Pandas truly seemed born to be pampered aristocrats.
Placed into an entirely unfamiliar environment, they showed not the slightest trace of fear or vigilance. Within moments, they had accepted Tom as their new caretaker.
Newt explained their background.
Researchers had discovered them in the wild. The younger one was two years old. The elder was nine. Mother and daughter.
Tom named them immediately.
The mother would be Poppy.
The daughter would be Pixie.
Round and whole. A little piece of home in black and white fur.
The reason Newt had taken nearly a month to return was simple. He had remained with the researchers, learning in detail how to care for pandas properly. Only after he proved competent were they willing to entrust the animals to him. And even then, he had to promise to teach Tom personally and ensure Tom met their standards before they would allow the pandas to stay permanently.
That privilege existed solely because the name Newt Scamander still carried weight.
Anyone else would have been refused outright.
Newt kept his promises. And perhaps to distract Tom from dwelling on Tina's forced resignation, he devoted the next several days to instructing him in meticulous detail.
Pandas were delicate creatures. Their care involved far more than tossing bamboo into an enclosure.
Tom listened seriously, recording nearly every word in a notebook. Each evening he reviewed his notes from beginning to end.
He might occasionally indulge in arrogance, but when facing unfamiliar territory, he never pretended expertise. Nor did he dismiss the experience of those who had walked the path before him.
That humility was one reason Newt and Nicolas valued him so highly.
Talent was common.
Talent coupled with humility was not.
Many prodigies grew complacent, convinced their brilliance excused stubbornness.
Tom did not.
Whenever his ego began to inflate, Andros metaphorically slapped him back into clarity.
Still, Tom did not forget the trial's requirements.
He carefully observed Poppy's appetite.
It exceeded his expectations.
On bamboo shoots alone, she could consume thirty five pounds a day. Add meat, and the quantity increased, partly because bamboo required more chewing effort and time.
Perhaps she could eat even more. It was difficult to tell.
Sometimes she simply grew sleepy, abandoning half finished piles to nap.
Tom watched with fascination.
Win or lose, on the day of the contest he would dedicate an entire day solely to eating.
...
Massachusetts.
Within a luxurious estate, Andrew Voray had just returned from a business trip.
His first action was to summon his daughter Cassandra to the drawing room.
At forty, Andrew stood in the prime of his life. Under his leadership and that of his father before him, the Voray family had ascended into the uppermost tier of North American pure blood society.
He carried himself with commanding authority at home and in public alike.
In the past, Cassandra had felt instinctive fear when facing her father.
Today, she felt almost nothing.
Had she grown bold?
Or had his authority diminished?
"Cassie," Andrew began coldly, using her childhood nickname. "Your performance has disappointed me. Even my business associates are aware of Ilvermorny's embarrassment at Hogwarts. The family's honor has suffered because of you."
"This is not solely Cassandra's fault," her mother Eloise interjected gently, attempting to shield her daughter.
Andrew's hawk like gaze cut across the room.
"I care nothing for others. I know only that Cassie was humiliated by that Riddle boy. It is our name that was dragged through the mud."
"I humiliated myself. I was inferior," Cassandra replied calmly. "That is a fact. Your anger will not erase the gap in strength."
"Besides, it was you who provided incorrect information, Father. Did you not say Riddle was merely a puppet elevated by Dumbledore? A hollow figurehead?"
She met his eyes steadily.
"I suppose I was defeated by a puppet."
"You dare talk back to me?"
Andrew stared at her in disbelief.
Never before had Cassandra contradicted him in such a tone.
She inclined her head slightly.
"If stating facts counts as defiance, then I apologize."
Her composure felt more provocative than outright rebellion.
Andrew's authority seemed challenged.
"You lost to him! And now you make excuses!"
"Even Frank avoids provoking Riddle," Cassandra said evenly. "What was I, as a student, meant to accomplish?"
Her gaze turned curious, almost analytical.
"If you believe this dishonors us, then I accept that burden. But I currently lack the power to restore that honor. You are welcome to seek Riddle yourself."
"Bring him to North America," Andrew snapped. "I will handle him."
...
Back in her bedroom, Cassandra sank onto her bed and exhaled slowly.
Tom's existence had altered her perception.
The father who once seemed towering and invincible now appeared… ordinary.
True titans possessed something intangible.
A presence.
She could not define it, but she felt it clearly.
When Tom and Dumbledore stood side by side, they seemed cut from the same cloth.
When either stood among others, they felt singular.
Like cranes among sparrows.
"That idiot said he would come to North America," she muttered into her pillow. "It's already July. Where is he?"
A soft flutter interrupted her thoughts.
An owl glided through the open window, a letter bound to its leg.
The golden embossed signature on the envelope caught her eye instantly.
Her expression brightened at once.
She fed the owl crumbs before tearing open the letter with barely concealed eagerness.
The message was brief.
Have you considered the meaning of life? Do you wish to truly live?
Tomorrow at nine in the morning. Costa Coffee opposite the Woolworth Building.
Tom Riddle.
A postscript followed.
Bring money. Preferably all the money you can spare.