Tuesday morning, Transfiguration classroom.
This period was originally supposed to be Charms, but Professor Filius Flitwick had something urgent to attend to and exchanged classes with Professor McGonagall.
As the Slytherin first-years entered the classroom, they were greeted by an unusual sight. A tabby cat sat upright on the teacher's desk, tail neatly wrapped around its paws. Its yellow eyes, ringed with dark markings, observed each student with stern intelligence.
Tamara stepped inside, her gaze lingering on the cat for half a second longer than necessary. A faint, knowing smile curved the corner of her lips.
Animagus.
Though Minerva McGonagall had always been a rigid Gryffindor in Tamara's memories, she had to admit that such mastery of Transfiguration deserved genuine respect. Becoming an Animagus was no trivial achievement. It required discipline, patience, and exceptional magical control—qualities Tamara valued deeply.
Once everyone had taken their seats, the tabby cat leapt gracefully into the air. In mid-motion, it twisted and transformed. Fur receded, limbs lengthened, robes unfurled—and within a heartbeat, Professor McGonagall stood before them in emerald green robes and square spectacles.
"So cool!" Blaise Zabini whispered in awe.
Professor McGonagall either didn't hear him or chose to ignore him. Her expression was as stern as carved granite.
"Transfiguration," she began sharply, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will study at Hogwarts. Anyone caught behaving foolishly in my classroom will be asked to leave immediately."
Her voice cut through the room like a blade.
To demonstrate, she tapped her desk with her wand. In a flash of light, the wooden structure transformed into a plump pink pig. The animal snorted in confusion, hooves clattering on the stone floor. Another flick—and it reverted seamlessly back into a desk.
The classroom fell into reverent silence.
Tamara sat in the front row, twirling her holly wand between slender fingers. Confidence gleamed in her eyes.
Transfiguration?
In her previous life, this had been one of her strongest fields. She had gone far beyond basic academic spells, even applying advanced Transfiguration techniques to Dark Arts research—creating objects of terrifying precision, such as the silver hand.
A first-year assignment would hardly trouble her.
"Each of you will receive a match," Professor McGonagall announced crisply. "Your task today is to transform it into a needle."
Matches were distributed.
"Begin."
The air filled with the swish of wands and muttered incantations.
Beside Tamara, Draco Malfoy had already started. As a pure-blood heir, he had practiced elementary spells at home long before arriving at Hogwarts.
Draco tried several times. On his fourth attempt, the match shimmered and turned silver. It was somewhat thick and uneven, but undeniably a needle.
"I did it!" Draco whispered eagerly, turning to Tamara with a smug grin. "How was that? Not bad, right?"
He wanted her approval more than he cared to admit.
"Not bad," Tamara replied lightly. "But I believe it can be done better."
She raised her wand with practiced elegance, movements precise and fluid. She did not need to speak aloud. The incantation formed clearly in her mind as she guided the magic through familiar channels.
A gentle flick.
Nothing happened.
The match remained stubbornly wooden, its red tip unchanged.
Tamara's smile froze.
Perhaps insufficient output.
She adjusted her grip, increased magical flow, and cast again.
Still nothing.
No light. No smoke. No reaction whatsoever.
Her brows knit ever so slightly.
Impossible.
Her wand movements were flawless. Her control impeccable. She could feel magic responding within her core—yet it refused to manifest.
Then a mechanical voice echoed inside her mind.
[Ding! Detected host attempting to use 'Transfiguration'.]
[System Prompt: You do not have sufficient points to unlock this spell.]
[Skill not unlocked. Spellcasting failed.]
Tamara felt as though lightning had struck her skull.
What did it just say?
"I know Transfiguration," she hissed inwardly. "I've created far more complex constructs than this! You're telling me I can't even turn a match into a needle?"
[Host's physical attributes currently limit spell expression. Until requirements are met, this branch of magic remains locked.]
[Friendly reminder: Professor McGonagall is approaching.]
Tamara stiffened.
She could feel McGonagall's shadow falling over her desk.
