"Greengrass, are you all right?" Millicent Bodesi asked cautiously. She was one of the few roommates who dared speak to Daphne.
"I'm fine. I just miss my sister." Daphne wiped away her tears and managed a smile. "You can go ahead. I want to be alone for a while."
Bodesi and the other two roommates exchanged glances, then quietly left.
Daphne might have been sweet and soft-spoken in front of Tom, but she was still the young lady of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.
Aside from Bodesi, whose family was on a par with hers, the other, less distinguished Pure-blood roommates wouldn't dare provoke her in Slytherin, where the hierarchy was so strict.
After a while, Daphne composed herself, then fretted over how to give the money to Tom.
Giving it to him outright would feel too much like charity. Tom cared about his pride and would definitely refuse. Calling it a loan wouldn't work either. He might not be willing to borrow so much, and even if he did, he'd be reluctant to spend it and feel pressured to pay it back.
Daphne rested her chin on her hand and frowned, muttering to herself, "What am I supposed to do? It's not like I can sneak it into his bag, right? If he finds out, he might think I'm insulting him. That would be awful..."
Meanwhile, Tom was busy racking up house points. He deliberately showed off his talent in every class, striking just the right balance: well beyond the lessons, but never to an absurd degree.
He knew he had to earn points little by little, making the professors think his success came from both talent and hard work. That way, he could keep earning points steadily.
If he showed them everything he could do all at once, he'd certainly amaze them, but it would be hard to earn more points afterward. The professors would get used to how good he was.
As Tom put it, this was "sustainable wool-pulling," the only way to keep it going in the long run.
Even so, Tom's reputation had spread among the first-years and professors. Slytherin had an oddball: talented, hardworking, and nothing like the other playful newcomers.
The professors all liked him. Although his name was a little awkward—it was the same as the Dark Lord's—none of them treated him differently, except Snape and Quirrell.
Tom's points campaign was going smoothly. He earned a few every day, and the class bonus helped his total rise steadily.
He didn't dare use Supernatural Mode carelessly, and for the past few days, he'd relied only on Physical Practice to improve his efficiency and avoid exposing himself.
The taller the tree, the more wind it caught. The more the professors praised Tom, the more students disliked him.
Gryffindors resented him because of the rivalry between the houses, and plenty of Slytherin Pure-bloods were unhappy too. A Muggle-born was outshining a crowd of Pure-bloods. It was humiliating.
Tom noticed their hostility, but he wasn't worried in the least. He was just waiting for a chance to make an example of someone and put the rest in their place.
As far as he was concerned, these sheltered little brats had never weathered a storm. If they wouldn't listen, all they needed was a beating. If one wasn't enough, he'd give them two. Beat them hard enough, and they'd learn to behave.
Before that chance came, news sent the first-years into a frenzy: they'd have Flying Class this Thursday!
Whether Muggle or wizard, everyone dreamed of taking to the skies, and Tom was no exception. Still, he couldn't help thinking, Flying on a broom is so undignified. At the very least, I'd have to fly by my own magic like Voldemort. Now that would be impressive.
The young witches and wizards were full of anticipation, especially the children from wizarding families. At last, they had something to show off, and somehow every conversation turned to flying.
Malfoy was the loudest of all, constantly complaining, "Why aren't first-years allowed on the Quidditch team? I'm a better flyer than plenty of older students!"
His words earned him murderous glares from the Quidditch players, but he didn't care. He kept boasting, always ending with, "I once ran into a Muggle helicopter. I dodged it so smoothly, the pilot nearly had a heart attack!" He was so annoying, people wanted to punch him.
Nott wasn't about to be outdone. He rambled on about flying maneuvers, making one outrageous claim after another. He boasted that he could race eagles for speed and sparrows for agility, as if he were Hogwarts's best flyer.
Zabini was much more composed. He calmly analyzed the quality of different brooms, and whenever anyone disagreed, he'd say in an unhurried tone, "That's what my seventh stepfather told me. He's a famous Quidditch player. Do you know more than he does?"
That left everyone speechless.
Thursday afternoon finally arrived. At three thirty, the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years hurried to the lawn beside the Black Lake. Dozens of brooms lay scattered across the grass, some nearly stripped of their twigs and barely better than fire pokers.
Their Flying Class teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived and surveyed the disorganized students. "What are you standing around for? Everyone pick a broom, quickly. Don't waste time!"
Tom was quick off the mark. He grabbed the three best-looking brooms and handed one each to Hermione and Daphne. "Here. These three are all right. The rest are junk. Don't get splinters in your hands."
Hermione and Daphne hurriedly took them and thanked him.
Madam Hooch stood in the middle of the lawn and called out, "Hold out your right hand over your broom and say, 'Up!' You need to sound confident!"
"Up!" all the students shouted together.
Harry's broom immediately leapt into his hand. Few students were that lucky. Hermione's broom rolled over and slowly inched toward her, while Daphne's was reasonably well-behaved too.
Only Tom and Neville's brooms didn't move an inch, as if they'd grown roots in the ground.
Tom raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat with exaggerated fussiness, and shouted more forcefully, "Up!"
Smack!
The broom shot up as if it had a rocket strapped to it, flying straight at Tom's face.
Tom reacted quickly and grabbed the handle, but the force was too great. With a crack, the broom snapped in two.
Madam Hooch's eyelid twitched, and her face darkened.
Tom, however, looked completely innocent. He held up the broken broom and smiled innocently. "Professor, this broom's not very sturdy. Can I pick another one?"
Flying Class hadn't even begun, and Hogwarts had already lost a broom that was in decent shape. Madam Hooch winced at the thought.
She couldn't blame Tom. It had been a reflex. She could only let him choose another broom, remind him to be careful next time, and then return to her place.
Tom picked a sturdier broom and rejoined the others. Madam Hooch demonstrated how to grip a broom and sit on it, teaching them how to ride without slipping off.
Before long, she'd reprimanded several young witches and wizards for holding their brooms or sitting incorrectly.
They all flushed bright red. Just a few days ago, they'd been bragging about their flying skills, and now they'd been exposed.
When Malfoy was scolded, his face grew long. Harry and Ron struggled to hold back their laughter beside him, their shoulders twitching.
Malfoy glared viciously at them as if he wanted to tear them limb from limb. The two of them hurriedly stopped laughing and pretended to study the brooms on the ground.
After she'd corrected everyone's posture, it was finally time to practice. Madam Hooch had been fairly pleased, but the next moment, she realized she'd celebrated too soon.
Before she could blow her whistle and give the signal, Neville, too nervous to control himself, gripped the broom with trembling hands, kicked off hard, and shot into the air with a whoosh.
"Come back! Come back, child!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Neville was too terrified to hear her. He kept going higher and higher, until he finally landed with a splat in a clump of grass, curled into a ball.
Madam Hooch rushed over in a panic, her face as pale as Neville's.
She ordered everyone to stay where they were, then helped the limping Neville and hurried with him to the Hospital Wing.
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