[Hagrid?]
Tom tilted his head slightly, processing the name. It felt familiar—floating somewhere in the hazy collection of half-remembered canon details that occasionally surfaced in his mind.
If memory served, Hagrid was definitely an important character in the original story. But the specifics of his role, his exact function at Hogwarts, what he actually did beyond existing as a generally positive presence... those details remained elusive.
"That's right—Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds," Harry explained, his entire expression was brightening at the mention of the name. "He lives in a hut near the Forbidden Forest."
Harry's eyes practically glowed with enthusiasm now.
"Hermione mentioned you might need materials from magical creatures. I thought maybe you could talk to Hagrid about it—he loves working with magical animals, knows everything about them. If you're willing, I could take you to meet him tonight."
The offer was delivered with genuine eagerness, clearly hoping Tom would accept.
'Tonight...'
Tom hesitated; his tail was swishing thoughtfully as he considered the proposal.
Materials weren't actually a pressing concern, strictly speaking. He had Snape functioning as his personal procurement service, his wealthy benefactor with access to professional suppliers and official channels.
Between Snape's resources and connections, Tom could theoretically acquire almost any ingredient or material given enough time and the right justification under the umbrella of "resurrection research."
But going to meet Hagrid...that also held a certain appeal.
[Alright, sounds good! Let's do it.]
Tom made his decision quickly, his natural curiosity was winning out over caution. He had to admit, genuine interest sparked at the thought of meeting this half-giant character.
"Excellent! It's settled then." Harry visibly relaxed. Then his expression shifted—growing more hesitant. He glanced around to make sure no teachers were near before leaning in slightly and lowering his voice: "Also, about what you mentioned last time regarding Potions class..."
His face showed a mixture of hope and anxiety. This had been his real purpose in coming.
The memory of his first Potions lesson clearly haunted him. Snape's targeted hostility, the constant criticism, the feeling of being singled out despite doing nothing wrong... Harry had no desire to experience that nightmare again. Ever.
If Tom could genuinely improve Snape's attitude toward him, Harry would do practically anything in return. even making peace with Malfoy, or surviving another summer with the Dursleys.
[Don't worry~ Just come find me before your next Potions class and I guarantee you'll experience a completely different side of Professor Snape.]
Watching Harry's hopeful expression and noticing Ron nearby, pretending very hard not to be listening while his body language screamed desperate interest, his ears were practically spinning toward their conversation—Tom had to suppress a grin that tried to split his face from whisker to whisker.
His internal scheming was already in full swing.
Snape's feelings about Lily Potter were obvious. The man had spent decades mourning her, loving her memory, defining his entire existence around protecting her son despite hating the boy's face.
If he could temporarily transform Harry into "Harriet" or perhaps "Holly" for alliteration and watch as Snape's brain short-circuited at the sight of a female version of his lost love standing in his classroom. He would probably shower the transformed Harry with approval, gentleness, maybe even praise. It would be the best Potions class of Harry's life.
As for whether Snape would become even more hostile after Harry transformed back—the whiplash of seeing Lily's facial features before having them cruelly replaced by James Potter's hated face was not Tom's problem.
That fell firmly outside his service agreement.
He'd only promised to make Snape nicer during one class. He'd never mentioned anything about sustainable long-term improvement or after-care services.
The immediate experience would be wonderful.
The aftermath? Buyer beware.
'Besides,' Tom thought with glee, 'once Snape experiences Harriet, he'll never be satisfied with regular Harry again. Which means I can offer a subscription service—temporary gender transformation for every Potions class! Steady income stream, repeat customer, everyone wins.'
Sure, this plan might cause Harry some discomfort. But Harry himself had said he'd do anything to avoid Snape's targeting. Tom was simply taking the boy at his word and providing excellent customer service, really.
"Thanks so much. I really appreciate this." Harry's relief was obvious. He patted his chest as though physically releasing the tension that had been building there. "Let's meet at the castle entrance tonight then."
His relationship with Tom wasn't deep enough to justify lingering for extended socializing, they were friendly but not exactly close friends. Better to set the meeting time and leave the cat to his lunch rather than awkwardly hovering.
As for whether Hagrid would actually be willing to meet Tom... Harry felt confident that wouldn't be an issue.
Given Hagrid's absolute obsession with magical creatures, his tendency to treat even dangerous animals as 'adorable' pets, meeting someone as unique as Tom would probably make his entire week, possibly his entire month.
"Wait, tonight?!"
Hermione's voice cut through the casual planning like a blade, sharp with sudden horrified realization. She'd been half-listening, distracted by her own thoughts, but now the consequences crashed down on her with their full weight.
She grabbed Harry's sleeve before he could leave, her grip was tight enough to wrinkle the cloth.
"That means you're planning to break school rules again—sneaking out after hours for another midnight adventure? I thought you would have learned something from last time!"
Her voice climbed with each word, frustration and concern were mixing into something approaching genuine anger.
Did they not remember their previous nighttime excursion? The near-miss with Filch? The terrifying encounter with that three-headed dog that had very clearly considered them potential snacks? Had that experience taught them nothing about the dangers of wandering the castle after curfew?
She turned desperately toward Tom, hoping the cat who at least seemed to possess some basic survival instincts and risk assessment capabilities would reject this obviously dangerous proposal. Surely, he'd be the voice of reason here?
