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Isis. The goddess of healing and magic was central to ancient Egyptian religion. She is known today by her Greek name, Isis, though the ancient Egyptians called her Aset.
Her name means "Queen of the Throne." Her headdress is even shaped like a throne, symbolizing royal authority. She is also one of the most important mother goddesses in the Egyptian pantheon—the sister and wife of Osiris, god of the underworld, and the mother of Horus, god of the sky.
"Osiris, huh?"
Tom didn't really know much about Osiris, but "Osiris the Sky Dragon" rang a bell immediately.
As for the Tear of Isis, that came from one of the myth's most famous stories.
Osiris was killed by his jealous brother Seth, who tricked him into lying in a golden chest, sealed it, and threw it into the Nile. When Isis heard the news, she was devastated. She followed the river all the way to the delta and finally recovered the chest.
During her journey, Isis transformed into a bird and circled over Osiris's body with outstretched wings. Through that act she conceived and later gave birth to her hawk-headed son Horus.
But Seth found out Osiris had been recovered, so he used another cruel trick. He chopped Osiris's body into fourteen pieces and scattered them across Egypt. Isis refused to give up and set out to collect her husband's remains. In the end she recovered thirteen pieces and wept tears of joy.
Those were the legendary Tears of Isis.
Tom rolled the red gemstone in his palm, unimpressed. "So I came all the way here in the middle of the night just to listen to mythology?"
"Tears of Isis, huh? Why don't you go find me the Eye of Horus while you're at it? Or Osiris's pen… manhood?"
Because yeah, Osiris got chopped into fourteen pieces, Isis found thirteen, and the one piece that never turned up was… the baby-making tool.
"Mr. Riddle, everything I said is true," the old goblin—Heiman—said with a weary smile. "This artifact and its story have been recorded since before Gringotts existed. Even after the Goblin Kingdom fractured, the Tear of Isis has been guarded by our ancestors."
"So what does it do?" Tom asked bluntly.
Heiman shook his head. "We don't know. But its absolute resistance to damage proves how extraordinary it is. Since it's in your hands now… the rest is your responsibility."
Tom almost laughed. Old goblin really knew how to pass the buck.
Then Noby voiced what every goblin in the room wanted to know. "Since you claimed the artifact, Mr. Riddle, what about the thief? Did you capture him alive or perhaps…"
The Tear of Isis was valuable, sure, but they'd had it for centuries without learning anything from it. Tom taking it hurt their pride but didn't actually cost them much—other than triggering their racial instinct to hoard shiny things.
The thief, however, was a serious threat. Two robberies in Gringotts, every alarm silent, even the dragon charmed into submission. After today, people would question whether Gringotts was truly safe.
Someone like that could not be allowed to roam free.
"The one who robbed Gringotts was Voldemort."
Tom dropped that bomb so casually the goblins collectively forgot how to breathe.
"V-V-Voldemort?" Noby squeaked, his voice practically breaking. "Wasn't he dead?"
"Nah~ Dark wizards always have a few tricks up their sleeves."
"Voldemort is alive. The Gringotts break-in in Diagon Alley three years ago was also his work. Back then he was working with Quirrell. This time he acted alone. I didn't manage to keep him, but he didn't walk away unscathed either."
Tom still found it strange. Why was Voldemort acting solo? Where had his little fangirl Bellatrix gone?
The goblins, meanwhile, were still trying to wrap their heads around it.
All three Gringotts break-ins were Voldemort's doing. That bastard was treating their vaults like his personal pantry—come whenever, leave whenever.
If Tom hadn't been here sightseeing today, the entire Heka Corridor would probably have been reduced to a pile of ashes under the five fire dragons.
The goblins wanted to keep asking questions, but Tom had no obligation to give them a detailed briefing. If anything, they still owed him an explanation.
"So, what exactly was stolen yesterday? It must have been really valuable for you to offend everyone."
"This..." Heiman hestiaed then sighed. "It was the Water of Good Fortune."
Good Fortune… what the hell?
Tom felt another question mark pop up. Why did today feel like story time? First Egyptian mythology, now Beedle the Bard?
Among the Tales of Beedle the Bard, the story of the three Peverell brothers was obviously the most famous, but the Fountain of Fair Fortune was almost as well-known.
The legendary fountain gave people good luck, cured sickness, granted wealth, healed injuries.
According to the goblins, the Water of Good Fortune they possessed had effects similar to Felix Felicis—except without side effects when it wore off, and it could extend lifespan. Basically a cheat potion.
