Day three of the body swap.
Hermione's body was slowly starting to take on Tom's shape.
Tom got up early for a three-mile jog, followed by a hundred push-ups, squats, and fifteen pull-ups—just to wake his brain up. (He did them in sets, of course, with two-minute rests between.)
Hermione's muscles were still sore, but that was just the first sign they were changing.
After the workout, Tom headed back home, feeling sharp and awake.
"Hermione, you—oh my goodness!"
Mrs. Granger clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Was this really her daughter?
Tom had tied Hermione's long bushy hair into a neat little bun—it felt way more comfortable that way.
The frumpy, slightly grubby clothes were gone, replaced by a crisp white tracksuit that made him look full of energy.
Sweat beaded across her forehead and those big brown eyes. Tom took a couple of deep breaths—he was pretty tired.
"My God, Hermione—my little Hermione, what have you been up to these past few days?"
Hermione, who never left the house unless she absolutely had to, had gone out to exercise?
Mrs. Granger couldn't believe it. This was her little bookworm?
She immediately started pushing Tom toward the bathroom.
"Sweetheart, you need a hot shower right now—hot water, I mean it, or you'll catch a cold. I'll make you breakfast while you're in there. You need to eat properly!"
After the shower, Tom changed into a sharp little London suit and pulled a beret over the bun. It looked even cooler than before.
Mrs. Granger's breakfast wasn't nearly enough—two sandwiches and a glass of milk. Tom felt like he'd barely filled a corner of his stomach.
"Mum, I'm going to the library today."
"I know, honey, you always do. But you really should make some friends. You can't spend your whole life in the library." She pressed a twenty-pound note into his hand. "Here, take this. If you need more, just tell me."
Mrs. Granger watched him go, hand over her mouth again.
Her little girl was growing up…
She looked like a tiny model now. Maybe she should sign her up for a modeling class.
Hogwarts… those stupid magic schools! If there were no magic, Hermione would be an amazing model someday!
"Granger!"
Mrs. Granger heard some kids calling Hermione's name. She peeked out and saw two boys crowding around her daughter.
Were those annoying kids trying to bully her again?
Mrs. Granger's brows furrowed, and she was about to march over with a scowl—until she heard what they were saying.
"Granger, you look amazing today!"
"Are you going to a photoshoot? Will I see you in the London model catalog tomorrow?"
"Granger, you free? We've got three tickets to the amusement park—my brother gave them to me. If you're not busy…"
Tom raised a hand. "Sorry, I'm heading to the library today. Maybe next time."
The boys spotted the massive backpack stuffed to bursting.
"Come on, you can study anytime. The park is only this once. If you come with us, we'll look so cool—especially with someone as pretty as you. Everyone else will be jealous."
Tom's face went stern. "Do you think there's a lot of time for studying? A three-inch-thick book takes half a week just to read once. To really understand it, you need at least two reads.
There are only forty-eight weeks in a year, so that's forty-eight books max if you're lucky. My middle school is seven years—that's barely over three hundred books total. Time is tight!"
Tom was terrified of Voldemort.
Every single day he worried that the psychopathic Dark Lord wouldn't tolerate another person with the same name and would come to kill him.
"Fine… maybe we could go to the library with you?" one of the boys offered. Even in the library, having a pretty girl like that by his side would still turn heads.
But Tom turned them down anyway.
He wasn't practicing magic at home because he didn't want Mrs. Granger to figure out he wasn't really Hermione.
After saying goodbye, Tom stopped at a corner shop and bought a bunch of snacks.
His appetite had exploded. Mrs. Granger's breakfast wasn't nearly enough to fuel the energy this body needed.
At the library, Tom found a private study room, locked the door, and started practicing magic.
After two days, he finally understood why every wizard needed a wand that chose them.
Every time he waved Hermione's wand, there was this slight… off feeling.
Not super obvious, but like eating chips without ketchup or tofu pudding without sugar—usable, but weird. The magic always felt a little sluggish, like he was fighting it.
A wand that really fit him would make everything so much easier and smoother!
Time flew in the library. Before he knew it, evening had arrived.
Tom rubbed his tired eyes, leaned back in the chair, and wondered how Hermione was doing in his body.
…
Meanwhile, at St. Redia Orphanage—
"Thank you for today, Teacher," little Sheen said politely, giving Tom a respectful bow as she watched him leave.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Tom promised. He glanced at the magic book in Sheen's hands, wanting to ask if he could borrow it, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.
Just as he'd guessed, the Middle family were all Muggles—except for Sheen.
But Mr. Michelangelo was a surprise.
He wasn't a Muggle, and he wasn't a wizard either. He was a Squib—born to a wizarding family but with no magical ability at all. The exact opposite of Muggle-born wizards.
