July 1991. London.
Tom Riddle swore this was the absolute worst environment he had ever seen.
The thick smog brought visibility down to near zero. A hundred yards out, you couldn't tell a person from a stray dog. Groups of junkies huddled in the alleys, smoking up a storm. Tom did his best to dodge the second-hand weed, but there was no escaping the first-hand London smog.
"Sir, would you like to buy a flower?"
Two children standing next to Tom clutched wilting hibiscus bouquets. They looked up timidly at a couple of college students, a hint of pleading in their voices.
They had picked these flowers from the grounds of their orphanage. A healthy hibiscus was a vibrant, delicate pink—easily one of the most beautiful blooms around. But their blooming season wasn't supposed to peak until September. The orphanage had planned to sell them then, but thanks to this damn toxic fog, the flowers would wither and die if they weren't picked right now.
Tom glanced at the few decent-looking flowers left in the basket and sighed.
Other people transmigrated into epic fantasy realms or ancient worlds of cultivation.
He got dumped in smoggy, depressing London.
Because yes, he was a transmigrator.
In his past life, Tom was a victim of relentless hustle culture. He ground his way through middle school, clawed his way into a top-tier Ivy League-equivalent university, and secured a lucrative job in Big Tech.
He started at the bottom and kept grinding.
Until, finally... he literally worked himself into an early grave.
Upon waking up in 1991 London, Tom found he had awakened a System. It was just a highly confusing one.
> [Name: Tom Riddle]
> [Class: Wizard]
> [Age: 11]
> [Titles: None]
> [Close-Quarters Combat LV.1: 224/300]
> [Language Mastery LV.1: 200/300]
> [Animal Affinity LV.1: 110/300]
It was a standard stat panel. Every time he studied or practiced, he received a rating and earned experience points.
The part that baffled Tom was his class: Wizard.
Where was the witchcraft? Where was the magic? Every time he went out, he scoured the neighborhood for anything remotely supernatural, but found absolutely nothing.
After a month of testing the waters, Tom had come to a grim conclusion: This was just a completely mundane, non-magical world.
"Tom!" Seven-year-old Misha tugged at his sleeve. "We haven't sold a single one."
Her shoulders slumped, her eyes downcast as she stared at the basket. "It's such a waste."
There weren't many left, and they weren't particularly vibrant, but the kids had grown every single one with their own hands.
"What waste?" Tom plucked a hibiscus and tucked it behind Misha's ear. "If they don't sell, they don't sell. Let's go back and eat. This one's yours. It looks nice—you look like a little angel."
Misha had had a rough go of it. Her alcoholic father abandoned the family, and soon after, her mother abandoned her, too. Her mother had claimed Misha was just "dead weight" preventing her from finding a new boyfriend and starting over.
When Misha first arrived at the orphanage, she was deeply depressed. It took Tom stepping in and talking to her to lift her spirits, and she had been his loyal little shadow ever since.
Touching the flower in her hair, Misha's sullen face broke into a smile.
"Tom, do you know anything about modern British history? Like... the wars, the economy, the politics, stuff like that?"
Tom shook his head. He didn't know the first thing about British history.
"That's a shame. The Middle family is looking for a modern history tutor for their little girl. If you knew that stuff, we wouldn't have to sell flowers anymore. The money would be way better, and steady, too."
Misha pouted. "But I guess if we knew that kind of stuff, we wouldn't be stuck in an orphanage to begin with."
Tom laughed out loud, patting her on the shoulder. He joked that he'd just have to go fight in the underground boxing rings to feed them.
---
Evening.
By the time the kids got back from the streets and finished dinner, it was past eight o'clock. The younger children crawled into bed.
Tom headed to his own room.
Unlike the other kids who slept in a shared dormitory, Tom had commandeered an old, small storage room for himself. He needed the privacy to study and work out at night without waking anyone up.
Transmigration or not, his deep-seated "hustle mentality" hadn't faded one bit. Time to grind.
> [Workout Complete. Rating: Average. Close-Quarters Combat +3]
> [Workout Complete. Rating: Average. Close-Quarters Combat +3]
> [Workout Complete. Rating: Average. Close-Quarters Combat +3]
After several grueling sets, Tom was drenched in sweat.
Late into the night, he took a freezing cold shower. The old guard dog at the gate was already snoring. The only light left in the entire orphanage was the faint glow spilling from Tom's storage room.
Finally, he flicked off the light, closed his eyes, and drifted off.
---
The Next Morning.
"Hermione—!"
A woman's voice, anxious but laced with affection, echoed through the room.
Tom rolled over, turning on his side and pulling the heavy duvet over his ears.
The bed smelled incredibly sweet. The blanket was massive—he didn't even have to curl into a ball to keep his feet covered. Yet, out of habit, Tom curled up anyway, pulling his knees to his chest into a tight 'G' shape.
Feeling something sharp poke his back, Tom assumed he had rolled into the wall and shimmied forward. Then, something soft and furry tickled his neck.
He opened his eyes. The sweet, vanilla-like scent grew stronger.
Where am I?
Any lingering sleepiness instantly vanished. Tom stared at his surroundings in shock.
