Owls are seriously magical creatures—especially in the world of Hogwarts. They're basically the wizarding world's version of FedEx, delivering letters and packages with total reliability.
But Hermione never got an owl. In the future, she's going to end up with that big fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks.
Tom didn't know the Harry Potter storyline inside and out. In his last life, he wasn't some hardcore Potterhead. If he'd known he was going to get isekai'd into this world, he would've binged the books and movies like a hundred times before the switch happened.
Anyway, back to the owl. The bird was waiting patiently with a letter for Tom.
After handing over the envelope, the owl didn't fly off. Instead, it followed Tom right into the house.
Recipient: Hermione Granger
Sender: Minerva McGonagall
Professor McGonagall!
The one who turns into a cat and teaches Transfiguration!
Tom ripped open the envelope and read every single word carefully.
> Dear Miss Granger,
> I was delighted to hear of your keen interest in Transfiguration and that you have already begun studying A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration over the holidays. It is rare to find someone so young who is so diligent and eager to learn.
>
> Regarding your question about why Transfiguration spells sometimes fail, although I have not seen you perform the magic myself, I suspect you are treating yourself as the caster rather than becoming one with the spell.
>
> Wizards are a most curious breed, and magic is a most curious thing. When casting even simple charms, you should not be controlling the magic—you should be playing the part. Your mood should be relaxed, not anxious. If you find it difficult to calm yourself, try a cup of chamomile tea with milk, or a glass of lemonade with plenty of sugar (otherwise it's terribly sour).
>
> Transfiguration works the same way: you must evolve and imitate, not control.
>
> I hope I have been of some help. Please feel free to send any further questions by owl.
>
> Yours sincerely,
> Minerva McGonagall
Tom read it twice, memorizing every loop and slant of Professor McGonagall's handwriting before setting the letter down.
He whispered the two words she'd emphasized:
Play the part. Mood.
Tom took a deep breath.
Relax. Relax.
He imagined himself floating in the air.
Wand in hand, he gave a gentle flick at the feather on the table.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The feather shot upward—higher than ever before, smooth and steady, like it was an extension of himself.
You have successfully cast a spell. Rating: Average. Levitation Charm +10.
It worked!
Now for Transfiguration.
Tom opened A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
"Transfiguration—"
In his mind, he pictured himself as a small white mouse: a long tail, tiny claws, delicate paws, bright red eyes.
The white feather in the air crumpled into a ball, folded inward, the hollow quill stretching back into a tail.
"Squeak!"
A tiny white mouse dropped from the air, landed on the table, scratched its whiskers, and looked up at Tom with interest.
You have successfully cast a spell. Rating: Average. Transfiguration +10.
Yes!
Tom quickly wrote a thank-you letter to Professor McGonagall, told her about his success, sealed the envelope, and handed it to the owl.
…
Meanwhile, in London, in the backyard of the Middle family's house—
Little Sheen Middle was searching for a private tutor.
The Middles weren't short of money. They'd already hired several experienced adult tutors, but none of them satisfied Sheen.
According to Sheen, he wanted someone his own age.
A kid.
And that kid had to be way ahead of him in math, English, modern history, chemistry—everything.
That made things tough for Mr. and Mrs. Middle.
Someone like that was hard to find. And even if they found them, they'd probably be some spoiled rich kid who'd never agree to tutor.
They did find one once, but during the interview, Sheen's questions made the guy storm out in a huff.
They were starting to think Sheen was possessed or something. He kept muttering weird "incantations," waving sticks he'd picked up from the garden, and even tested one tutor by asking them to make a feather float without touching it.
"Hello. My name is Herm—uh, I mean, Tom Riddle. I'm here to apply for the tutoring position."
A boy stood at the gate of the courtyard.
From his age, he definitely looked like a kid—though he was a lot more built than your average eleven-year-old. No extra fat, sharp nose, dark curly hair falling over his ears, eyes bright and full of life.
"Sorry, young sir, we're no longer accepting applications for tutors," the doorman replied.
A few kids from the orphanage had tagged along out of curiosity. They were peeking around the corner, watching.
"Think Tom's gonna make it?" one whispered.
"I dunno… Tom said he knows nothing about modern history. I mean, he told me he knows nothing about it."
"Tom's more like a personal trainer than a tutor," Lawrence scoffed. "Please."
He was already looking forward to Tom getting humiliated.
You're from the orphanage, mate. What makes you think you can tutor rich kids? Your biceps?
And they weren't even looking for a normal tutor!
"Just wait for the embarrassment," Lawrence sneered.
Then his smirk froze.
Because he saw someone he recognized.
Mr. Michelangelo!
The man who was about to adopt him out of the orphanage!
