Chapter 23: Showing Off
Tuesday morning. The Transfiguration classroom.
According to the original schedule, the Slytherin first-years were supposed to be in Charms, but Professor Filius Flitwick had encountered a sudden scheduling conflict, prompting a swap with Professor McGonagall.
As the young snakes filed into the austere stone classroom, they were greeted by an unusual sight. A stiff-backed tabby cat sat perched at the very edge of the professor's desk. Its tail was wrapped neatly around its paws, and it watched the incoming students with unnervingly sharp eyes framed by distinct, square-shaped dark markings.
Tamara stepped through the heavy oak doors, her polished shoes clicking softly against the flagstones. Her gaze swept over the desk, lingering on the feline for a fraction of a second. A playful, knowing arc curved the corner of her lips.
'An Animagus.'
In the dusty archives of her past life's memories, Minerva McGonagall had always been a rigid, insufferably righteous Gryffindor. Yet, looking at the flawless biological mimicry sitting on the desk, Tamara had to concede a sliver of begrudging respect. Such deep, molecular-level mastery of Transfiguration was not something achieved by mere book smarts.
Once the heavy scraping of chairs ceased and every student was seated, the tabby cat stood. It leaped gracefully off the edge of the mahogany desk. Mid-air, the feline form twisted, expanding and stretching in a blur of motion. Boots hit the stone floor. Instantly, Professor McGonagall stood before them, draped in crisp emerald-green robes, peering through her square spectacles.
"So cool!" Blaise Zabini whispered from the back row, his eyes wide with genuine awe.
Professor McGonagall ignored the exclamation entirely. Her expression remained as stern and unyielding as a block of granite.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she announced, her crisp Scottish brogue cutting through the silence like a blade. "Anyone messing around in my class will be asked to leave and not return. You have been warned."
To demonstrate the sheer weight of her words, she drew her wand and gave it a sharp, precise flick toward her desk.
The heavy mahogany instantly warped, sprouting coarse pink hair and a curled tail. A fully grown pig stood where the desk had been, letting out a loud, snorting oink that echoed off the stone walls. A second flick, and the pig dissolved back into polished wood and brass fittings, leaving behind only a faint, lingering scent of mud.
This visceral demonstration of power instantly suffocated any lingering whispers in the room.
Tamara sat perfectly straight in the front row, her slender fingers idly twirling her holly wand. A confident, almost bored glint settled in her dark eyes.
Transfiguration?
This was the very foundation of her past life's greatest triumphs. She had warped the laws of nature, twisted souls, and forged advanced Dark Magic constructs like the silver hand. A mere first-year curriculum—turning matchsticks into needles—was an insult to her intellect. It was barely a warm-up.
"Now, a match for each of you," Professor McGonagall instructed, waving her wand to distribute small wooden sticks to every desk. "Today's task is to turn this match into a needle."
She paced down the center aisle. "Begin."
The classroom immediately filled with the frantic swishing of wands and the muttered, often mispronounced incantations of eleven-year-olds.
Beside Tamara, Draco Malfoy had already started with impatient vigor. As the pampered young master of a pure-blood household, he had undoubtedly received private tutoring before ever stepping foot on the Hogwarts Express.
He jabbed his wand at the match, his brow furrowed in concentration. After three failed attempts, the wood finally shimmered. The red tip vanished, and the shaft hardened into a crude, slightly lumpy silver needle.
"I did it!" Draco's head snapped toward Tamara, a smug, eager grin plastered across his face. He looked entirely like a puppy waiting for a treat. "How's that, Tamara? I did well, right?"
He desperately craved her validation.
"Not bad," Tamara commented aloud, her tone perfectly measured, dripping with casual aristocratic grace. "However, I think it can be done even better."
She gracefully raised her holly wand. Her eyes held a calm, absolute composure, the look of a predator who had already calculated the exact trajectory of her strike.
She didn't even need to chant the incantation aloud. Silent casting was second nature to her. She visualized the molecular shift, aligned her magic, and executed a flawless, precise flick of her wrist, pointing the tip of her wand directly at the match on her desk.
Nothing happened.
