Having secured Dumbledore's promise, Tom left the office with immense satisfaction.

On the way back, he was still bickering with Grindelwald in the learning space. Grindelwald insisted he shouldn't go looking for Scamander. That man, he claimed, was not to be trusted.

Tom glanced at the furious Grindelwald and couldn't help but feel the man had completely misunderstood their relationship.

"Mr. Grindelwald, let's get one thing straight. Back then, you were the villain. I'm Dumbledore's student now—doesn't that mean I'm naturally on Scamander's side?"

"But you're also my student!" Grindelwald said with great indignation. "Dumbledore's just a figurehead. What has he actually taught you? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!"

"I, on the other hand," Grindelwald continued passionately, "have already passed on the Protego Diabolica magic I've mastered, and I've been helping you painstakingly improve and create new spells! If we're talking about real connection, isn't it obvious who's closer to you?"

Tom was exasperated.

"Dumbledore beat you, and you were totally fine with me seeing him. But now that I want to meet Scamander, suddenly it's a problem? Come on—where's your dark lord mindset, your big-picture thinking?"

"What—because he caught you once in New York, then stole your blood pact in Paris, and finally brought the real Qilin to Bhutan?"

Tom's voice trailed off by the end, even he realizing that from Grindelwald's perspective, Newt Scamander had really done him dirty.

But it was what Grindelwald said next that truly shocked Tom.

Grindelwald practically growled:

"What you mentioned? That's only the beginning. You have no idea how many of my plans Scamander ruined after I declared war on the wizarding world."

"Thirteen times! I was already tangled up with Dumbledore, and he kept popping up with those bizarre magical creatures of his, sabotaging everything!"

"Forget helping me get revenge—my old followers hate him to the bone. You've noticed, right? These days, apart from the UK and the U.S., he dares not step foot into any European country."

"If he did, by the next morning, there'd be at least a hundred Avada Kedavras aimed right at his head."

Tom inhaled sharply.

He nearly missed a stair on the way down.

He'd only known about the early parts of Scamander's tale. He hadn't realized that, later on, the man had turned into such a menace to the Saints. He hadn't just been poking the hornet's nest—he'd been living in it.

Grindelwald let out a long breath.

"To be honest, I don't blame anyone for my defeat. I was simply outmatched, couldn't change the tides. The only regret I've ever had... is not killing Scamander before that final duel with Dumbledore."

"Thirteen times," Tom muttered, a chuckle creeping in. "Not a very lucky number, is it? Still, from where I stand, Scamander is someone I have to work with."

"First it was the Fire Crab and Erumpent horn… then the Ukrainian Ironbelly, the unicorn… and what next?"

"If I'm going to continue tracking down rare magical creatures in the future, tell me—who else would be better than Newt Scamander?"

Grindelwald's brows shot up. "Your talent… does it have a limit?"

"Oh, it definitely does," Tom replied with a serious nod. "Just… not yet."

Now Grindelwald fell into silence, because he had no counterargument. In the field of magical creatures, Newt Scamander wasn't just number one—he was so far ahead, the rest of the field basically started at fourth place.

"Fine. Just make sure I don't have to see that man." Grindelwald grumbled and promptly exited the learning space, his consciousness retreating to his body in Nurmengard.

Tom couldn't help but laugh.

Most of the time, Grindelwald was composed, calculating—a true Dark Lord. But the moment Dumbledore or Newt Scamander were mentioned, he turned into someone else entirely. Especially with Scamander—it was pure, irrational loathing.

Their tangled feelings really did run deep.

He had to get the two of them in a room together someday.

"Eternity."

As Tom spoke the password, the floor rose to form a serpent, parting to reveal the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

He hadn't even descended the stairs when the sounds of spellfire clashing rang out. Quickening his pace, he reached the bottom to find the furniture pushed aside and a dueling ring set up in the center.

Two young witches were locked in a magical duel. Several upperclassmen stood at the edges, wands raised with Protego Totalum to shield the bystanders from any stray blasts.

Tom had nearly forgotten—it was the first weekend of the new term, time to reselect the Invisibles (Slytherin's unique "invisible prefects"). He'd left that task in the hands of Burke, the seventh-year male prefect.

The duel was between two fifth-year girls. Imogen Phyllis, last year's challenger, had lost then. Today, she was back for revenge.

Clearly, Imogen had trained hard over the holidays. Her shame and fury were fueling spellwork far more powerful than before. She drove Isabella, the current Invisible, back with each blast.

Soon enough, Isabella's magic ran dry, her spells failed—and Imogen's Stupefy knocked her out cold.

Imogen clenched her fist, eyes gleaming with triumph.

She'd avenged her past defeat.

Burke signaled two students to carry Isabella away and stepped forward.

"Phyllis wins. She'll serve as the fifth-year Invisible. Anyone else want to challenge for another year group?"

"Ahem."

Tom cleared his throat, stepping through the crowd of younger students and into the ring.

"Sorry I'm late. Any first-years want to challenge me?"

His gaze drifted—ever so slightly—toward Malfoy, who immediately yanked Goyle and Crabbe in front of him like a human shield.

The crowd: "....."

Was he joking? What kind of first-year would be dumb enough to challenge Tom Riddle?

Forget Tom—even Daphne had gone unchallenged. Ever since last term, it was a silent rule: she was the Invisible for her year. This time she'd even been hoping someone would challenge her, so she could test herself—but not one person did. Frustrated, she had stomped off to her dorm to read.

"Tom, I want to challenge you!"

The crowd gasped.

Someone actually dared?

All eyes turned to Burke, who stood tall and confident.

Could it be—was he unhappy about Tom's dominance? Was he rising up at last?

Even Tom considered it. Maybe his low profile last term had emboldened Burke, made him think he stood a chance.

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly, appraising him.

But Burke quickly realized how his words sounded and rushed to explain:

"Tom, I just want to test how far I've come. I know I'm not your equal, but out of everyone in Slytherin, you're the best benchmark I've got."

After losing to Tom last time, Burke had pushed himself even harder. But he knew—Tom hadn't stopped progressing either. The talent gap remained. He had no illusions about winning; he just wanted a proper spar.

Kind of like how Tom had sought out Snape.

Seeing Burke's sincere expression, Tom gave a small nod.

"All right. After the rest of the challenges are done."

"Anyone else?" Burke asked, glancing around. No one else dared step forward.

"Then shall we begin?"