Lawrence stepped forward. "Mr. Michelangelo."
Michelangelo was dressed in a sharp black suit. He frowned for a second before recognizing him. "You're the boy from the orphanage… Laurence, was it?"
"Lawrence, sir."
"Oh, sorry, young man. Too many names lately. What are you and your little friends doing here at my friend's house?"
Before Lawrence could answer, Michelangelo noticed Tom. "You're all from the same orphanage?"
"Come on in, boys," Michelangelo said with a chuckle.
He was friends with Mr. Middle and had helped them look for tutors before.
Seeing Tom, he immediately thought: too young. No way the Middles would trust their precious daughter to a kid.
Still, he remembered the orphanage kids fondly. Might as well give the boy a chance.
"Thank you, sir," Tom said. "I'll make the most of it."
Tom and the other orphanage kids stepped into the courtyard.
The moment they walked in, their eyes went wide. The walls were lined with priceless decorations. They wanted to get closer but were afraid of leaving fingerprints, so they just stood frozen near the door.
Tom wasn't fazed. He'd seen houses like this before—some of his dad's clients lived in places exactly like this.
Inside the house, he introduced himself confidently.
Then he met Sheen.
Sheen was slim, with a spark of pride in her eyes. She looked Tom up and down, sizing up her potential new tutor.
"No way," Sheen said immediately. "He's not qualified. He can't be my teacher."
Michelangelo coughed. "Sheen, at least give him a chance. He's already here…"
Already over before it started?
Lawrence's face lit up with glee. If Michelangelo weren't standing right there, he would've burst out laughing.
Hold it together.
Gotta look good in front of Mr. Michelangelo.
Can't let him think I'm the type who enjoys other people's misfortune.
"You can ask me anything!" Tom took a deep breath. "I don't want to lose without even trying."
"I said you're no good, so you're no good!" Sheen snapped.
She wasn't giving him any room to argue.
"At least ask me one question," Tom pressed. "If you don't even test me, how do you know I'm not right for the job?"
Sheen frowned. She hated pushy people. She grabbed a book from the table and flipped it open. "Fine. Then answer this—"
Tom didn't even hear the question. The second Sheen picked up that book, his brain buzzed like a struck bell.
Why does Sheen have that book?
Where did she get it?
There's a wizard in this Muggle house!
Just like me!
"Hey, answer already!" Sheen said, glaring at the stunned Tom.
Same as all the other tutors.
Totally normal.
She'd told her parents over and over: she didn't want a regular tutor. She wanted someone special. Someone who could do magic.
And clearly, Tom was just another ordinary person.
Tom had frozen—not because of the question, but because of the book in Sheen's hand.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said. "Could you repeat the question?"
Sheen rolled her eyes. "Fine. A certain school has been around for over nine hundred years. To some people, it's just a ruined place with a 'Do Not Enter' sign. What's the name of that school?"
"Hogwarts," Tom answered instantly.
The room went dead silent.
Sheen's eyes narrowed. "Students aren't allowed to use what kind of magic on school grounds? I mean, what kind of trick is forbidden?"
"Apparition or Disapparition."
Sheen flipped through the book frantically. "What happens if a boy tries to enter the girls' dormitory?"
"That's absolutely not allowed. If they do, the stairs turn into a slide, and the boy slides right down and lands on his bum. The whole school knows a boy got into the girls' dorm."
Sheen had her answer now, but she wasn't done testing yet.
She closed the book and set it aside. "I want my tutor to be funny and interesting. One of the things he has to know is how to do tricks."
She placed a quill on the table. "Can you make it float?"
If Tom had his wand, easy. But his wand was still at home!
He wasn't sure, but he said, "I'll do my best."
Relax, Tom. Relax.
Just a Levitation Charm. Even without a wand, some wizards can manage basic spells. And Levitation is one of the easiest.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The quill twitched, lifted off the table, wobbled, and floated up—only to drop back down halfway.
"Sorry," Tom sighed. "I can't do it right now. I'll just—"
"You're hired!" Sheen shouted.
She jumped up and grabbed Tom's hand. "Mum! This is the one! I need this one to tutor me!"
"You're…?"
"Tom. Tom Riddle."
"Welcome, Mr. Riddle," Sheen said, beaming.
She'd told her parents she'd seen real magic before. That there really were wizarding schools. They'd thought she was just imagining things—typical kid stuff.
"Riddle," Michelangelo said suddenly. "You're still in the orphanage, right?"
He ignored the jealous, panicked glare Lawrence was shooting from behind.
"Mr. Riddle, would you be interested in coming to live with me? I've been thinking about adopting a child, and I think you'd be a perfect fit. What do you say, young man?"
Lawrence's face turned the color of someone who'd just swallowed a fly.