Day three of the body swap.
Hermione's body was slowly but surely adapting to Tom's grueling routine.
He started the morning early: a three-kilometer jog, followed by a hundred push-ups, a set of squats, and fifteen pull-ups just to wake up the brain. (Naturally, Tom broke these into manageable sets with two-minute rests in between).
Hermione's muscles were screaming and sore, but this was the necessary precursor to physical transformation.
Fully awake and energized, Tom headed back to the Granger house.
"Hermione, you... Good Lord!"
Mrs. Granger slapped a hand over her mouth, refusing to believe her own eyes.
Is this really my daughter?
Tom had tied Hermione's massive mane of hair up into a tight, practical bun to keep it out of the way. Gone were the frumpy, dirt-smudged clothes, replaced by a crisp, white tracksuit that practically radiated energetic youth.
Fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead above those large brown eyes. Tom stood there, panting slightly from the exertion.
"Good Lord! Hermione—my sweet Hermione, what on earth have you been doing these past two days?!"
Hermione, the girl who notoriously hated leaving the house, had gone out for a workout!
Mrs. Granger couldn't fathom it. Was this really something her little bookworm would do? Without wasting another second, she placed her hands on Tom's back and practically shoved him into the bathroom.
"My sweet girl, take a shower first. Use hot water! You absolutely must use hot water, or you'll catch a cold. I'm going to make you breakfast right now; you need to replenish your nutrients!"
After a hot shower, Tom dressed in a chic, tailored London-style mini suit, pulling a beret down over his hair. He looked even cooler than the day before.
Mrs. Granger's breakfast, however, was woefully insufficient. Two sandwiches and a glass of milk? To Tom's post-workout metabolism, it barely filled the gaps between his teeth.
"Mom, I'm going to the library today."
"I know, sweetheart, you always do. But you really should try to make some friends! You can't spend your whole life buried in the library." Mrs. Granger slipped a twenty-pound note into his hand. "Here, take this. If it's not enough, just tell Mom."
Watching Tom walk out the door, Mrs. Granger kept her hand over her mouth.
My daughter is growing up so fast...
Hermione looked like a literal child model right now. Maybe she should enroll her in a modeling agency. Hogwarts... that magical nonsense is so annoying! If it weren't for magic, Hermione would make a fantastic model!
"Granger!"
Hearing a voice call out to her daughter, Mrs. Granger leaned closer to the window. Two kids had run up to Hermione.
Are those nasty bullies bothering her again? Mrs. Granger frowned, her face turning cold as she prepared to march out there. But then she caught their conversation.
"Granger, your outfit is amazing today!"
"Are you going to see a photographer? Am I going to see you in the London Model Catalog tomorrow?"
"Hey Granger, are you free today? My brother gave me three tickets to the amusement park. If you're not busy..."
Tom casually raised a hand to stop them. "Sorry. I'm going to the library today. Next time, for sure."
The kids stared at Tom's massively overstuffed backpack. "Come on, you can study whenever! The amusement park is a one-time thing! Plus, if you come with us, we'll look so cool. I mean, you're so pretty now, all the other kids will be totally jealous of us."
Tom's face instantly hardened.
"Do you really think we have an abundance of time to study? A three-inch thick book takes half a week to read, and if you want to actually master the material, you have to read it at least twice! There are only 48 weeks in a year, which means you can only truly master 48 books a year! Middle school is seven years long. That's barely over 300 books in total! Time is incredibly tight!"
The truth was, Tom was terrified of Voldemort.
Every waking second, he worried that a psychopathic Dark Lord wouldn't tolerate a second person running around with his exact name, and would show up to murder him.
"O-okay... then maybe we can go to the library with you?" one of the kids asked, figuring that even in a library, sitting next to a girl this pretty would be a win.
Unfortunately for them, Tom ruthlessly rejected them again.
The reason he wasn't practicing magic at home was simply that he didn't want Mrs. Granger to catch on that he wasn't her daughter.
After leaving the kids behind, Tom stopped by a convenience store to load up on snacks. His appetite was completely unlocked now; Mrs. Granger's light breakfast wasn't going to cut it.
Arriving at the library, Tom rented a private study room, locked the door, and immediately began practicing his spells.
After two days of grinding, Tom finally understood why every wizard needed a wand that specifically chose them.
Every time he waved Hermione's wand, there was a subtle, nagging sense of dissonance. It wasn't completely debilitating, but it felt like eating french fries without ketchup, or plain oatmeal without sugar. It worked, but it felt incredibly awkward, making his magic feel sluggish and strained.
If I had my own wand, this would be a million times easier!
Time flew by in the library. Before he knew it, evening had arrived.
Tom rubbed his exhausted eyes. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, wondering how Hermione was handling life on the other side.
---
### Meanwhile... St. Redelia Orphanage
"Thank you again for today, Professor," little Sean Middle said, giving Hermione a highly respectful bow as he saw her out.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Hermione replied, her eyes lingering on the magic book in Sean's hands. She desperately wanted to ask if she could borrow it, but she just couldn't bring herself to say the words. She turned and left.
Just as Hermione had suspected, the entire Middle family—aside from Sean—were completely ordinary Muggles.
The real wild card was Mr. Michelangelo.
He wasn't a Muggle, but he wasn't a wizard, either. He was a Squib—someone born into a magical family but entirely devoid of magical ability. Michelangelo had left his magical family behind to live in London as an ordinary Muggle doctor.
Carrying her daily wages, Hermione headed back to the orphanage.
