Inside the learning space, silence fell after Grindelwald's confession.
Tom and Andros exchanged a glance—and to their mutual surprise, both saw the same thing flickering in the other's eyes.
Pity.
A Dark Lord, a so-called King of the Century, and yet how many times had he been humiliated by Newt Scamander of all people? Weren't his great battles supposed to be with Dumbledore? Instead, it seemed Grindelwald had spent half his life getting tripped up by a magizoologist with a suitcase full of beasts.
For the first time, Tom understood why those Saints had once ambushed Newt. Scamander really had a way of ruining other people's plans.
"It's all in the past, old man," Tom said at last, trying to soothe the tension. "Decades ago. Why keep fuming about it now? You're Grindelwald, after all—a Dark Lord. Surely your perspective should be larger than this?"
Grindelwald let out a cold laugh. "Perspective? Don't lecture me about perspective, boy. Of course I have it. Do you think I'm some petty island peasant like Voldemort? But when it comes to Scamander, I want nothing more than to tear him apart with my bare hands."
He leaned forward, his eyes burning. "Tom, if you help me thrash Scamander—just once—I swear this anger of mine will vanish."
Tom recoiled, shaking his head so quickly his hair swayed. "Out of the question. Newt's helped me too much. Without him, I wouldn't even have my Thunderbird affinity."
He smirked, half-joking but serious underneath. "Besides, do you know what it means to be Scamander-certified? With Newt's endorsement, I'm practically an honorary Hufflepuff. Every badger I meet treats me like a long-lost cousin."
Grindelwald's face darkened. Steam practically poured from his ears.
Of all the insults in the world, praising Scamander in front of him was the cruellest. Yet he couldn't deny the truth of Tom's words.
Wasn't it Scamander's favor that had smoothed the way for Nicolas Flamel to take an immediate liking to Tom? Not because he'd come on Dumbledore's recommendation, but because Tom had spent half a month under Newt's wing first.
Wasn't it Scamander's reputation that had made Aberforth, so stubborn with others, agree at once to fetch rare rune snakes for Tom? It wasn't Tom's handsome face that had done it—it was Scamander's unspoken backing.
Grindelwald clenched his jaw. In comparison, his own Saints had done nothing useful for Tom at all.
Have I really been outshone by a man who plays with Nifflers and bowtruckles?
For the first time, Grindelwald felt the hollow despair of losing relevance. Once, he had shaken the wizarding world. Now, trapped in this tower, even his influence within Tom's small circle couldn't compete with Newt's.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he should leave Nurmengard—escape the tower and re-enter the world. But the thought withered as soon as it came.
His true body was frail and broken after fifty years of imprisonment. What could he possibly achieve outside? Here, in the learning space, he was whole again. Out there, he was nothing more than a shadow of himself.
"Old man, what's running through your head?" Tom finally asked, curious at Grindelwald's long silence. Don't tell me this Dark Lord is brooding himself into depression.
Grindelwald shook it off, his composure snapping back into place. "I was merely wondering why you suddenly asked about basilisks. Don't tell me you plan to raise one yourself?"
Tom snorted. "Hardly. The thing's more trouble than it's worth."
Grindelwald chuckled, eyes glinting. "One basilisk is trouble. But a dozen? An army? Numbers make power. If my basilisk legion had been born… the war's end might have been very different."
"Then you must have had a way to look them in the eye without dying." Tom leaned forward eagerly. "Otherwise, how could you possibly control them?"
Grindelwald's lips curled into a wry smile. "Of course. A spell of my own design. Simplicity itself—just a charm that blurs the perception of another being, creating a blind spot in its vision."
He demonstrated. And sure enough, Tom mastered it in a single try. A neat little trick—subtle, effective, and infinitely useful.
But Tom didn't stop there. He immediately began sketching magical runes, converting the charm into a physical enchantment. Before long, he had the outline of a device—an amulet or visor—that could distort a basilisk's deadly gaze.
—
The next morning, Filch was already at the site where Mrs. Norris and Penelope Clearwater had been attacked. He was furiously scrubbing at the crimson letters on the wall with every detergent, solvent, and scourging potion he could find. But no matter how hard he worked, the words refused to fade.
Tom arrived carrying a sack, and paused at the sight. He flicked his wand lazily, tapping the wall twice.
At once, the blood-red graffiti dissolved into nothing. Only problem was, that patch of wall now looked unnaturally clean compared to the rest of the corridor.
"Thank you, Riddle." Filch's tone was uncharacteristically polite, though his eyes kept darting toward the bag in Tom's hand.
Tom hefted it once but didn't open it. "Don't bother staring. It's just mandrakes. I'm delivering them to Professor Snape."
"Oh—oh, well then, off you go." Filch forced a smile and shuffled aside.
In Snape's office, Tom laid the mandrakes on the desk but lingered, watching as the professor sliced and extracted their components.
Despite Snape's habitual scorn, the revival potion they were preparing was no beginner's brew. It wasn't taught at Hogwarts. It was advanced content—postgraduate level material, as it were.
Tom quietly memorized every step, adding to his growing arsenal of techniques.
Snape, catching his eye, narrowed his own. "Riddle, you've grown complacent. It's been far too long since you produced a new paper. No fresh insights? No work worth publishing?"
Tom chewed a bite of sandwich Astoria had packed for him and mumbled around it, "Oh, I've written one. Already gave it to Professor McGonagall. She's reviewing it for publication in Transfiguration Today."
Snape froze mid-motion. His quill hovered in disbelief.
When Tom elaborated on his Imagination Draught—a potion designed specifically to aid transfiguration training—Snape's expression twisted from confusion to disgust.
"Pointless," he sneered. "Wasting your talent on trinkets for mediocrities. What good is a brew that makes fools slightly less foolish? The future of the wizarding world rests in the hands of people like you, like me. Dumbledore. The Dark Lord. Not the sheep we shepherd."
He looked down at Tom with cold contempt.
From McGonagall's perspective, Tom's potion was groundbreaking, perhaps even worthy of honors. But in Snape's eyes, it was beneath notice. To him, only weapons and power mattered—not tools to help others climb.