Five minutes later, the old man gave a small nod, clearly pleased with Tom's recent progress.
"Compared to a few days ago, the difference is like heaven and earth. You could already be called an alchemy master."
Tom rubbed his forehead in exasperation.
"Oh, come on. Alchemy master? That's… a title even a dog wouldn't want."
Nicolas Flamel wasn't mocking him—he meant it. In the outside world, Tom's current level really would place him among the elite, standing at the very tip of the pyramid.
But just how far was the tip of the pyramid from the sky?
In alchemy… Nicolas was the sky.
"Don't always compare yourself to me," Flamel said casually. "When I was twelve, I was worse than useless compared to you. And how long have you even been studying? Reaching my level is only a matter of time—and of how much effort you're willing to invest."
Tom was a true polymath, and the curse of a polymath was figuring out how to divide one's talents.
Dumbledore had faced the same problem in his youth, eventually pouring most of his gifts into traditional magic rather than potions or alchemy—something Nicolas still regretted to this day.
Tom's potential was even more outrageous than Dumbledore's back then. He didn't even have to specialize fully to have a real shot at catching up to Nicolas in alchemy.
As for surpassing him?
To be honest, even Nicolas himself couldn't see what lay beyond his current mastery… so he couldn't imagine how Tom might exceed it.
"You can put the bracelet research aside," Nicolas advised. "Digging deeper will only reveal it to be an ordinary object. Try broadening your horizons. If you need materials we don't have here, tell Parker—he'll get them for you."
"Actually, I already have something in mind," Tom said with a smile. "I came today to borrow something—the magical address book."
"Hmm… let me think."
It took Nicolas a moment to recall what Tom meant. When it finally clicked, he sighed.
"Oh, that thing… I haven't used it in ages. More and more old friends have vanished from its pages. Now it only connects to Hicks and Albus."
Hicks was the former Ilvermorny Charms professor who had once fought Grindelwald, and had even served a term as the school's headmaster.
Nicolas told Tom where the address book was kept. Not wishing to disturb the old man's rest, Tom turned and left the sunroom.
Back in his bedroom, he swapped his clothes for a sharp three-piece suit and added a bow tie before leaving the manor.
He wasn't dressed up for a date—he was meeting the Saints who would be arriving today.
This was August 20th, the day he'd agreed upon with MacDuff. Tom was certain that, with his fanatical devotion to Grindelwald, MacDuff wouldn't miss the meeting.
How many others would come along? That, Tom didn't know.
But the more, the better. In the wizarding world, numbers were power—and a show of numbers would prove that the Saints were still a force to be reckoned with.
On his way, Tom casually marked a few buildings with the secret symbols known only among the Saints, all while scouting for a meeting place.
He had a quicker summoning method—Grindelwald had taught him a spell called The Flowing Black Shroud, which would drape a building in a black curtain invisible to Muggles, far more conspicuous than subtle codes.
Paris was familiar with the sight—Grindelwald had used it here before.
But if Tom cast that spell now, he suspected he might draw not just the Saints… but every Auror in France—and possibly Dumbledore himself, arriving from Hogwarts at top speed.
In the end, he chose a tastefully decorated café.
He stepped inside, ordered a latte macchiato and a serving of truffle chocolates.
As he savored them, the customers slowly began to leave, one by one. Even the staff, their eyes slightly unfocused, drifted out the door.
In the end, Tom was the only one left.
And just as he drained the last sip of coffee, the café door finally creaked open again.
MacDuff stepped inside, looking wary, with several wizards following close behind—familiar faces from the day Tom and Newt had dealt with them. Even the poor fellow who'd had his arm pierced through by a cactus was there.
The moment they saw Tom, their hands went to their wands, expressions tense.
"Looks like you still remember the old code," Tom said, setting down his cup and turning slightly to smile at MacDuff and the others.
"Who are you, and why do you know this code?" MacDuff demanded, his voice edged with anger.
Many Saints could read the code—but only Grindelwald himself had the right to use it.
"Me?"
Tom straightened his bow tie.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Tom Riddle… student of Gellert Grindelwald."