— — — — — —
A new week began.
On Monday morning, Daphne finally received the package she'd been anxiously waiting for.
Or rather, packages—two of them.
Not only had her mother sent her some money, but her little sister, Astoria, had also secretly mailed over her personal savings after finding out that Daphne was struggling.
In her letter, Astoria told her not to hold back on spending, and if it wasn't enough, she had more. Daphne was so moved she teared up on the spot.
Her little sister really was the most precious girl in the world.
So why, then, did life insist on putting her through endless pain?
Just thinking about Astoria's health made Daphne start crying for real, scaring the girls she shared a dorm with.
"Greengrass, are you alright?" Millicent Bulstrode asked hesitantly.
"I'm fine… I just miss my sister, that's all."
Daphne wiped her eyes and made up a quick excuse. "You guys go ahead without me. I want to be alone for a bit."
The girls exchanged looks but eventually filed out of the room.
Don't be fooled by how cute and obedient Daphne acted around Tom—she was still the heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and the Greengrass family name had never once fallen from grace.
Aside from Bulstrode, her other roommates were just regular pure-bloods. In a hierarchy-obsessed house like Slytherin, none of them dared to cross her.
After the tears dried, Daphne pulled herself together… only to start worrying again—how exactly was she supposed to give Tom the money?
She couldn't just hand it over. That would feel too much like charity.
Saying it was a loan didn't work either. Who knew if Tom would even accept such a large amount? Even if he did, he might be too hesitant to use it, constantly stressing over paying it back.
"What am I supposed to do…" she muttered, completely torn.
Tom, on the other hand, was laser-focused on collecting credits in class. So he made a habit of showing just the right amount of talent.
Nothing over the top—just enough to stay a step ahead of the curriculum, but never far enough to raise red flags.
Earning credits was a slow and steady game. Professors needed to see him as a hardworking student with talent, someone who consistently and reliably completed tasks. That was the best way to earn their favor—and extra credits.
If he showed all his cards too soon, sure, it might blow them away initially. But after that, what then? Once they got used to his brilliance, it'd be harder and harder to impress them.
This was about long-term strategy: keep the credits coming in waves, not all at once.
Even with this controlled approach, word of Tom's performance was already spreading among the first-years—and even the professors.
Everyone was talking about the new Slytherin student who wasn't just smart, but unnaturally skilled. A total anomaly compared to the rest of the wide-eyed, clueless first-years.
Naturally, the professors loved him. Sure, his name raised a few eyebrows, but Hogwarts staff were mostly professional (well, with Snape and Quirrell being the exceptions). No one treated him differently.
As a result, Tom's little "credit-collecting business" was going very smoothly. He racked up small bonuses each day just by behaving and answering questions, and his scores climbed steadily.
Still, he avoided going all-out with his powers. He was content with using his body and normal effort to boost efficiency and stay under the radar.
But the more praise he received from the professors, the more resentment he drew from his classmates.
It wasn't just Gryffindors being competitive. Even his own housemates in Slytherin hated that a Muggle-born was outperforming so many proud pure-bloods.
Of course, Tom noticed the dirty looks. He was just waiting—for the perfect moment to make an example out of someone. A clean, one-time message that said: 'Don't mess with me.'
If they didn't get it the first time, he'd repeat the lesson. Once. Twice. However many times it took.
These pampered little brats had never experienced real fear. He doubted they'd hold up after a proper beating.
But before he even got the chance to make his move, an announcement sent all the first-years into a frenzy: starting Thursday, they'd have their very first Flying Lesson.
Regardless of whether someone was a Muggle or a wizard, the dream of flying was universal—and Tom was no exception.
That said, his ideal wasn't soaring around on a broomstick like some medieval peasant. If he had to fly, he wanted to do it like Voldemort—through sheer magical power, defying gravity with nothing but his will.
Meanwhile, the other students—especially those from wizarding families—could barely contain themselves. They'd finally reached the part of school where they got to show off.
No matter what the conversation started out as, it always ended with brooms and Quidditch.
Take Malfoy, for example. He spent all day loudly whining about how unfair it was that first-years weren't allowed to join the Quidditch team. The actual players glared daggers at him, but he didn't care. He just kept bragging about all the incredible stunts he'd pulled on a broom—his stories always ended with a daring escape from a Muggle helicopter.
Not to be outdone, Nott boasted about racing eagles and outmaneuvering sparrows mid-air.
Zabini took a cooler approach, casually rating different broom models and brushing off any disagreement by saying his seventh stepfather—a famous Quidditch player—had told him so.
Every single kid from a wizarding family was talking non-stop about flying and Quidditch.
And at long last, their excitement carried them through to Thursday afternoon.
...
At 3:30 PM sharp, the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years rushed down the steps and out to the grassy field near the Black Lake. Dozens of brooms were laid out neatly in rows on the ground.
Madam Hooch arrived, took one look at them, and barked out orders like a drill sergeant. "Well? What are you waiting for? Pick a broom, quickly! Move it!"
Tom reacted instantly, snatching up three of the least-wrecked brooms he could find and passing two of them to Hermione and Daphne.
The rest of the brooms looked like firewood—half of them didn't even have twigs left.
"Hold your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch called, "and say, Up!"
"Up!" they all shouted.
Harry's broom leapt into his hand immediately. He was one of the lucky few. Hermione's broom gave a sad little roll. Daphne's twitched and bounced.
Tom's broom, on the other hand... didn't move an inch.
Right next to him, Neville was having the same issue.
Tom raised an eyebrow. This time, he put a little force into it. "Up!"
CRACK!
The broom launched off the ground at top speed—and smacked him square in the face.
Tom caught it mid-air out of reflex, but the force was too much. The broom snapped clean in two.
Madam Hooch flinched hard. Tom gave her an innocent smile.
"Professor… can I grab another one?"
.
.
.