He could even bring Dumbledore around to his side, given time. Robert was quite certain that the more fiercely Dumbledore defended Riddle now, the more devastating the betrayal would be if Tom crossed over. That particular kind of disappointment, in a man like Dumbledore, curdled into something fierce.
Dumbledore turned his head.
And stopped.
Because Tom was wearing the expression of a person genuinely weighing his options.
The old man leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice to something low and urgent, the tone of someone delivering advice they very much needed the other person to take. "Don't let Grindelwald's flattery and promises cloud your judgment. This is what he does. He has always had an extraordinary gift for finding what a person wants most and putting it just within reach. But I believe in you, Tom. Everything he's offering, you can achieve on your own terms, without him."
"I understand, Professor." Tom nodded slowly. "But if I joined Grindelwald's side, I could go after the Graves family without anyone being able to stop me, couldn't I?"
The sound of several people inhaling sharply came from behind him.
This boy and his grudges. The Graves family was already in ruins. He had already taken them apart systematically and thoroughly, and still that was not enough? Most wizards with a grievance settled it and moved on. Tom apparently filed them away and kept them warm.
The instinct to obliterate an entire family line was something the wizarding world had not seen in generations. Even Voldemort, at the height of his madness, had not operated quite like this.
Eyes drifted toward Robert, who was sitting as though the chair had grown spikes. The thought passing through more than a few minds in that room was not an especially charitable one. If someone handed the Graves family over as a peace offering, at least the rest of them could stop worrying about it.
Wizards tended to wear their feelings in their eyes. Robert felt every one of those glances land and had to resist the urge to stand up and leave.
"Think of Miss Greengrass," Dumbledore said, having apparently run out of more dignified persuasion and moved on to whatever tools remained. "Miss Granger. Miss Chang. Miss Clearwater. Miss Weasley. Miss Lovegood. If you left Hogwarts, think of how much it would devastate them." He listed the names one after another, rattling them off like items on a menu, and by the time he reached the end of the list Tom had gone completely blank-faced, staring at the old man with the expression of a fish that had been out of water for slightly too long.
"Professor," Tom said, "do you spend your free time cataloguing the private lives of your students?"
Dumbledore looked away, with the mild discomfort of a man who knew he had no good answer. It was entirely reasonable to take a close interest in exceptional students. The problem was that whenever he looked in Tom's direction, the things he found were never what anyone would describe as reasonable. He was doing his best with what he had.
"I will give it careful consideration, Miss Rosier." Tom turned back to Vinda, leaving Dumbledore to his awkwardness, and offered her an answer that committed to absolutely nothing. "For now, I'm finding Hogwarts agreeable enough that I'm not quite ready to hand in my notice."
He gave Dumbledore a sideways look as he said it. The old man could interpret that however he liked.
"What a shame." Vinda's regret sounded almost sincere. "Mr. Grindelwald and I will be in Berlin, whenever you change your mind."
With that, she raised one hand, and with a small, deliberate flick of her fingers, sent a paper crane gliding through the air toward Tom. It unfolded itself in front of him, settling flat. Several people in the front row could see its contents clearly: a list, neatly arranged, itemising a range of products that bore Tom's particular mark.
"Mr. Riddle, this is a procurement order from the German Ministry of Magic. No delivery deadline. The payment has already been transferred to your Gringotts vault."
Fudge opened his mouth.
Vinda's gaze moved to him, just briefly, with a quality that was not quite a threat and did not need to be. Fudge closed his mouth.
"Should anyone attempt to interfere with your ability to conduct ordinary business," Vinda continued pleasantly, "Mr. Grindelwald would be happy to pay that country's Ministry of Magic a social call. Every few days, if necessary."
She rose from her seat, unhurried, and her people fell in behind her as she walked toward the door. Akingbade's expression moved through several phases of internal conflict, but in the end he did not give the order. Scrimgeour looked as though he very much wanted to, until Bones fixed him with a look that pinned him to his chair as effectively as any spell.
The hearing dissolved without ceremony. Nobody had the appetite to keep quarrelling over minor points after that entrance and that exit. Akingbade drew Dumbledore aside for a private conversation, and Fudge, with the instincts of a man who understood which rooms mattered, quietly attached himself to that discussion.
Tom walked over to where Robert was still seated.
He was smiling, lightly, the way you smile when you are not particularly trying to.
"Mr. Graves. Until we meet again."
Robert looked up, his expression sharp with hatred, and met Tom's eyes.
There was something moving in them. Something faint and circular, a quality that did not belong to ordinary light. A thread of something reached out, briefly, between their two minds, so brief and so quiet that Robert did not register it at all. By the time he gathered himself, Tom had already stepped past him and was heading for the door.
...
The doorbell at Privet Drive rang.
"Coming!"
The response came quickly, and the door opened. Tom blinked once, and then laughed.
"Sirius. What exactly are you wearing?"
Sirius Black stood in the doorway wearing a wide grin and an apron that had seen considerably better days, streaked with grease and what appeared to be several unrelated cooking accidents. The man who had stared out from last year's wanted posters, all sharp angles and barely contained fury, had apparently been replaced by a somewhat frantic househusband.
"Thought I'd make you and Harry a proper meal," Sirius said, entirely unbothered by the amusement at his expense. He stepped back to let Tom in. "Come on, two more dishes and it'll be done. Steak looks simple but it's more of a project than you'd think."
Tom stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately. Scorched, with undertones of something that had been optimistic about its prospects and then failed to meet them. His expectations for lunch quietly revised themselves downward.
The technique, from what he could gather, was somewhere below Hagrid's. Possibly some distance below.