— — — — — —
Seven days passed in the blink of an eye. Tom and Hermione boarded a plane and flew back to London.
After having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Granger, Tom took his leave and returned home to rest.
…
The next day, Tom traveled to Milan with Penelope, as they had arranged earlier.
In the Muggle world, the Apennine Peninsula was in a golden age. Economic recovery, booming industries everywhere—life was good.
But in the wizarding world, not so much.
Back when Grindelwald had just broken out of prison, Italy pretended nothing happened. At International Confederation meetings, they sat there like ghosts, never offering opinions. While Babajide ran around begging for support against Grindelwald, the Italian Ministry barely twitched.
Only after Grindelwald won and forced Dumbledore into that blood pact did Italy finally poke its head back out and try contacting the Acolytes to rekindle old alliances.
And the answer was… no thanks.
Grindelwald never wanted to deal with Italian wizards again for the rest of his life.
His review of Italy's magical community went something like:
"They look like reliable allies, but in truth they're more dangerous and exhausting than enemies."
"To protect those idiots and keep opportunists from losing faith, do you know how many loyal followers of mine got arrested because of them?"
"If I could do it over, I'd force them into Dumbledore's camp instead."
To get Grindelwald this angry, you can imagine how hopelessly abstract Italian wizard politics must be.
To be fair, though, Italians had great artistic taste. Their robes and magical household items were far more elegant than the British ones. The food was better, too.
Tom slipped fully into vacation mode, but Penelope clearly didn't. Even abroad she kept worrying about Elaina Workshop.
One morning Tom woke up to the sound of her arguing with Cassandra about sales numbers for some new product line.
But Tom didn't interfere. This was how Penelope found purpose. Forcing her to slack off like him would make her miserable.
While she was out checking the accounts at a local branch, Tom snuck off to watch a few runway shows. Fashion standards hadn't collapsed yet—Every model seemed beautiful, elegant, and perfectly balanced.
When it was over, Tom bought a pile of clothes and magazines for Astoria.
The little witch loved fashion magazines and analyzing new designs. And at this rate, she'd probably grow up to be a little tailor.
---
The following week, Tom and Fleur spent their break on the beaches of Barcelona. The best beaches in Europe, endless bikinis, and Tom finally had an excuse to use that enchanted pair of "Nicolas glasses."
While Tom was enjoying himself, Voldemort was dragging Bellatrix through a frantic escape.
...Dumbledore had arrived.
The newspaper headline showed Dumbledore smiling in front of the ruins of Gringotts, announcing that he would personally upgrade their defenses.
But Voldemort swore Dumbledore was there because of him—that damn boy must have told the old man something.
Was he trying to use this chance to finish him for good?
For someone who had twice escaped monsters on the level of dark lords, Voldemort suddenly wasn't so confident about his Horcruxes.
Tom had almost scrambled his mind last time. If Dumbledore found him again, would he end up as some brainless ghost?
Immortality would become a joke. An eternal suffering.
"I'll be back!" Voldy spat, forcing Bellatrix's body to stare north as he swore revenge.
---
"I'm back!"
Tom returned from his beach outing in a great mood, walked into the private villa, and hugged Hermione, who was still doing research even on their vacation.
"Stop," Hermione blushed, then shared her good news.
"Tom, about the mastermind behind the vampires—I've narrowed it down to a few suspicious candidates…."
— — —
A few days later… Greengrass Mansion
Tom opened his mouth, and Astoria popped a grape in—skin and all. He didn't mind the seeds.
Nearby, Daphne was sampling the fruit he'd brought back from Egypt. A whole table was laid out with all kinds of exotic treats. True to form, the young lady's tastes shifted quickly; she'd take a bite or two of each before moving on. The two pandas sat behind her, watching eagerly. The moment Daphne switched to something new, they'd pounce and polish off whatever she'd left behind.
The scene was unhurried and blissfully relaxed.
If Dumbledore could see this, he'd probably weep tears of envy.
This was the retirement life he'd dreamed of—one that Tom was already enjoying a century ahead of schedule.
"..."
Lady Greengrass stood by the window, shaking her head with a soft laugh. Ever since Tom returned a few days ago, he'd completely switched into slacker mode, and both her daughters were glued to his side.
She'd planned to hire an etiquette tutor to straighten them out during the holiday. That plan had gone straight down the drain.
Ah well. If it had to be delayed, it had to be delayed. Sooner or later Tom would get busy again.
"Oh, right."
After discreetly licking Astoria's fingers and leaving the girl blushing furiously, Tom suddenly remembered he actually had something important to do.
"My teacher, Nicolas, is coming back tomorrow," he said. "I'm taking Hermione to his place for dinner."
Hermione had spent half a month digging through records and had finally turned up a few promising leads. Tom forwarded everything to Nicolas Flamel without hesitation.
In the end, none of those people turned out to be connected, but Nicolas was still impressed. His grudges with a few of them were extremely obscure; the fact that Hermione could tease out clues from such scant hints spoke volumes about her intelligence.
So when he returned from France, before Tom could even bring it up, Nicolas took the initiative and invited Tom to bring Hermione over so he could meet her in person.
Daphne and Astoria both knew Hermione had long wanted to meet Nicolas Flamel, so neither of them suggested tagging along.
