Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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The traitor had been exposed, and the blue Protego Diabolica had vanished.

"Finite Incantatem Maxima!"

Tom drove his wand into the ground, and a wave of red light surged outward, quickly spreading and overpowering the raging blue flames.

As the red light engulfed the battlefield, the blue fire was finally extinguished.

"Impressive, truly impressive! As expected of Grindelwald's student—you actually cast Finite Maxima on your own... That kind of magical power is just outrageous," Vogel praised, quickly echoed by the others.

In essence, Finite Incantatem was the most basic of general counter-spells. But when cast by several powerful wizards in unison, its strength could be amplified enough to suppress even dangerous magic like Protego Diabolica or Avada Kedavra.

And adding Maxima — a magical modifier appended to the end of a spell's incantation — pushed the spell to its absolute limit, unleashing its maximum possible power.

Tom managing to do all that was just another testament to his immense magic.

"Enough small talk," Tom waved off the flattery. "Tell me about your current situation. Are you the only ones left calling yourselves the Acolytes?"

"Kind of... We haven't exactly returned to the glory days of the Acolytes," Vogel sighed, "but we're not that far gone either."

Still, after witnessing Étienne's betrayal firsthand, Vogel couldn't help feeling shaken.

It was clear now—not everyone had held onto their loyalty to Grindelwald and his ideas the way they had. Some had caved for the sake of their families or future generations. But a betrayal is still a betrayal, no matter the reason.

In the years following the war, after their defeat, the Ministries of Magic and the International Confederation had launched a massive crackdown. Most of the diehard Acolytes had been imprisoned, and the ones who escaped were scattered and monitored constantly. All communication between them was severed.

Things only started to loosen up in the 1990s, after that first generation of lawmakers had gradually retired from power.

But after all those years, many of the old Acolytes had passed away. While a new generation had inherited some of the old ideals, they only admired Grindelwald—not true loyalty.

So now? The Acolytes were fragmented, scattered, operating on their own like sand slipping through fingers.

Vogel had managed to gather around ten families, mostly from pureblood lines in Germany, France, and Poland.

That's why he couldn't really give Tom a solid answer. A lot of people were still alive… just barely hanging on.

"Mr. Riddle," Vogel said cautiously, "you mentioned before that you could communicate with Lord Grindelwald...?"

"I have a unique talent that lets me connect with his prophetic visions," Tom replied casually, making something up on the spot. "He saw the ambush on Newt Scamander back then and asked me to intervene. So even if Newt wanted to harm them, I'll make sure to get him out of trouble when the time comes."

At that, the ambushers—including Macduff—looked deeply moved.

"Does that mean Grindelwald is returning?" Vogel asked excitedly. "Should we head to Nurmengard—"

"Are you crazy?" Tom cut him off sharply. "You lot? A bunch of old-timers and half-trained kids? You think you can break into Nurmengard and rescue someone? What, you think Dumbledore's just going to stand there and let it happen?"

The room went quiet. Like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on them.

Even now, among the Acolytes, Dumbledore's name was spoken in hushed tones—he was no less terrifying to them than Voldemort was to the British magical world.

Tom let out a cold snort.

"You can't even stay organized, and you're already dreaming about jailbreaks?"

"What you should be doing is regrouping, rebuilding your strength. Stop thinking about wild ideas and focus."

Even those old elders bowed their heads and took the scolding like schoolchildren. The younger generation? They didn't even dare breathe too loudly.

And they noticed something else. Tom spoke of Grindelwald respectfully, yes—but not reverently. The way he talked… it almost sounded like they were equals.

Once the room had quieted down, Tom continued, "Where's Vinda Rosier? I need that replica wand she has."

Vogel's face turned serious—he was now fully convinced of Tom's close ties to Grindelwald.

Back in their golden age, Grindelwald had focused on big-picture strategy and keeping Dumbledore at bay. Day-to-day operations and troop coordination? That had been Rosier's domain—the French Black Rose.

To give her proper authority, and to help her earn the Acolytes' trust, Grindelwald had crafted a replica of the Elder Wand and personally taught her how to inscribe the Deathly Hallows symbol with his unique magical signature.

It was basically a seal of office. Possessing it meant you could speak on Grindelwald's behalf.

Most of the Acolytes' inner circle had known about its existence. It was the ultimate proof of legitimacy.

"Mr. Riddle," Vogel said with a bow, "Miss Rosier is currently imprisoned in the deepest part of Bastille Prison. But due to her family's influence in France, her situation is more like house arrest than a true imprisonment."

"Oh? Rooming with your dad, is she?" Tom chuckled, glancing at Macduff.

The joke landed awkwardly. Macduff didn't know how to respond, and the others looked torn between amusement and fear of laughing at the wrong time.

Just like Azkaban in Britain, France had its own magical prison—Bastille.

The original Bastille had been destroyed in 1789 by Muggles, but beneath its ruins, a magical facility had been built and still operated.

Guarded by spectral lynxes, fire-breathing dragons, and even Hairy MacBoons, Bastille was every bit as terrifying as Azkaban. French wizards whispered its name with dread.

"If she's still locked up, I can't exactly go meet her myself," Tom mused. "You guys take care of it. I don't care how you do it—whether you break her out or convince her to hand over the wand—I just want results, not excuses."

"And while you're at it, go through your people carefully. Don't bring me any more spies, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Vogel replied, ashamed. He glanced at the unconscious and beaten Étienne, eyes flashing with a cold light.

"If you need to contact me, send word to the Greengrass family in Britain. I'm off now.... Oh, one last thing."

Tom turned to Macduff.