Thick, heavy books were piled haphazardly on the nightstand. The pink, fluffy duvet was embroidered with cartoon otters. The sweet scent clinging to the sheets smelled like a teenage girl's perfume.
Tom looked down. The first thing he saw was a mass of thick, frizzy brown hair falling into his eyes.
Then, he noticed his hands. They were tiny and slender.
Are these my hands? Where are the biceps I spent a month grinding for?!
Panicking, Tom reached for his stomach and yanked up his shirt.
Where did my six-pack go?! Why is it just one soft lump?!
Where did my 'Little Tom' go?!
Wait...
Why the hell am I a woman?!
"Hermione, if you don't get up right now, we're going to miss our flight!"
The bedroom door pushed open, and a woman stepped into Tom's line of sight. She had the same bushy brown hair, though hers was neatly tamed and tied back into a practical ponytail.
"Sweetheart... you can't leave your books in the bed." The woman sighed. "Hermione, look, I know your Hogwarts letter is exciting, and we are so thrilled you're going to a magic school. But before any of that, you need to get up, wash your face, and come with us! Your father and I worked hard to get this time off, and we promised we'd take this trip together."
As she spoke, she picked up a heavy, hardback book from the mattress and placed it on the nightstand. That was the "sharp object" Tom had backed into.
Hogwarts?
Hermione?!!!
Did I transmigrate AGAIN?!
Am I Hermione Granger? The future youngest Minister for Magic?!
"Mom..." Tom hunched over, clutching his stomach beneath the covers. "I'm not feeling well today. I'm sorry, I don't think I can go with you. Maybe next time."
Normally, having spent a month cooped up in a dingy orphanage, Tom would have jumped at the chance for a vacation. But right now? He was terrified of blowing his cover.
"Not feeling well?" The woman instantly looked worried. "Do you have a fever?"
She pressed a hand to Tom's forehead, muttering to herself that he didn't feel hot at all. She anxiously asked if they should take her to the hospital, but Tom firmly refused, claiming he had just stayed up far too late reading her new books and had a headache. He apologized profusely and promised not to do it again.
After a few more nagging reminders, Mr. and Mrs. Granger finally rushed out the door to catch their flight.
The tickets were already paid for, and leaving Hermione home alone for a day or two was hardly a concern. Their daughter didn't have any friends anyway. She would just sit in the house entirely consumed by her textbooks. There was zero chance she'd even step foot outside. No sense wasting the airfare.
Once they were gone, Tom washed up, ate a quick breakfast, and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
There was no denying it. The girl staring back at him was Hermione Granger.
His new identity.
Her bushy brown hair was completely untamed, looking like a frizzy poodle. She had large brown eyes and prominent front teeth that looked a bit like a rabbit's whenever she opened her mouth.
She wasn't a knockout beauty just yet, but if she actually took the time to style herself—she might not be a supermodel, but she'd definitely be a very pretty girl!
Tom rubbed his temples and grabbed a hair tie, wrestling the massive mane of hair into a messy bun.
Is this the same world I was just in?
Hogwarts... Magic... Wizards...
Tom's eyes suddenly lit up.
He sprinted back to the bedroom and began eagerly flipping open the chaotic pile of books by the bed, one after another.
Right next to them lay a long, slender wooden wand.
Magical Drafts and Potions
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration
Every single first-year Hogwarts textbook was right here!
The pages were densely packed with folded corners and meticulous handwritten notes.
Hermione really was a massive tryhard. School hadn't even started yet, and she was already grinding away at the curriculum.
Well, I'm not about to let her out-grind me!
Tom grabbed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
The very first page covered the Levitation Charm: Wingardium Leviosa.
The book noted that the hardest parts were the wand movement—the swish and flick—and the precise pronunciation.
Tom silently rehearsed the incantation in his head. Excitement coursing through his veins, he picked up the wand, aimed it at a white feather Hermione had left marking a page, and spoke clearly.
"Wingardium Leviosa—!"
The feather trembled, floated unsteadily into the air for a brief second, and then fluttered back to the floor.
> [Spell Cast. Rating: Poor. Levitation Charm +1]
> [Levitation Charm (Novice): 1/100]
---
Meanwhile... St. Redelia Orphanage.
"Tom, why are you sleeping in so late?"
Misha knocked on the storage room door, calling out from the hallway. Normally, Tom was out in the courtyard doing his morning workout by now, but today he was nowhere to be seen.
"Tom, I'm coming in."
Misha called out one last time before turning the knob and cautiously pushing the door open. The dry smell of winter firewood and hay drifted out.
On the tiny cot, "Tom Riddle" was sitting up, staring at his hands with a look of absolute, unadulterated horror.
"Tom, you're awake! Why didn't you answer me?"
Misha walked closer. Tom was muttering frantically to himself in a low, panicked whisper. She couldn't understand half of what he was saying.
"Who cast such vile Dark Magic...?"
"A boy... why am I a boy?!"
Misha reached out and gently patted his shoulder. "Tom, what's wrong? Are you sick?"
"Tom?" Hermione's head snapped up violently.
Misha physically recoiled. She had never, ever seen Tom Riddle make a face like that.
In her mind, Tom was a rock. Unshakeable, calm, and indifferent—no matter what the world threw at him.