She immediately handed half the cash over to the orphanage caretakers, strictly instructing them to improve the daily meals. Growing children needed proper nutrition.
Afterward, Hermione sat alone by the banks of Lake Sessibel, letting her legs dangle into the chilly water up to her calves.
She stared at her reflection in the rippling surface.
The face staring back at her was impeccably handsome, without a single flaw. The hair on the sides was cut short, but she had managed to gather the curly locks in the back into a tiny, neat ponytail.
She had been inhabiting this body for three days now.
Without her wand, Hermione could manage a few simple, wandless parlor tricks, but anything more advanced was impossible.
And she had absolutely no idea that a boy's body would be so... complicated. She still didn't understand why guys had a... well. Regardless, moving around felt awkward, and taking a shower was an absolute psychological hurdle.
But Tom's body did have its perks.
Being packed with lean, functional muscle made everyday movements feel incredibly light and effortless.
Hermione shook her head, forcing her mind off the physical awkwardness.
Her top priority right now was finding a way to contact Professor Dumbledore. She needed to explain everything that had happened to her!
Hogwarts term was starting soon, and she was running out of time. Furthermore, Tom Riddle was over there living her life. If this dragged on much longer, her parents were definitely going to notice something was wrong.
"Tom."
A voice called out from behind her.
Hermione tilted her head back and looked up. It was Perkin Lawrence.
"What do you want?" Hermione asked coldly. She had zero intention of humoring him; her impression of Lawrence was rock-bottom.
"I'm leaving," Lawrence said. He sat down next to her, mimicking her posture by dipping his legs into the lake. The freezing water made him violently shudder, but he gritted his teeth and refused to pull his feet out.
He stared sideways at "Tom."
"Honestly... I've always envied you. No, I've been jealous of you. Did you know I hate you?"
"The feeling is entirely mutual," Hermione scoffed. "You walk around with this arrogant pride, and I have no idea what you're even proud of."
Lawrence didn't get angry. He just smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'm not like the rest of you here. I actually had parents. They just passed away. Before I came to this orphanage, I was a young master. My father was a bank manager. But then... things happened."
He looked down in defeat. "I can't do what you do. I can't smile at everyone. I can't show people a gentle side. So... I was jealous of you."
Hermione waved a hand dismissively. "I have no interest in your life story. When are you leaving? Maybe on the day you leave, they'll serve us a decent meal. I haven't had a good flower pastry in ages."
"With the money you're making now, you can eat all the pastries you want, right?"
"My money has a purpose," Hermione replied firmly.
She had far too many things she needed to buy.
What if... she had thought to herself... what if I'm stuck in this body for the rest of my life? How do I get back into Hogwarts?
Before she could even think about that, she needed to save up enough Muggle money to buy her own textbooks, a cauldron, a wand...
"Right. Well... I just came to say goodbye," Lawrence murmured. "Tom, do you realize that lately, you're acting... really elegant? Before I came to the orphanage, I knew a lot of girls. I mean real girls, not little kids like Misha. Your movements are exactly like theirs. These past few days, you've completely changed. You act more like a highly critical, strict girl than Tom Riddle."
Hermione physically froze.
Is his observation skill really that sharp?!
She forced her expression to remain blank. "You're imagining things."
"Anyway, that's not what I came to talk about." Lawrence stood up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. "I can tell you aren't from the same world as the rest of us. Even Mr. Michelangelo looks at you with admiration. He told me you're desperate for money, and that's the only reason you lowered yourself to tutor Sean. This is everything I've saved up over the years."
One hundred and seventeen pounds, thirty-two pence. Down to the exact coin.
"I'm leaving tonight. Mr. Michelangelo says we need a fresh start somewhere else. London isn't for us. He wants to get far away from you... no, far away from all of this."
Hermione watched his retreating back, quietly stuffing the cash into her pocket as she continued to kick her legs in the water.
A few yards away, Lawrence paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
He looked at the little ponytail tied at the back of Hermione's head. He looked at her posture, the graceful way she moved, and remembered the intense, sharp way she had looked at him...
Uncontrollably, a deep red blush spread across Lawrence's cheeks.
SMACK!
He slapped himself hard across the face.
Calm down, Perkin! Pull yourself together! He's a man! Even if he acts and looks like a girl, he is a dude!
---
By dinner time, Lawrence was gone.
Mr. Michelangelo had made a massive donation to the orphanage in Lawrence's name—enough gold pounds to ensure all the children would have heating and good food for the entire winter.
I need to work harder, too. For my future, Hermione thought, looking up at the moon.
She couldn't waste her evenings. She needed more pounds to convert into wizarding Galleons.
Sure, she could just track Tom down and demand her wand and textbooks back... but she had no guarantee he wouldn't just play dumb and deny everything. What if Tom flat-out refused to give them back?
She needed a backup plan.
That night, Hermione knocked on the Middle family's door. She asked Sean if he'd be willing to take night classes, promising she could teach him even more magic.
Unsurprisingly, Sean eagerly agreed.
---
Far away, in the Scottish Highlands...
Inside the magical school known as Hogwarts.
An old man with a long white beard stood quietly, holding a letter in his hand—a letter that had not yet been sent.
Bathed in the pale moonlight pouring through the window, the address on the envelope was clearly visible:
> Mr. Tom Riddle
> The Storage Room
> St. Redelia Orphanage
> 115 Magpie Lane, London
The old man stood there in the silence, deeply hesitating over whether he should send it.
---