— — — — — —
Thanks to that newspaper photo, Tom had suddenly become the talk of the French wizarding world. Plenty of people recognized him the moment he appeared in public.
Most in the market were content to watch curiously from a distance, but a few enthusiastic types came right up to him.
France had a much stronger alchemy culture than most countries—at Beauxbatons, students could take alchemy as an elective starting in their third year, and anyone who achieved something noteworthy earned genuine respect.
One blond wizard came running up, newspaper in hand, looking like he'd just met a celebrity. "Mr Riddle? You're Tom Riddle from the paper, right?"
Tom gave him a small nod. "I am. Can I help you with something?"
Even though the man wasn't carrying a wand, Tom didn't lower his guard.
The blond wizard pointed excitedly to a picture of an elderly man in the paper. "Mister Bussweel—he's one of my absolute favorite scholars! The automatic cauldron stirrer he invented is a lifesaver."
Tom followed his finger and glanced at the picture, then nodded again. "So? If you're looking for an autograph, sorry—Mister Bussweel isn't here, and he's gone back to Austria."
"No, no, nothing like that." The blond man waved his hands quickly, a little embarrassed. "I just wanted to know—what exactly are all these brilliant alchemists and scholars working on together?"
"Sorry," Tom said politely with a small smile. "I can't share any details. But once we succeed, you'll know soon enough."
The blond man looked a little disappointed, but he'd clearly prepared himself for that answer. He sighed and left.
More people came over after that. One even asked Tom for an autograph.
That one was a half-blood wizard who didn't care about alchemy at all—he was just a huge fan of Tom's essays on pure-blood history. He kept asking when the next volume of The History of Wizarding World would be released. Only after Tom gave him a definite date did he finally leave satisfied.
After Tom was done talking to fans, Fleur teased, "Not bad—you've been a celebrity for just a few days, and you're already getting autograph requests."
Tom let out a regretful sigh. "Shame it wasn't from a gorgeous girl. Could've gotten myself a lover out of it."
"As if!" Fleur's delicate brows shot up, but with one hand holding Gabrielle's and the other holding an ice cream, she couldn't swat him even if she wanted to.
"If I don't dream big, how am I supposed to 'connect' with my fans later?"
He teased her with a grin, but then gently brushed back a stray lock of her hair, glancing casually toward a few corners of the street.
Yeah. Someone was tailing them. And he was certain they weren't Ministry Aurors.
These guys didn't move like trained Aurors at all. Their stalking technique was so sloppy it was insulting.
Tom's expression stayed calm, but his mind was already calculating the best time to strike.
A few moments later, he made up his mind.
"Come on. Let's go try that cake we ordered."
At the bakery, the staff immediately recognized them and smiled warmly as they showed them to their seats. Before long, the cake they had reserved was brought out.
One cake cost fifty Galleons—about a month's wages for most wizards—so anyone ordering it was clearly either wealthy or influential.
Tom took a bite and nodded in approval. The flavor was excellent. The cream was even richer and smoother than ordinary cream. Gabrielle loved it so much that her mouth was completely rimmed with it, yet she kept eating happily. Tom had to juggle eating his own slice while wiping her mouth clean.
"Feels like we've been out for ages," Tom said halfway through the cake. "Why don't we visit your parents today?"
Fleur froze, then lowered her head, looking a little guilty.
Since Christmas, she and Gabrielle had been living at Nicolas Flamel's manor—and had been home only to sleep. She didn't sit with her parents for a long time.
"You're right," she said after a moment. "Let's go after this."
When the cake was gone, Tom bought out the bakery's entire stock of cream to take with them, then stopped by the shop next door to pick up a few new robes. By the time they finished shopping, it was already dinnertime, and they finally headed to the Delacour home.
Sending both of his precious daughters home at once nearly brought tears to Monsieur Delacour's eyes. Tom, of course, took the chance to leave Fleur and Gabrielle with their family for two full days.
By claiming he still had lessons with Nicolas, Tom politely excused himself after dinner and left the house.
...
By now, the streets were dark, the lamplight dim.
The later it got, the fewer pedestrians there were—until finally, there was no one at all.
With a faint crack of Apparition, six black-robed wizards appeared, three in front and three behind, blocking Tom's path.
"Riddle. You're coming with us."
"That accent," Tom said calmly. "You're not locals."
The man who had spoken kept his voice hoarse, but the accent was unmistakable—not a native English speaker, and definitely not French either.
"Doesn't matter who we are. We're just poor souls doing a job for pay."
But as he spoke, unease suddenly welled up in his chest.
It wasn't intuition. It was the boy's unnerving calmness—like he had expected this ambush all along.
"Go with you?" Tom nodded slightly. "Sure. But first, why don't you come visit a place with me?"
"Attack!" the leader barked.
But Tom moved first.
Before their spells even left their wands, Tom's body exploded—shattering into a storm of strange, black, thread-like wisps.
A monstrous roar split the night as a violent wind howled down the street.
Tom never saw the point of trading words before a fight. Once he had them, he could make these would-be kidnappers tell him their entire family tree if he wanted.