Mr. Michelangelo had left his family behind and moved to London. Luckily, he was smart enough to become a doctor.
With that day's pay in his pocket, Tom headed back to the orphanage.
He gave half the money to the adults, telling them to make sure the kids had plenty of good food—they were still growing.
Then he sat on the edge of the dock by Lake Cecibel, letting his legs dangle in the water until it covered his calves.
Tom stared at his reflection in the lake.
The face was sharp and handsome, not a single flaw. The short hair on the sides was tied back into a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck.
He'd been in this body for three days now.
Without a wand, he could manage some simple, light spells, but anything more advanced was impossible.
And honestly… he hadn't expected a boy's body to feel so… inconvenient.
There were certain… things that made moving around awkward, and showering was a whole new challenge.
But there were advantages too.
All that muscle made everyday movements feel effortless and light.
Tom shook his head, trying to stop thinking about the body itself.
His biggest priority right now was finding a way to contact Professor Dumbledore. He had to tell him everything that had happened here—everything that had happened to him!
Hogwarts would be starting soon. He was running out of time.
What had the real Tom Riddle been doing with his body all this time? His parents would definitely notice something was off eventually.
"Tom."
A voice came from behind him.
Tom tilted his head and saw Parkin Lawrence.
"What do you want?" Tom asked, already annoyed. He really didn't like Lawrence.
"I'm leaving," Lawrence said, sitting down beside him. He copied Tom's pose, dipping his legs into the lake—then immediately shivered from the cold. He gritted his teeth and kept them in.
Lawrence looked at Tom. "You know… I've always been jealous of you. Actually, I hate you. You know that, right?"
Tom shrugged. "I hate you too. You're always so smug, but I have no idea what you're even proud of."
Lawrence gave a self-mocking smile. "I'm different from you guys. I had parents… they just died.
Before I came to the orphanage, I was kind of a little lord. My dad was a bank manager. But then stuff happened." He lowered his head. "I can't be like you—smiling at everyone, being gentle to everyone. So I'm jealous."
Tom waved a hand. "I don't care about your story. When are you leaving? Maybe we can have a nice meal the day you go. I haven't had flower cakes in forever."
"With your salary now, you can buy flower cakes whenever you want."
"My money's for something else," Tom said.
He had too many things he needed to spend it on.
What if—just what if—he was stuck in this body forever?
How would he get back to Hogwarts?
He needed to save up for textbooks, a wand…
"Okay, I… I just came to say goodbye. You know, Tom, you're really elegant now? Back before the orphanage, I saw a lot of girls—not little kids like Misha.
The way you move, the way you act… it's a lot like them. And these past few days, you've changed even more. You're starting to seem like a sharp-tongued girl, not Tom Riddle."
Tom froze.
Was Lawrence's observation really that good?
But he didn't admit it. "You're imagining things."
"I didn't come here to say that." Lawrence stood up and pulled a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket. "I can tell you're not from the same world as us.
Even Mr. Michelangelo looks at you like you're something special. He said you really need money—that's why you're lowering yourself to tutor Sheen. This is all I've saved up over the years."
One hundred seventeen pounds and thirty-two pence.
Some notes, some coins.
"I'm leaving tonight. Mr. Michelangelo said we need to move somewhere else. London isn't right for us. He wants to get away from you… I mean, away from all of you."
Tom watched him walk away, then slipped the money into his pocket and kept swinging his legs in the water.
Lawrence glanced back once.
He saw the little ponytail tied at the back of Tom's neck, the way he moved, the look in his eyes…
His face flushed slightly.
Then he slapped himself hard.
"Parkin, calm down! He's a guy! No matter how much he acts or looks like a girl, he's still a guy!"
At dinner, Tom didn't see Lawrence. He knew the boy had already left.
Mr. Michelangelo had donated a large sum in Lawrence's name—enough to keep the kids warm and fed all winter.
Maybe he should work even harder, for the future.
Tom looked up at the moon in the sky.
The night wasn't over yet.
He needed more pounds to exchange for Galleons.
He could go find Tom and take back his wand and textbooks—but what if Tom just denied everything?
What if Tom refused to give them back?
He needed a backup plan.
That night, Tom knocked on the Middle family's door and asked if Sheen wanted evening lessons too. He could teach her even more magic.
As expected, Sheen said yes immediately.
…
Far away in the Scottish Highlands,
inside the castle known as Hogwarts—
An old man with a long white beard held an unposted letter in his hand.
By the pale moonlight, you could just make out the address on the envelope:
115 Magpie Lane, London
St. Redia Orphanage Warehouse
Recipient: Tom Riddle
The old man hesitated, wondering whether to send it or not.