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Chapter 9 – Lessons Begins
Malfoy felt helpless. Truly helpless.
Because the initial novelty had already worn off, and he had completely lost interest in most classes.
Would a high-schooler listen to elementary-level lessons with enthusiasm? Only if he were a terrible student.
And Malfoy was definitely not a terrible student now. The only class that still intrigued him was Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration. It was famously difficult, complex, and—at times—dangerous.
Besides, Malfoy was deeply curious about what had happened in this altered timeline. Slytherin and Gryffindor now shared most of their lessons.
A butterfly effect? Malfoy wondered.
"Hey, is Professor McGonagall late? I didn't expect a strict old lady like her to be late," Pansy whispered as she tugged on Malfoy's sleeve.
"Stop talking. See that cat on the desk?" Malfoy quickly hushed her.
The class bell chimed. The cat jumped down, transforming mid-air into Professor McGonagall herself.
"Transfiguration is the most complex and dangerous form of magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said sternly. "Anyone who dares misbehave in my class will be asked to leave—and never allowed back. Consider this your only warning."
She glanced directly at Pansy.
"Oh no… she heard us," Pansy whispered, shrinking behind Malfoy.
"Relax, she's not that petty," Malfoy said.
The lesson began. With a flick of her wand, McGonagall transformed the desk before her into a pig, then back again.
Gasps filled the room—even Malfoy's. For someone raised on strict materialism, no matter how many times he saw it, this kind of magic was astonishing.
After scribbling down a mountain of complicated notes, McGonagall handed each student a matchstick. Their first task: turn it into a needle.
"Professor! Look—my match is changing!" Hermione squealed. So far, she was the only one with noticeable results.
"Very good," McGonagall said with a rare smile. "Five points to Gryffindor."
The Gryffindor students cheered. Hermione lifted her chin proudly.
But their joy didn't last long.
"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, "had I not seen this myself, I would have assumed you had simply switched your match for a real needle. Ten points to Slytherin."
Hermione immediately froze. She glanced sideways at Malfoy, clearly comparing their results.
"That's what you get for showing off," Pansy whispered teasingly.
"Don't worry about him," Harry whispered behind Hermione. "He probably practiced at home a hundred times."
Ron said nothing, face red—thinking about his own family situation.
"I've never lost to anyone in academics," Hermione suddenly declared, eyes blazing with determination.
Harry sighed. "Shouldn't have said anything…"
As for Malfoy, he acted as if he'd done something trivial. With a flick of his wand, he changed the needle back to a match.
Yes, he had practiced similar spells before—though that, too, was a form of skill.
Even so, Malfoy usually only needed three attempts to reach near perfection.
With talent, cheat-codes, and memory, what spell can't I learn? he thought with mild amusement.
But memory alone wasn't enough; creativity was what truly mattered.
There were two types of top students:
—Those like Hermione in the original timeline: perfect performers, excellent with assigned tasks.
—And those with both talent and creativity: innovators, like Snape, who created spells.
Creativity couldn't be forced. For now, Malfoy could only be the first type.
---
The most anticipated class was Defense Against the Dark Arts. But only Malfoy wasn't disappointed.
Professor Quirrell's garlic stench was unbearable, his lessons dull, and his stuttering constant. Students struggled to stay awake.
Malfoy, however, listened intently.
Poor guy, he thought.
"How is it? You think he's boring too, right?" Pansy poked Malfoy with her quill.
"It's fine," Malfoy replied half-heartedly.
"He should talk about 'Twilight' instead of vampires," Pansy grumbled.
"Please, don't joke. You were the one who said the plot was rubbish halfway through."
"I just want to disgust those Gryffindor brats," Pansy said with a wicked grin.
Malfoy sighed. "I think I'll learn how garlic defeats vampires."
"Boooring," Pansy groaned.
---
Life quickly fell into routine—dull routine, at least for Malfoy. Others were drowning in homework, but his exceptional performance meant he was excused from most assignments.
"How do I get access to the restricted section…?" Malfoy muttered, standing before a bookshelf.
As a top student, spending time in the library was natural. As for Crabbe and Goyle—better to let them roam freely. Dragging them into a library was like dragging them to their deaths.
Public books didn't interest Malfoy much.
"Just something to pass the time," Malfoy said, pulling out The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic.
