— — — — — —
Grindelwald had once been a proud man—arrogant, yes, but deeply sentimental.
He believed his followers would never betray him, and he believed his own charisma was enough to convert even those who joined him with ulterior motives.
And truthfully, he'd succeeded many times. Quite a few Ministry spies planted among the Acolytes ended up becoming fervent believers.
But still, the Grindelwald of today was much like Tom: aside from his own power, he trusted nothing.
Whether Bulgaria was scheming or not didn't matter. If they weren't, he'd gain more tools. If they were, then it was a perfect chance to deal a heavy blow to the ICW and force Dumbledore to the negotiating table.
Vinda sounded hesitant. She knew him well enough to understand that he hadn't overlooked the risks—meaning he was fishing.
"Sir… If Dumbledore uses this as an opportunity… would you be in danger?"
Grindelwald smiled, amused. He toyed with a bone-crafted ornament looted from an enemy family, eerie green light flickering over its surface.
"Vinda," he said softly, "you know me, but you don't know Dumbledore."
Vinda Rosier's humble expression froze.
Why the hell would I know him? I'm not his lover.
Grindelwald didn't notice her momentary lapse. He continued, almost talking to himself, "Haven't you realized? Every time Dumbledore and I fight in public, we always stop short—just a token exchange and nothing more. I don't care about going all out, but he does. He worries about the consequences."
"Either other witches and wizards would get hurt," he went on, "or we'd risk exposing the entire magical world."
"So Dumbledore will never set a trap for me. He knows I won't fall for petty tricks. But…"
"But Babajide will take the risk," Vinda finished for him. "And the Ministry officials who oppose you will try as well. The longer they wait, the stronger your influence becomes. So strong it'll spark an unstoppable wave and cause your power to expand rapidly."
That was Grindelwald's real terror—he had a clear vision, coherent principles, and the ability to rally people who shared them.
And his audience… was extremely broad. Pure-bloods, half-bloods, even Muggle-borns—in his rhetoric, they were all comrades.
His ultimate goal wasn't to help one faction at the expense of another. It was to create a magical world where wizards wouldn't need to tiptoe around, living in the shadows.
Outside the regions directly controlled by him—Poland and Germany—the debate over his ideology was still raging. His supporters were becoming impossible to ignore, and that was one of the reasons so many Ministries were panicking. Even at great cost, they had to snuff out Grindelwald before the tension turned into open chaos.
Voldemort, on the other hand, was hopeless. The moment he declared pure-blood supremacy, he cut himself off from half the wizarding population. His entire approach was brute force and terror—hardly the style of someone capable of building a lasting movement.
So those who gathered around him were either old pure-blood conservatives or cowards trying to survive by doing the bare minimum. Unless Voldemort marched an army into a country, almost no Ministry would willingly surrender to him.
Grindelwald nodded, clearly pleased. Speaking with intelligent people was truly effortless.
Vinda recalled the message she'd received before coming and reported, "Sir, Mr. Riddle just informed me—he's finished preparing the goods for the exchange."
"Oh?" Grindelwald's eyes lit up. "Finally? Then go to Hogwarts at once. Bring everything back."
He didn't particularly care about the alchemical items. What he cared about was helping Tom finish his trial—and seeing for himself what kind of power the legendary Golden Apple possessed.
"And Vinda," Grindelwald added, "pick out a gift for him first. Something artistic. The prettier, the better."
This wasn't just giving Tom a present—it was poking Dumbledore in the eye. A reminder that Grindelwald was always thinking about Tom, keeping Dumbledore just anxious enough.
Vinda nodded. She'd browsed the Rosier family's private collection with Tom before; she still remembered his tastes. Not difficult at all.
"Oh—one more thing."
She paused at the door, turning back.
"The meeting with Bulgaria must be scheduled for a weekend."
"A… weekend?" Vinda couldn't guess what significance that held.
Grindelwald sighed. "I want Tom to attend, of course. He's only free on weekends."
It was almost absurd to think the shifts in global magical politics could be influenced by a student's class schedule—but here they were.
...
Vinda acted fast. She sent an official notice to the British Ministry that very day. When no reply came the next morning, she departed regardless.
No one dared block her path—not even when she traveled with only a handful of guards.
There wasn't a single country left that could withstand Grindelwald's fury alone. Hurting Vinda might deal a severe blow to the Acolytes, but the retaliation would be catastrophic.
So Vinda walked straight into Hogwarts. McGonagall and Snape accompanied her from the gates all the way to the Headmaster's office. "Accompanied" was the polite word—"supervised" was probably more accurate.
Dumbledore already knew why she was here. He couldn't stop the exchange, so he simply informed Tom.
