Tom had prepared three varieties of bloodline fusion potion, each derived from a different magical creature: Dragonblood, Basilisk, and Kelpie. These weren't for Grindelwald personally. They were for distribution among his followers as rewards.
The original idea had been to use bloodline potential as a currency, something the Saints could earn and compete for, which would simultaneously sharpen their drive and raise their overall power level.
And like any currency, it needed denominations.
The potions he'd prepared for general distribution were, to put it charitably, a limited-release product. Not merely inferior to the complete versions; they came with a specific design feature that Tom had spent considerable effort engineering. Without continued regular dosing, the integrated bloodline gradually faded back toward baseline. Permanent integration required the concentration to cross a fixed threshold, and until it did, the user remained dependent on the supply.
A subscription service, essentially.
Among the batch, two vials were different: complete, unaltered Basilisk bloodline fusion potions, intended for Vinda Rosier and Grimmson. Both were Grindelwald's most essential lieutenants. Fully integrated, their lifespans would extend significantly and their physical capabilities would recover toward their peak. That freed up Grindelwald's attention for larger concerns.
Tom sent Usagi off and had barely reached the first floor when he found Harry and Malfoy in the middle of what appeared to be a competition to see who could be more cutting.
"Potter, you're entering the tournament? Do yourself a favor and stay home. The year-group champion is going to be me."
"Really? Are you planning to have your father donate another building, or will you just cry for your mother if the judges don't cooperate?"
"I can call my mother. But you? All you've got is a godfather. Who is, technically speaking, my uncle."
They were going at each other with the focused efficiency of two people who had been doing this for years and had identified every available weak point. Neither was making any move toward their wands, because McGonagall had been sufficiently explicit: further public dueling would result in detention running to the end of term, every evening without exception.
Tom's arrival interrupted the exchange. Malfoy looked at Harry with contempt, then smoothly redirected toward Tom with a significantly warmer expression.
"Tom, any chance of some tutoring before the tournament? I know I won't take the overall championship, but my year group title is still within reach, isn't it?"
Harry snorted. "Malfoy, did you forget Hermione entered?"
Malfoy's expression collapsed.
He had, in fact, completely forgotten. His mental model of the competition had contained exactly one obstacle and it wasn't Granger. But Tom's notebook had already pushed Malfoy, Zabini, and the others well above the average Hogwarts student, and Hermione had Tom's direct instruction on top of that. Personal, consistent, tailored to her specifically. There was no version of this comparison that went in Malfoy's favor.
Even if she had been Muggle-born, which he felt very strongly about and usually said something about, he could feel that his chances were essentially nothing.
Malfoy's silver-blond hair seemed to lose some of its usual gleam. His posture went from performatively confident to genuinely dejected in roughly three seconds.
"Right. Carry on arguing, both of you. Don't let me interrupt."
Tom had Ravenclaw in his head making pointed comments about his backlog of tasks and no patience for the theater happening in front of him. He waved, squeezed between the two of them, and continued on his way.
Late that night.
Tom made his way to the Room of Requirement. It had been a while since he'd visited by the conventional method; his usual approach had been to go straight through to Ravenclaw's chambers. Tonight he paced the corridor three times in the old-fashioned way.
"I need a place where things are hidden."
The smooth door materialized. Tom pushed through. A globe of conjured light rose to chest height and illuminated the room.
Junk, everywhere. Mountains of accumulated objects pressing toward a ceiling thirty meters above, crammed from floor to vaults in objects that had no other place to be. Narrow passages between the piles, barely wide enough for a person to move carefully without triggering a cascade. Most of it had been left intentionally by students across the centuries, but a portion was simply lost property: things misplaced or forgotten, gathered over time by the castle itself and deposited here when no one came looking. Calling it a landfill with aspirations wasn't entirely inaccurate.
Tom stayed near the entrance. His hand moved, a continuous sorting gesture, and the piles in front of him began to shift in response, objects cycling past him in sequence, forward and back, each visible for a moment before the next took its place.
"I'm glad you have a controlling charm for this," Ravenclaw said, without enthusiasm. "Otherwise I'd be here with you until the castle fell down."
She had intended the Room to have a cataloguing function as well, back when the castle was young. But then Helena's situation had deteriorated, and her own health had followed, and the revision had never been made.
Tom's hand stopped.
A smaller pile settled at his feet. Leaning against a battered wardrobe, half-obscured by a cracked and ugly Slytherin bust, was a tiara. Old. The gilding was flaking at the edges and the shape had gone slightly wrong under the weight of years.
But it was unmistakably a crown.
"There it is." Tom stepped forward and picked it up.
Ravenclaw looked at it.
One glance was all it took, and the expression that crossed her face was incandescent fury.
Beside the motto she had carved into the metal herself, someone had scratched in a second line, smaller but perfectly legible.
Lord Voldemort.