---
The next day, Tom went to the Granger house to pick her up.
He ended up waiting over an hour before the young witch finally dawdled out of her bedroom.
"You never put this much effort in when you go out with me," Tom said, sounding more than a little sour.
By third year, Hermione had started to grow into her looks. Tom found it both nice and slightly regrettable. She was in that in-between stage—no longer a little kid, not quite a young woman.
Hermione laughed at Tom's reaction. "When we go out to play, it's just for fun. Why would I dress up so formally? Today I'm meeting Nicolas Flamel. How could that be the same?"
Tom snorted, grabbed her hand, and took a single step. In the blink of an eye, they arrived at the estate in Dorset.
...
At that moment, Nicolas and Perenelle were enjoying tea in the tea room. The sudden appearance of the two of them startled the couple so badly that Nicolas nearly dropped his teacup.
Hermione looked like she was about to cry. Who does things like this?
This was her first visit. She hadn't even walked in through the front door—she'd Apparated straight into their faces.
"Couldn't you at least give some warning?" Nicolas snapped. "Trying to give me a heart attack so you can inherit my wealth?"
Tom shrugged. "How was I supposed to know you were in the tea room? I was just planning to grab something to eat first."
There was no arguing with Tom's shamelessness. Seeing Hermione still looking shaken and unfocused, Nicolas softened his tone.
"Don't be afraid, child. This is my home, and it's basically this brat's home too. There's no need for all that stiff formality here."
Perenelle smiled and nodded in agreement.
After all, the old couple was well practiced at playing the role of Tom's guardians. If Hogwarts ever held parent–teacher meetings, they'd probably attend without missing a beat.
Before long, Hermione's nerves settled, though she still seemed a little reserved.
Usually, when Tom brought Astoria, Daphne, or Fleur over, Madame Perenelle handled the hosting. This time, knowing Hermione's personality, it was Nicolas instead.
These two barely exchanged any small talk. After just a few sentences, the conversation naturally drifted into academic territory. Tom, meanwhile, was rummaging around the room in search of snacks, until Perenelle couldn't stand it anymore and simply had the house-elves serve dinner.
Normally, living this close, they would have invited Newt over. Unfortunately, Newt and Tina had left for the United States with their grandson Rolf a couple of days ago and wouldn't be back until the Quidditch World Cup.
"You should stay the night," Nicolas said over dinner. "It's not like we don't have the space."
Tom glanced at Hermione. Seeing no objection, he nodded casually.
Nicolas found Hermione's breadth of knowledge and sharp insight deeply impressive. For a student to have such a solid foundation was rare, excluding freaks like Tom who simply defied comparison.
What truly won him over, though, was that Hermione was always thinking. Everything she learned was actively processed and ready to be used. She was excellent material for studying alchemy.
After all, in alchemy, raw magical talent mattered less than a vast knowledge base, strong comprehension, and meticulous execution. With those, one could become an outstanding alchemist.
But to become a true master required creativity, something that applied to almost every field. To rise above others, you needed a unique style and skills no one else could replicate.
Hermione's performance made Nicolas seriously consider taking her on.
Training a student like Tom had brought him pride and satisfaction, but when a student was too brilliant, it also robbed a teacher of any sense of achievement.
Hermione was just right. Smart enough, but not monstrously so. Diligent and eager to learn, without the risk of becoming arrogant after a little success.
When Nicolas expressed his interest, Hermione accepted in a fluster of disbelief and gratitude. They agreed that she would come to the estate for lessons every afternoon from two to five.
"Tomorrow I'll go to the Ministry and connect your fireplace to the Floo Network," Tom said.
Hermione hesitated. "But I'm not of age yet, and my parents are Muggles. That's illegal, isn't it?"
Tom waved it off. "I can bend the rules. Don't worry about that stuff. Just focus on learning from your teacher."
Nicolas nodded in agreement and said earnestly, "Child, I know you're a good kid. But you need to understand that privilege exists in both the Muggle world and the wizarding world."
"You have to learn when it's appropriate to bend the rules to make things easier for yourself. As long as you're not harming anyone, you don't need to feel guilty about it."
Hermione nodded awkwardly, still unsure of herself, but agreed.
After dinner, Hermione followed a house-elf to familiarize herself with the estate, while Tom and Nicolas headed to the small world where the golden apple tree was planted.
The tree had grown from a tiny sapling into a towering giant over eight meters tall. Among its lush green leaves, buds were forming, on the verge of blooming. Vitality poured from it, a sense of life surging forward in stark contrast to the gloom surrounding it.
"Flowering… then fruiting…" Tom muttered, estimating quietly. "Another year before it's mature, maybe?"
"That's not slow at all," Nicolas replied.
With his hands clasped behind his back, he walked beside Tom, gazing at the lake of Inferi water that had mostly vanished.
"One harvest isn't the issue. How many fruits will it bear each time? And what about the future? You should be thinking about these things now, Tom."
Tom let out a sigh and plopped down on a rock. "I don't want to think about it right now. There's too much going on."
"Oh right, Teacher. I'll leave this to you to study."
He pulled out the Tear of Isis and tossed it to the old man.
.
.
.