Back in the day, Grindelwald had once set his sights on Credence for the very same reason—because if cultivated properly, such a vessel could explode with terrifying power in a short time, enough to even threaten Albus Dumbledore's life.
Unfortunately for Grindelwald, Credence had slipped away before that seed could fully bloom.
Now, Ariana gave a small, trembling nod.
"…Alright. I'll learn the Dark Arts from you."
…
"Fine. Teach her your curses if you must," Tom murmured later, after seeing Ariana safely returned to her villa. He fixed Grindelwald with a sharp look. "But don't mention the Obscurial. Give her time."
"I know." Grindelwald waved a hand, as if dismissing the concern. "I'll leave that to you, Tom. I'll handle my part."
Andros crossed his arms, sighing. "Why is everyone so impatient? Solid foundations matter. White magic may start slower, but in the long run it's no weaker than black magic."
Tom grinned. "I'm not impatient. But Ariana is different. She's got a looming nemesis waiting to be beaten. In that case, a little urgency makes sense, doesn't it?"
Grindelwald rolled his eyes but held his tongue.
From that day onward, Ariana began training directly under Grindelwald in the Dark Arts—and her talent blossomed frighteningly fast. Even she was unsettled, convinced for a time that being so naturally attuned to dark magic meant she was somehow born a bad person.
It took Tom's words to soothe her.
"Being a 'bad person' isn't always bad. It means you get to decide for yourself. Good people are trampled. Bad people have the power to trample back. What you do with that power—that's up to you."
"But Tom, you use Dark Arts too," Ariana argued, eyes wide and sincere. "And you're not a bad person. You're good."
Tom chuckled. "Exactly. As long as I'm 'good' to you, then the rest doesn't matter."
The girl let go of her fear. A weight lifted off her shoulders, and for the first time, her real nature—temper, pride, and all—began to shine through.
Grindelwald didn't just lecture her on spells. He told her stories of his own youth, his mistakes and triumphs, trying to mold her worldview as much as her magic.
…
By December, Hogwarts had transformed into a snow-bound fortress. Snow drifts piled on the towers, and icicles glittered like crystal spears. Students could see Hagrid bundled up in mole-fur boots and a massive coat, carting crates of frost-sensitive vegetables into the castle to store.
And that same week, Tom's second article was finally published.
"The Magical Chronicles: The House of Lestrange"
If Rosier had been an introduction, this was a bombshell.
The name Lestrange was infamous across Britain. Even if no direct heirs remained at Hogwarts, countless pure-blood children could trace distant ties to the family. Compared to Rosier, the Lestranges carried a darker, more fearsome reputation—one deeply woven into wizarding history.
So when the Prophet hit breakfast tables, all of Hogwarts devoured the article.
Why, they wondered, had Tom ranked Lestrange only as a lineage, a step below a great house?
…
"The Lestrange family was founded in the thirteenth century by Corvinus Lestrange, a notorious Dark wizard. His wand was unusual: its core, the feather of a three-legged raven, and its wood, yew—the wood most beloved by dark sorcerers. The family crest likewise bore a raven, uncannily close to Ravenclaw's emblem."
"Measured by sheer longevity, the Rosiers are a thousand-year dynasty. The Lestranges, younger by several centuries, lack that depth of heritage."
"Measured by contribution to magical society, the Lestranges pale even further. From their founder onward, they became known for producing Dark wizards. Their wealth and power came not from scholarship or invention, but from ruthlessness."
"The tenth head of house coveted the Philosopher's Stone—and perished at the hands of Nicolas Flamel. The loss crippled the family, forcing them to scatter into foreign branches just to survive. It was, in truth, the beginning of their decline."
"In Britain, the most famous descendant was Rodolphus Lestrange, who briefly held the office of Minister for Magic. He attempted to shutter the Department of Mysteries under the guise of 'budget cuts'—but no one supported him. His resignation soon followed, citing health reasons, making him the shortest-serving Minister in history."
"The Lestranges clung to their standing through marriage pacts with other pure-bloods, but behind the façade lay uncomfortable truths: countless Muggle ancestors. The reason? Centuries of inbreeding crippled their fertility, and congenital defects nearly destroyed them. Time and again, their bloodline would have died out—were it not for discreet marriages into Muggle families. These truths, however, the Lestranges buried with ferocity."
…
The Great Hall went silent.
Every line of the article shredded Lestrange pride to pieces.
No praise. No redemption. Only exposure and condemnation.
The so-called paragons of pure blood were laid bare as hypocrites, their "noble line" surviving only through the very Muggles they claimed to despise.
For many readers, a chill ran down their spines.
The Lestranges, for all their bluster, were a house built on rot.
And now everyone knew it.
…
The backlash never came.
The French main branch was long extinct. The British Lestranges were rotting in Azkaban. The American branch had even changed its surname to escape the stigma.
Tom had picked his target with precision: strong enough to shock, weak enough to be unable to strike back.
The Serpent had learned to squeeze soft fruit first.
…
Later, in the quiet of his dormitory, Tom flipped open the cursed diary once more.
"Old Tom," he drawled. "You've given me nothing worthwhile for days."
The ink bled onto the page.
"I've already told you everything I know. Unless you pour ten kilograms of dragon's blood into me to awaken me fully, I cannot recall anything further."
Tom's eyes narrowed.
Was Voldemort… stonewalling him?
Had the Dark Lord, even in this form, chosen to simply stop playing?