"That's right. The Ministry of Magic placed an order with me for a batch of spell-repelling cloaks to be distributed among the Aurors, but I simply can't handle the volume alone, so I'm outsourcing the work."
Tom didn't bother hiding the details. "The Ministry's purchase price is ten Galleons per cloak. Once you factor in material costs and my own technical fees, ten Sickles per piece for you is no small amount."
The Weasley family, all things considered, were people Tom trusted. The twins, Charlie, Percy, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, each of them had the kind of character he could rely on. Tom wasn't the least bit worried that they'd master the technique and then cut him out, going directly to the Ministry behind his back.
They didn't have the moral flexibility for that. And they certainly didn't have the standing to negotiate directly with the Ministry.
Just as he'd expected, the twins showed not a trace of resentment. Their faces lit up with the same infectious enthusiasm they brought to everything.
"No problem at all, Tom!" Fred said, practically bouncing. "Leave it to us. How many do you need?"
"No limit. Make as many as you can."
Tom raised a hand in warning. "But I'll say this upfront. I'll tolerate some waste and defective pieces, but the number must stay below twenty percent. Once you've gotten the hang of it, I'll expect that figure to come down to five."
"Fair enough." Fred nodded vigorously. "Truth be told, our research funds have been running dry lately, and Professor McGonagall's been keeping such a tight leash on us that we haven't had a proper bit of business in ages."
"Then let's not waste any more time. Come on. I'll walk you through the process right now."
Tom led the twins down toward the Potions classroom. The sooner he got them up to speed, the sooner he could breathe a little easier.
Still... he was short-handed. That was the real problem gnawing at him. What he needed most right now was someone he could openly rely on, someone presentable, capable of handling minor affairs and mundane headaches without him having to keep calling on his future mother-in-law every time something came up.
His original plan had been for Andros to take on that role once he was resurrected. But the more Tom thought about it, the less confidence he had. Given Andros's particular style of doing things, not to mention that body-fabrication technique still very much in development, the whole arrangement seemed shakier by the minute.
...
If only Penelope could graduate right now. But that would have to wait at least another year.
...
Outside the castle walls, the Dementors that had previously been stationed at every gate of Hogwarts and near the hidden passage exits the school had flagged were gone. Every last one of them. Even the Dementors that had been patrolling Hogsmeade had vanished without a trace.
Dementors were not stupid. Quite the contrary, they possessed a certain cunning, which was precisely how Voldemort had turned them in the first place. After the catastrophic losses of the previous night, they had naturally gone straight to the Ministry to lodge a formal complaint.
And beyond that... they simply didn't dare linger anywhere near Hogwarts anymore. The thought of that killing god bursting through the school gates aboard his colossal Gundam Patronus and crushing them underfoot was enough to send them fleeing without a second thought.
The only problem was that Dementors couldn't Disapparate. So they had no choice but to flap their wretched way back to London, one grueling mile at a time.
...
Cornelius Fudge sat behind his desk with the look of a man being slowly boiled alive, listening as Dolores Umbridge, her already pasty complexion now the colour of old chalk, relayed the Dementors' furious complaints on their behalf.
Fudge hadn't wanted to get anywhere near those vile things himself, so he'd sent Umbridge in his place.
For Umbridge, standing before over a hundred Dementors had felt like being locked inside a meat locker for a solid hour. That said, the experience had given her plenty of ammunition, and she was making full use of it now.
"Minister, Tom Riddle has grown completely lawless." Her voice dripped with righteous indignation. "According to the Dementors' account, Tom Riddle personally killed over a hundred of them yesterday. Even if they are creatures, they are creatures employed by the Ministry of Magic. To cut them down so brazenly, without so much as a flicker of respect for this institution, it is outrageous. Furthermore, what business does a student have wielding destructive magic of that magnitude? There is clearly something deeply wrong here. I strongly recommend a thorough investigation."
"Enough!"
Fudge's palm came down on the desk with a crack that sent everything on it rattling. The sheer force of it swallowed whatever Umbridge had been about to say next right back down her throat.
"An investigation?! Investigate what, exactly?!"
"Do you think I don't know what this is really about? Isn't it because Riddle called you a pink toad last year? No, that isn't even an insult. That was a statement of observable fact."
"Minister, I truly have your best interests at heart," Umbridge said quickly, wringing her pudgy hands. "Azkaban was already understaffed before any of this happened. With the Dementors now suffering heavy casualties, if there's another breakout, the blame won't fall on Riddle. It will fall squarely on you and the Ministry."
Whatever else she was, Umbridge hadn't climbed this far on flattery alone. She had a certain aptitude, and the point she'd just made was both coherent and grounded in reality.
Fudge felt some of the heat leave him. He exhaled through his nose, reached for his teacup, and took a long, steadying sip of strong tea.
"You're telling me he killed over a hundred Dementors?" Fudge asked, as though he still couldn't quite believe it.
"Yes, Minister." Umbridge leaned forward. "Two hundred and fifty Dementors were dispatched to Hogwarts. Only just over a hundred remain."
"Merlin's beard..." Fudge muttered, rubbing his chin. Over a hundred Dementors. He tried to calculate how many Aurors it would have taken to do the same thing and quickly stopped himself. The number was uncomfortable.
If it had been Dumbledore who'd done this, or even Professor McGonagall, Fudge wouldn't have batted an eye. But Tom was a student. A prodigious one, yes, but in the eyes of most adults, even the most talented young person was still just a gifted child. Very few people had ever thought to take his raw power seriously.
Now Fudge was stuck.
Punish Tom Riddle? Out of the question. After the negotiations last time, Tom had built a network of influential connections that would make any direct confrontation politically suicidal. And the range of goods he controlled, two kinds? No, far more than that, touched every corner of the wizarding world's economy. Going to war with Riddle over a pack of creatures was the sort of brainless move Fudge absolutely refused to make.
And yet he had to give the Dementors some kind of answer. If he didn't, and they rioted out of resentment, Azkaban would descend into chaos, and that chaos would land on his desk.
He was caught between two walls with no room to maneuver. No matter which way he moved, someone would be furious.
Just as the headache was reaching its peak, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Minister," his assistant's voice came through, tight with urgency, "Dumbledore is here."