Professor McGonagall had no idea that the boy standing before her was already plotting how to steal the House Cup from right under her nose. She praised Tom a couple more times, reminding him not to slack off, and then moved on to observe the other students.
Still, something about it unsettled her.
Logically, she knew it was just a coincidence—same name, nothing more. But emotionally, the more impressive this Tom became, the harder it was not to think of that Tom.
Was it a cursed name? Or had the name "Tom" secretly earned the favor of Merlin himself?
…
"How did you even do that?" Hermione leaned in as soon as McGonagall had walked off, her tone a little sharp, tinged with envy.
Her toothpick hadn't changed at all. Not even a shimmer. And that stung.
Back in the Muggle world, whenever she and Tom competed, she usually lost—but only by the slimmest of margins. They were both top scorers, practically neck and neck.
But now, in the magical world—where they were supposed to be on even footing—the gap had only widened.
It felt like she was still standing at the starting line, while Tom was already waiting at the next stop.
"The more pressure you put on yourself, the lower your chances of success."
Tom didn't mind offering a little guidance. "Don't treat spellcasting like a machine process. Every cast is a reflection of your magic, your talent. Relax your mind."
"Imagine you're the master of this toothpick. It does what you say. Everything it becomes—it's because you command it."
Nearby, Daphne Greengrass overheard him. She took a deep breath, raised her wand, and mimicked the path McGonagall had demonstrated—only this time, she moved with a natural, fluid rhythm instead of a stiff, robotic motion.
A flash of silver flickered over the toothpick.
It transformed into… a silver toothpick. Not quite a needle—but honestly, the shape wasn't that different. If it couldn't thread a string, at least it looked the part.
Even so, Daphne lit up like it was Christmas.
"I did it! Tom, you're amazing!"
Her successful attempt earned Slytherin another point.
Unfortunately, it hadn't been Tom's doing directly, so the system didn't award him any credits.
Still, it was more than enough to frustrate Hermione. With her pride on the line, she stopped talking to Tom entirely and plunged back into practice, jaw set and brows furrowed.
Finally—just before the end of class—she managed to make her toothpick shimmer. It turned into a shiny silver needle… though it still felt wooden to the touch.
Professor McGonagall was nonetheless delighted and awarded Gryffindor a point.
Bang—!
A loud explosion suddenly rang out in the classroom, startling McGonagall so badly she nearly dropped her wand.
This was Transfiguration class—not Defense Against the Dark Arts. Who the devil had caused an explosion?
She quickly spotted the culprits: Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom.
The two boys stared at each other, hair frizzed and standing on end like they'd been struck by lightning. Their toothpicks were now smoking chunks of charcoal.
McGonagall's face darkened to the same shade.
Glaring furiously, she deducted one point from Gryffindor and declared the class dismissed.
Hogwarts truly was full of talent. Not only had they birthed someone like Tom—a human nuclear core—but also someone who seemed to specialize in explosion-style jutsu. Utterly terrifying.
…
After class, Daphne tried to catch up to Tom, but was intercepted by Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson. She could only watch helplessly as Hermione dragged Tom away toward the library.
"Greengrass, why are you hanging out with a Muggle-born?" Pansy Parkinson sneered.
"Yeah," Bulstrode chimed in, "sure, he's not bad-looking, but filthy blood is still filthy blood. Just wait—Nott and the others will put him in his place soon enough."
"What I do and who I befriend is none of your business," Daphne replied coolly, her voice dripping with disdain. "Mind your own lives."
She didn't even bother looking them in the eye.
"Parkinson, clean that spinach out of your teeth before speaking to me again. It's disgusting."
"And you, Bulstrode—your toothpick didn't even twitch the entire lesson. You've got a lot of nerve criticizing Tom's bloodline. You're a disgrace to pure-bloods."
With that, Daphne turned her back on their red-and-white faces and walked off, head held high.
The Greengrass family name gave her the clout to dismiss them. Sure, Bulstrode and Parkinson were also from Sacred Twenty-Eight families—but Daphne simply didn't care.
Originally, she'd wanted to chase after Tom. But the idea of dealing with Hermione again soured the thought. In the end, she decided to just head back to the dorm and write a letter home.
Meanwhile—
Tom had entered Hogwarts' true treasure trove: the library.
In the original timeline, this was where he'd unearthed the most powerful spells, laying the foundation for his meteoric rise post-graduation.
And he wasn't alone. Many others had drawn strength here. What the professors taught was enough to graduate—but if you wanted something more, something special, you had to dig for it yourself. That's how witches and wizards of similar talent ended up with wildly different results.
Some reached their full potential. Others wasted it.
Madam Pince, the librarian, had eyes like a hawk and a perpetual look of suspicion. Anyone who dared speak too loudly or mistreat a book instantly received a death glare that could petrify trolls.
Hermione quietly buried herself in Beginner's Guide to Advanced Transfiguration Mechanics. Tom, on the other hand, sat across from her and stacked three books in front of him, immediately attracting Madam Pince's attention.
But Tom didn't care.
He flipped through a few pages of each book, noted whether they were worth keeping, and then returned them. Then he pulled out another. Then another.
By the thirteenth book, Madam Pince had had enough.
She marched over, feather duster in hand, and lowered her voice like she was interrogating a thief. "Child, what exactly are you looking for?"
Tom blinked, feigning innocence. "Isn't that the point? I don't know what I'm looking for. That's why I have to check each book. Is there a problem?"
Madam Pince inhaled sharply.
"No problem. Just don't disturb the others."
"Thank you. I understand." Tom nodded politely, then went right back to flipping.
He wasn't being loud. He wasn't damaging any books. If anyone around him felt "disturbed," maybe they didn't belong in the library at all—they should try a broom closet instead. Much quieter.
As for Madam Pince's displeasure? Tom didn't give a damn.
He strongly suspected she was a Squib, just like Filch. In the original timeline, she'd never been seen using a single spell in all seven years. Just now, he hadn't noticed any sign of her carrying a wand, either.
Putting a Squib in charge of Hogwarts' most magical collection of knowledge? Dumbledore was really playing a risky game.
By noon, Tom and Hermione left the library on the dot.
"What were you looking for?" Hermione finally asked, unable to hold in her curiosity.
"I wasn't looking for anything in particular," Tom replied casually. "I just want to get a general sense of what each book contains. Makes it easier to find them later."
Hermione's eyes lit up. That actually was a smart idea. She made a mental note to try it herself later that afternoon.
When they reached the Great Hall, Hermione walked off toward the Gryffindor table. Tom had just sat down at Slytherin's when a tall older student approached.
Tom recognized him—he was the sixth-year Slytherin prefect.
"Riddle, Professor Snape wants to see you after your afternoon classes. His office is in the dungeons, next to the Potions classroom."
"Got it."
Tom nodded politely… but his eyes slid toward a familiar group nearby—Zabini and his cronies.
Rosier locked eyes with him, then drew a finger across his throat in a slow, deliberate gesture.
Tom smiled faintly.
Excellent. Another opportunity tonight to stretch his legs.