"The basilisk report can be confirmed as true," said Alessio Vela. "We still need to investigate the particulars."
"Good," Isabella Camado nodded. "I only feared the British would hype a newcomer and publish sloppy reporting."
"Alessio, you and Minerva McGonagall both teach Transfiguration. Her reputation is universally respected. I have never heard a single bad word about her. Work on that relationship. One way or another, we must secure basilisk flesh and blood."
Alessio smiled. "Indeed. Professor McGonagall and I once exchanged letters. She is a professor worthy of respect."
"Oh?" Isabella raised a brow. "How is it that I never heard of that?"
Alessio lowered his head, embarrassed. "I am a fan of Professor McGonagall. I study every paper she publishes and even wrote to her as a reader. The replies seemed to come from the Transfiguration Today editor. All stock phrases."
Isabella:
So that was your so called correspondence?
It was likely that even Dumbledore and Rouse, who organized this exchange, had not expected that both Ilvermorny and Castelobruxo had come with firm objectives.
The exchange itself was simple. Each school brought one student representative per year. Whichever house they chose yesterday, they would follow that house's schedule today. The chaperoning professors would attend Hogwarts classes with their counterparts and also teach a few lessons for selected years.
When Tom arrived at breakfast, he ran into Cho. She shot him a look. They drifted, as if by coincidence, to the courtyard garden.
"Are you free on Saturday?" The girl's cheeks were rosy, her voice soft. "It has been so long since we read together in the library."
Tom shook his head at once. "Let us not. There is something wrong with that library. I do not feel safe there."
"Alright."
She lowered her head, crestfallen.
"How about I take you to see the unicorns," Tom said with a smile. "Their glen is very quiet. Other creatures do not dare disturb them.
"Tea and books amid the trees. Better than the library, is it not?"
Her smile returned, bright as morning. They settled on a time.
A good move never goes out of style. Most things follow a fixed rhythm, even courting.
Tom was using the unicorns the way one shows off a cat that can backflip. If a child came of this someday, he would make her thank Max, Leo, and Milo, those lifesaving guides. Without them, who knows where the shot would have gone.
Back in the Hall, Daphne finally appeared, yawning. Tom had already told Astoria his plan for Saturday. The little sister's loyalties leaned more and more his way. He needed her as wingmate to manage Daphne, otherwise when things flared up he would be the one overwhelmed.
After breakfast came lessons. Second year's schedule had not changed today, and the teachers were all Hogwarts faculty. With them trailed an Ilvermorny boy named Mark Collins. Tom had thought Cassandra was his year, but Draco told him she was in third. She only looked Daphne's age.
Still very fresh faced.
Tom was not going to rush over just because he recognized a name. He already had enough to juggle. He was not in the mood to add more.
...
But if he did not go to Cassandra, that did not mean Cassandra would not come to him.
When the last Charms class ended, Slytherins and Gryffindors filed into the corridor and crossed paths with third years coming down the stairs.
"Tom Riddle!"
Clear and bell like, the voice cut through the noise. Feet halted. Heads turned. The corridor slipped into melon eating mode.
Who had the gall to call Tom by his full name?
Since they had watched a certain someone lop off a basilisk's head with a single stroke, even Gryffindor had been behaving. So who would–
Tom stopped too and looked toward the voice. The crowd opened a lane. Cassandra strode forward, chin high, every step measured like a practiced figure walk, distances almost identical.
"Miss Voray, I do not believe we know each other," Tom said. "What is this about?"
He spoke to Cassandra, and also to Daphne. He wanted it clear that he did not even know the girl.
"Indeed, we do not," Cassandra answered frankly. "My name is Cassandra Voray."
"I know. And then?" Tom asked, puzzled.
Cassandra tipped her head. The line of her fine chin drew a clean arc. "You are the author of Annals of the Wizarding World, are you not?"
"You wrote competently enough. The data is accurate. But your presumptuous evaluations are laughable."
...
The corridor fell suddenly silent. Everyone held their breath, eyes on Cassandra as if watching a champion. No one dared exhale.
This woman was a warrior.
Daphne's brows shot up. Hermione caught her sleeve and shook her head. Do not act rashly. Tom was here. Let him handle it. They were not to overstep.
Tom smiled, a smile so radiant that for a heartbeat Cassandra's focus blurred. "Then, Miss Voray, what instruction do you have for me?"
"Instruction is exactly what I am here for," Cassandra said, steadying her mood and lifting her chin again. "Writing books is your freedom. But your evaluations betray shallow research and childish judgment. You are not qualified to assess our world's legacy.
"In the future, stick to presenting history. Do not add your self important ratings. You do not have the right."
"I do not have the right?" Tom's tone was half echo to Cassandra, half question posed to himself. Then, quietly, "Then I will show you whether I have the right..."
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