But unfortunately for Hermione's hopes, the Sorting Hat's assessment had been accurate: Tom possessed all the core qualities of a Gryffindor adventurer beneath his Hufflepuff exterior. Nighttime wandering was practically a hobby for him.
And besides, Tom had thousand different methods for evading Filch's detection. Between his cat stealth, his cartoon physics, his various magical abilities, and his general disregard for conventional limitations... getting caught was essentially impossible unless he wanted to be caught.
With such overwhelming advantages, why would he possibly settle for being a rule-following, well-behaved student? Where was the fun in that?
So instead of supporting Hermione's reasonable objections, Tom's tail swished with unmistakable pleasure and he cheerfully agreed to the nighttime excursion with enthusiasm.
"Oh, me too! I want to come as well! Count me in!"
Ariana's excitement bubbled over immediately upon hearing the plan. This was a perfect opportunity to meet new people, make new friends, experience more of the living world she'd been separated from for so long. Obviously she was going to participate!
"Not you too, Ariana..."
Hermione's face fell; her expression was shifting from frustrated to genuinely dismayed. She pressed one hand against her forehead as though physically attempting to contain an oncoming headache.
Why was even Ariana joining this reckless plan? Was this really just the nature of Gryffindor students—an inherent inability to recognize obvious danger and respond appropriately? Some kind of magical defect that eliminated the self-preservation instinct?
"Um... could I maybe come along too?"
What surprised her even more was Hannah, asking softly and tentatively; Hannah, who was a perfectly proper Hufflepuff.
This final betrayal proved too much for Hermione's composure.
"(╯‵□′)╯︵┴─┴ Fine! Enough! I understand now—none of you plan to follow school rules! Everyone wants to go wandering around the castle after hours breaking regulations! Well, I'm not going to just sit here while you all get into trouble! I'm coming too! At least when Filch catches us, I can help you escape!"
"We won't get caught as long as you don't run straight to Filch to report us," Ron muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
"What's that supposed to mean? You think I'm some kind of snitch?!" Hermione's voice rose again; indignation was replacing the despair.
"Well, who knows? You might be."
"Ron Weasley!"
Their bickering faded into the ambient noise of the Great Hall as the group continued their lunch.
Meanwhile, in the Dungeons
But we should pause this scene for now and turn our attention elsewhere, specifically, to the Slytherin common room deep beneath the castle.
Draco sat alone beside the fireplace in one of the high-backed chairs. The flames cast shadows across his face, making his face appear to flicker between light and darkness.
He stared into the fire with unfocused eyes, his gaze was distant and abstracted, clearly seeing nothing of the actual flames before him.
In his hand, a cup of tea had long since gone cold, forgotten. He'd been holding it when he first sat down, but had never taken even a single sip. The reddish liquid sat motionless, heat dissipated, probably developing that unpleasant film that appeared on abandoned tea.
He'd been maintaining this exact position since returning from his encounter outside the Great Hall.
What was wrong with him? Why had he done that—gone to find that strange creature, waited in the corridor like some kind of desperate stalker, and then thanked him? Actually, expressed gratitude to someone who wasn't even properly human?
His pure-blood pride flinched at the memory. Everything his father had taught him, every lesson about Malfoy dignity and appropriate behavior, screamed that such an action was beneath him.
But when the words had emerged. they'd felt like they possessed their own will. Like some part of him deeper had seized control of his vocal cords and forced the acknowledgment out into the world.
What disturbed him more was the aftermath. He'd expected to feel disgusted with himself, humiliated by the weakness he'd displayed. That would have been normal, appropriate, consistent with everything he'd known about.
Instead, he felt... lighter? As though some burden, he hadn't consciously recognized had lifted from his shoulders, leaving him with an unfamiliar sense of relief.
It made no sense.
"Draco?"
Goyle's rough voice emerged from behind him, breaking through his circular thoughts. The large boy was holding half a cake, attempting, with limited success, to stuff the entire portion into his mouth at once.
This made his speech somewhat muffled and difficult to understand.
"What's wrong? You've been acting weird ever since you came back from the Hall. Just sitting there staring at nothing. Are you okay?"
"...I'm fine."
Draco's response came automatically, his face was turning away stiffly to avoid meeting Goyle's gaze.
Thank a cat? Admit to that action? Absolutely not. If word of such behavior spread through Slytherin—if anyone learned that a Malfoy had expressed gratitude to something that couldn't even be classified as a proper Muggle, just an animal, he'd become a laughingstock.
Even his father's position as a school governor wouldn't shield him from the social consequences.
The Malfoy name couldn't afford that kind of damage to its reputation.
"Did that cat threaten you or something?"
Crabbe's head appeared from the opposite side. "Because if he did, we can deal with him. The three of us together, just like we handled Potter..."
"Shut up, Vincent!"
Draco's interruption was sharp enough to make Crabbe flinch. The words emerged with an edge of something that might have been real anger or possibly fear that the conversation was heading toward dangerous places.
"This is my business. I don't need either of you interfering!"
He stood abruptly. His cold tea sloshed in the cup, nearly spilling over the rim.
For a moment he simply held the vessel, staring at the dark liquid.
Then, with sudden decision, he dumped the entire contents into the fireplace.
The flames hissed and flared, momentarily turning a strange reddish-brown as they consumed the liquid. Steam rose in a brief cloud, carrying the scent of burnt tea leaves and something faintly bitter.