The two sisters nodded obediently.
If Tom had no time during the day, then nights would suffice. As long as he was there when they slept, they considered it a fair trade.
As usual, Tom demonstrated the operation of several commonly used alchemical devices within the manor. He summoned a house elf to guide them around the castle, then headed straight for the laboratory.
Nicolas was already waiting.
One corner of the room was stacked high with finished copies of "WhatsApp."
"Teacher," Tom said, sidling over with an ingratiating smile. "How many have you completed?"
Nicolas snorted.
"Four thousand. You nearly exhausted the materials you provided. Have you brought more?"
"Yes. Newt collected a great many Whomping Willow branches and leaves. At the previous rate, another ten thousand copies should not be a problem."
"Good. If you cannot finish those ten thousand, you are not returning to school. Even Dumbledore will not take you back. I guarantee it."
Having delivered his imposing declaration, Nicolas drifted leisurely from the room.
A month of exhaustion had earned him the right to let the boy taste the same suffering.
But Nicolas miscalculated one thing.
While his alchemical mastery surpassed Tom's, Tom's physical stamina and energy far exceeded his own. Given equal time, Tom's efficiency would inevitably be higher.
In a single afternoon, Tom produced over fifty thousand sheets of specialized paper.
At one hundred pages per book, that meant five hundred copies already prepared. The covers were even simpler. Inscribing a single identity code took less than ten seconds.
On average, five hours yielded five hundred books.
And yet Tom was dissatisfied.
Even limiting the scope to Europe, there were hundreds of thousands of wizards. If merely one in three chose to purchase "WhatsApp," tens of thousands of copies would be required.
That did not even account for future upgrades.
Manual production was not sustainable.
He had to break free from the conventional boundaries of alchemy and create a fully automated assembly line.
...
He presented the idea to Nicolas that evening after dinner.
To his surprise, Nicolas had been considering something similar.
"Ordinary machinery will not suffice," Nicolas said thoughtfully. "The difficulty with alchemical automatons lies in the inconsistent quality of Acromantula venom. Each batch of paper must adjust quantities accordingly. The identity code relies upon a magical sigil you created. Even I can only replicate it mechanically. Embedding it into an automaton would be extraordinarily complex. The magical output would be too rigid. Awakening the artifact requires not mere energy, but the emotional resonance of a wizard."
He tapped the table lightly.
"Pure magical power and magical power infused with will and emotion are entirely different. The former is raw fuel. The latter can perform miracles."
Tom retrieved his latest research.
It concerned flesh magic.
Unlike ordinary magical energy, this form of power was far more active, closely resembling the state of magic during actual spellcasting.
Nicolas flipped through the pages once, then stared at Tom as though he had seen a ghost.
Such concepts could not arise from idle speculation. They required extensive experimentation, a deep understanding of flesh, mind, even soul.
What exactly had Tom studied at Hogwarts?
Where had he found so much material?
"You misunderstand," Tom said quickly. "I have not begun experimenting. This is the legacy of a powerful mage. Many of the theories differ drastically from modern magic. Once I organize it fully, I will provide you a copy."
Nicolas finally relaxed.
"Tom… You are still young. Your hands must not be stained with excessive blood. These matters run deep."
Tom nodded obediently.
Nicolas then added calmly, "Of course, I have lived long enough to handle such waters. Finish organizing it quickly. I will review everything."
Tom blinked.
Of course.
This was a man who had survived the Middle Ages, the Black Death, and the witch hunts.
Human lives weighed little in his ledger.
In truth, Nicolas's concern stemmed less from morality than from timing. Tom's temperament was still forming. Later, when he matured, Nicolas would likely not intervene.
He was neither Dumbledore, forever fretting over others, nor Grindelwald, driven by grand ambition.
Nicolas cared only for alchemy.
Lives were numbers. Variables.
Two days later, once Tom compiled everything he safely could, Nicolas became completely absorbed.
Tom had no time to supervise him.
Until he devised his "nuclear powered ox," he would have to labor personally.
On productive days, he completed five hundred copies. On lazier ones, three hundred sufficed before rest claimed him.
Stockpiles gradually accumulated and were distributed. Britain, France, and Germany received the largest shipments. These were the initial regions targeted for bank card promotion. Tom intended to advance both systems simultaneously.
...
Then, in mid August, on an otherwise unremarkable night.
The North Sea.
Two figures struggled onto the deck of a fishing vessel with the aid of sailors.
"What happened to you?" a burly sailor demanded, eyeing the drenched pair suspiciously. Both wore prison uniforms.
"There's no prison near these waters."
The woman kept her head lowered, silent.
The man smiled broadly, revealing eight perfect teeth, though his filth made the sight unsettling.
"We are merely unfortunate survivors of a shipwreck," he said smoothly. "The reason for these uniforms? Gold was sewn inside, so we changed into them."
He slipped his hand into his bulging pocket.
Greed eclipsed caution.
The sailors leaned closer.
When the distance was sufficient, the man's hand snapped outward, silver light flaring from his palm.
"Obliviate."