A little self-congratulation was only natural. If wielding power that rivaled a creator god's wasn't worth being proud of, then there wasn't much worth being happy about in this world at all. But...
Ravenclaw offered Tom a few words of affirmation first, then her tone shifted sharply. Tom perked up at once - the important part was always in the "but."
"Tom... giving the Lucys genuine spiritual essence and then naming yourself their Master? Truly bold of you."
She let the jab hang in the air for a moment as a pause, then her expression settled back into its rare, genuine seriousness.
"But thought and memory are the roots of desire as well. Have you considered... what you would do if the Lucys, or any of the alchemical creatures you create in the future, don't develop the way you envisioned? What then?"
"What if they were to betray you, their Master?"
The easy smile faded from Tom's face as the question landed. He returned to stillness, turning his gaze toward the direction of the basement, where the Lucys' cheerful voices still drifted faintly up through the floor.
"That's actually something I thought about before I ever made them," he said. "Because I gave them 'life.' Right now, the Lucys are loyal to me without question - but the future? Honestly, I can't be certain."
"Warping their minds too severely, forcing in hard-coded obedience - that would place enormous limits on their development. They might never grow beyond where they start. And at that point, what's the difference between them and an ordinary puppet?"
"So I simply put certain contingencies in place," Tom said quietly. "If an alchemical creature ever truly betrays me, I can trigger self-destruction at any time. But their capacity for thought remains unrestricted."
Ravenclaw gave a slow nod. "Good. As long as you've prepared yourself mentally. Creation always carries the risk of being consumed by what you've made. Don't let yourself be blinded by achievement and possibility the way I was."
...
"Don't worry." Tom smiled. "Wanting to make people isn't nearly as troublesome for me as it was for you."
Ravenclaw rolled her eyes at him with magnificent elegance, not dignifying that with a response.
A little brat making adult jokes at her expense. Back in the day, neither Gryffindor nor Slytherin had ever had the nerve - Gryffindor because he worried his drinks would end up with something strange in them, and Slytherin because he was convinced she'd bury hidden traps all through his laboratory.
Ravenclaw's terrifying nature was something only the other founders and Helena, her own daughter, had ever truly understood.
As for everyone else - they didn't even qualify to ruffle her composure. Who wastes their irritation on ants?
...
The next morning, Tom made his way toward the airport with a smile on his face.
One night had been enough to get a solid read on the Lucys' production capacity. For the Guardian Necklace - the most technically demanding item - all seven of them working together could barely match twice his own speed. The Owl Post address books were a simpler matter, and there they managed three to four times his pace.
For the more basic products, efficiency climbed higher still. Those didn't demand skill so much as raw throughput.
And the little Lucys were learning and evolving the entire time. Yesterday afternoon they had stumbled through their work with visible effort. By this morning, watching them, they already looked considerably more practiced.
The bulk orders placed under the Ministry of Magic's collective banner - provided the raw materials held out - the Lucys would have everything completed before the end of next month.
Tom felt light on his feet in a way he hadn't in a while. He had finally broken free from the existence of being his own workhorse. There was a mountain of research topics waiting for him, and it had been precisely this trial assignment that had been bottlenecking all of his progress.
Ariana had hinted - both plainly and obliquely - on several occasions that she was more than ready to be revived. Tom had played dumb each time and brushed past it.
Her situation was nothing like Grindelwald's. A physical body that perfectly matched a soul required consideration across many dimensions, and what was recorded in Croaker's notes wasn't necessarily applicable to this world. Local adaptations had to be made.
And Tom had discovered something: the most suitable method was, remarkably, the very dark ritual Voldemort had used to resurrect himself.
Looking at it from that angle, Voldemort had traveled considerably further down the road of Dark Magic than Grindelwald ever had. Grindelwald's learning was too scattered - if something had use to him, he'd absorb it regardless of where it came from.
But Voldemort was different. Even when a simpler, more conventional solution existed, he would refuse it. Problems had to be solved through Dark Magic. The man was an obsessive, through and through, "old Voldy."
...
Stepping onto the boarding platform, Tom pulled Grindelwald into the learning space.
"What is it?" Grindelwald could tell from the urgency that there was something he needed to do. He skipped the preamble and asked directly.
"Voldemort is in the forests of Albania," Tom instructed. "Go find him. Capture him if you can. If you can't, then at least bring Nagini back."
"Nagini..." A flicker of something distant crossed Grindelwald's expression.
She was someone with whom he shared a complicated history.
"You're saying Nagini has bound herself to Voldemort?"
"You know what happens to blood-cursed beast-folk." Tom settled comfortably into his first-class seat, the flight attendant's smile passing through his peripheral vision. "She lost her mind long ago."
"I'll find her." Grindelwald accepted the task, withdrew from the learning space, summoned Rosier to make certain arrangements, and then slipped out of Berlin without a sound - no disturbance, no trace left behind.
Grindelwald was certain Dumbledore had planted informants throughout his territory. The last thing he needed was to step outside and come back to find his house picked clean.