The expected flash of silver light did not materialize. The match lay quietly on the scarred wood, utterly motionless. It remained an ordinary, cheap, red-tipped wooden stick. It didn't even have the decency to emit a puff of smoke.
The elegant smile on Tamara's face froze. A tiny muscle near her jaw twitched.
'What happened?'
Was the wand resisting her? No, the holly wood felt warm and compliant in her grip. Was her wand motion sloppy? Impossible. Her muscle memory was flawless.
She narrowed her eyes, tightened her grip, and waved her wand a second time, forcefully pushing a heavier surge of magic down her arm.
Still no reaction. The match mocked her with its wooden existence.
Just then, a painfully cheerful chime echoed in the center of her skull.
[Ding! Detected host attempting to use 'Transfiguration'.]
[System Prompt: You do not have extra points to unlock this spell.]
[Skill not unlocked, spellcasting failed. Have a wonderful day!]
Tamara felt as if a physical bludger had slammed directly into her forehead.
'What... did you just say?'she hissed through gritted teeth in the dark confines of her mind.'Of course I know Transfiguration! I tore my own soul apart and bound it to physical objects! I made Horcruxes! You're telling me I can't turn a pathetic little twig into a needle?!'
[Sorry, host, these are the absolute system rules!] The voice was sickeningly perky. [Your current physical body limits the expression of your vast talent. Until your Virtue Attributes meet the required milestones, you cannot access this branch of magic. Keep doing good deeds!]
[Friendly Reminder: Professor McGonagall is walking this way. Good luck!]
Tamara's spine locked. A layer of fine, icy sweat broke out across her forehead.
She could feel the heavy, scrutinizing weight of Professor McGonagall's gaze sweeping over her row. Worse, beside her, Draco was staring at her desk. His eager expression was slowly melting into a puddle of utter confusion.
"What's wrong, Tamara?" Draco leaned in, his voice dropping to a loud, unhelpful whisper. "Is your match damp? Do you want to swap for another one?"
The sheer humiliation of the offer burned her pride like acid.
If the rest of the Slytherins found out that their newly crowned queen couldn't even manage a basic first-year transformation... the absolute authority she had so carefully cultivated, her untouchable, all-powerful image, would shatter into a million pieces right here on this desk!
Never. She would burn the castle down first.
'System!'she roared frantically in her mind, her mental voice dripping with venom.'Is there a way around this? I need to use this spell right now. Immediately!'
[There is a way,] the system chimed leisurely, taking its sweet time. [Do you remember there was a special item included in your Newbie Gift Pack?]
[Item: Designated Skill Book x 1.]
[Effect: Ignores all attribute restrictions, forcing the user's body to instantly learn and master a standard first-year spell to perfection.]
'Use it!'Tamara practically screamed in her head.'Immediately! Max out this damn Transfiguration spell for me!'[Are you sure? This is an exceedingly rare, one-time-use item. Using it on a basic matchstick transformation... isn't it a bit wasteful?]'Shut up! Use it!!!'
Compared to wasting a rare item, she could tolerate making a public fool of herself even less. For ordinary people, hoarding a trump card for future survival was logical. But for the current Tamara, maintaining her absolute prestige was the foundation of her entire existence. She could not afford to bleed even a drop of weakness.
Especially not in a field of magic she had once dominated.
[Ding! Consumed 'Designated Skill Book' x 1.]
[Forcibly unlocking: Elementary Transfiguration.]
[Unlock successful. Congratulations!]
The moment the system's voice faded, the invisible dam inside Tamara's magical core shattered. The blocked magic instantly flooded her veins, rushing to her fingertips with a familiar, intoxicating heat.
At that exact second, Professor McGonagall stopped in front of her desk.
"Miss Riddle?" McGonagall looked sternly down at the stubbornly wooden match. "Are you encountering any difficulties? I see everyone else in your row is actively practicing, while you seem to be... daydreaming."
The surrounding air grew heavy. Gazes from all over the classroom snapped toward the front row. Pansy Parkinson bit her lip, looking genuinely worried, while a few Slytherins who had quietly resented Tamara's sudden rise to power exchanged subtle, mocking smirks. They were waiting for her to fall.
