Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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Fleur tilted her head. "What's up?"

"No no... WhatsApp!"

"WhatsApp?"

Fleur repeated the name, thinking of what it was supposed to mean. Gabrielle, however, had already flipped the notebook open with curiosity.

On the very first page was a form. It asked for the usual details—nickname, gender, age, date of birth, and address. In the top-right corner was a circular box, clearly meant for a photo.

Gabrielle got the idea immediately. Her little head bobbed as she scanned the page, and she finally spotted a quill lying on the desk. Taking it carefully, she started filling in the form with all the seriousness in the world.

When she was done, she looked up at Tom. "Brother, take my picture!"

"No need to bother with that," Tom said, tapping her cheek lightly with his wand, then touching the notebook. In the blink of an eye, the little girl's adorable face appeared perfectly inside the photo frame.

"Want me to help you too?" Tom asked, turning to Fleur. Her cheeks flushed as she nodded.

Once both sisters had finished, a strange string of characters appeared at the bottom of the first page. They both looked at Tom expectantly, still unsure how this 'WhatsApp' thing actually worked.

"Don't rush. There's one last step. I call it… Pin me."

"Huh?"

Fleur's face flushed a deep crimson. Gabrielle, however, didn't hesitate for even a second—she clambered right onto Tom, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug and even nuzzling her cheek against his.

"I pin you!" she declared proudly.

"That's… not what I meant," Tom said, smiling despite himself as he played along. He set her down and picked up his notebook, pressing it to hers so the covers aligned perfectly.

A soft glow surrounded both books, then faded almost instantly.

Tom flipped open the books again. On the second page of his notebook was Gabrielle's portrait. He tapped it lightly, then, picking up a quill: {Gabrielle is the cutest in the world.}

Over in Gabrielle's notebook, Tom's portrait began to glow.

Fleur, already guessing what was happening, hurriedly turned to the second page. Sure enough, the exact same handwriting had appeared in Gabrielle's book.

Fleur picked one up, looking from it to the other. "Tom… does this still work even if you're back in Britain?"

"Of course. And not just Britain—if I go to America next time, it'll still work without a problem." Tom spoke with confidence; the magic behind this was based on the same technology as Nicolas Flamel's enchanted address book. Distance simply didn't matter.

Gabrielle beamed. Tom had just called her the cutest in the world, so she happily wrote in her own notebook: {Tom is the best brother in the world.}

The same text instantly appeared in Tom's book, and both lines neatly aligned—each sentence on one side, followed by a tiny portrait of the one who wrote it.

"With this, we won't have to worry about long, slow communication anymore, right?" Tom smiled at Fleur.

She was flushed with excitement, gripping his hands tightly. "Tom, do you realize what you've just done? You've changed the world! With these WhatsApp notebooks, owl post will become history. They'll only be used for deliveries!"

Tom chuckled, curling his fingers around hers until their hands were interlocked. "I've thought about that. But this is just a prototype. It's useful, sure—but it's still got flaws."

"First, the cost. Just making these few notebooks burned through some of my professor's rarest materials. You need a stable magic core for storing and displaying the messages, or the writing will end up distorted or corrupted."

"Second, the labor. I can only make a few a day by myself. Even if I taught others, there aren't many who could master the process."

Fleur's excitement settled. She knew all too well—many magical items couldn't be mass-produced. Even alchemical products required engraving runes with a wizard's own magical insight.

"So expensive," she said, glancing at the notebook like it might burn her fingers. "We should stick to owl post. Something this rare should only be used in an emergency."

"What are you talking about?" Tom frowned. "The whole point of WhatsApp was so I could talk to you and Gabrielle anytime. If you're not going to use it, maybe I should find another pair of half-Veela sisters?"

"Bad brother!" Gabrielle instantly switched sides at the mention of finding another half-Veela, puffing her cheeks.

Fleur was both touched and a little provoked. She pinched him in mock anger.

She'd done that so many times lately. This infuriating boy could play her emotions like a harp—one moment making her melt, the next making her chest tighten with frustration.

"Alright, alright! Mercy!" Tom laughed, swearing to himself that when he got home, he'd invent a potion or charm to block ticklish nerves. Someone as perfect as him couldn't have such a ridiculous weakness.

"If you don't want it, then I'll just give it to Gabrielle. She and I can talk every day, and you and I can… chat once every three days."

"Who said I don't want it?" Fleur grabbed the notebook, ready to press it against his to add him as a contact—only for Tom to pull his own book out of reach.

"What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled.

Tom raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Gabrielle gave me a pin earlier. Don't tell me her big sister plans to cut corners?"

Fleur immediately understood, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed. But with him clearly unwilling to give up, she bit her lip and relented, leaning in to wrap her arms lightly around him and nuzzle his cheek like a shy kitten.

