The decree had been drafted in the morning, submitted that same afternoon, and astonishingly passed before evening. By the next day, French newspapers were hailing the Ministry's new policy as a shining example of "humanitarian concern."
How convenient.
And wouldn't you know it—nearly a hundred years old, Lady Vinda Rosier happened to fit the criteria perfectly. Thus, entirely legally, she returned to her family estate.
She didn't rush to England to meet Tom immediately. Instead, she first restored her health with potions and elixirs, quietly summoned old allies, and began gathering capital. Bit by bit, she bought out shares from the smaller investors scattered across Europe's newspapers. She didn't need absolute control—just enough to ensure her voice would never be ignored.
Germany, Austria… those were already within the Saints' sphere of influence, easy to secure. But further north, and especially across the seas? That would require less subtle methods.
Rosier sipped her coffee gracefully, then set the cup down with a soft clink.
"Vogel," she said without raising her voice, "escort those stubborn shareholders on a final journey. Make it discreet. Slow. No one must ever connect the dots."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "I suppose it's time I met young Riddle in person."
…
"Already? That fast?"
Tom had been with Grindelwald in the study-space when Rosier's message arrived. Even he was startled. Barely a week had passed.
Grindelwald chuckled at his disbelief. "Why do you think I entrusted so much to Rosier, boy? You'll learn. Her competence surpasses even Newt Scamander's."
Tom rolled his eyes. "If she's so competent, why didn't you send her to deal with Scamander in the first place?"
Grindelwald froze, smile stiffening.
That bloody Scamander again. It had never been about Rosier's skill—how many times had she cornered him, only for some bizarre creature to come charging to his rescue at the last possible moment? Victory had slipped away again and again, not because of her weakness, but because of that blasted magizoologist's absurd luck.
Of course, Grindelwald wasn't about to admit this aloud. Not when Tom would happily mock him to no end.
He settled for an irritable grunt before saying, "Tom… I'd like to speak to Rosier directly. Through you. Using your… gift."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Can't I just pass the message along?"
"Not the same," Grindelwald said firmly, shaking his head. "She needs to see for herself. To understand your position—and mine. That bond must be made undeniable. Only then will she obey without hesitation."
Tom hesitated, then finally gave a terse nod. "Two minutes. No more. You know I despise the feeling."
This wasn't like sharing knowledge or magic. This was Grindelwald borrowing his body, speaking through him. If not for the absolute necessity of solidifying Rosier's loyalty, Tom would never have agreed.
"Two minutes will be enough." Grindelwald's tone softened, almost reassuring.
…
Saturday dawned.
The Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match had every student up at an ungodly hour.
As Tom stepped out of the dormitory, Marcus Flint was already bellowing a rousing speech to the team.
"Remember, our bodies are our best weapons! Gryffindor's team is full of—er—"
He stopped short, eyes darting nervously to the cluster of unimpressed Slytherin girls glaring at him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he quickly corrected himself:
"—full of weaklings! Unlike the strong and capable ladies of Slytherin!"
Satisfied, the girls relaxed.
Wiping his forehead, Flint pressed on. "We've got the equipment advantage. The longer the game runs, the bigger our lead will grow. Malfoy! Your job is to shadow Potter relentlessly. Don't go near the Snitch until we've got at least one-hundred-fifty points on the board!"
Draco scowled but nodded stiffly. He hated admitting Potter was the better Seeker—for now.
Tom laid a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Draco. Winning is what matters. Remember: Quidditch is about the score, not your ego."
Draco muttered, "I understand," though his pride clearly stung.
Flint thrust his fist into the air. "What's our motto?"
"GRYFFINDOR, OUT!" the team roared.
"Good! Now let's go eat, and don't forget the food testers. Merlin knows Gryffindors would poison us if they could."
Laughter echoed as the team marched off.
Tom, however, slipped away unseen. While the school buzzed with Quidditch fever, he moved silently into the Forbidden Forest, then took flight beyond Hogwarts' wards before Disapparating.
Two cracks of apparition later, he stood atop the clock tower of Big Ben.
London was smothered in a heavy fog. Visibility was barely a hundred meters. Tom exhaled softly.
A wind stirred, rising high above the streets—gentle enough that Muggle pedestrians below felt nothing, but strong enough to tear the mist apart.
Within minutes, the fog dissolved. Sunlight spilled down in golden beams, clean and bright over the city.
Tom allowed himself a small smile. His Thunderbird bloodline gifts—the power to command the skies—were becoming more refined with practice. This wasn't ancient magic, nothing so profound or mysterious, but it was efficient: fast, low-cost, devastating in its own right.
"Beautiful work, Riddle," came a woman's voice behind him, warm and velvety.
Tom turned.
It wasn't an old crone who greeted him, but a woman in her thirties or forties, elegant and ageless, every inch of her radiating poise and power.
Lady Vinda Rosier.
Tom inclined his head politely. "Lady Rosier. At last, we meet."
Her lips curved in a knowing smile. "I've prepared a gift for our first encounter. Please… accept it."