Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

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No need to guess anymore... Vogel caved.

Frankly, the whole thing felt absurd.

Sure, this place had nice living conditions, but it was still a glorified prison. Being pampered with good food and drink was one thing…

But handing a wand to a prisoner?

Fuck the French Ministry — they had one job, and they still managed to screw it up.

The only witch Vogel had ever seen who was tougher than Vinda was Tina Goldstein—no, wait... she now was Tina Scamander.

"..."

Under the silent warning of the wand pointed at him, Vogel obediently laid out everything he knew about Tom.

By the time he finished, Vinda's whole body was trembling faintly, her eyes glistening.

"A student… yes. That kind of magical flame as protection—if he isn't Grindelwald's student, who else would be qualified to wield it? And the fact he only asked me for a wand, not instructions, means Lord Grindelwald must have told him already…"

"So Master Riddle can speak to the Lord directly?" the old woman asked sharply, locking eyes with Vogel.

"That's what he said," Vogel replied honestly. "I don't understand the specifics of that talent of his, but I'm sure it's true. Otherwise, how do you think he learned magic like that? You think it was from that hypocrite Dumbledore?"

Vogel gave a short, derisive laugh. "All the Dark Arts locked up in the Restricted Section… you can't imagine how bad Hogwarts' teaching has gotten. If Hogwarts had been like this back in the day, Scamander would never have been a student capable of ruining our plans."

Vinda's face was expressionless. "But Britain's strange that way. Every so often a truly gifted wizard pops up—Dumbledore, that McGonagall woman's not bad either, then Scamander, then Voldemort, and now, young Riddle."

Vogel nodded in agreement. The overall standard might be pitiful, but every so often a prodigy appeared, single-handedly keeping the world's opinion of British wizardry afloat.

"So, Vinda… you thinking of getting out of here?" he asked.

"What about the Lord?" she shot back.

Vogel shook his head. "Master Riddle thinks the Acolytes are useless as they are—full of rot inside. Now's not the time to welcome Lord Grindelwald back. It's time to regroup."

"I see…" Vinda's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "So he doesn't think much of us failures."

Vogel grinned.

There it was. Even when he tried to put it delicately, she caught it instantly. The infamous French Black Rose missed nothing.

"In that case, I'll hold onto the wand for now."

"What?" Vogel stared at her. "You're not—"

"You want Riddle to see the Acolytes at their weakest and have to waste his time reorganizing us himself?" Vinda rose, pacing the room. "What would he need us for then?

"What he needs right now is powerful allies who can actually help him—not a bunch of dead weight slowing him down. This, I'll handle."

She glanced at him, eyes cold but resolute. "If Lord Grindelwald chose him as a disciple, that means Riddle's magical talent is extraordinary. The last thing he needs is to be dragged down by petty distractions."

Vogel had to admit, she'd convinced him. The Acolytes as they stood weren't an asset—they were a liability.

"But what about Master Riddle—"

"I'll write him a letter."

She flicked her fingers and parchment and quill flew to the desk. Bowing her head, she began to write in a quick, elegant hand. Vogel didn't interrupt; he had time to spare, and leaving within half an hour wouldn't raise suspicion.

When she finished, she folded the page neatly into an envelope and sealed it.

"Give this to Riddle for me."

"I will." Vogel took it, then asked, "You're still not going to leave?"

"Not yet." She shook her head. "Staying in the shadows keeps the attention off me. If I walk out now, too many eyes will turn my way.

"I can control everything from here just as well."

Vogel nodded. "Let's hope the old crew remembers why they joined in the first place. I don't want to turn my wand on my own people… but I also don't want the Acolytes so weak we're a laughingstock."

"Why focus only on the old guard?" Vinda smiled faintly. "Vogel, you still haven't learned to see the way of Grindelwald.

"Haven't you noticed the magical world is changing? It's starting to look more and more like it did before we rose to power."

Even from inside this gilded cage, she could see the shift—just from family visitors' reports and the occasional newspaper.

The Muggle world was advancing at a terrifying pace, their footprints now covering almost the entire globe.

More unsettling was the invasion of Muggle ideas. Take last Christmas—why had the breakup of a Muggle nation caused such an earthquake in the magical world, spawning more than ten new Ministries overnight?

Without realizing it, wizards had started organizing themselves along Muggle political lines.

Some embraced it. Others hated it.

That was a Left–Right divide ripe for exploitation—and a perfect chance to recruit conservative wizards into the Acolytes.

By the time she finished, Vogel was completely won over.

He'd been focused on his tiny patch of land. Vinda already had her eye on an entire new territory. That was the difference between them.

"Whatever you need from me, just say it," Vogel said with a shrug. He was fine being the muscle.

"Just deliver that letter. If I need more, I'll let you know." She waved him toward the door.

After he left, Vinda stayed seated, mapping out her next moves.

Hope and ambition are dangerous things—they can turn a person inside out in no time at all.

She'd thought Grindelwald had given up, resigned to die in his tower. But Tom's appearance had shifted something in him.

If she could rebuild the Acolytes' power, Grindelwald would return.

