Chapter 183: The Meeting at Big Ben
— — — — — —
It had been a month and a half since Lockhart’s arrest. The delay wasn’t because anyone pitied him—it was simply that he’d entangled himself with far too many people and too many shady dealings. The Ministry had to gather every last scrap of evidence before handing down a sentence.
That’s what they called due process.
Honestly, Tom was surprised at how quickly they managed it. With his understanding of the Ministry, he wouldn’t have been shocked if the whole matter dragged on until the end of term.
"Gilderoy Lockhart has been charged with altering the memories of eighteen people, as well as falsifying records and bribing members of the Wizengamot in order to obtain his Order of Merlin, Third Class."
"The Ministry has ruled that he will serve fifteen years in Azkaban. Additionally, everyone who purchased his textbooks will receive a refund within the next month."
Even the Slytherins applauded this verdict. It was rare to see the entire school so unanimously pleased.
Tom noticed Ron clapping hard enough that his palms were red. No wonder—getting that much money back in refunds was practically like being handed his allowance for several years all at once. A windfall.
Not that Tom was paying Ron any real attention. His eyes had drifted toward Ginny Weasley, and Ron just happened to be in his line of sight.
Compared with the bright-faced first year she’d been, Ginny looked pale and withdrawn now. Even with the excitement buzzing around her, she picked at her mashed potatoes in silence. Every so often, though, her eyes would flick toward Penelope.
Tom looked away and finished his meal in a few quick bites.
...
That evening, Slytherin had Astronomy class.
Truthfully, Tom thought it was the most useless course Hogwarts offered. Even Divination had its occasional insights for the rare student with talent. Astronomy, though, was just star charts and memorization—not real stargazing like the centaurs, who could actually read fate in the skies.
And for predicting the weather from the stars? Muggle meteorologists could beat that accuracy ten times out of ten.
Yet it was mandatory until fifth year. Utter waste of time.
...
Back in the common room, Daphne was already yawning herself half-asleep. Tom had thought of asking her to check if Astoria was in bed, but with her looking so drowsy, he let it slide.
...
The next morning, as usual, Daphne slept late. It was Astoria who accompanied Tom to breakfast. On the way, passing a little side parlor, Tom led her inside.
"Astoria, what’s your relationship with Ginny Weasley like?"
She blinked in surprise but answered honestly. "We don’t really talk. Just have a few classes together."
"Although," she added after a moment’s thought, "I’m friends with one of her friends—Luna Lovegood. We both like magical creatures. She’s one of the few people I’d call a friend."
That caught Tom off guard.
Astoria, friends with Luna? He hadn’t paid much attention to the Ravenclaw girl, but even he’d heard her nickname: Loony.
"Tom?" Astoria asked softly when he went quiet for too long.
"Nothing," he said, regaining focus. "I just want you to keep an eye on Ginny. Watch where she goes, especially when she’s alone."
The request sounded suspicious, even a little sinister, but Astoria was sharp enough not to twist it into anything sordid. Instead her expression turned serious.
"...You think Ginny Weasley is the Heir of Slytherin?"
"Very likely," Tom nodded. "After Penelope was attacked, Ginny fell ill. And last night, when Penelope returned, Ginny couldn’t stop sneaking glances at her."
"But..." Astoria’s brow furrowed. "She’s only a first year. And the Weasleys are all Gryffindors. How could she possibly be tied to Slytherin?"
"We’ll know for sure once we get her alone," Tom said simply.
Blunt, yes, but not reckless. He wasn’t about to drag Ginny off in front of other students. Even if she was proven innocent later, her secret would be out, and she’d never lift her head again at Hogwarts.
That was why Astoria was perfect for this—someone who could quietly find the right opportunity.
"I understand." She nodded with unusual determination.
After the initial shock, she couldn’t help but feel a ripple of excitement. Tom was always the one looking after her—finally, she had the chance to do something for him.
---
Over the next few days, she shadowed Ginny carefully. Patterns quickly emerged.
Though her cold had passed, Ginny still seemed drained, often drifting off mid-conversation. Just as Tom had said, she was fixated on Penelope, yet whenever their paths crossed, she’d make clumsy excuses to avoid her.
...
Meanwhile, across the chat notebook, Vinda Rosier had begun her own moves after her last conversation with Tom.
When it came to sheer power, comparing Voldemort and Grindelwald was pointless. No one could say who was stronger. Dumbledore had once claimed Voldemort had gone further in dark magic than anyone in history, mastering curses and rituals that no one else had even heard of.
But if asked which posed the greater threat to the world, Dumbledore never hesitated: Grindelwald.
Because the most dangerous kind of power wasn’t brute force. It was control over hearts and minds.
Grindelwald’s ideology spread like a virus, turning followers into fanatics who would willingly sacrifice everything for his cause. Voldemort, in contrast, believed power alone was enough. His followers existed to instill fear, to magnify his own strength.
Rosier had been Grindelwald’s most capable lieutenant and had absorbed plenty of his methods.
In France, the Rosier family appeared to oppose her. In reality, she had long since bound them tightly to her will. The family stood united, with sleeper agents planted throughout the Ministry.
So when she expressed a desire to leave prison, those forces moved at once.