Beside her, Draco's expression shifted from admiration to confusion.
"What's wrong?" he whispered. "Is your match defective? Want to switch?"
Humiliation pressed against her chest like a vice.
If anyone discovered that Slytherin's rising queen couldn't perform a basic first-year spell, the authority and mystique she had cultivated would collapse instantly.
Unacceptable.
Cold sweat gathered at her temples.
"System," she demanded inwardly, her voice razor-sharp, "is there a solution?"
[There is.]
The system responded lazily.
[Recall the Newbie Gift Pack.]
[Item: Designated Skill Book ×1.]
[Effect: Ignores attribute restrictions and forcibly unlocks one standard first-year spell.]
"Use it."
She didn't hesitate.
"Immediately. Unlock Elementary Transfiguration."
[This is a rare consumable. Are you certain you wish to—]
"Use. It."
Compared to losing face publicly, no item was too precious.
For ordinary people, long-term planning outweighed momentary pride.
For Tamara, image was strategy.
Prestige was power.
[Ding! Consumed 'Designated Skill Book' ×1.]
[Forcibly unlocking: Elementary Transfiguration.]
[Unlock successful.]
Instantly, the blockage inside her magical pathways vanished. Power flowed smoothly once more, vibrant and obedient.
Professor McGonagall stopped beside her desk.
"Miss Riddle," she said, glancing at the unchanged match, "are you encountering difficulty? Everyone else appears to be practicing."
Eyes turned toward Tamara.
Pansy looked worried.
Several less-friendly classmates seemed eager for embarrassment.
Draco opened his mouth to intervene.
"No, Professor," Tamara replied calmly, lifting her chin.
"I was merely conceptualizing."
"Conceptualizing?" McGonagall repeated, eyebrow raised.
"Yes. Transforming a match into a needle is straightforward. I was considering how to refine the result—perhaps align it with Slytherin aesthetics."
A faint murmur rippled through the class.
Tamara lifted her wand once more.
This time, magic answered instantly.
Her earlier frustration surged forward, fueling the spell.
A single flick.
The match erupted in brilliant silver light.
Gasps filled the room.
The object did not simply reshape—it evolved.
Wood twisted and elongated. Fibers restructured at a molecular level. Surface texture refined. The red tip compressed and crystallized.
When the light faded, a slender silver needle rested upon the desk.
But it was no ordinary needle.
Its body bore intricate snake-scale engravings, each scale meticulously defined. At the eye of the needle shimmered a tiny crimson gemstone, clear as blood and faceted like a serpent's gaze.
Elegant. Precise. Dangerous.
Silence swallowed the classroom.
Draco's wand slipped from his fingers and clattered onto his desk.
"Merlin…" he breathed.
Professor McGonagall lifted the needle carefully, examining it from multiple angles. She tested it with her wand, verifying structural integrity.
Her composure cracked—for only a moment.
"Perfect molecular restructuring," she murmured. "With secondary micro-carving."
Her eyes settled on Tamara, thoughtful—and faintly troubled.
This level of instinctive precision…
It reminded her too much of someone else.
"Miss Riddle," she said finally, "this is… a work of art."
"Ten points to Slytherin."
Excited whispers erupted across the room.
"I told you she was saving something," Draco exclaimed triumphantly to Goyle. "That's what a genius looks like!"
Tamara smiled faintly, outwardly serene.
Inside, her heart bled.
A rare, rule-breaking item.
Consumed.
For a needle.
She stared at the gleaming object.
"This," she muttered under her breath, "is the most expensive needle in history."
"What?" Draco asked.
"Nothing."
She stood gracefully as class ended.
"What's next?" she asked.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Pansy replied. "I heard Professor Quirrell is… strange."
Tamara paused.
Quirrell.
Or rather—
Lord Voldemort's main soul.
A dangerous glint flickered in her eyes.
Someone would pay for today's inconvenience.
"Is that so?" she murmured softly.
Her smile sharpened.
"Then I am truly looking forward to it."
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