— — — — — —
Gossip is human nature. Even the King of the Century isn't immune to it.
Dumbledore, sensing the tension, wisely stepped aside and let Laos and Frank take center stage. The students craned their necks toward the staff table, eager for a show.
And they got one.
At Frank's indignant outburst, Laos' expression darkened instantly.
"Wilkinson," Frank snapped, "if someone like you—a wanted criminal—can be a professor, then I'm more than qualified!"
A wanted criminal?
Gasps rippled through the hall. Every eye darted toward Laos, who smiled faintly under the scrutiny.
Wait—Professor Wilkinson, wanted by the law? Was the DADA curse really that vicious?
No one had expected it from him—the friendly, easygoing professor who treated students like equals.
Dumbledore's face twitched, but before he could intervene, Laos launched into a verbal barrage that could've stripped paint.
"Wanted criminal my ass, Frank Graves! Did you lose your mouth in your mother's butt when you were born? Because every word that comes out of you smells worse than a troll's fart!"
The hall went dead silent, except for the echo of his voice.
"My so-called 'wanted notice' was cleared years ago—at least in North America. It's your scumbag family that still keeps my name on the list. Public power for private grudges, huh? Keep it up, Graves. One day I'll see your family locked up in Azkaban for good."
He sneered, leaning forward. "And seriously—this is about your aunt? I didn't sleep with your mother. What are you so worked up about? Unless…" Laos grinned wickedly. "Unless you wanted to sign up too. Send me her picture first, though. Been a while since I've seen what your mum looks like."
The Great Hall froze.
Silence.
Absolute stunned silence.
Students. Professors. Even the ghosts. Every soul in the room was motionless, staring in disbelief.
They might not have caught every expletive—there were a lot—but they all got the main point loud and clear:
Professor Wilkinson had slept with Frank Graves' aunt.
Frank looked about the same age as Laos—around thirty. Which meant his aunt was…
Merlin's bloody beard.
The entire hall collectively cringed. The temperature shot up as the air filled with awkward heat, but it still couldn't compete with the volcanic red spreading up Frank's neck.
He was furious.
Perfect. Now the whole world would know—the Hogwarts students, the Castelobruxo visitors, the Ilvermorny delegation—every single one of them would remember this scandal.
"You bastard!" Frank roared, reaching for his wand.
The female Ilvermorny professor beside him was faster. She caught his arm and hissed, "Calm down, Frank! What are you thinking? Attacking a Hogwarts professor—in front of Albus Dumbledore?"
"Ahem."
Dumbledore's quiet cough rolled through the hall like thunder. His hand, mid-motion toward his wand, paused just long enough for Frank to feel it—a suffocating pressure, vast and cold.
It was suddenly freezing. The Great Hall might as well have turned to ice. Frank's rage melted in seconds. His blood cooled, and his eyes cleared.
"I'm fine…" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Thanks, Solen."
"Solen?" Laos blinked, eyes narrowing as he looked the woman over—particularly certain details.
She met his gaze without shame, even lifting her chin proudly. "Laos, your memory's as bad as ever."
"Wait… Solen Caruso?" Laos' eyes went wide. "By Merlin's balls—you used to weigh three hundred pounds!"
Instead of getting angry, Solen smiled radiantly. "Women will do anything to be beautiful."
Laos raised his brows, genuinely impressed. "Respect."
The transformation really was something. She'd lost two-thirds of herself and looked like she could kill with a wink.
"Stop flirting with my fiancée," Frank snarled, stepping between them. "If you've got any sense, Laos, stay the hell out of North America. Because the minute you show your face there, I'll have Aurors on you before you can blink."
Dumbledore, still smiling, clapped his hands lightly. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Old colleagues reuniting—emotions are bound to run high. You'll have plenty of time to… catch up during the exchange."
The entire hall collectively thought the same thing: "No wonder he's Headmaster." Only Dumbledore could spin that level of chaos into a polite excuse.
After smoothing things over, Dumbledore moved on to introductions.
"Professor Frank Graves," he said cheerfully, "teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts at Ilvermorny. Professor Solen Caruso teaches Transfiguration there.
"Professor Alessio Villa, from Castelobruxo, also specializes in Transfiguration. And Professor Isabella Camado teaches Special Potions."
Special Potions?
Tom glanced at the young woman with sun-kissed skin and soft brown eyes. Maybe she was the one who brewed those transformation-assisting potions Professor Flitwick mentioned yesterday.
Once introductions were done, Dumbledore gestured for the guests to sit wherever they liked.
Ilvermorny's group joined the Slytherin table, while Castelobruxo chose Hufflepuff.
Dinner appeared with the same flourish as the start-of-term feast, dishes filling the golden plates—but no one was really focused on eating. The earlier drama had everyone whispering in tight clusters, stealing glances toward the staff table.
Laos, however, looked completely unbothered. His skin might as well have been dragonhide. He chatted casually with Flitwick, even leaning past a few professors to banter with Solen.
Frank, meanwhile, looked like he'd swallowed a dungbomb.
Some students began striking up conversations with the guests. Communication wasn't too difficult—Ilvermorny spoke English, of course, and the Castelobruxo students seemed comfortable enough with it too.
Then, as Tom reached for his pumpkin juice, he caught a whisper from a nearby table—and froze.
The blonde girl with the haughty expression—the one who looked like she'd borrowed Draco Malfoy's attitude—had a name he knew all too well.
Cassandra Vole.
Tom blinked, taken aback.
Another familiar name. Another piece of the timeline out of place.
But honestly, Tom barely blinked after the initial surprise. He'd already transmigrated, had two old geezers squatting in his head, and a little beauty living rent-free in there too.
