Newt Scamander, red-faced from Nicolas's off-color humor, all but dragged Tom out of the lounge. To escape the embarrassment, he insisted they check on the runic serpents.
After a careful inspection, he frowned slightly.
"They're livelier than before, but the conception rate still isn't great."
"I figured as much," Tom replied at once. "I'll write to Snape later—and send him his Christmas gift."
The boy smirked faintly. The so-called Strengthening Draught was the perfect bait. One dose and you felt power seeping through every bone, every nerve. Who would turn down the chance for another bottle? Not Severus Snape. The man's hunger for power ran deeper than most.
"Your professor sounds like a good man," Newt said approvingly. He raised his wand and with a few practiced flicks reshaped the serpents' habitat—small, subtle changes that Tom himself would never have thought to make. The difference was immediate. The runic serpents wriggled from their stone dens, gliding about, more animated than before.
Tom shook his head in wry resignation. Newt had given him all the guidance in detail before, down to the notes he'd shared on WhatsApp. Tom had followed every instruction faithfully. And yet—there was a gap.
Some things could be taught. But genius? That was talent. You either grasped it or you didn't. Books and lessons might carry you above the average, but they could never put you among the very best.
"You're planning to plant the Whomping Willows there?" Newt asked, nodding toward a stretch of flattened grassland by the lake.
"Why? Problem?" Tom caught the hesitation in his tone.
"I know you want to use nutrient solutions to accelerate their growth. But the best growth is always natural. Willows thrive in areas rich with magic. Your pocket-world isn't ready yet. Too few creatures. Too little magical cycle. It'd be better to plant them at Nicolas's estate."
Tom's brow furrowed. "What about your world then, Grandpa Newt?"
"That would work," Newt admitted. "But ten saplings is too many. I can manage five at most."
"Five's still good," Tom said with a grin. "Nicolas is too old to be minding dangerous trees anyway. You take five for me."
"And the rest?" Newt pressed.
"The rest I'll plant at Hogwarts."
The words made Newt go quiet. Six Whomping Willows encircling Hogwarts? That wasn't just landscaping—that was a gauntlet. Did Tom realize what sort of nightmares that could trigger in some of the students?
"You think Dumbledore will agree?" Newt asked warily.
Tom only smiled. "He'll agree."
Of course, what delighted Tom most about visiting Nicolas wasn't the company. It was the access—the endless stockpiles of alchemical materials.
Lady Greengrass needed more Guardian Pendants to keep her allies loyal. Bones needed to consolidate her image, which meant another batch. Megatron had upgrades waiting to be carved into his frame. Ten, maybe fifteen more artifacts needed forging.
Tom stepped into Nicolas's laboratory and promptly vanished into bliss. To him, it was like a mouse loose in a rice bin. Like a Niffler locked inside Gringotts. He could've lived there.
By the next morning, Nicolas was still waiting for Tom to show for breakfast—only to learn from a house-elf that the boy hadn't left the lab all night.
When Nicolas stormed in, his eyes nearly rolled into his skull. Rare metals and priceless herbs were scattered haphazardly across the tables, half-used, half-destroyed. Piles of precious residue lay like trash on the floor.
Now he understood the phrase "a wastrel spends with no heartache."
The old man swept the table clear in one furious motion and seized Tom by the arm. "Boy! You're twelve years old, and you spend your days like an ancient hermit, locked in a lab? There are beautiful girls waiting for you outside, and you can actually sit here?"
"They're not going anywhere," Tom muttered. "You just don't want me burning through your stash."
Nicolas glared. "Yes! Exactly! Centuries of collection, wasted in a single night. When I'm dead, you can have the lot of it. Do whatever you want then. Until that day—hands off!"
Most people would have been overjoyed to hear such a promise. Nicolas's hoard could transform a pauper into one of Europe's wealthiest men overnight. But Tom only made a face.
"By then I'll probably have no use for it. Decades away."
Nicolas nearly choked.
This brat's just waiting for me to kick the bucket, isn't he?!
"Fine! Next time you mouth off like that, don't expect me to make another Philosopher's Stone ever again!"
Tom's eyes lit up. "You're going to make one? Now? But the raw materials are so much more abundant than centuries ago. We could raid North America—half their ingredients come straight out of plantations. I could sweep a continent clean without anyone noticing."
Nicolas only shook his head, eyes suddenly far away. "Find me a reason to want to live again. Then we'll talk."
And that was the end of it.
After breakfast, Perenelle herself shoved Tom out of the house. Centuries of marriage had left her patient, but watching her husband vanish into his laboratory for days on end was still a sore spot. She'd be damned if the boy picked up the same habit.
Young people should play, laugh, love—live. Not waste away among fumes and formulas.
So unless Tom showed up with Fleur on his arm, she wasn't letting him back in.
Now Tom stood outside the Delacour household, scratching his head.
It was Christmas Eve. How in Merlin's name was he supposed to whisk Fleur away tonight? Her father would duel him to the death.
But… maybe sneaking off with the younger one would be easier?
As he hesitated, the door swung open—and a tiny figure barreled out into his chest.