And maybe—just maybe—one day they'd meet again out in the world.

For that faint hope, Vinda Rozier would become the French Black Rose once more, ready to shake the political foundations of all Europe if she had to.

— — —

Another school year rolled around. After being suspended for two and a half months, the Hogwarts Express finally blew its whistle and set off again.

And once again, Tom missed it.

He'd actually set aside a whole day to go to Diagon Alley for his new term's supplies. But before leaving, he'd given Nicolas two "WhatsApp" notebooks.

That was where things spiraled. Nicolas Flamel was instantly fascinated by them, and not only kept Tom talking for ages but insisted he make another notebook right in front of him from scratch.

For Nicolas, it wasn't about the technology—it was about the idea. In a world where even Muggle communications were nowhere near this advanced, the concept of real-time online chatting was decades ahead of its time.

And Tom didn't stop there—he laid out the future roadmap for "WhatsApp": group chats, online shopping, video uploads, streaming…

Tom was basically creating Meta — cramming Facebook, YouTube, and everything else into one magical device. He was already thinking of changing the name in the future to something...original.

Anyway, back to the topic, if those features ever came to life, they'd fulfill Nicolas Flamel's greatest dream: bringing alchemy into every wizarding household until it became a normal, indispensable part of daily life.

The old man threw himself into the project with wild enthusiasm, working side by side with Tom for two straight days. He helped solve problem after problem, most of them about simplifying production and cutting costs so it could spread more easily.

By the time they finally emerged from the workshop, it was already noon on September 1st. Tom had spectacularly missed the train.

"Professor, you really didn't have to rush this much." Tom rubbed his tired eyes with a wry smile. "It'll take years to really spread, you know. I promise, when the time comes—"

Nicolas shot him a glare. "What, trying to curse your teacher into an early grave?"

"No, that's not what I—" Tom blinked. "But the Philosopher's Stone is gone, so you—"

"Dumbledore didn't tell you I brewed some extra Elixir of Life for… future arrangements?" Nicolas interrupted. "Another fifty years won't be a problem."

Tom: "..."

Fifty years. For "arrangements"? That's… a lot of arrangements, old man.

Then something occurred to him. He eyed Nicolas suspiciously. "But I remember the Elixir of Life only keeps for three years."

"Don't tell me you can't think of a way to extend the shelf life." Nicolas rolled his eyes and waved him toward the door. "Anyway, don't forget your alchemy research once you're back at school. Parker will be reporting to you from now on—if you need anything, have him get in touch with me. Now go."

"Alright, I'm off then."

Before leaving, Tom went to visit Madame Perenelle and promised he'd be back for Christmas.

This time, thanks to the entry-exit permit Lady Greengrass had given him, he could Apparate straight back to Britain without triggering the wards.

And since he'd already missed the train, Tom decided not to bother rushing.

He contacted Daphne through the two-way mirror to explain, checked whether Lady Greengrass was home, and—finding out she was—took his time. He went to Diagon Alley first to finish his shopping before finally heading to the Greengrass estate.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you on the train?" Lady Greengrass was startled when Tom appeared in her home.

"Uh, Nicolas kept me tied up in research, and I lost track of time."

"Do you want me to have someone take you to school?" she asked warmly. She knew Tom was studying under Flamel and about the two proposed solutions to the blood curse. Unfortunately, neither of them was viable right now.

"No need." Tom shook his head. "I can Apparate straight to Hogsmeade later. Won't take long."

Lady Greengrass nodded and pulled an envelope from a drawer.

"This came from France—no sender listed, but your name's on it."

"Thanks."

Tom opened it, scanned the contents, and didn't show much reaction.

Vinda Rosier had sent her regards and laid out her stance: if Tom refused her proposal, she would have her wand sent over immediately. Her tone was formal and courteous.

Tom, of course, wasn't going to turn down a perfect volunteer "ally."

There was no danger of Vinda trying to grab power. If she'd ever wanted that, she could have unified the Acolytes decades ago.

"Auntie, from now on, if you get letters like this, just slip them into a Greengrass family envelope before forwarding them to Hogwarts."

A flame flared in Tom's palm, and the letter crumbled into ash.

Lady Greengrass didn't ask why—she simply agreed.

The safest place was often the one no one suspected. Dumbledore wasn't likely to go snooping through his mail, and this was just a way to keep anyone from noticing his frequent correspondence abroad.

"This is the shipment the Ministry asked for. Please pass it to Madam Bones for me." Tom handed over his summer's work—two hundred Anti-Disarm bracelets—and then produced a special edition.

The special bracelet was just as elegant but inlaid with six gemstones, each holding a shield charm at full strength. Once used, the gem would shatter, but could be replaced to restore it.

Lady Greengrass immediately fastened it around her wrist. "I can't believe you really made two hundred over the summer. Amelia was telling me the other day you could take longer if you needed."

"I'll deliver them to the Ministry tomorrow. The payment will go straight to your account."

"No rush on the money." Tom shook his head and got to the real question he'd come for. "Auntie, if I wanted to buy a First Class Order of Merlin… how many Galleons would that take?"

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