It had been precisely nine days since her father had told Bellona and her sister the news, nine days of combing through back issues of Witch Weekly, nine days of listening extra hard to gossip, nine days of knowing the best way to garner information was to do so firsthand. And so, here she was, garnering information. 

She had chosen the Destiny for two reasons. First, because she refused to join any of the clubs in Hogsmeade that were not The Lady Morgana, a prestigious institution that simply would not have her. Secondly, though, and far more importantly, because it was her haunt, her turf. From what she had learned of Calliope Riley—who would, in due course, be instead Calliope Zabini—any advantage was desirable.

"...of course, had I known my father's intentions," she continued the small-talk with a polite smile, her full cup of tea all but forgotten on the table before her, "I certainly would have made more of an effort to learn more about you! I feel terrible having to ask questions!"

There was something akin to a predator in Calliope's features, Bellona was sure of it—that she might merely be projecting did not at all enter into the witch's head.

"My governess always did warn that keeping one's attentions focused upon one's own circle was ill-advisable—I shall heed more carefully the advice of my elders moving forward."

The barest change of inflection, the hint of a challenge, on the word elders. The woman sitting across from her was older by less than half a decade, but Bellona clung to those years, a lifeline. Merlin help her should this bride expire; no doubt the next wife would be younger than Bellona herself!