"Leave Newt Scamander alone from now on. Otherwise, people are going to think the Acolytes are just sore losers—too scared to take on Dumbledore, so they go bully his friend instead. Is that what Grindelwald taught you? To pick on the weak and cower before the strong?"

Macduff turned red with shame but couldn't come up with a single word to defend himself.

Tom shot him a glance before finally Disapparating.

Vogel and the others didn't stick around either. That event had been loud enough to wake the dead—there was no doubt the Ministry of Magic would be sending someone to check it out soon. This was not a place to linger.

Besides, they still had to deal with the Étienne family, and some groundwork needed to be laid immediately.

They had just promised Tom that everything would be settled by tonight, and there was no room for error.

As for how to get in touch with Rosier—neither side bothered to bring it up. If the Acolytes couldn't even manage that much on their own, then frankly, they weren't worth the trouble.

...

Sure enough, less than an hour after Tom and the Acolytes disappeared, a team of Aurors traced the magical disturbance straight to the quarry. They pulled out a few instruments, ran a sweep—and their faces immediately turned grim.

"Someone cast Fiendfyre here.... no wait, that's Protego Diabolica!!!"

"Fuck... It's really Protego Diabolica!"

For wizards in Paris, Protego Diabolica was a trauma they'd never forget. It had nearly burned their city to the ground once. So even now, just hearing the word could trigger flashbacks.

The French Aurors didn't dare waste time—they filed a report and rushed back to the Ministry.

The response was swift. The French Ministry dispatched dozens of wizards to track down any suspicious individuals.

And amid all the chaos, the Étienne family was wiped out that very night.

Every single member—over a dozen of them—poisoned to death. According to the investigation, the toxic fumes had been caused by an accident while brewing potions.

But with everything that had just happened, and considering the Étienne family's known connections, the timing raised more than a few eyebrows among the higher-ups in the Ministry.

Tension swept across the entire French wizarding world.

In contrast, this made the French Minister of Magic look way more capable than Cornelius Fudge over in Britain. If it had been Fudge in charge, his first instinct would've been to cover it up.

He'd probably say, "Well, nothing's officially happened yet. No concrete evidence. Let's just carry on, pretend everything's fine—music, dancing, business as usual!"

But none of this really had anything to do with Tom. He wouldn't be dealing with the Acolytes again anytime soon in Paris.

And once he got back to Britain, contacting them would be much easier—he wouldn't have to tiptoe around like today. After all, under Dumbledore's protection, the British had no real understanding of how dangerous the Acolytes actually were.

---

When Tom returned to the Flamel estate, he finally got his hands on the magical contact book he'd been eyeing for quite a while and began studying it.

In the original story, Nicolas Flamel used that same book to communicate with Eulalie "Lally" Hicks across the ocean. It was one of the few real-time long-distance communication tools in the wizarding world.

Of course, it had its flaws. Flamel had actually wanted to contact Dumbledore first, but when he couldn't reach him, he settled for Hicks.

Tom spent two days poring over the thing before finally figuring out how it worked.

Each page was like a picture frame. When the contact stepped into the frame under certain conditions, they'd appear like a magical portrait. The person opening the book would also appear in the contact's frame, allowing the two to talk as if through living portraits.

But if someone wasn't inside the frame, they couldn't be reached.

Tom then asked Flamel for the technical details. As expected, the method had a lot of limitations.

He didn't even bother asking about the materials—Flamel was rich, and everything he used was top-of-the-line. Cost was never a concern.

The biggest issue was the setup: Flamel's contact book acted as the main unit, while the frames in others' hands functioned like secondary devices. Only the main book could initiate contact. Secondary frames couldn't reach out to each other.

Still, the way those signals were converted and transmitted... that way sparked all sorts of ideas in Tom's mind. He hadn't let go of his dream of building a magical phone after all.

And Flamel kinda understood what Tom was aiming for and even offered him a few suggestions, which turned out to be quite helpful.

For the rest of August, Tom kept a routine: two and a half days of study, half a day off to chill with Fleur. They couldn't go too far from the city, but within Paris, they'd explored all the major spots together.

He even visited France's version of Diagon Alley—Montmartre Hidden Square. Compared to London's Diagon Alley, this place was massive—at least twice the size—and overflowing with shops and magical goods of every kind.

It hit Tom then: "damn, the UK really needs someone like me. If it weren't for Dumbledore propping it up, Britain would've slipped into second-tier magical status ages ago."

— — —

Time flew. Before Tom knew it, August was nearly over and the new school year was just around the corner.

On his last day in France, Tom brought his luggage and paid a visit to the Delacour household.

Fleur wasn't exactly in high spirits, and Gabrielle looked just as glum. Both of them knew he was leaving, and neither was happy about it.

"It's not like we won't be able to talk after I go," Tom said.

"But writing letters is such a pain," Fleur grumbled. "Takes two or three days just to get a reply—it's too slow."

Gabrielle nodded eagerly. "Yeah! And I don't even know all the words yet. I always have to ask Fleur to help me write."

"Then study harder," Tom said, gently patting the little girl on the head. "When I was your age, I already spoke English, French, and German."

"It's Fleur's fault!" Gabrielle huffed. "She stole all the smart genes, so now I'm dumb!"

That got both Fleur and Tom laughing. So apparently the Delacour sisters shared a fixed amount of brainpower? If their mother ever had another child, would that one be drooling in a corner?

Gabrielle's innocent logic helped lighten the mood and ease the sadness of saying goodbye.

Then Tom placed the gifts he'd brought in front of the two sisters.

"What's this?" Fleur asked, curious.

It was a green notebook with a speech bubble icon and a white telephone handset inside.

"This," Tom said with a mysterious smile, "is something you can call..."

"WhatsApp."

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