Draco opened his mouth, ready to clumsily defend her.
"No, Professor."
Tamara slowly lifted her chin. Though her heart was actively bleeding over the loss of her god-tier item, her face was a mask of flawless, aristocratic elegance. She offered a polite, unbothered smile.
"I was merely conceptualizing."
"Conceptualizing?" McGonagall arched a sharp eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
"Yes," Tamara said smoothly, her voice carrying just enough volume for the entire room to hear. "Turning a match into a simple needle is a bit too... rudimentary. I was taking a moment to consider how to make the final result more in line with Slytherin aesthetics."
With that bold claim hanging in the air, Tamara raised her wand once more.
This time, there was no invisible wall. No system lag.
All of her stored-up fury, her wounded pride, and her unleashed magic poured out in a single, devastatingly precise flick of her wrist.
The match, which had been so stubborn just a moment ago, erupted in a blinding, localized flash of silver light. It didn't simply harden into a crude metal stick like Draco's.
Under the wide-eyed stares of the entire class, the wood twisted, elongated, and violently restructured itself. The air hummed with the sheer density of the magic being applied.
As the silver light faded, a collective intake of breath echoed through the room.
Resting on the desk was a long, pure silver needle, radiating a cold, chilling gleam. It was impossibly fine. Microscopic, perfectly uniform snake-scale patterns had been carved directly into the metal shaft, every single scale catching the torchlight. And at the very top, nestled perfectly within the eye of the needle, sat a tiny, crystal-clear red gemstone, glaring out at the room like the scarlet eye of a living serpent.
It was exquisite. It was magnificent. It carried a stunning, almost dangerous sense of artistry.
It was Tamara's work of pure, unadulterated spite, bought and paid for by a priceless system item.
Total silence blanketed the classroom.
Clatter.
The crude needle in Draco's hand slipped from his numb fingers and hit his desk. "Merlin..." he breathed.
Professor McGonagall slowly reached out and picked up the silver serpent needle. She pulled out her own wand, tapping it lightly against the metal to test the structural integrity. Her stern face cracked, revealing an expression of deep, unbelievable shock.
"Perfect molecular restructuring..." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even secondary micro-carving. The gemstone is a complete elemental shift..."
She lowered the needle and gave Tamara a long, deep look. Her eyes were a complex storm of intense admiration and a faint, deeply buried trace of dread. This level of casual, terrifying talent... it was far too similar to a certain former student she preferred not to name.
"Miss Riddle," McGonagall finally said, her voice regaining its firm volume. "This is, quite simply, a work of art. Ten points to Slytherin."
A low, excited murmur instantly swept through the Slytherin ranks.
"See! I knew she was saving something big!" Draco hissed excitedly, violently shaking Goyle's shoulder. "She said she was conceptualizing! This is what a real genius looks like!"
Tamara sat perfectly still, listening to the awed praises washing over her from all sides, watching Professor McGonagall's highly satisfied retreating figure.
Her heart was weeping tears of blood.
A god-tier, rule-breaking item! A trump card that could have saved her life!
Just to swap for a sewing needle!
"This needle..." Tamara stared down at the flawless, glittering artwork resting on her desk, her lips barely moving as she whispered through tightly ground teeth, "...is truly the most expensive needle in the history of magic."
"What did you say?" Draco leaned in, not quite catching her dark mutterings over the noise of the classroom.
Tamara forced her facial muscles to relax into a weak, perfectly polite smile. "Nothing. What is our next class?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Pansy replied eagerly from the next desk over. "I heard that Professor Quirrell... is a bit weird. He stutters a lot."
Tamara's fingers paused on her wand.
Quirrell.
Or, more accurately, the current meat-suit for Voldemort's main soul.
"Is that so?"
A dark, incredibly dangerous glint flashed in the depths of Tamara's eyes. She had just been forced to burn a priceless artifact to save face over a matchstick. She was in a foul mood, and someone in this castle was going to have to pay the price for her displeasure today.
'Then I am...'she thought, a cruel smirk threatening to break through her angelic facade.'...truly looking forward to it.'
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