Responding to Every Request

"Greengrass, are you alright?" Millicent Bulstrode asked cautiously. She was one of the few roommates who dared to strike up a conversation with Daphne.

"I'm fine, just missing my sister," Daphne said, wiping away her tears and forcing a smile. "You all go ahead; I want to be alone for a while."

Bulstrode and the other two roommates exchanged glances before quietly slipping out.

Daphne might have been docile and sweet in front of Tom, but she was, after all, a young lady from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Aside from Bulstrode, whose family status was comparable to her own, the other ordinary pure-blood roommates dared not provoke her in the strictly hierarchical Slytherin house.

After wallowing in sadness for a while, Daphne composed herself, only to be troubled by a new problem: how was she supposed to give the money to Tom?

Giving it to him directly felt too much like charity; Tom was a man of pride and would certainly refuse. Lending it wouldn't work either—he might not be willing to borrow such a large sum, and even if he did, he would be reluctant to spend it and would only feel the pressure of repayment.

Daphne rested her chin in her hands, frowning and muttering to herself, "What on earth should I do? I can't just sneak it into his bag, can I? If he finds out and thinks I'm trying to humiliate him, that would be a disaster..."

On the other side, Tom was busy grinding for house points. In every class, he deliberately showcased his talent, carefully gauging his performance to exceed the curriculum without being too ostentatious.

He knew well that house points had to be earned steadily; he needed the professors to believe his success was a combination of talent and hard work to ensure a continuous stream of extra points.

If he revealed his full strength all at once, it would be impressive, but it would be difficult to earn more points later once the professors grew accustomed to his brilliance.

In Tom's words, this was "sustainable wool-gathering," the only long-term strategy.

Even so, Tom's reputation had spread among the first years and the faculty. Slytherin had produced an anomaly—someone who was both highly talented and hardworking, a stark contrast to the other playful newcomers.

The professors liked him, and despite his subtle name (which he shared with the Dark Lord), no one treated him differently, with the exception of Snape and Quirrell.

Tom's grand project of accumulating points was going smoothly; he managed to scrape together a few points every day, and with the bonuses from his coursework, his total rose steadily.

He didn't dare to use his Supernatural Mode recklessly, relying only on physical practice these past few days to improve his efficiency and avoid exposure.

Tall trees catch the wind; the more the professors praised him, the more students grew to resent him.

Gryffindor students were hostile due to house rivalry, and many pure-bloods within Slytherin were also annoyed. A Muggle-born outshining a group of pure-bloods was a blow to their pride.

Tom sensed the hostility but remained unbothered, waiting for an opportunity to establish his authority and make an example of someone.

In his view, a bunch of sheltered brats who hadn't weathered any storms just needed a good beating if they didn't listen. If one wasn't enough, he'd give them two. If he hit them hard enough, he didn't believe they wouldn't submit.

Before that opportunity arrived, however, a piece of news rocked the first-year class: this Thursday, they were having their first flying lesson!

Whether Muggle or wizard, everyone yearned for the sky, and Tom was no exception. Yet, he grumbled to himself: flying on a broomstick was beneath him; at the very least, he should be able to fly using his own magic, just like Voldemort—that was true dominance.

The young wizards were full of anticipation, especially those from wizarding families who finally had something to boast about, steering every conversation toward flying.

Malfoy was the most boisterous, shouting all day, "Why won't they let first years join the Quidditch team? I ride a broom better than many of the upperclassmen!"

This earned him death glares from the Quidditch players, but he didn't care, continuing to brag. He always ended his stories with, "I encountered a Muggle helicopter and dodged it so stylishly I nearly scared the pilot to death," leaving everyone wanting to punch him.

Nott was no less competitive, spitting as he talked about flying maneuvers, boasting so wildly that he claimed to race eagles and out-maneuver sparrows, acting as if he were the greatest flyer at Hogwarts.

Zabini was much more composed, analyzing the quality of broomsticks with a casual air. If anyone contradicted him, he would drawl, "That's what my seventh stepfather said. He's a famous Quidditch player. Do you know more than him?"

That one sentence left everyone speechless.

Thursday afternoon finally arrived. At half-past three, the Slytherin and Gryffindor first years hurried to the lawn beside the Black Lake, where dozens of broomsticks were laid out in a ragged line. Some were missing so many twigs they were no different from fire pokers.

Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, arrived. She swept a glance over the messy students and said crisply, "What are you waiting for? Everyone pick a broomstick, quickly! Don't waste time!"

Tom was quick-eyed and nimble; he grabbed the three most intact broomsticks and shoved them toward Hermione and Daphne. "Take these. These three are decent; the rest are junk. Don't get splinters."

Hermione and Daphne quickly took them and thanked him.

Madam Hooch stood in the center of the lawn and shouted, "Extend your right hand over the handle and say 'Up!' Be firm!"

"Up!" all the students shouted in unison.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand immediately—there were few such lucky ones. Hermione's broom rolled over and slowly nudged toward her, and Daphne's broom was also reasonably obedient.

Only Tom and Neville found their brooms unmoved, as if they were rooted to the ground.

Tom raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat affectedly, and shouted with added emphasis, "Up!"

Snap!

The broom sprang up as if it had been shot, flying straight toward Tom's face.

Tom reacted with lightning speed, grabbing the handle, but the force was so great that with a crack, the broom snapped into two pieces.

Madam Hooch's eyelids twitched violently, and her face darkened.

Tom, however, looked entirely innocent. He held up the broken broom and smiled guilelessly. "Professor, the quality of this broom isn't up to par. Could I pick another one?"

Before the flying lesson had even begun, Hogwarts had lost a broomstick that was in decent condition, and Madam Hooch winced in pain.

She couldn't blame Tom—it was a reflexive reaction—so she could only tell him to pick another one, warn him to be careful next time, and then return to her position.

Tom picked a sturdier broom and rejoined the group. Madam Hooch began to demonstrate the proper grip and posture, teaching everyone how to ride without sliding off.

Before long, she was criticizing several young wizards, telling them their grips and postures were wrong.

Those she pointed out turned bright red; they had been boasting about their superior flying skills just days before, and now their true colors were revealed.

Malfoy's face grew long when he was scolded, while Harry and Ron stood nearby, suppressing their laughter, their shoulders shaking.

Malfoy glared at them viciously, his eyes looking as if he wanted to tear them apart, which scared the two of them into stopping their laughter and pretending to look at the brooms on the ground.

After correcting everyone's posture, it was finally time for the practical session. Madam Hooch had been quite satisfied, but the next second, she realized she had been happy too soon.

Before she could even blow her whistle to start, Neville, overcome with nerves, twitched his hand and kicked off hard, flying into the air on his broom.

"Come back, boy!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Neville was too terrified to hear her. He kept shooting upward until he finally plummeted into the grass with a thud, curling into a ball.

Madam Hooch rushed over in a panic, her face as pale as Neville's.

She ordered everyone to stay put, then helped the limping Neville toward the hospital wing.