Malfoy was very helpless—yes, very helpless.
After the first wave of novelty faded, he found himself losing interest in most classes.
Would a high schooler thrown back into elementary school listen attentively? Not unless he was a total slacker.
And the current Malfoy was clearly no slacker. The only class that held even a bit of his interest was Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration. The subject was known for being complex, demanding, and sometimes even dangerous.
Still, one thing puzzled him: this world line seemed off.
Slytherin and Gryffindor were now taking most of their classes together.
"Is this some kind of butterfly effect?" Malfoy wondered to himself.
"Hey, is Professor McGonagall late today? I didn't think that stern old lady would ever be late," Pansy whispered, tugging on Malfoy's sleeve.
"Quiet. Do you see that cat on the table?" Malfoy warned softly.
Right as he said that, the bell rang with a sharp ding. The cat jumped down midair, transforming in a smooth flash into the stern-faced Professor McGonagall.
"Transfiguration is the most complex and dangerous magic you'll learn at Hogwarts," she said firmly. "Anyone who fools around in my class will be asked to leave—and will never be allowed back. You have been warned."
Her gaze fell directly on Pansy.
"I'm done for," Pansy muttered, ducking behind Malfoy's shoulder.
"Relax, she's not that petty," Malfoy replied calmly.
The lesson soon began. With a flick of her wand and a crisp incantation, Professor McGonagall transformed the lectern before her into a pig, then turned it back again.
The students gasped in amazement—Malfoy included.
Even with his logical, science-driven mind from his past life, the sight of real magic never failed to move him.
After everyone scribbled down the difficult notes, Professor McGonagall distributed matches, instructing them to turn each into a needle.
"Professor McGonagall, look! My match is changing!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly. Indeed, her match had turned silvery at one end.
"Good," McGonagall nodded with a rare smile. "Gryffindor, five points!"
Hermione beamed with pride, her chin lifting slightly. The Gryffindor students cheered for her—after all, earning points for the house on the first day was no small feat.
But their joy didn't last long.
"Mr. Draco, if I hadn't seen it myself, I'd think you secretly switched your match. Slytherin, ten points!"
Compared to Hermione's half-finished product, Malfoy's match had completely turned into a perfect metal needle.
Hermione, who had just been glowing with pride, instantly lowered her head, sneaking glances at Malfoy's desk and comparing their results.
"Serves you right for showing off," Pansy whispered with a smug grin.
"Don't mind it," Harry said behind Hermione. "He probably practiced a bunch at home. You'll catch up."
Ron's ears turned red but he said nothing—his thoughts seemed elsewhere.
"I've never lost to anyone in learning," Hermione declared suddenly, her eyes burning with determination.
Harry sighed. "Looks like I shouldn't have said anything."
Malfoy, meanwhile, acted as if the feat was nothing special. With a flick of his wand, he changed the needle back into a matchstick.
He really had practiced similar spells before—but that didn't make his skill any less real.
Even with practice, it had taken him no more than three tries to perfect it.
As long as the cheat's on, there's no spell I can't handle, Malfoy thought wryly.
But memory alone was becoming meaningless to him.
What he truly needed now was creativity.
There were two types of good students, he mused.
The first kind were those who could flawlessly complete assigned tasks—Hermione Granger from the original timeline fit that category perfectly.
The second kind not only mastered what they were taught, but also had the creativity to go beyond.
Just look at Snape's self-created spells and detailed notes—mere intelligence wasn't enough for that.
But creativity can't be forced, Malfoy thought. For now, I can only be the first kind.
The class everyone most anticipated was naturally Defense Against the Dark Arts. But aside from Malfoy, the rest of the students were soon disappointed.
Professor Quirrell's overwhelming garlic stench was impossible to ignore, and his lessons lacked any actual spellwork. Most students zoned out halfway through.
Malfoy, however, listened attentively.
Poor guy, he thought sympathetically.
"What, you think this class is boring too, right?" Pansy poked his back with her quill.
"It's fine," Malfoy replied vaguely.
"Talking about vampires isn't as good as when you told that 'Twilight' story before," Pansy teased.
"Please don't remind me," Malfoy muttered. "You were the one who called it trash halfway through."
"That was just to annoy those little lions," Pansy said with a mischievous grin.
Malfoy chuckled lightly. "I'll just keep listening about garlic and vampires, thank you."
"Boring!" Pansy huffed, slumping back.
Days passed in a quiet routine—at least from Malfoy's perspective.
While other students groaned about piles of homework, he was mostly exempt thanks to his excellent performance.
One afternoon, he stood before a bookshelf in the library, absentmindedly running his fingers along the spines.
"How can I get into the restricted section?" he murmured.
For a true top student, spending time in the library was the norm. As for his two usual followers—well, Malfoy let them do as they pleased. Dragging them here would be torture.
He pulled out a thick volume titled The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.
"Just for fun," he said to himself, flipping it open.
After reading for a while, he frowned. "Terrible magical talent, childish political ideas," he concluded.
Voldemort, he realized, had relied too much on personal power and fear. Outside of a few fanatics, most of his followers were bound by interest, not loyalty. When his strength fell, the entire organization collapsed—like monkeys scattering from a fallen tree.
"A tragic childhood led to paranoia. Not even pure-blood, yet obsessed with pure-blood supremacy…" Malfoy muttered. "Wait—maybe that was just politics. A deal with the old families."
He tapped his chin, lost in thought. If it were me, he mused, I'd go about it differently. The Ministry is full of fools. If you really want to rule, charm your way in, become Minister, then slowly take control of the Muggle world from within.
