The moment Rosier's words fell, Tom's presence shifted. His sharp, youthful gaze clouded for a heartbeat, then aged into something older, wearier, infinitely deeper.
Vinda Rosier froze. For a split second, she couldn't comprehend how a boy's aura could transform so suddenly.
And then she understood.
Her body trembled as "Tom" spoke.
"Vinda."
"It has been a long time."
"Do you still remember the day you swore yourself to me? You were fresh out of Beauxbatons, a girl burning with rage because your uncle had been arrested for abusing Obliviate charms on Muggles. You came to me, desperate for vengeance against the Aurors who took him away."
Rosier's breath caught, her voice breaking.
"L—Lord Grindelwald?! Is it truly you?!"
"It is," Grindelwald said through Tom's lips. "This is Tom's gift. Through it, he and I are bound. I teach him the arts of dark magic. Through him, I speak."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I… I never thought I would see you again!"
"There will be time enough for true reunions, one day," Grindelwald soothed, lifting a hand to quiet her. "But Tom's gift is limited. We must speak quickly."
His tone sharpened. "Vinda. The Transfiguration I taught you was never meant for vanity. You are not young anymore—the corruption of dark magic eats at you faster than it once did. Do not use that art unless it is necessary."
Rosier bowed her head instantly. "I understand, my Lord."
The elegant, middle-aged beauty before Tom was not Rosier's real face. In truth, she was an old woman, her body brittle and withered. She had reshaped her flesh through Grindelwald's forbidden methods of fleshcrafting—a crude mimicry of Animagus magic, powered by black sorcery. The strain on her aged frame was immense. She'd donned this face not out of vanity, but fear: fear that Tom might see her frailty and dismiss her as a relic. She wanted him to believe she was still capable, still strong enough to serve.
Satisfied by her obedience, Grindelwald nodded. "Tom is my pupil—but more than that, he is my ally. His words are my words. You will follow him as you once followed me. Without hesitation."
He summoned a slip of parchment, inscribing it with neat, sharp runes, then handed it to her. "Here. A recipe. Find a true potions master to brew this. Take it yourself—it will steady your failing body. Make more, as well. I will have need of them in time."
Rosier accepted it with reverent hands, her chest swelling with hope. So… one day… he will walk free from that tower.
Whether he still sought to lead wizards into a new future or not, she did not care. If Grindelwald could simply breathe free air again, she would be content.
"There is one more matter…" Grindelwald hesitated. "If there are some who no longer believe, let them go. So long as they do not harm the Saints, let them live out quiet lives. I was not strong enough to change the world… and you all paid the price for my failures. There is no need for further bloodshed."
Silence hung in the air. Finally, Rosier bowed her head, her voice trembling with loyalty. "As you wish, my Lord."
The last instructions spoken, Grindelwald receded, relinquishing his hold. Tom's eyes cleared, youth flooding back into his features.
Rosier exhaled shakily, only now realizing she had been holding her breath.
"Lady Rosier," Tom said with a faint smile, "are you satisfied with this little gift?"
She bowed low, voice hushed with emotion. "More than satisfied, Lord Riddle. To see my Master again through you… that is fortune beyond measure."
"Good. Then let's stop with the formalities," Tom said lightly. "From this day, we are on the same side. There's no need for such distance."
He glanced around at the windswept rooftop. "This isn't the best place to talk. It's cold, and I haven't had breakfast. Come with me."
…
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them sat in a private booth at one of Tom's favored tearooms. Steam rose from a bamboo steamer stacked with dim sum.
Between bites of shrimp dumpling, Tom listened as Rosier laid out her plans.
For decades, the Saints had pursued influence from the top down—courting pure-blood elites, Ministry officials, the movers of wizarding society. It had worked once. But in the wake of Grindelwald's fall, suspicion and scrutiny had multiplied. Their reach among the upper classes had withered. They could only work in shadows now, whispering, careful, unseen.
Tom chewed thoughtfully. "Shadows aren't so bad. Times have changed. Without overwhelming strength to shield you, a loud march only invites ruin. In silence, you see who is truly loyal. Those who stay despite the danger—or those who join you even now—they're the allies who matter. Take Professor Wilkinson, for example. He's exactly the kind of man a reborn Saints needs."
Rosier stiffened at his casual mention of her background checks. He was smiling, but she heard the warning in his words.
She straightened in her chair, answering carefully. "Yes… we investigated your past, my Lord. Only to be certain. Please forgive us. Grindelwald has been caged in Nurmengard for decades, without a word or sign—we had to be sure…"
Tom waved the matter away. "Small things. But remember this: I hold no prejudice against Muggle or wizard. All have the right to exist. Power should carry responsibility, not license. If the Saints still dream of a world where wizards rule and Muggles kneel… then one day, we will be enemies."
Rosier paled. "No, my Lord! That was never the Saints' true cause. Grindelwald's first vision was to shatter the Statute of Secrecy—to let us walk in sunlight once more. Only to gain allies, to build strength, did we twist the message into something harsher."
Tom poured her a fresh cup of tea with a flick of his wand. "Perhaps. Either way, such dreams are far off. Focus on the present. Grow stronger. The right path will reveal itself in time."
Rosier swallowed hard, nodding. "As you command. I will watch the hearts of our people closely."
She hesitated, then added: "And the papers you wish to publish, my Lord—what field are they in?"