"Achoo!"
Tom sneezed as he sat back, still poring over Fiendfyre's Pathbreaker. Grindelwald had already kicked him out of the study for badgering him with questions, and now his nose tickled like someone had cursed his name.
He didn't even need a Seer's Sight—Merlin's sagging stockings, it was obvious. Snape must have been spitting venom about him again.
Utterly ungrateful. Did the man have any idea how much effort Tom had spent picking that Christmas present? Two and a half bloody hours in the "romance" aisle of Flourish and Blotts, sifting through sappy paperbacks, until he found just the right one to make the dour old bat's blood pressure spike.
And yet Snape would never appreciate the artistry. Shakespeare had been the king of melodrama—Romeo and Juliet, dog-blooded to the last line, and still called a classic. So why shouldn't Tom carry on the noble tradition?
Of course… if Snape had already opened the accompanying letter, Tom suspected the man was really howling by now. That thought made him grin.
He half-expected to be greeted with a flash of green light the next time he set foot in Hogwarts. Not that it would matter—Snape couldn't do a thing to him even if he tried. Still, Tom decided he'd better toss the poor Potions Master a bone eventually, soothe his wounded pride and keep him brewing willingly.
Pocketing Dumbledore's spell notes, Tom pulled out WhatsApp.
[Tom: Did you get my gift?]
[Ginny: Received it! I'm already wearing it. Fits perfectly. I'm worried it won't fit next year.]
In Gryffindor Tower, Ginny Weasley beamed at the mirror, twirling in her brand-new school robes. Deep crimson, embroidered in fine gold thread—the stitching alone screamed custom order. This wasn't cheap. And it wasn't from Madam Malkin's, either. Only Beyond the Ordinary, the high-end tailor's shop, carried such robes.
Ginny wasn't the sort to swoon over material things, but this? A handpicked, precisely tailored gift from Tom Riddle himself—how could her heart not flutter?
[Tom: If it's too small next year, I'll just buy another. The real problem would be if you stopped growing.]
[Tom: Speaking of which—when I get back, I'll need you to handle something for me. If not..]
[Ginny: Anything you say, Tom.]
Satisfied, Tom tucked WhatsApp away and strolled into the gardens.
By the fountain, Newt Scamander was shadowboxing with surprising vigor. His cheeks were flushed, steam rising from his skin, every movement sharp and precise. When he finished, he caught Tom's eye, breath coming heavy but content.
"That potion of yours is extraordinary," Newt admitted, voice still rough with exertion. "I feel lighter—like I've gone back to seventy again. Thank you, Tom. Truly, thank you."
Tom tore a chunk from a baguette and sipped hot cocoa. "Don't mention it. I've already prepared a dose for Tina as well. Make sure she takes it. One bottle every three to five months is enough."
"I will," Newt promised with a smile.
It was no small gift. The Strengthening Draught was Tom's chosen present for Newt—perfect for a man nudging a century in age. Would it extend his lifespan? Hard to say. Andros had literally drunk himself to death, so not exactly a reliable case study. But even if it didn't, wizards lived long without illness.
Dipett, Hogwarts' former Headmaster, was over three hundred and still kicking. An exception, yes—but one that proved it could be done.
So why were there so few truly ancient wizards left in Europe? Tom smirked inwardly. Easy answer. Grindelwald had torn across the continent, Voldemort across Britain. Two Dark Lords in a row—of course the elderly population had thinned out.
Newt frowned suddenly. "This potion's too rare, Tom. I can't just take it without giving something back."
"Come off it," Tom said lightly. "I didn't charge you for tending my Whomping Willows, did I? Don't start weighing things now."
Newt's protest died in his throat. The boy's seriousness, his gratitude—it left Newt quietly moved. He said nothing more, only vowed silently that Tom's precious trees would thrive under his care.
Later that day, Tom arrived at the Delacour household.
Gabrielle was as lively as ever, bounding into his arms like a bird in flight. Fleur, however, looked tense, anxiety flickering in her eyes. Of course she was nervous—this was Nicolas Flamel they were about to meet, the greatest alchemist alive. Even half the professors at Hogwarts would quake before such an introduction.
Tom, seeing her pale cheeks, decided to help.
"AAAAAH!" Fleur shrieked as her feet left the ground.
She had no time to react—Tom had scooped her up with Gabrielle and launched them skyward, great black-and-white wings unfurling behind him.
"W-w-we're flying!?" Fleur's voice broke in panic.
Gabrielle clutched Tom like a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut. "Don't drop me, brother! I'll splat into a pancake!"
"Shh," Tom soothed, tightening his grip. "I've bound us with magic. You won't fall."
Up, over the rooftops of Paris they soared. Fleur's screams tore through the wind, piercing enough to rattle passing pigeons. Gabrielle, after the first wave of terror, opened her eyes wide, drinking in the city from this impossible angle. Her little hands pointed here and there, her awe only ruined by her pout.
"Ugh. Sister's too noisy," she huffed, covering her ears.
At last, with Fleur trembling and Gabrielle buzzing with excitement, Tom touched down gracefully at the gates of Nicolas Flamel's estate.