The next morning, Tom soared through the skies toward France. At his side, Rayquaza twirled and rolled joyfully, her serpentine body cutting through the clouds with ridiculous speed. She always darted ahead, then looped back as if teasing him, brimming with energy she couldn't possibly spend.
He had chosen flight instead of Apparition precisely for her sake—so the little one could stretch her wings, so to speak. But one moment of inattention, and they overshot their mark. By the time Tom realized, they were flying over Berlin. Muttering, he tugged her back around, losing hours before they finally descended upon Nicolas Flamel's sprawling estate.
The first to greet him wasn't Nicolas or Perenelle, but Newt Scamander, standing rather awkwardly at the entrance.
"Grandpa Newt," Tom greeted warmly, grinning. "You really owe me a thank-you this time. If I hadn't stirred up all that trouble, Grandma Tina would never have let you leave America so easily."
Newt actually smiled. "First time I've heard someone justify causing chaos so righteously. If Tina hadn't explained, I'd never have believed your article could cause such a storm."
When Newt was among friends, his famed shyness melted away, replaced by a gentle, calming presence. Tom found it strangely comfortable.
Of course, no sooner had they started talking than Tom flicked open his study-space, and Grindelwald immediately began ranting in flawless German.
"I could have managed it myself," Tom shrugged, ignoring the grumbling voice. He walked alongside Newt down the mirrored corridors, sunlight streaming in fractured beams. Then he leaned in, dropping his voice.
"You really didn't bring your suitcase?"
"Because if you didn't… then it's me protecting you, not the other way around."
Newt ducked his head, looking guilty. "Only brought a few small creatures. Enough to manage if something happens."
"How'd you slip past the French Ministry's inspections?" Tom asked, suspicious.
"They haven't changed their procedures in decades. I just had an owl deliver the case straight here to Nicolas. No risk at all."
"Tch. I'd bet good money there are Aurors tailing you the second you set foot outside."
"No bet needed," Newt said blandly. "They were already following."
By the time their banter ended, they had entered a lounge. Nicolas Flamel sat in a rocking chair before a massive screen, watching a film.
Tom flopped onto a seat beside him like he belonged there. He glanced at the title.
Bram Stoker's Dracula.
"A Muggle vampire story? Don't you find that a little… contradictory?"
Nicolas shook his head. "There's fiction in it, yes. But there are truths woven in too. Before the Ottomans overran Constantinople, the Church, desperate for greater power, deliberately transformed certain priests into vampires—to enhance their magical strength.
"Of course, the Ottoman wizards were stronger. Most of those vampires were destroyed. But a few survived. One of their descendants is the writer of this film."
Tom blinked, then laughed under his breath. That was the benefit of talking to relics like Nicolas—you never knew what insane fragment of forgotten history you'd stumble into.
Christian zealots turned into vampires by the Church itself? Truly, human hypocrisy knew no bounds.
He didn't argue. Instead, he sat through the entire movie with the old man. Only when the credits rolled did the lights rise and Nicolas adjusted his chair upright, his frail frame somehow emanating authority.
"After Christmas," Nicolas said casually, "old friends will be gathering here. A three-day symposium. Perfect opportunity to spread your WhatsApp project."
"You found Whomping Willows?" Tom asked immediately.
"Ten saplings. They're in the garden now. Not as fine as Hogwarts' tree, but workable."
"Small problem. I'll cultivate them back to standard soon enough." Tom waved it off.
"And you? Any progress?" Nicolas probed.
Tom shared his latest updates. The basic version of WhatsApp, without runic serpents or willows, had been cut down to fifty-five Galleons apiece. Affordable enough to reach the mass market. One month's wages for a wizard—for instant communication? Irresistible.
As soon as adoption spread, others would be forced to join. Social gravity was inevitable. Owls were charming, but in a world where everyone else was chatting in real time? You'd be left behind.
Nicolas's eyes gleamed, his ancient mind parsing every word. Basic version, Tom had said. Which implied there was an advanced one. He didn't press. He'd find out soon enough.
Newt, however, perked up at the mention of runic serpents. He leaned forward, eager. "How did you solve their breeding problem?"
Tom smirked. "I didn't. I handed it off to Snape."
The answer stunned Newt. When Tom explained that within a month Snape had concocted a working solution, even the legendary magizoologist could only mutter:
"…A true… aphrodisiac master."
"Speaking of which, teacher," Tom said sheepishly, rubbing his palms together. "Mind if I bring a couple of… friends here sometime?"
The old alchemist instantly caught on, grinning wickedly. "This is your home as much as mine. And Perenelle has long wanted to meet your little girlfriends."
Then he leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows like a mischievous boy. "But a word of advice—half-Veela is still only half. If you want to know what a true Veela feels like…" He chuckled darkly. "I won't tell you. Experience it yourself."
Tom groaned, exasperated.
Newt turned scarlet, eyes fixed anywhere but them.
Because really—what was he supposed to do? How does a centenarian react when a six-hundred-year-old codger and a twelve-year-old boy are swapping tips about Veela women?