Tom got the message while he was in the Forbidden Forest, bathing the two pandas. Both creatures had gotten quite chubby.
...
"Mr. Riddle, it's been some time. Your presence grows more striking every time I see you."
Vinda's voice was as pleasant as ever. Tom enjoyed dealing with people like her, who were efficient and knew how to talk. Not like Gellert or Andros, who argued with him every other day.
"This is a gift from Lord Grindelwald. He hopes it suits your taste."
After the greetings, Vinda began taking out Grindelwald's "gifts" one by one, just as he instructed.
At first, Dumbledore's expression stayed neutral, but the longer he watched, the more off it became.
It had been several minutes. Why was she still pulling things out?
Oil paintings. Sculptures. Walking sticks. Jewels. Clocks. Ornaments.
All kinds of art pieces, and not a single inferior one among them. Even by his seasoned standards, each item was a rare treasure.
This was supposed to be a simple meeting gift?
If Grindelwald had given him this many things, Dumbledore could understand. Giving them to Tom… After thinking for a long moment, he could only convince himself that Grindelwald simply refused to give up on winning Tom over.
After a full quarter hour, the gifts finally stopped. Tom happily packed everything away and handed Vinda the promised stock in exchange.
She placed several more large orders, then left Hogwarts without lingering.
In the study space, the eighth temple flared with light. After eight months of grinding, he had finally earned the required five million Galleons and completed the trial, a little over a month past his self-imposed deadline.
Grindelwald had been the biggest contributor, playing the perfect agent of chaos. His presence alone scared Ministries into throwing massive orders at Tom.
Tom was ready to claim his reward, but Dumbledore inconveniently stopped him.
"Tom, what kind of person do you think Grindelwald is?" the old man asked.
Tom thought for a moment and answered honestly. "A powerful wizard. Hard to deal with. But probably a decent friend. Definitely not the raving kind of Dark Lord."
Dumbledore nodded slightly. It was a fair judgment, neither hostile nor naive.
"But there's one thing you didn't mention," he said with worry. "I won't deny that being friends with Gellert can be… pleasant. Back then—well, never mind. Our relationship wasn't always the way it is now."
"His biggest problem is his dangerous ideas. You grew up in the Muggle world. Surely you don't want the two worlds turning on each other and going to war?"
Tom stared at him, baffled.
He understood what Dumbledore feared – that Tom would be swayed by Grindelwald's honeyed words. Unfortunately for him… well, excuse the phrasing, but Grindelwald was already his.
"Professor…"
Tom thumped his chest confidently. "Don't worry. I'd never swear loyalty to Grindelwald, and I'd never obey his orders. A real man doesn't spend his life under someone else."
Dumbledore smiled, relieved.
It made sense. Tom's pride was unmistakable, especially in how he treated Voldemort. Someone like him would never bow to Grindelwald.
With his worries soothed, Dumbledore let him go.
By the time Tom left the office, it was already time for the last class of the day. Unfortunately, it was Hagrid's class, and Tom had no interest in attending. He sent a quick message to pass it off as an absence, then dove straight into his pocket world.
He opened the study space, summoned everyone, then reached out with his mind to the temple.
Golden light gathered before him. He reached into it and pulled out a single seed… then a golden apple, radiant and perfectly formed. The light faded.
"So this is Hera's Golden Apple?"
Andros stared wide-eyed. Myths in later eras claimed he'd grown up drinking Hera's milk, but in truth there had never been such a powerful witch in Greece. Zeus was a fictional god, too. Only human heroes had real-world counterparts.
The apple was mesmerizing. Smooth surface, perfect shape, flawless color. But aside from looking extraordinary, none of them could spot anything unusual. Only Ravenclaw sensed something deeper.
"Don't you see? The apple is seamless. Every part is the ideal proportion. It feels like apples were meant to look exactly like this."
Tom nodded. "Makes sense. It really is pleasing to look at. Honestly… I almost feel bad eating it."
Ariana licked her lips. "Tom… you're making me hungry. Maybe I should just eat it."
Tom laughed. "I've got a seed, don't I? Once the first batch ripens, I'll save one for you. Also, you can't really eat it right now. Wait until I finish your body, Andros."
Tom then turned the apple in his hands, conflicted.
Hmm.... Was this thing literally made of gold? If he bit into it, would he crack a tooth? And if he swallowed it, would he end up poisoned by metal?
Forget it. Trust the system. It wouldn't set him up to die.
He shut his eyes, activated his Freak Body trait, and bit down hard.
The hardness he expected didn't come. Instead, it felt like biting into jelly. The fruit slid apart, smooth and cool, and melted down his throat into his stomach.
.
.
.