At Hogwarts, Tom had no idea that the two Ministries Grindelwald had just acquired were essentially bankrupt. He was still quietly optimistic that the trial completion rate would pick up speed.
Unfortunately, the situation on that front was not the only thing refusing to cooperate. There were others who had decided this was a good moment to get in the way of his income.
The final examination ended, and the sound of relieved cheering rolled out of classrooms across the castle. Students practically flung their quills at the ceiling on the way out the door, flooding into the corridors to celebrate a freedom that felt genuinely earned.
Before them stretched nearly a month of holiday.
Because of Professor McGonagall's suggestion and the general guidance from the other Heads of House, this Christmas was shaping up to be the most heavily attended in Hogwarts history. More than half the student body had decided to stay. Even Hermione was considering it. She knew Tom spent every holiday buried in work, so she had resolved to simply remain at school and study, with plenty of time to go home over summer.
His pocket buzzed the moment he stepped out into the corridor. He assumed it was Fleur, or possibly Gabrielle, but when he opened it, the message was from Fudge.
[Fudge: Mr. Riddle, would you be able to come to the Ministry? Someone wishes to meet you. I've already arranged a leave of absence with Professor Dumbledore on your behalf. You may use the fireplace in his office to travel directly.]
Tom read it and smiled to himself.
At school he was a student. A student visiting a professor's office was entirely unremarkable. He had no objection to that arrangement.
But Cornelius Fudge was not his professor. Who exactly did Fudge think he was, summoning Tom as though it were simply expected?
Tom replied with a single word declining, tucked the notebook away, and continued downstairs with Daphne. They had an errand with Professor Sprout. There were some Pricklepod seeds they wanted to take home, for planting at Greengrass Manor and at his own house.
What Tom had not anticipated was that by evening, whoever Fudge was so eager to introduce had simply come to him instead.
The Headmaster's office.
"Mr. Riddle, this is Robert Graves, Head of Security for the International Auror Office. You might think of him as the International Confederation's equivalent of Scrimgeour."
Fudge wore a wide smile, showing no visible irritation over Tom's refusal earlier in the day, and introduced the evening's unexpected guest with practiced ease.
Graves had the appearance of a classic Frenchman: tall and broad-shouldered, brown hair left loose, a sharp nose and eyes that carried an instinctive quality of aggression. From the moment Tom walked into the office, those eyes had not moved off him, as though Graves intended to read him through the surface by sheer sustained attention.
Tom looked at him with a blank expression and nodded once.
"I've heard of you. You're the Graves whose wife was sleeping with Professor Wilkinson, and whose nephew's fiancée was also taken by Wilkinson. That Graves?"
Fudge's smile locked in place. Something cold and sharp moved through Graves' eyes, but his expression held, and when he spoke his voice was even.
"Mr. Riddle seems to carry a particular hostility toward me. Is that connected to Wilkinson having been your professor?"
"Quite telling, actually. Even after all this time away, he managed to leave enough of an impression on his students that they still speak of him."
Tom looked at him the way one regards someone who has said something genuinely bewildering.
"What exactly are you telling yourself right now? Who said anything about my feelings toward you having anything to do with Wilkinson?"
He held up one finger.
"First: I told Fudge this afternoon that I did not wish to meet you. You came anyway. That is a failure of basic manners." A second finger. "Second: you have been staring at me since the moment I entered this room. That is also a failure of basic manners."
"So why exactly should I be civil toward someone with the social conduct of a person who reads their own moral code aloud and still misses the point?"
Fudge looked as though he had forgotten what room he was in. He could not fathom why the tension had ignited this fast. As for the room's actual owner, Dumbledore appeared to be studying something on the surface of his desk with extraordinary concentration, as though it contained the secrets of the universe and absolutely nothing else was happening around him.
Graves' composure finally showed a crack. The muscles in his face pulled taut, fighting the urge to respond in kind, visibly suppressed.
"Scrutinising everyone unfamiliar is a professional habit, Riddle. I ask for your understanding. I did not come here to argue."
"Say whatever you like."
Tom waved one hand dismissively and settled into the single armchair. The moment he sat, a goblet of lemon juice appeared on the small table beside him as though it had always been there. He lifted it in a small, easy toast toward Dumbledore and took a sip.
"Say what you came to say."
Graves produced a folded sheet of parchment. "Riddle. The Security Office would like you to exercise greater caution in the distribution of the messaging platform. We are requesting a full restriction on its circulation within any territory under Grindelwald's control. The last thing we want is to give his acolytes a powerful, seamless communications network."
He set the parchment on the table.
"In recognition of your cooperation, the International Confederation would be prepared to offer appropriate compensation."
"No compensation necessary." Tom shook his head.
Graves looked briefly surprised by how agreeable that sounded.
Tom continued without pause. "Feel free to put forward all the recommendations you like. I will be declining every single one of them."
He was already pushing himself up from the chair and moving toward the door. "Anything else? No? Then I'll be going."
"Riddle." Graves' voice cracked like a whip. "Are you intending to help Grindelwald against the rest of the wizarding world?!"
Whoosh.
A bolt of red light crossed the room like lightning and caught Graves squarely. He crashed backward into the bookshelf with enough force to send books cascading in every direction. The painted portraits on the walls cried out in collective alarm.
Dumbledore let out a long, quiet breath.
He had the distinct feeling he had seen this before.
Ah. He remembered now. The last person to receive exactly that treatment had been Snape. And the hand responsible had been the same one.
Well then. Nothing to worry about.