He flipped through the pages, forming his evaluation:
Brilliant magical talent. Childish political thinking.
Voldemort ruled mostly through fear, not charisma. His alliances relied on interest, not loyalty. Once his power vanished, so did his supporters.
"A tragic childhood breeds paranoia… not even a pureblood, yet obsessed with pureblood supremacy. Hmm? No—maybe that was just a political compromise. An exchange of interests."
Malfoy reevaluated Voldemort's motives.
"What a pity," he thought.
"If it were me, I would've been more subtle. Manipulate the Ministry, rise through charm, take over politically… then slowly infiltrate the Muggle world."
But in this world line, Voldemort seemed far better at manipulation.
"Should I expose Quirrell to Dumbledore?" Malfoy wondered.
"No—he's already suspicious. Leave it to Snape."
"Student, could you move aside?" a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Oh—sorry," Malfoy said, stepping away from the shelf.
A few seconds later—
"It's you!" a soft gasp.
Hermione, clutching a stack of books, stared at him.
Of course—who else would visit the library so early in the year?
"So it's Gryffindor's little lion," Malfoy said dryly. "As a pureblood who 'tramples Muggles,' I should keep my distance."
He turned to leave.
"Wait!" Hermione's voice was loud and urgent.
"Miss Granger, this is a library. Quiet, please."
"S—sorry…"
Hermione bowed, hugging her books tightly.
"That apology should go to whoever you're disturbing."
"I meant… about what happened on the train," Hermione whispered.
"Oh?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
"I'm very sorry. We were prejudiced. I've thought about it a lot since starting school… I realized there are only bad wizards—not bad houses or bad bloodlines." Hermione bowed deeply again. "Please forgive us. Next time, I'll bring Ron and Harry to apologize too."
Malfoy stared at her.
"Should I say: 'Gryffindor courage is admirable' and forgive you? Like a fairy tale?" he asked flatly.
Hermione's face drained of color.
Then Malfoy smirked.
"Relax. I'm not that petty. Apology accepted. And don't bother bringing the other two—I don't need their apologies."
Hermione exhaled shakily in relief.
"Slytherins… always so cunning," she muttered.
"Thank you for the compliment."
"Don't get cocky! I'll surpass you soon!" she snapped, cheeks pink, still remembering the Transfiguration lesson.
"I'll look forward to it," Malfoy laughed.
"Hmph!"
With her burden lifted, Hermione returned to her usual arrogance and marched off.
---
On Friday morning, Pansy slumped over the dining table, miserable.
"It's Potions today… I hate those bubbling, disgusting cauldrons. And the professor—ugh, they say he's our Head of House." Pansy nudged Malfoy.
"Didn't I give you a list of questions he might ask on the first day?" Malfoy asked.
"I can't remember all that! Not everyone has your photographic memory, bookworm." Pansy stuck out her tongue.
"You didn't even read it," Malfoy said bluntly.
"But whatever—we'll get to watch the Savior suffer today," he added lightly.
"Wonderful!" Pansy grinned.
---
The dungeon classroom was cold. Shelves were lined with jars of floating animal parts. Pansy gagged.
"Gross…"
The teacher, Severus Snape, entered—tall, thin, dark, and hollow-eyed.
He stopped when he reached Harry's name on the roll.
"Oh yes," Snape murmured. "Harry Potter… our new celebrity."
He began his opening speech, cold and quiet—but every single student heard him clearly.
Malfoy felt as if Snape belonged in a research lab with mad scientists.
Snape fired questions at Harry, ignoring Hermione's raised hand. Harry knew none of the answers.
Snape sneered and finally turned to Malfoy.
"Mr. Malfoy. Answer."
Malfoy stood and gave all three answers with ease.
A satisfied smile flickered on Snape's dark face.
"Ten points to Slytherin."
Ron muttered, "Probably planned ahead… Hermione's hand was up forever."
"One point from Gryffindor for back-talk," Snape snapped instantly.
Potions continued, and disaster struck: Neville melted his cauldron.
Malfoy noticed first and cast a quick cleansing charm, preventing a full-room catastrophe.
"Well done. Five points to Slytherin," Snape said coldly—before turning to Harry and inventing a reason to deduct yet another point.
By the time class ended, Slytherin had gained points and Gryffindor had hemorrhaged them.
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