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"Easy for you to say, but expecting a cat to recite an incantation is downright impossible!"
During Charms Class, Tom stared at Professor Flitwick—whose tiny head barely cleared the lectern—and felt his mind teeter on the edge of collapse.
"And Professor Flitwick, just teach the lesson! Why keep staring at me like that?" he muttered under his breath. "And that Malfoy behind me… don't think I don't notice you sneaking glances. What do you two even want from me?"
In truth, Tom had only himself to blame for the situation.
Flitwick's scrutiny wasn't born of suspicion or malice. It stemmed from Tom's outstanding performances in recent lessons, particularly in History of Magic. A Hufflepuff earning points from Snape and drawing his special attention was already unusual enough—Professor Sprout had even waived Tom's Herbology homework as a reward—but what had happened that fateful night eclipsed all prior feats.
Professor Binns, the ghost who had never shown interest in anything outside his classes in decades, had actually sought out Dumbledore with a proposition: to make Tom his teaching assistant. By Merlin, Flitwick thought, he had never heard of such a thing. Professors always conducted their own lessons, unless physically incapacitated. Binns, tireless as ever, had never once missed a single class.
These successive anomalies left Flitwick nursing a quiet expectation: if Tom could dazzle other professors, perhaps he would surprise him in Charms as well.
Draco Malfoy's motives were simpler, and far less noble. The Slytherin's sharp gaze tracked Tom with suspicion and envy. Why was Snape lavishing points on an outsider, a creature not even worth the title "wizard," while ignoring a pure-blood Slytherin like himself? Nursing that sense of injustice, Draco fixated on Tom, storing each oddity away for future ridicule. The full hatred he would later bear Harry Potter hadn't yet formed, but it was on the way.
Oblivious to their reasons, Tom felt every inch of his feline body tense. Already frustrated by his inability to vocalize spells, the stares of both Flitwick and Malfoy made him increasingly frantic. His wand waved aimlessly, gestures growing wilder with each failed attempt.
Flitwick, standing at the podium, watched with a mix of hope and doubt. Finally, he concluded what the rumors had suggested: a cat could not have restaged an entire magical history lesson alone without aid. Yet, unlike Snape, Flitwick—simply a dedicated teacher—saw only a student in need of guidance. There was no judgment in his eyes.
Draco, too far away to taunt aloud, mentally filed the incident for later mockery. "A creature that can't even cast a spell… and yet snaring Snape's favor? Must be cheating. Wait until I expose him."
Tom, meanwhile, was readying himself for yet another attempt. Relief washed over him as Flitwick's gaze softened; a distant Malfoy glare was now trivial. But the sting of failure gnawed at him. His movements were flawless, yet without a spoken incantation, the feather remained stubbornly motionless.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" he tried again—first in his own strange cat-speech, then silently in his mind—nothing.
"Curse it, float already!" Frustration boiled over. Tossing aside all subtlety, Tom swung his wand like a club and smashed the feather onto the desk.
"Meow?"
To his own surprise, the feather, once entirely immobile, drifted upward as if weightless.
"Excellent Levitation Charm! And silent casting! Five points to Hufflepuff!" Flitwick beamed, utterly missing the violent theatrics, assuming Tom had performed a perfectly executed silent spell.
The rumors were true: this unusual student did possess remarkable talent.
Behind him, both Draco and Hannah froze. Was that spell… authentic? Something about the movement didn't match the standard levitation technique. Hannah, used to Tom's eccentricities, merely blinked and returned to her practice. Draco, on the other hand, bristled. He had no idea of Tom's hidden strength and immediately assumed it must be some novel technique. His green eyes narrowed.
Determined to replicate—or outdo—the performance, Draco slammed his wand toward his own feather.
Boom!
The feather exploded into a cloud of fluff, dusting his face and clothes but leaving him otherwise unharmed. Draco's jaw tightened. Tom, meanwhile, simply flicked his tail and gave a satisfied meow.
Class continued, yet the room buzzed with whispers. Some students speculated on Tom's abilities, others simply gawked. Tom's peculiar methods—smashing the feather with an improvised gesture—had somehow worked, defying all conventional expectations.
Flitwick, meanwhile, quietly adjusted his glasses, mentally noting that teaching this student would be both a challenge and a delight. There was something extraordinary about him, something raw yet refined, a potential that demanded cultivation. The little professor allowed himself a small smile.
Draco, still brushing fluff from his hair, eyed Tom with suspicion and awe in equal measure. He did not understand how a mere cat could wield magic with such precision, nor did he comprehend the silent power behind the gestures. This was beyond standard training—it was instinct, intuition, and perhaps something more.
As the lesson proceeded, Tom returned to his usual rhythm, pawing gently at his wand, occasionally flicking it to float small objects. Flitwick kept a careful watch, while other students struggled to keep up. Hannah's brow furrowed slightly; she suspected Tom was hiding something, but wasn't about to question him openly.
By the end of class, one thing was certain: Tom had made his mark. He had defied expectations, challenged conventions, and left both professors and peers intrigued—and in some cases, unsettled. Whether the spell was technically "correct" mattered little. What mattered was the undeniable display of talent, the unmistakable aura of potential that surrounded him.
Draco stormed out, plotting his next move, while Flitwick lingered a moment longer, shaking his head with a bemused smile. Tom, meanwhile, settled on his perch by the window, tail curling around him, silently pleased with the chaos he had wrought.
History had been rewritten, if only slightly, in the quietest, most unusual of ways. And though many might doubt it, the spell—messy, unorthodox, and absolutely genuine—was entirely his own.
The whispers of admiration and envy would follow him through the corridors, but Tom, for now, basked in a rare moment of feline satisfaction. After all, even a cat could astonish Hogwarts… if only one had the nerve to try.
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