As for where it came from, Heiman finally gave the full explanation.
Over two hundred years ago, a British wizard made a deal with Gringotts. He traded one gallon of Good Fortune water for an entire vault filled with gold.
Whatever that wizard's background was, history had long since forgotten him.
Tom stared directly into Heiman's eyes the whole time. He even dipped into Legilimency just to be sure he wasn't being fed nonsense.
There really was a Fountain of Good Fortune?
It wasn't impossible. The Elder Wand, the Cloak of Invisibility, the Resurrection Stone — all of those existed. So why couldn't there be the Fountain of Good/Fair Fortune?
And if that one tale was real… did that mean all the other legends in that little storybook were real too?
"Got any of the water left?" Tom asked. "I'd like to see if it's really as miraculous as you say."
"Mr. Riddle, that was the last bottle. The rest were stolen by Vold— by the Dark Lord." Heeman's face twisted with pain; the other goblins didn't look much better, like their hearts had been gouged out.
The Tear of Isis was useless to them, but Fortune water… Fortune water was a benefit they might've actually gotten a share of.
And now it was all gone.
Tom dropped another blade-sharp question. "Whether it's Tear of Isis or the water, how did Voldemort learn about something that secret in the first place?"
None of the goblins could answer. They'd been wondering the same thing — where had Voldemort even heard about any of this?
Did he actually know how to use the Tear of Isis properly?
Too late to think about that now. Gringotts had taken a double loss today.
"The strongest fortress usually falls from within."
Tom tossed the line over his shoulder as he walked away, leaving the goblins staring at one another, suspicion already blooming in their eyes.
Because he wasn't wrong. Unless someone on the inside had betrayed them, how else could Voldemort have known everything so clearly?
---
Back at Newt's little cabin, Tom released Hermione from his pocket dimension.
The moment she learned that all of this had been Voldemort's doing behind the scenes, her face went pale. It wasn't surprising — every young witch and wizard in England had read the horror stories about Voldemort.
But getting rid of fear was easy enough. Tom pulled out the memory of that brief fight — the very one with Voldemort — and projected it for her, letting her experience it from the inside.
"See? Maybe Voldemort isn't weak, but I'm way stronger."
No comforting words could compete with the raw impact of reality.
After watching the whole fight, Hermione was still shaken by their power… but most of her fear had burned away, replaced by something warmer: Adoration.
Tom is incredible.
Tom handed her the Tear of Isis as well. She turned the gem-like droplet over in her hand, admiring it for a while before getting bored — it looked pretty, but that was about all she could tell.
The two of them lay in bed and talked for ages about The Tales of Beedle the Bard, listing everything in the book that might actually be real. Eventually, Hermione drifted off to sleep.
Tom didn't dwell on today's gains or puzzles either. Some things couldn't be figured out just by thinking. He didn't need to be omniscient; he just needed to keep moving forward, steady step by steady step.
---
Meanwhile, along Egypt's coastline…
Bellatrix was out collecting a set of rare poisonous ingredients on Voldemort's orders. Luckily they'd split up earlier. Otherwise, even if Voldemort escaped, Bellatrix would've been finished.
She had just secured a generous haul of oleander and monkshood and was in a great mood, already imagining the Dark Lord's praise, when a bolt of pain stabbed through her skull. She screamed.
Black mist streamed out of her eyes, ears, and mouth — and more black smoke came rushing in from every direction, thickening into a swirling mass above her.
Even through the agony, she recognized what it meant. She looked up, voice cracking with panic. "Master! Master, what happened?!"
Voldemort had been burned badly today. Before splitting up, he had placed a mark on Bellatrix — not just for tracking, but as a failsafe. If things went south, he could ride that imprint to escape.
The moment she saw the black mist, she knew he had died. Again.
The smoke roiled and squeezed together for a full five minutes before all of it finally converged in one spot.
No matter how much Bellatrix screamed, the mist didn't respond.
Lockhart was stunned into silence.
'What the hell? My new boss is this unreliable? He finally gets a body and someone immediately beats him to death again?'
For one brief shining moment, Lockhart's desire to switch employers hit an all-time high.
At this rate, if he kept following Voldemort, forget returning to England for revenge — he was lucky if he could even keep a whole boss.
No one knew whether it was Bellatrix's shrieking or Voldemort's own consciousness clawing its way back, but finally, a voice drifted out of the smoke, thin and ragged. "Wh-who am I? Where is this? Damn it, why does it hurt so much…?"
Bellatrix froze.
Lockhart went numb.
.
.
.