'This is completely unreasonable,' Tom thought with rising desperation as he stared at the short Professor Flitwick standing on his usual stack of books behind the lecture podium. 'Expecting a cat to properly vocalize incantations? That's just cruel. My vocal anatomy literally isn't designed for human speech patterns!'
His Charms professor stood barely taller than his teaching materials even with the elevation assistance, his cheerful demeanor was radiating enthusiasm for the lesson he was delivering. But that enthusiasm had recently acquired a particular focus that Tom found deeply uncomfortable.
'And Professor Flitwick—sir—with all due respect, could you please just teach your class instead of staring at me constantly? I'm trying to concentrate here!'
'And you there—yes, you, the blond Malfoy kid in the back—I can absolutely feel you sneaking glances at me every thirty seconds. Stop pretending you're not! What exactly are you people hoping to see?!'
To be entirely fair to both Professor Flitwick and the watching Draco Malfoy, the current situation was Tom's own fault. He'd dug this hole himself through his recent string of unprecedented classroom performances.
Professor Flitwick's intense interest stemmed directly from Tom's remarkable achievements in previous classes particularly that memorable History of Magic session that had become legendary within about twelve hours of occurring.
Being a Hufflepuff student who'd earned House points from Snape was already shocking enough on its own. That singular accomplishment had prompted Professor Sprout to grant Tom special privileges in Herbology, exempting him from all homework assignments in a fit of competitive House pride.
The other professors had taken notice, whispering in the staff room about this unusual new student.
But compared to what happened that evening in Binns' classroom, the Snape incident was merely a curious footnote.
Professor Binns—the ghostly History professor who, in all his decades of teaching (both living and deceased), had never once shown interest in anything occurring outside his narrow academic focus had voluntarily sought out Headmaster Dumbledore of his own initiative without prompting.
And the purpose of this unprecedented meeting? To request that Tom be appointed as his teaching assistant.
Merlin's beard, Professor Flitwick had taught at Hogwarts for many years, and in all that time, he'd never heard of teaching assistants being a formal position. Professors taught their own classes personally unless physically incapable of doing so.
That was simply how things worked. They didn't delegate to students, no matter how talented.
And Professor Binns was the most dedicated educator among them—a workaholic who'd literally died at his desk mid-lesson and continued teaching as though nothing significant had changed. In all these years of teaching, he'd never missed a single History of Magic class. Not one.
This sequence of highly irregular events had sparked a peculiar mixture of curiosity, hope, and professional excitement in Professor Flitwick.
'If this student can demonstrate extraordinary ability in other professors' classes, surely, he'll show similar talent in Charms? Especially if he can make even Binns take notice...'
The fact that Professor Binns had specifically mentioned Tom "performing the entire History of Magic lesson by himself" had particularly captured Flitwick's imagination.
So naturally, he'd begun watching Tom with keen anticipation, waiting to see what remarkable feat the unusual student might accomplish in his classroom.
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy's interest derived from entirely different and considerably less academic motivations.
The reasoning, in Draco's mind, was straightforward and deeply personal: He was the Slytherin student. His father had connections with Professor Snape, relationships that should translate into favoritism and special attention. By all rights, Draco should be the one receiving praise and privileges from their Potions Professor.
Instead, Snape had awarded House points to an outsider, not even a proper wizard, not even a Muggle, just some cat. The injustice burned like acid in Draco's chest.
This sense of having his 'rightful' attention 'stolen' had fixed Draco's focus directly on Tom. The scrutiny hadn't yet developed into the kind of seething resentment he'd cultivate toward Harry Potter but given time and the right circumstances, it could easily evolve in that direction if not handled properly.
Tom, blissfully unaware of the complex motivations behind these stares, simply felt his anxiety spiraling up with each passing minute.
He was already struggling with the fundamental problem of being unable to properly vocalize incantations.
And trying to concentrate on the problem while Professor Flitwick watched with anticipation and Malfoy scrutinized him from across the room? It was like trying to write a careful essay while someone breathed down your neck and another person judged your every letter formation.
The pressure was suffocating.
His wand movements grew increasingly erratic, his frustration was manifesting in jerky, imprecise flourishes that bore less and less resemblance to the proper technique.
Magic required focus, clarity of intent, precision of execution. Tom's movements had devolved into the physical equivalent of panicked flailing.
Up on his book-stack podium, Professor Flitwick's expression gradually shifted. The eager anticipation dimmed. Hope faded into disappointment like sunlight blocked by clouds.
'Perhaps the rumors were exaggerated after all,' the tiny professor thought with genuine regret. 'A ghost's testimony is indeed unreliable—they tend to experience time and events differently than the living, after all. This student clearly struggles with basic charm work. How could someone who can't even manage a simple Levitation Charm possibly have "performed an entire History lesson"? It doesn't make sense.'
Still, as a proper educator and, critically, a normal educator unlike certain dungeon-dwelling colleagues who used teaching as a vehicle for psychological warfare, Professor Flitwick maintained his professional demeanor.
Though disappointed, he simply recategorized Tom mentally: just another struggling first-year who needed patient instruction and encouragement rather than the prodigy he'd hoped for.
Draco however, possessed no such professional restraint or responsibility. He wanted to mock the cat but couldn't do so immediately because his seat was too far away.
