A new week began.
On Monday morning, Daphne finally received the long-awaited package.
Correction—packages. Two of them.
Not only had her mother sent money, but Astoria, her little sister, had quietly mailed over her secret stash of saved-up Galleons after learning Daphne was short on cash. Her letter told her not to worry about spending—it wasn't a big deal, and if it wasn't enough, she had more.
Tears welled up in Daphne's eyes.
Yes. Her little sister was the most precious and adorable person in the entire world.
But why—why did such a lovely girl have to endure endless suffering?
Just thinking of Astoria's fragile health broke something inside her, and this time, Daphne truly cried. It startled her dormmates, who weren't used to seeing this side of her.
"Greengrass, are you alright?" Millicent Bulstrode asked cautiously.
"I'm fine. Just... missing my sister," Daphne said, wiping at her tears and forcing a gentle smile. "You girls go ahead. I want a moment to myself."
Bulstrode and the two other girls exchanged glances and left without pressing. For all that Daphne acted sweet and harmless around Tom, she was still the heiress of House Greengrass—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and a family that had never fallen from grace. In a House like Slytherin, where bloodlines and hierarchy mattered immensely, her presence commanded respect.
After a few moments of quiet sadness, Daphne composed herself—but now a new problem gnawed at her: How was she going to get this money to Tom?
She couldn't just give it to him outright. That would feel like charity—and Tom would never accept that.
She couldn't say it was a loan, either. Even if he agreed, he might not want to spend it freely, always worrying about paying her back.
So… what was the right way?
The girl fell into deep thought.
...
Tom, meanwhile, was diligently applying himself in every class to earn house points.
Not too much, of course—just enough.
He made sure to demonstrate a level of talent that was slightly ahead of the lessons, but not so far that he looked unnatural. The key to earning points was to create the perfect blend of talent and effort, so professors would see him as a hard-working student with promising ability.
If he showed off too much too fast, sure, the professors might be amazed at first—but that amazement would fade as they became accustomed to it. No more shock. No more bonus points.
Sustained, strategic progress—that was the real long game.
And even with this measured approach, Tom's name was beginning to circulate among the first-years and faculty alike.
Everyone knew now: Slytherin had a new student—talented, dedicated, and completely different from the usual crop of giggling, clueless first-years.
Naturally, the professors loved this. Even if his name gave them pause, Hogwarts professors, for the most part, had a decent sense of professionalism (Snape and Quirrell being notable exceptions). No one seemed to hold his name against him.
Thanks to that, his house point operation was running smoothly. Every class earned him a few points, and between that and bonus points from impressive work, Tom's score was climbing steadily.
Still, he avoided using Transcendence recklessly. These past few days, he relied only on Embodiment to boost his study efficiency.
But with praise came jealousy.
It wasn't just Gryffindors—who naturally resented a strong Slytherin rival. Even within Slytherin, whispers of dissatisfaction spread like poison. How could a Muggle-born—someone with no family background—be outperforming them? Overshadowing pure-bloods?
Tom noticed their eyes. The hostility. The seething discontent.
But he was waiting. Waiting for an opportunity—a moment when he could make a statement.
Just one public thrashing, and the message would be clear. Maybe two. Maybe three, if needed.
A couple of well-executed beatdowns, and these pampered brats—who'd never tasted real fear or danger—would quickly learn where they stood.
Still, that chance hadn't arrived yet.
But another announcement stirred the entire first-year population into a frenzy: starting Thursday, Flying Lessons would begin.
Whether Muggle-born or wizard-raised, no child could resist the allure of flight. Tom was no exception.
Of course, his dreams weren't of straddling some scratchy broomstick and puttering around the air. He wanted something real—like Lord Voldemort's gliding flight, using sheer magical power to soar.
But for now, he'd play along.
For the wizard-born students, this was their moment. Their chance to shine. Every conversation, no matter the topic, always circled back to flying.
Malfoy was a textbook example—loudly complaining about the unfairness of first-years not being allowed on the Quidditch teams. His whining earned him several death glares from the current players, but he didn't care. He kept bragging, retelling various flying stunts, each one ending with him narrowly dodging a Muggle helicopter.
Not to be outdone, Theodore Nott chimed in with his own tales of aerial prowess—racing hawks, outmaneuvering sparrows.
Zabini took a cooler approach, analyzing the pros and cons of various broom models. If anyone doubted his expertise, he'd mention his seventh stepfather—an internationally renowned Quidditch player—as his source.
In short, every wizard-raised student couldn't shut up about brooms, Quidditch, and sky-bound glory.
And finally, the long-anticipated Thursday arrived.
At 3:30 in the afternoon, Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years rushed down the stone steps, across the green grounds by the Black Lake, and gathered around a patch of lawn where dozens of broomsticks lay in neat rows.
Madam Hooch strode in briskly, her presence commanding attention.
"What are you all standing around for?" she barked. "Pick a broom! Quickly now!"
Tom moved like lightning. He snatched up three of the sturdiest-looking brooms and passed one each to Hermione and Daphne.
Many of the remaining brooms looked like they were on the verge of falling apart—more firewood than flying gear.
"Hold out your right hand over the broom," Madam Hooch ordered. "Then say, Up!"
"Up!" the students chorused.
Harry's broom immediately jumped into his hand, one of the few that did.
Hermione's rolled lazily. Daphne's gave a tiny hop.
Tom's?
Didn't even twitch.
His brow furrowed.
He repeated the command, louder this time. "Up!"
SMACK!
The broom launched itself upward at blinding speed—straight into Tom's face.
Quick as a whip, he caught it by the handle… but the force was too much.
SNAP!
The broom broke cleanly in half.
Madam Hooch's eye twitched violently.
Tom gave her a sheepish smile.
"Professor… may I pick another one?"