Nicolas had said the gathering would be formal—but bringing a partner along was perfectly acceptable. Still, Tom had no intention of dragging Gabrielle into it. That didn't mean he could allow Fleur to have a new gown while her sister went without.
And so, Tom the "perfect balance master" struck again: two sisters, two gowns. Easy solution. Besides, for him, it was hardly an expense worth mentioning.
In certain elite circles, repeating a gown before the same crowd was considered a grave faux pas, a silent insult both to the host and the guests. The wizarding world was no different—formal robes were effectively one-use items. That didn't mean one could skimp on fabric. On the contrary, the rarer the fabric, the more extravagant the display.
At Paris' hidden wizarding district—their version of Diagon Alley—Tom arrived at the most exclusive tailoring house, speaking Nicolas' reservation aloud. At once, attendants ushered them into separate fitting rooms for measurements.
Wizarding couture was efficient: once the measurements and fabrics were decided, the robes could be completed within days. In the Muggle world, haute couture could take six months or more.
"What color do you think is best?" Fleur asked after her measurements, holding up swatches.
She had already fallen in love with a rare fabric spun by frost-dwelling pixies. It shimmered like liquid silver under light, cool and smooth to the touch.
Tom studied her hair, a cascade of moonlight down her shoulders. "Blue—or green. Both would match you well."
"And me?" Gabrielle had bounded over.
Amused, Tom ruffled her silvery head. "You've the same silver hair as your sister. Blue or green suits you too. But… purple wouldn't be bad either. Do you like purple, Gabrielle?"
The little one tilted her head, then suddenly chose emerald green. Fleur, meanwhile, settled on a soft water-blue.
With their selections done and a pickup date set for three days later, Tom led the sisters to the Champs-Élysées.
It was Boxing Day. The entire city seemed to be out shopping, and the streets pulsed with the festive crush. Fleur and Gabrielle thrived in the energy—women always did. Crowds meant curiosity, and queues meant must see.
Tom? He quietly muttered Confundus Charms at waiting lines, cutting their time short without anyone noticing. In every store, he gave Fleur a dutiful circle, then promptly parked himself in a lounge chair with Gabrielle, the two of them content to "fish" while Fleur happily browsed.
Their combined beauty drew eyes wherever they went. Passersby whispered about "other people's daughters"—so adorable, so dazzling, so utterly unfair.
By afternoon, their arms were full of bags.
The next few days, Tom mostly remained in the alchemy lab, tinkering with the latest iteration of WhatsApp. But Fleur had taken Perenelle's words to heart. Like clockwork, every day she pulled Tom out of the lab, dragging him into daylight.
He also checked daily on his Whomping Willows. Hogwarts' specimen required five or six students to encircle its trunk, but Nicolas' batch were scrawny things—two people could have hugged one easily.
Fortunately, Newt had already brewed a nutrient solution tailored to their strange physiology. Though a master of beasts, he was nearly Sprout's equal with plants. Within days, the willows' leaves gleamed richer, greener.
In the Muggle world, willows only budded in spring. But in the wizarding world, rules bent freely.
Tom even snapped a few strong willow branches and crafted a swing for Gabrielle. She turned it into a carnival ride, spinning in mad 360-degree circles until she was dizzy with glee.
And so the days passed.
A new year dawned. On the evening of January 3rd, the great gathering began.
Few knew Nicolas still lived. Fewer still were invited to his table. And this night would not be at his manor, but at another estate he kept for entertaining.
Tom adjusted the collar of his new robes, taking Fleur's hand. At the hearth, Gabrielle pouted in her princess gown.
"Stay home and be good, all right?" Tom said gently.
"Gabrielle knows!" the little one chirped, mollified only because she too had new clothes to wear.
Perenelle chuckled. "Go on, both of you. I'll see to Gabrielle."
Tom nodded and stepped into the Floo with Fleur. Green fire flared—and in the next blink, they stood in another grand estate, smaller than Nicolas' manor but luxurious enough for hosting kings.
As host's disciple, Tom stood beside Nicolas at the gates to receive guests.
At six o'clock sharp, the first arrival descended from the sky: a handsome middle-aged wizard. His eyes lit when he saw Nicolas.
"Monsieur Flamel! To see you unchanged, as vigorous as ever, puts me at ease."
"You should have come to my funeral last time, Dickett," Nicolas teased, and the man flushed, caught out.
He turned to Tom. "This is Dickett Worthington, current head of the French Alchemy Commission. His family has a long history in the art—I even mentored one of his ancestors."
"And this is Tom Riddle, my student."
Dickett bowed his head and offered his hand. "Mr. Riddle, an honor."
Though Tom was young, his title as Flamel's student eclipsed most credentials. A Commission Director showing respect was only natural.
Tom shook politely, traded a few pleasantries, and watched an elf guide Dickett inside.
Guests soon arrived in a steady stream. Each Nicolas introduced by name and station: wealthy suppliers of rare materials, scholars who'd toiled centuries over their research, patriarchs of pureblood dynasties. Every one was wealthy, prestigious, and—importantly—possessed some standing in scholarship or alchemy.
This was not just a dinner. This was a conclave of the wizarding elite.