Deep in the Forbidden Forest, Tom was not checking Whatsapp at all. He had taken his three little companions to the centaur tribe. With centaurs' exclusiveness, trying to threaten, no, entice them into working for him would be tricky, but Tom had come prepared. For anything involving magical creatures, seek out Grandpa Newt, and this time was no different.
Chief Magorian rejected him outright without thinking, but fell silent when Tom produced the token Newt had sent.
"I will bring the centaur clan from the Vosges Mountains to you," Tom added another chip. "Your herd is aging and your sex ratio is skewed. I am sure you have noticed. Magorian, you do not want the centaurs of the Forest to die out in two or three generations, do you?"
"Even as chief, I cannot decide this alone, Riddle. Wait."
Magorian gathered every centaur. He presented Newt's token and repeated Tom's terms. After a fierce debate, roughly seven out of ten adult centaurs voted yes. Many were swayed by Newt's name, and Tom could not help but sigh. In the end, connections and standing decide things. With stubborn folk like centaurs, even if he could crush them by force, he could not bully them into obedience. No wonder those in power always hope for yes men beneath them.
...
Letting the unicorns sleep a night in his pocket world, Tom returned to the castle at seven the next morning. The moment he appeared, heads turned as one.
Overnight the story had spread. Facing Ilvermorny's delegation, Riddle struck hard. Student or teacher, male or female, provoke him and you end up mounted on a wall. Equal treatment for all, in the most literal sense.
"Riddle, with me."
Professor McGonagall spotted him the instant she entered the Hall. She did not waste words, just marched him into the little room behind the high table. Door shut, she rounded on him. "Mr. Riddle, with a mess this big, you still have an appetite? How can you eat?"
Tom played dumb. "No appetite? Tasted fine to me. The elves have improved since my first year."
"Save your cheek." She glared. "Wait here. Dumbledore is calming our guests. Until he comes, you are going nowhere."
"Professor, I am still hungry," Tom protested loudly.
"I am full from being angry at you, and you still want to eat?"
McGonagall stormed out, but halfway to the door she turned back and, with a wave, conjured a simple breakfast onto the table.
When Dumbledore arrived, he saw Tom finishing the last sandwich. Even with all his composure, he felt the sudden urge to inspect a student's coursework.
"Mr. Riddle, eating well, I see."
"Average. Could be better."
Dumbledore took the chair beside him. "Then you can keep Miss Voray company for a bite later."
Tom stared. "You are joking."
Summoning a teapot, Dumbledore poured and sipped before speaking. "I have already handled the trouble on the Graves side for you. You should thank Professor Wilkinson. He drew most of the fire."
"Am I supposed to be afraid of him?" Tom snorted. "Leave it. If he dares come to me, I will deal with him."
"Tom," Dumbledore sighed, weary. "I am one hundred and ten and do not wish to see a third wizarding war. Your clash with Miss Voray is easy to resolve. It is an adolescent difference of stance. Frank Graves, however, stands for Ilvermorny. For pride alone, the school will back him."
"Ilvermorny has heavy tastes," the boy muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." Tom shook his head. "Why send me to Voray?"
"Miss Voray refuses to speak to anyone. She seems badly frightened." Dumbledore slanted him a look. "You made the mess. You clean it up. Your skill with women is as impressive as your magic."
Tom's eyelid twitched. Slander. Say that again and I will sue.
"Her room is on the fourth floor of the West Tower, the room to the right of the painting 'Jenny and Mortal Dread.' Off you go, Mr. Riddle."
"I have class."
"You do when Miss Voray wishes to have class. Oh, and Slytherin, minus one hundred points. I have informed Professor Snape. He is most eager to speak with you."
Tom shook his head and left. Fine, coax a girl.
Following Dumbledore's directions, he found Cassandra's room quickly and cursed under his breath. Exchange students got private rooms, did they?
The door was locked, of course. He did not bother with his wand. A light flick of his finger and the door swung open.
The room was modest, about the size of a professor's office, thirty square meters at most. Cassandra lay on the bed, eyes empty, staring at the ceiling. The petrification had worn off, yet she looked as if still under it.
"Miss Voray," Tom said gently, donning his signature warm smile.
At his voice she finally reacted. Seeing him smiling at her, she clapped both hands over her eyes and shrieked, "Do not come closer."
Tom's smile turned instantly to the cold curve of a villain. "Apologies. My favorite thing is to tell the self important one word. No."