Slytherin and Hufflepuff students were deliberately seated on opposite sides of the room, a precaution Professor Flitwick had learned was necessary after several incidents of inter-House hexing during practical exercises. But Draco remembered every observed failure with meticulous care like compiling evidence for future use.
'Hmph. Can't even perform basic charm work, and yet somehow this…. not even worthy of being called a Muggle, just an animal, has captured Professor Snape's attention?
There must be some underhanded trickery involved. Some scheme. Just wait until class ends. I'll expose this fraud in front of everyone, reveal whatever deception he's using. Then Father will hear about this, and Professor Snape will realize his mistake...'
But before Draco could fully savor his plans for dramatic post-class confrontation, Tom did something completely unexpected.
The moment Professor Flitwick's attention drifted away turning to help a struggling Hufflepuff student whose feather kept spinning in circles rather than rising, Tom released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
'Finally.'
Tom finally breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a holdover from his previous life, this reaction to teacher scrutiny—the academic anxiety that excelled death and reincarnation and species transformation. Even when he'd done nothing wrong, even when he knew logically that the attention was kind, being watched by an authority figure made his entire body tense with irrational nervousness.
Now, with Flitwick's focus elsewhere, Tom could breathe again.
Draco's continued staring barely registered as a concern. What was one spoiled eleven-year-old's attention compared to a professor's expectations?
Of course, the relief didn't solve his actual problem: he still couldn't make the damned feather move.
His wand movements had improved, actually, without the performance anxiety, his technique had smoothed into something approaching proper form. The swish and flick were crisp.
But the feather remained stubbornly, mockingly stationary.
'Wingardium Leviosa!' he thought with fierce concentration, willing the spell to manifest through sheer mental determination.
Nothing.
He tried variations. Meowing out something that approximated the syllables, which produced sounds like "WingAAAAdim LeviOOOsa" in his limited cat vocal range and still nothing.
Attempting the spell silently, pure intent without vocalization, the way advanced wizards supposedly could. The feather didn't even twitch.
'For Merlin's sake, FLOAT! (╯‵□′)╯︵┴─┴'
The frustration finally overwhelmed him completely.
In a moment of absolute exasperation, Tom abandoned everything he'd been trying—proper technique, careful pronunciation, precise mental focus, all of it. He simply gripped his wand like it was a stick he'd found in the garden and swung it down in a sharp, violent motion.
Not a magical gesture, not a spell casting. Just pure, frustrated swatting, as though he could physically beat the feather into submission through aggressive wand contact.
"Meow?"
The sound of surprise emerged before Tom could stop it.
Because the feather, that stubborn, immovable feather that had resisted all his careful spell-work now floated gently up as though gravity had simply forgotten it existed.
"Oh! Excellent work!" Professor Flitwick's voice rang out with delight and surprise. "A beautiful Levitation Charm, and nonverbal casting as well! Very advanced technique for a first-year. Five points to Hufflepuff!"
On stage, Professor Flitwick, who hadn't noticed Tom's movement, only saw the feather floating in front of him and, having heard no meow, naturally assumed Tom had used the technique of nonverbal casting and excitedly awarded him extra points.
The tiny professor beamed with new faith in his initial assessment.
'I knew it! The talent was there all along. He must have been nervous with me watching, it is perfectly understandable, public performance anxiety is quite common. And he's already mastered nonverbal casting! Remarkable! I was planning to offer private lessons on that technique, but he's apparently taught himself already. The rumors weren't exaggerated at all!'
Behind Professor Flitwick, and immediately beside Tom, two students who'd witnessed the entire sequence slowly formed identical expressions of confusion.
Hannah Abbott and Draco Malfoy despite having nothing else in common shared a single thought:
'...That's not how the spell works, is it?'
The mental question marks were almost visible above their heads.
Neither of them could recall Professor Flitwick's careful demonstration including a step where you violently swatted down at the object you wanted to levitate. In fact, they were fairly certain the proper technique involved the exact opposite motion, a gentle upward flick, not an aggressive downward smash.
Hannah, who'd already so much of Tom's various impossible feats and casual violations of magical convention, simply stared for approximately three seconds, shrugged internally, and returned her attention to her own feather.
Tom was Tom. Strange things happened around him. This was simply life now. No point dwelling on it when she had her own spell-work to perfect.
But Draco possessed no such context or previous experience with Tom's particular brand of physic/magic-defying nonsense.
In his understanding, if Tom had successfully performed the charm using that bizarre technique, then logically that bizarre technique must be effective.
Perhaps even superior to the standard method—a secret casting style the professors didn't teach to ordinary students but which someone clever enough might discover independently.
And Draco Malfoy was certainly clever. He was a Malfoy. His father had told him so repeatedly.
So surely, if he mimicked the technique precisely...
Draco stared at his wand, then at his feather, then back at his wand. Hesitation warred with curiosity, pride, and the desire to prove he was just as capable, no, more capable than some random cat wizard.
The hesitation was lost.
With careful precision because even when experimenting, a Malfoy maintained standards, Draco raised his wand and brought it down sharply toward his feather, replicating Tom's aggressive swatting motion as exactly as possible.
BANG!
With a muffled thud, the feather on his table exploded into countless fragments. Fortunately, it was just a feather, not an iron ball, so apart from covering his face in fluff, it didn't cause any real harm.