The only traitor had been exposed, and the magical fire-shield was no longer of any use.
"Finite Incantatem!"
Tom drove his wand into the ground, tip downward. Golden light began to ripple outward, pushing back the raging blue Fiendfyre. When the golden glow completely covered the battlefield, the cursed flames finally died away.
"As expected of the Dark Lord's student—you can cast Finite Incantatem alone? Such staggering magical power…" Vogel flattered, earning murmurs of agreement from the others.
Finite Incantatem was, in truth, nothing more than a basic counter-spell.
But when performed by several powerful wizards in unison, its effect could be transformed—strong enough to suppress even black magic like Fiendfyre or the Killing Curse.
To cast it alone? That was yet another testament to Tom's overwhelming magical strength.
"Enough small talk." Tom waved a hand dismissively. "Tell me about your current situation. Are you all that's left of the Saints?"
"Though we're far from the glory of the hundred-thousand Saints in our heyday, it hasn't come to quite such ruin as this…" Vogel sighed, then began explaining the Saints' present state.
Witnessing Etienne's betrayal had shifted Vogel's perspective.
It turned out not everyone shared his unwavering loyalty to Grindelwald. Whether for family, descendants, or self-preservation—a betrayal was still a betrayal.
After their defeat, the most stubborn Saints were almost all imprisoned by the various Ministries of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards. Those who escaped were scattered, placed under strict surveillance, their contact with one another severed entirely.
It wasn't until the 1990s that the situation began to improve—by then, most of the original generation had withdrawn from politics.
But decades had passed. Many of the old guard had died. The new generation inherited the old ideology in part, but they revered only Grindelwald himself—no one else could command their respect.
And so, the Saints had become little more than scattered sand, each faction working alone.
Vogel's group was made up of roughly ten families, mainly pure-bloods from Germany, France, and Poland.
So when Tom asked his question, Vogel could only give a vague answer: many still lived, but lived in suffocating obscurity.
"Mr. Riddle…" Vogel said cautiously, "you mentioned before that you could reach Lord Grindelwald…"
"I possess a certain gift that allows me to communicate with Grindelwald's prophetic visions," Tom replied casually, improvising the excuse. "When MacDuff ambushed Newt Scamander, he saw me—and asked for my help. So even if Newt refuses to forgive them, I would have found a way to let him go."
MacDuff and the other ambushers present immediately looked moved.
"Then… is the Dark Lord preparing to return?" Vogel's voice shook with excitement. "We could go to Nurmengard now—"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Tom snapped. "With your lot? The old, the weak—and you think you can storm Nurmengard to break him out? Do you take Dumbledore for a shop window mannequin?"
A bucket of cold water dumped over their heads. Vogel and the other Saints sobered instantly, fear creeping across their faces.
Truth be told, Dumbledore's reputation among the Saints was no different than Voldemort's in Britain—his very name inspired dread.
Tom gave a derisive snort.
"You're nothing but a scattered mess, yet you're dreaming of rescues?"
"What you need to do now is gather every scrap of power you have, rebuild your strength—stop thinking about nonsense."
Even those ancient Saints—whose combined ages easily neared five centuries—stood quietly under his scolding. The younger heirs didn't even dare to twitch.
Especially when they realized Tom's way of speaking about Grindelwald—still respectful, but not overly so—suggested a certain… equality between them.
When they had all fallen silent, Tom continued, "Where's Vinda Rosier? I need the imitation wand she has."
Vogel's expression grew solemn; this seemed to finally convince him of Tom's connection to Grindelwald.
Back in the Saints' golden age, Grindelwald had only set the grand direction and kept Dumbledore occupied. The logistics of managing so many were handled by Vinda Rosier—the Black Rose of France.
To make her authority absolute, and to ensure others obeyed, Grindelwald had crafted for her an imitation Elder Wand using the genuine one as a model. He'd even taught her a special method to inscribe the Deathly Hallows symbol infused with his unique magical signature.
In essence, it was a seal of office—proof that she spoke in Grindelwald's name.
Many of the core Saints knew of this relic. For Tom, it would be the final, undeniable proof of his authority.
"Mr. Riddle," Vogel said respectfully, "Madam Rosier is currently imprisoned in the deepest part of the Bastille. But given the Rosier family's vast influence in France, her conditions are rather good—it's called imprisonment, but in truth it's more like house arrest."
"Well, would you look at that—you're prison buddies with your father," Tom remarked to MacDuff with a sly grin.
The dark joke left MacDuff unsure how to respond; the others wore similarly strained expressions, torn between wanting to laugh and fearing to do so.
Britain had Azkaban. France had the Bastille.
The Muggle Bastille had been demolished in 1791, but deep beneath its ruins, the magical Bastille still operated.
Its guards were a terrifying host of creatures—Jarveys, Fire Dragons, and even Five-Legged Man-Eaters—its danger rivaling that of Azkaban's Dementors. French wizards spoke of it with dread.
"If Madam Rosier is still confined, then it's not convenient for me to see her."
Tom thought for a moment, then said, "Handle it yourselves—whether you get her out, or just get her to hand me the wand. I care about the result, not the method."
"And one more thing—go back and vet your people carefully. Don't bring spies anywhere near me. Understand?"