aside from some athletic talent and decent reflexes, I've seen nothing out of the ordinary these past months."
"You're doing it again—pinning your hopes on someone else. First it was Scamander, now it's this Harry Potter, your Chosen One. Aren't you tired of playing children's games, grooming little heroes?"
Dumbledore fell silent at that.
He wasn't offended. Grindelwald's jab at his methods didn't bother him. What bothered him was the sudden jolt of realization in his chest.
The Savior… The Chosen One... The Boy Who Lived...
It had been a long time since he'd heard these titles.
And that wasn't Harry's fault—it was Voldemort's.
Voldemort's presence this year was so faint Dumbledore could've forgotten he existed at all.
...
Coincidentally, on this very day, not long before this moment, after surviving countless hardships and obstacles, the great Dark Lord finally regained one of his most loyal servants—
Bellatrix Lestrange.
.
.
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