The black-robed wizards froze in shock at the sight.
"W-What the hell is that?!"
"He is the devil."
"Cast your shield! Protego!"
"Protego!" x5
"AAAHH!"
The tide of darkness surged forward like a tsunami.
Their spells hit the strange black mass but did absolutely nothing. Each drifting shred of darkness hit like a curse—sharp as blades, fast as arrows.
Their shields were hammered over and over in a matter of seconds. The instant the last one shattered, the storm of blackness tore through fragile flesh.
In just a few seconds, it was like each man had been put through a thousand cuts. Their screams split the night. A sudden gale howled through the street, sweeping all six of them into a single bloody heap.
When the storm faded, the six lay writhing and groaning on the ground. Their once-neat black robes were in tatters, shredded like wet paper.
Blood seeped from hundreds of tiny wounds, pooling on the cobblestones and soaking the splintered remains of their wands.
The black haze slowly re-formed, condensing back into Tom's body. His expression was unreadable as he looked down at them from above.
"Turns out catching ants alive is way harder than it sounds. Aizen had a point — stepping on ants without squashing them is really a hard task."
"...."
"D-D-Devil! He's a real devil!"
"You're not human—you're a monster!"
Terror filled their eyes. Whatever fight they'd had left was gone.
Tom didn't bother answering. Their ignorance of an Obscurus alone was enough to tell him these weren't the heirs of any major family.
With a casual wave of his hand, the ground split open with a deafening crack. Stone fragments lifted into the air and formed a stone coffin, sealing all six men inside.
Then he stepped forward and vanished from the residential street.
...
Deep in a forest on the outskirts of the city, Tom pulled out his Codex and sent a message.
Within minutes, Vinda Rosier and Vogel arrived, bowing respectfully. "Master Riddle."
Tom snapped his fingers. The stone coffin cracked apart, spilling the unconscious mercenaries onto the ground. They had already lost so much blood that they were barely alive.
"These six attacked me earlier," Tom said evenly. "They look like hired hands. Find out who paid them, where they took the job, and why they were sent."
That's what underlings were for, after all—handling messy, time-consuming problems like this.
Vinda's expression darkened.
And Vogel's face twisted with barely contained fury as he glared at the bloodied heap on the ground.
"Rest assured, Master Riddle," Vinda said coldly. "We'll get to the bottom of this. Everyone involved will pay the price."
"…" Tom raised a hand lightly. "Don't be hasty. Be elegant."
Both of them blinked in surprise. The boy who had been attacked was calmer than either of them—there wasn't even a trace of anger on his face.
"Killing them won't solve anything," Tom said quietly. "Death's too easy. Our goal is to make them regret ever stepping into this world—no, to make them understand just how wrong they were. So don't just grab someone and kill them, understand?"
Vinda and Vogel stiffened at the weight of his words, then nodded quickly.
Vogel forced a smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Master Riddle, I have to apologize. I was too hasty. I should have understood your… deeper meaning."
"Killing doesn't solve the problem. Pain does. That's a profound way to put it, sir."
Vinda gave Vogel a sidelong look. Since when did this thick-headed brute get so philosophical?
"All right, back to business." Tom waved off the praise, looking faintly embarrassed at Vogel's earnest flattery.
"How's the meteorite collection coming along?"
Vinda picked up the report. "We've collected about three tons so far. A few smaller shipments haven't arrived yet, but they're on the way."
"Three tons? That'll last me a while."
"Then I'll have it delivered to—" Vinda hesitated. She knew Tom was currently staying at Nicolas Flamel's manor.
If Nicolas discovered Tom was dealing with the Acolytes, the old man might drop dead on the spot.
"I'll pick it up myself," Tom said. "At your family's estate."
It was a little improper to have Tom personally collect the shipment, but it really was the simplest—and safest—solution. Vinda nodded reluctantly.
...
Once Tom left, Vinda and Vogel dropped their respectful smiles, their faces going cold as they looked down at the unconscious men.
Vinda in particular was furious. She had just finished reporting to Tom about how stable her foothold in France had become—and then he got attacked in Paris?
Whoever was behind this, whatever the reason, this was a slap to her face.
Paris belonged to Vinda now. No one got to run wild here—except Riddle and Grindelwald.
"What's the plan?" Vogel asked. He wasn't a local, so unless he was sent back to Berlin to gather reinforcements, all he could do was follow her lead.
"Track down every last one of them," Vinda said icily. "Tom was right. These are probably just paid thugs—most likely a job taken through the black market. There are only a handful of groups that handle work like this."
Paris's black market was like Knockturn Alley in London—full of shady wizards and grey-market deals.
"I'll help with the interrogation," Vogel said grimly.
"No." Vinda shook her head slowly. "You're too brash. Those sewer rats have noses like bloodhounds. If you spook them, even one of them slipping away would be unacceptable. How would I face Master Riddle then?"
"Then what do you plan to do?" Vogel asked.
Vinda drew a long breath, her voice low and dangerous. "We go to Norway. Bring Grimmson out of retirement."
.
.
.