He smirked slightly. And now, the Dark Lord's charming people all over again.
"Should I tell Dumbledore about Quirrell?" Malfoy thought, pausing. "Yeah… let Snape handle that headache."
Just then, a voice came from behind him. "Excuse me, could you move a bit?"
The voice was familiar.
"Oh, sure," Malfoy said, stepping aside. He had been leaning lazily against the shelf, an old habit from his past life.
"Thank you," the voice said again.
A few seconds later came a soft gasp. "It's you!"
Malfoy looked up. A head of bushy brown hair filled his view—Hermione Granger, holding a heavy stack of books.
Not surprising. In the first week of school, who else would practically live in the library?
"Oh, a Gryffindor lion," Malfoy said dryly. "Guess I'd better stay back. We Slytherins are supposed to bully Muggle-borns, right?"
"Wait!" Hermione's voice was sharp and nervous. Her expression wavered, as if she'd been preparing for this.
"Miss Granger," Malfoy said evenly, "this is a library. Keep your voice down."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, bowing slightly. "And not just for the noise. About the train ride—I was wrong. We were all prejudiced. After I came to Hogwarts, I thought about it a lot. I realized there aren't evil houses or evil bloodlines—only evil wizards. So… I wanted to apologize. Next time, I'll bring the others to apologize too."
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Should I say something like, 'How brave of Gryffindor to admit their mistakes,' and then forgive you? Like a fairytale ending?"
Hermione's face paled. She had clearly worked up all her courage to say this, only to be rejected so bluntly.
"Just kidding," Malfoy said finally, smiling faintly. "I'm not that petty. Apology accepted. And don't bother bringing the others."
Hermione exhaled in relief, though his teasing had clearly stung.
"Sly Slytherins—always the same," she muttered.
"Thank you for the compliment," he said coolly.
"Don't get cocky. I'll surpass you sooner or later."
Malfoy chuckled. "I'll look forward to that."
"Hmph." Hermione straightened her shoulders, the burden gone from her chest, and strode off with her usual confidence.
By Friday morning, Pansy was slumped over the breakfast table, groaning.
"Potions class next… ugh. I hate all those bubbling things. Do you know what our professor's like? I heard he's the head of our house," she said, nudging Malfoy.
"Didn't I already highlight the key points for you?" Malfoy asked.
"I forgot! Not everyone has a perfect memory like you, you walking textbook."
"I think you just didn't read the book at all," Malfoy replied dryly.
Pansy stuck out her tongue. "Whatever. At least our Savior's going to have a bad day. That's something to look forward to."
Malfoy smirked. "That, he will."
Potions was held in an underground classroom, chillier than the rest of the castle. Jars lined the walls, each containing eerie, floating specimens.
"Gross," Pansy muttered, covering her nose.
Their teacher, Professor Severus Snape, entered—a tall, thin man with cold, tunnel-like eyes and a hooked nose. His long black hair framed his pale face, and his presence alone silenced the class.
"Ah, yes," Snape drawled when he reached Harry's name on the roll. "Harry Potter… our new celebrity."
He began his opening in a whisper, yet every word was clear. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving, many of you will doubt this is magic at all. But I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't, as I usually find, a bunch of dunderheads."
The room was dead silent.
Sounds like a mad scientist, Malfoy thought.
"This sounds hard," Pansy whispered miserably.
Hermione leaned forward eagerly, her hand twitching to be raised.
"Potter!" Snape suddenly barked. "What do I get if I add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze. He looked helplessly at Ron. Hermione's hand shot up immediately.
"I don't know, sir," Harry admitted.
Snape sneered. "Tsk, tsk—fame clearly isn't everything."
He ignored Hermione's raised hand completely.
"Then, Potter—where would you find a bezoar?"
Again, Harry was blank.
"And what's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I… don't know," Harry said again, looking resigned.
"This is our great Savior?" Snape said mockingly. "Draco, answer the question."
Ah, this script's gone off track, Malfoy thought, but he stood anyway.
"Asphodel root and wormwood make the Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion. A bezoar is a stone from a goat's stomach, used as an antidote for most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—aconite."
Snape's expression softened into satisfaction. "Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin."
"Bet they planned that," Ron muttered.
"One point from Gryffindor," Snape said coldly. "And keep your opinions to yourself."
Ron shut his mouth instantly.
"As for you, Potter," Snape continued, "try being serious. Perhaps one day you'll live up to your reputation."
"Yes, sir," Harry muttered tightly.
But Gryffindor's misery wasn't over.
As class went on, they were told to brew a simple potion to cure boils. Snape drifted among the cauldrons, his cloak trailing behind him. He criticized nearly everyone—except when he reached Malfoy's table, where he gave a rare nod of approval.
Suddenly, green smoke hissed nearby.
"This smell's off," Malfoy noted, spotting Neville's cauldron bubbling violently.
"Aguamenti!" he cast, dousing the spill before it spread.
"Idiot!" Snape roared—not at Malfoy, but at Neville.
"Five points to Slytherin—for quick thinking," Snape added. "Now take him to the hospital wing!"
Then, turning sharply, he fixed his glare on Harry. "Potter! Why didn't you warn him not to add the porcupine quills? Showing off, are you? Another point from Gryffindor!"
Harry's jaw clenched, but Ron kicked his leg under the table. "Don't. He's waiting for it," Ron whispered.
Harry swallowed his anger.
When class finally ended, Gryffindor's points had taken a heavy hit—while Slytherin's had risen sharply.