"Well…" Dumbledore did not answer immediately. Instead, he led Sirius toward the exit of the courtroom.
"It was indeed Mr. Riddle's discovery that made today possible. I invited him to witness the hearing, but unfortunately, he declined. He seems quite busy."
"If you wish to see him, I'm afraid it may not be easy in the near future."
"That's fine," Sirius shrugged. "I'm not in a hurry. Gives me time to think about what sort of gift I should prepare to thank him."
"It need not be extravagant," Dumbledore advised gently. "Books, rare knowledge perhaps. Mr. Riddle does not lack money, nor does he particularly desire it."
If Tom had heard that, he would have marched straight back to the courtroom.
Not lack money?
He was practically starving for it.
Sirius Black held the entire Black family fortune. A generous "thank you" from him would absolutely have counted as legitimate income.
Fortunately, a second source of funding was about to arrive.
…
The next day.
The North Sea.
The Ministry treated Peter Pettigrew's transfer with extreme seriousness. Or rather, Fudge did. Pettigrew was a political weapon, a living stain on Barty Crouch's record. As long as he remained locked in Azkaban, that stain remained.
Ten Aurors escorted him.
Two drove the Thestral-drawn carriage. Eight followed on brooms.
Inside the carriage, Pettigrew sat shackled hand and foot. The restraints were specially designed. If he attempted to cast even the slightest spell, they would tighten instantly and inject a paralytic toxin.
They departed from London, heading north toward the sea.
Azkaban lay on a remote island near the edge of the North Sea, close to Norwegian waters. The journey would take nearly an entire day of flight.
After four hours over open water, the escort team landed on a small island to rest.
At the highest hill overlooking the forest below stood two black-robed figures.
Tom and Snape.
"Professor, I must say, you are impressively thorough. You even calculated their rest stop."
Both wore black robes and pointed masks. Standard Death Eater attire.
"Michael," Snape muttered darkly, "you should call me Francis."
Tom's lips twitched beneath his mask.
Determining Auror rest patterns was hardly difficult. Azkaban had housed many former Slytherins. Snape had heard more than enough careless information from former students' families over the years.
"Shall we begin?" Tom asked.
"Be careful," Snape warned. "If your identity is exposed, I cannot save you. You will have to beg Dumbledore yourself."
With that, Snape cast a Disillusionment Charm and slipped down the hill.
Apparition was impossible here. The Aurors had laid anti-Apparition wards across the landing site.
In Tom's eyes, Snape's physical form vanished, but his magical trace glowed clearly. Distinct. Slightly furtive.
Tom nearly laughed.
He raised his wand to the sky.
"Bloody hell, it's freezing," Dawlish grumbled, biting into his sandwich.
"It gets colder the further north we go," another Auror replied with a grin. "Surely you know that."
"I do. I just hate that I drew the short straw for this job."
A moment later, Shacklebolt looked up sharply.
"No. That isn't natural. The cloud density is wrong. Someone's casting."
"Don't be ridiculous," Dawlish scoffed. "Who would come out to this miserable rock?"
He did not finish the sentence.
A barrage of massive fireballs crashed down, obliterating the perimeter wards. At the same time, a crystal orb hanging from one Auror's belt began shrieking, glowing violently.
"Stupefy!"
A spell slammed toward the forest's edge. Cloak fibers flashed, absorbing most of the impact. The hidden figure barely evaded the rest.
"Ambush!" someone roared.
Within seconds, spells crisscrossed the clearing.
When Snape's silhouette flickered into visibility, the Aurors' expressions changed drastically.
Death Eaters.
They believed Death Eaters had come to rescue Pettigrew.
Snape himself looked momentarily stunned.
Since when were Aurors this well-equipped?
Alerting Eyes. Anti-curse cloaks.
Tom winced internally.
Those improvements had been his.
He had accidentally armed the opposition.
Poor Head of House.
Watching Snape forced into defensive Apparitions and narrow dodges, Tom's soft heart surfaced again.
He calmly finished a square of chocolate.
Took a sip of tea.
Then stepped forward.
One step.
Hundreds of meters vanished beneath his feet.
He appeared directly between Snape and the advancing Aurors.
The air changed.
Magic thickened.
Then it erupted.
A wave of absolute cold burst outward from Tom like a detonation.
Frost raced across the earth. Grass crystallized mid-sway. Moisture in the air froze instantly into shimmering shards.
"Absolute Zero Domain."
The world went white.
Sound fractured.
The Aurors felt their limbs seize as biting cold penetrated through cloak and bone alike.
Breath crystallized in their lungs.
Even the sea beyond the cliffs groaned as its surface began to stiffen into sheets of spreading ice.
Snape stared.
He had known Tom was powerful.
He had not known this.
The forest below transformed into a frozen graveyard of silver and blue, frost climbing trees like veins of glass.
And at the center of it all stood Tom Riddle.
Calm.
Untouched.
Utterly in control.