The French Ministry quickly passed a new law: any prisoner over eighty who had served more than thirty years could surrender their wand and complete their sentence outside prison, provided they submitted a monthly report detailing their activities.
The proposal was drafted in the morning, approved by afternoon, and praised in the papers the next day as a shining example of "humanitarian policy."
And Vinda Rosier—nearly a century old and conveniently fitting the criteria—walked free, entirely within the bounds of the law.
She didn’t rush straight to Britain. First, she used potions to mend her frail body, then began consolidating funds and buying up small shares in newspapers, piece by piece.
She wasn’t aiming for outright control, only enough influence to ensure a voice.
Germany and Austria, deep in the Acolytes’ sphere of power, proved easy enough to handle. Further north, or in other continents, things grew messy. There, she had no choice but to resort to violence.
Rosier drained her coffee cup with impeccable grace and set it back down. "Vogel," she said calmly, "escort those stubborn shareholders on their final journey. Make it quiet, make it slow. No one must ever connect the dots."
Then she stood, smoothing her robes. "It’s time I went to meet Riddle."
---
When the message reached Tom on Friday night, right in the middle of his lesson with Grindelwald, he blinked in disbelief. "What, already?"
Barely a week had passed. Since when did the French Ministry run like a family business?
Grindelwald caught his expression and chuckled. "Why do you think I entrusted so much to Vinda back in the day? You’ll come to understand her talent in time. She’s leagues ahead of Scamander."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Then why didn’t you let her just finish off Newt?"
That one hit a nerve. Grindelwald’s smile faltered.
Damn it. Scamander’s survival had never been about skill. Time and again, Grindelwald had driven him into a corner, only for some blasted magical creature to come barreling out of nowhere and save his worthless ass. Every time, victory slipped through his fingers.
Of course, if he admitted that out loud, Tom would never let him hear the end of it. So Grindelwald swallowed the irritation, leaving himself simmering somewhere between furious and humiliated.
With a low grunt, he finally said, "Tom, I want to borrow your body—to speak to Vinda directly."
Tom frowned. "Can’t I just pass the message along?"
"It isn’t the same," Grindelwald shook his head. "I need her to see exactly what you are to me, to understand how our bond works. Only then will she carry out orders without hesitation."
Tom hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. Two minutes. You know I hate the feeling."
This wasn’t like sharing knowledge or magic. This was Grindelwald seizing his body to wear his own face. If it weren’t the surest way to bind Rosier’s loyalty, Tom would never have agreed.
"Two minutes will be plenty," Grindelwald said lightly.
...
Saturday dawned with the Gryffindor–Slytherin Quidditch match, and both Houses were up bright and early.
By the time Tom entered the common room, Flint was already in full swing with his pep talk.
"Listen up, team!" Flint bellowed. "Our bodies are the best weapons we’ve got! And Gryffindor even got three girls—uh..."
The Slytherin girls in the room shot him withering looks. Flint froze, sweat instantly breaking out. "I-I mean... weaklings! Yeah, weaklings! They’re weaklings! Not like you lot—our girls are strong as dragons!"
That smoothed things over, though not before Flint had to mop his brow.
He plowed on. "Our brooms and gear are stronger, and the longer the game goes, the wider the score gap will grow. Malfoy, stick to Potter like glue. We don’t even think about the Snitch until we’re a hundred and fifty points ahead. Got it?"
Draco scowled but nodded reluctantly. He hated admitting Potter had the edge in speed and instincts, but Tom had already explained it: right now, Harry was still the better Seeker.
Tom clapped him on the shoulder. "Draco, the only thing that matters is winning. It’s not about you versus Potter, it’s about the scoreboard."
"...I get it," Draco muttered, though the sour look stayed.
Flint thrust a fist in the air. "Now—what’s our chant?"
"Na Na Na Na, Goodbye Gryffindor!" The team roared.
"Good! That’s the spirit!" Flint grinned, then promptly appointed a few unlucky volunteers as food-tasters—just in case Gryffindor had tried to poison breakfast.
"..."
While all attention stayed on the Quidditch frenzy, Tom quietly slipped away. He moved through the shadows, out of the castle, and into the Forbidden Forest.
A heartbeat later, he was airborne, past the Hogwarts boundary, and vanishing with a crack of Apparition.
Two jumps later, he stood on the roof of Big Ben, the world’s most famous clock.
"Hmm..."
London lay shrouded in thick fog, visibility barely stretching a hundred meters. High above the streets, the gusts swelled, unraveling the mist. Slowly, sunlight cut through, bright and sharp, spilling over the city.
Tom exhaled softly, and wind stirred out of nothing.
He allowed himself a small smile. The thunderbird blood in him was growing easier to wield. Another kind of elemental force—different from ancient magic, without its mystery, but swift and natural all the same.
"Beautifully done, Mr. Riddle."
The voice was warm, feminine.
Tom turned. Instead of a frail crone, Vinda Rosier appeared as a woman in her late thirties, elegant, poised, her beauty sharpened by age rather than dulled.
He inclined his head. "Madam Rosier. I’ve heard so much. At last, we meet."
"I brought you a gift for our first meeting. Please, accept it."
.
.
.