"Albus, the world doesn't run on right and wrong. It runs on worth and not worth."
"For the sake of a group of greedy, scheming people, you were prepared to push Tom onto the opposing side, and myself along with him?"
Dumbledore understood the principle well enough. Acting for the greatest possible good was, after all, the very philosophy he had built his life around.
But he had overlooked two things of considerable importance.
The first was that different positions produced different conclusions about what "the greatest good" actually meant.
The second was that Tom had already become a dark lord.
Not because he had done anything evil in the traditional sense. A dark lord, in the truest meaning of the term, was simply someone who placed their personal will above the universal values of the wizarding world and had the power to make that position stick.
Grindelwald had been one. Voldemort had been one. And Dumbledore himself, if he was being honest, had spent decades pulling strings and maneuvering events to align with his own plans and vision. He had no room to claim purity of method.
Now it was Tom's turn.
Grindelwald had wielded ideals that resonated with thousands and a charisma that bent people to his vision. Voldemort had ruled through unrestrained dark magic and the systematic cultivation of terror.
Tom was different from both of them. He was, if anything, more like Dumbledore himself, using personal bonds as his foundation, drawing people to his side quietly, almost without anyone noticing, and doing it with considerably more grace than Dumbledore had ever managed.
When Dumbledore had needed Nicolas's involvement all those years ago, he had been forced to ask. And Nicolas had helped exactly once, and then stepped back and never involved himself again.
Newt had been half-persuaded, half-obligated, running himself ragged across various conflicts and crises on Dumbledore's behalf.
But Tom hadn't said a word, and Nicolas had already stepped forward with his allegiance declared openly and without hesitation. Tina and Newt's reactions, Dumbledore suspected, would be much the same.
If things broke down entirely, Dumbledore didn't dare think about what the wizarding world would look like afterward. Grindelwald alone would be beside himself with delight.
You might question an alchemist's direct combat ability. You could not question what six hundred years of accumulated alchemical work looked like when turned toward causing trouble. If Nicolas Flamel truly wanted to, he could manufacture more chaos than Grindelwald and Voldemort combined.
Dumbledore finished his whisky and exhaled without sound.
He opened his WhatsApp and began working through his contacts. A decision had been made, and hesitation from this point forward would only convert everyone around him into opponents. Calculated neutrality had a way of doing exactly that.
...
Tom's home, meanwhile, was magnificent chaos in the best possible sense.
A towering Christmas tree dominated the back garden, silver tinsel threaded through its branches among dozens of carefully chosen ornaments, with a brilliant lucky star blazing at its peak. The little Lucys had worked meticulously on every corner of the house, filling it with the warmth of the season.
Hearing the carriage arrive, Madame Greengrass came out to welcome them, her daughters at her sides, Newt and Tina beside them.
"Mr. Flamel, a pleasure to meet you." Madame Greengrass greeted him with genuine respect.
"We're family here," Nicolas said warmly, nodding to the assembled group. "No need for ceremony."
He wasn't wrong, technically. He and the Greengrasses had had no connection before this. But now, in the loosest sense of the term, he was something like the groom's side of the family. The description fit well enough.
Inside, the two house-elves were working in the kitchen with the focused urgency of professionals who knew a large dinner was expected. Rich, layered aromas were already drifting through the hallway. The little Lucys had clustered near the kitchen doorway and were watching the cooking process with intense, unblinking curiosity.
Madame Greengrass settled into conversation with Perenelle. Nicolas observed the Lucys observing the house-elves. Tom began rearranging the dining room, shaping the long table into a round one with a quiet gesture.
Round tables were unusual in Western dining culture, largely because of the division-of-dishes approach that most households used. They appeared at meetings and councils more than at family meals. But for a gathering like this, a round table meant everyone was facing each other, part of the same circle, and the magic could simply deliver each dish to each plate from the kitchen without anyone needing to reach across.
Newt drifted over once he confirmed there was nothing urgent for him to do, and the two of them fell into easy conversation about recent events.
It turned out Newt had run into a frustrating situation.
Britain was home to two native dragon species: the Welsh Green and the Hebridean Black. The Welsh Green was the more docile of the two, though "docile for a fire-breathing dragon" still left considerable room for danger compared to most creatures. The British Ministry of Magic kept over twenty Welsh Greens in managed facilities, harvesting useful materials from them annually to supply various manufacturers, a modest but consistent source of departmental funding.
A few weeks ago, the Green population had been struck by a sudden outbreak of dragon pox. The illness wasn't fatal, but it significantly disrupted the creatures' ability to reproduce.
Word had got around that Newt had returned to England permanently. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had come to him for help.
Newt's requested payment wasn't money. He wanted several varieties of herbs that grew near dragon nesting sites. The Ministry agreed without hesitation.
The dragons recovered. The promised herbs did not arrive. They had all been sold off in the interim, apparently, and the next crop wouldn't be mature until June.
Bang.
Tom's palm came down flat on the side table he had just moved into position.
"Outrageous." His voice was perfectly level, which somehow made it worse. "They looked at you, decided you were too reasonable to push back, and simply chose not to pay. That's what happened."
He looked at Newt with an expression that was equal parts amused and genuinely indignant.
"Uncle Newt, forget being polite about it. Go collect what they owe you under a different name. How about The Jackal?"