At this point, the universe could throw just about anything at him and he'd shrug. Unless, of course, someone told him Astoria used to be Artoria Pendragon in a past life—then maybe he'd actually drop his fork.
Cassandra's sudden appearance didn't bother Tom. But Tom definitely caught her attention.
After striking up a polite conversation with a Slytherin pure-blood girl, Cassandra leaned in slightly and said in that proud, aloof tone of hers that made everyone around feel like peasants, "I heard the author of The Bloodline Theory—the one everyone's talking about—is a Slytherin student?"
"The Bloodline Theory?" the girl blinked in confusion.
"Oh, right. You people call it The History of Wizarding World here."
Recognition dawned on the girl's face. She pointed—rather unsubtly—toward the boy sitting between Astoria and Daphne. "That's him. Tom Riddle. Handsomest guy in the whole school, and a total genius. He's Muggle-born, yeah, but no one in Slytherin dares challenge him. Well—some might want to, but they wouldn't dare show it."
Cassandra turned her head.
Tom Riddle was sitting there, looking entirely too comfortable. On his left, Daphne fed him a bite of steak; on his right, Astoria lifted a forkful of cod to his lips. He didn't even use his own hands.
This was the person she'd come looking for?
Cassandra almost thought the girl was joking. But judging by everyone else's lack of reaction, this ridiculous scene was… normal?
A guy who couldn't even feed himself was the same Tom Riddle who'd made a name for himself across the wizarding world?
Still… he really was stupidly good-looking.
...
After dinner, Dumbledore stood before anyone could leave, raising his voice just enough for the whole hall to hear.
"To prevent any unnecessary panic or misunderstanding," he began, "I'd like to clarify something regarding Professor Laos Wilkinson."
The hall fell quiet again.
"When he applied for the position, he was completely honest about his circumstances," Dumbledore continued. "Hogwarts does not interfere in the personal affairs of its staff. However, I can confirm that Professor Wilkinson's alleged charges were officially lifted years ago. The misunderstanding has been resolved."
He smiled, the kind of calm, confident smile that instantly disarmed the crowd. "So, I ask everyone not to indulge in wild speculation. His professionalism and contributions are plain for all to see. I'm proud to have such a dedicated Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts."
Classic Dumbledore—smooth, steady, and just vague enough to end the conversation.
Truth was, he'd already pulled some strings for Laos once the man proved himself competent. The International Confederation of Wizards had long since dropped his name from the wanted list. The only "bounty" left was a private one, posted in North America by the Graves family out of pure spite.
Most students didn't seem too shocked. After all, they'd heard every juicy word earlier. Some even looked at Laos with open admiration now.
The man had nerve, that was for sure.
Frank Graves, on the other hand, looked like he was about to choke on his own bitterness. He'd specifically volunteered to lead the exchange, thinking he could reveal Laos' crimes in front of Dumbledore. Instead, the bastard had humiliated him with a grin and the foulest vocabulary known to wizardkind.
And where the hell did he even learn to curse like that?
"Ah–choo!"
In the crowd, Tom suddenly sneezed. Daphne and Astoria both leaned in instantly.
"Are you catching a cold?" "Want me to get you a potion?"
Tom waved them off with a laugh, but his mind was already elsewhere.
...
Later that night in the Slytherin dorms, Draco was practically bouncing with excitement.
"Turns out the Voles are related to the Malfoys!" he announced proudly. "See? That's the greatness of my family—branches on every continent!"
Rosier snorted. "You think that's impressive? Try the Rosier line. France, Spain, Italy—we're everywhere."
"And anyway," he added, "her name is Vole, not Malfoy."
"You don't understand." Malfoy's smirk faltered under the interruption, but he recovered quickly, launching into an explanation for the curious audience. "A thousand years ago, the Malfoys moved from France to Britain. Some family members stayed behind, later went to Prussia, and eventually settled in America."
He hesitated. "The Voles are descendants of that branch. It's just that…"
"…just that the Malfoys ran out of male heirs at the time," Nott—ever the history nerd—finished for him. "So the Vole family name replaced theirs."
Draco grimaced but nodded. "Something like that."
Everyone knew how humiliating that kind of situation was for a pure-blood family. No male heirs? Total disgrace—unless, of course, you were the Greengrasses.
Snickers broke out across the room.
Trying to salvage his pride, Draco puffed up his chest. "Anyway, the Voles are one of the wealthiest pure-blood families in America now. They might not descend from the Twelve Aurors, but they've got business connections everywhere."
"Planning to marry rich, are you?" Daphne's voice cut through the noise as she strolled in, looking for someone to finish her homework.
Draco's pale face flushed bright red. He stammered, "I—I mean… wouldn't be the worst idea."
Pansy Parkinson looked like her world had ended.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Please. Look in a mirror first. When you're half as good-looking as Tom, then you can start dreaming. Nott, finish my History of Magic essay."
"Right away!" Nott said eagerly. The room erupted in laughter.
"Malfoy, you hear that?" someone shouted between chuckles. "You're not even qualified to be a gold-digger yet!"
"Yeah, maybe if it were Tom…"
"Tom doesn't need to gold-dig."
"Greengrass doesn't count?"
"Oh, come on. You ever seen a freeloader handle multiple girls at once?"
"Fair point."
The boys nodded in mock reverence. 'A true role model among men.'
Meanwhile, their supposed role model—Tom—was spamming messages to Laos like a madman.
He wanted the details. All of them.
A few dozen messages later, Laos finally replied.
『Laos Wilkinson』: Boss, that Solen chick—damn, she's still got it!
『Laos Wilkinson』: No she is way better now~
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