Seeing that, Gabrielle covered her eyes—well, almost. The fingers were spread just enough for her big eyes to peek through, and her mouth was merciless.

"Sis is blushing."

"Gabrielle!"

"Ah! Brother, save me! She's going to transform!"

"You keep talking nonsense—we're half-bloods. We don't transform!"

— — —

While the Delacour household was filled with laughter, over in the depths of the Bastille a young prison guard was making his way past layer after layer of security checks, carrying a food tray for the inmate kept in the deepest cell.

The young guard was Vogel.

Just after dealing with the traitorous Étienne family, Vogel had deliberately kept quiet for a while to avoid giving the French Ministry of Magic any excuse to dig into his affairs. But that didn't mean he'd been idle—on Tom's orders, he'd been cleaning house.

Every single member of his faction had been interrogated under Veritaserum and subjected to Legilimency. Sure enough, rot had already set in.

They hadn't gone as far as Étienne, who'd become a pawn for foreign Ministries, but some had abandoned their ideals long ago and stayed only for personal gain. Vogel had no patience for people like that.

Anyone who knew about Grindelwald's student had to be beyond suspicion. Those who weren't were just a leak waiting to happen.

Only after purging every risk in his own ranks did Vogel finally make time to come to the Bastille, here to retrieve a certain wand for Tom.

...

On the upper floors the prison was all bare stone walls and cramped, filthy cages, prisoners packed in like livestock.

But in the final level, the style changed. The walls were painted a spotless white, and the vast underground floor—easily a few thousand square meters—was divided into only four cells, two of which were actually occupied.

One held a deranged potioneer who had murdered fifty Muggles and used their blood in his experiments. The other belonged to Vinda Rosier.

People were either too valuable to kill or too well-connected to treat like common criminals.

The potioneer here was the former, perhaps the most skilled in all France, kept alive because the Ministry needed his expertise for certain brews.

Vinda Rosier, though, was the latter.

Old pure-blood families had always been masters of spreading out their bloodlines, hedging bets on both sides.

Like the Lestranges, the Rosiers had started in France, their blood now spread across the continent. The "Sacred Twenty-Eight" of Britain was nothing more than one distant branch of the tree.

Vinda had become Grindelwald's second-in-command among the acolytes, yet her family also had members holding high office in the Ministry. Between that and the arrangements made after Grindelwald's defeat, her life in prison was far from harsh—she simply couldn't leave.

With her leader locked away and her cause lost, Vinda's spirit had withered. Where she was kept didn't matter to her anymore.

Vogel unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Her "cell" was more like a suite—over two hundred square meters, fully furnished with expensive hardwood furniture, the kind of place that radiated refinement and status.

"Vinda?" Vogel called, testing the waters.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and an elderly woman with silver hair and an air of effortless dignity stepped out. Her face was lined with age, but the ghost of her beauty was still unmistakable.

"Who are you?" she asked calmly.

No ordinary guard would dare address her by name.

"It's me—Vogel."

A quick charm ended his Polyjuice disguise. Recognizing an old colleague, Vinda's expression didn't change in the slightest.

"Vogel? Now there's a rare visitor. I didn't expect to see you again. But whatever you came for, you'll be disappointed—I've no interest in the outside world anymore."

"If it's just an old friend visiting, you're welcome to stay," she added with a faint, cool smile. Her voice carried the kind of detachment only someone who had long since stopped caring could manage.

"Really don't want to leave?" Vogel asked lightly.

Technically, she was his elder—his father had been her equal—but they were close enough in age to speak on level terms.

Vinda let out a quiet chuckle and moved to a wicker chair in the sitting area. It rocked gently as she sat. A teacup filled itself and floated into her hand.

"If I'd wanted to leave, I could have done so thirty years ago. Why wait until now?"

"Is that so?" Vogel shrugged. "Then I won't try to talk you into returning. Just hand over the wand Grindelwald left in your care. Mr. Riddle needs it to bring the Acolytes under one banner.

"You can't use it here anyway. And as the old man's student, he's the rightful bearer."

Vinda suddenly sat ramrod straight. Hot tea sloshed over her clothes and she didn't even notice—her eyes were fixed on Vogel.

"What did you just say? The old man's student? Gellert Grindelwald's student?"

"Vogel, are you joking? Where would he even take on a student—Nurmengard?"

Vogel hid his amusement, keeping his face impassive as he casually picked at his ear.

"I thought you didn't care about the outside world anymore? For the sake of your peaceful life, Vinda, best not to ask too many questions."

She stretched out her hand, and a wand flew from somewhere deeper in the suite, landing neatly in her grip.

"My patience is limited, Vogel. Don't make me ask twice."

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