Before class even properly began, the school had already lost a decently intact broomstick—a fact that left Madam Hooch visibly heartbroken.
But she couldn't really blame Tom. It had been a reflexive action. Nothing he could've done about it. All she could do was instruct him to quickly pick another broom and be more careful next time, then return to his place.
Once Tom came back, Madam Hooch began demonstrating how to sit on a broom properly without sliding off. She pointed out several students' poor grips and sitting posture.
The named students flushed bright red—many of them had been bragging just this morning about their supposed flying prowess. Now, exposed in front of everyone, they were completely humiliated. Draco Malfoy, in particular, burned with embarrassment as Harry and Ron chuckled behind their hands while Madam Hooch scolded him. The look he shot them could've ignited wood.
After everyone's posture had been corrected, it was finally time for the part everyone had been waiting for: practical flying.
So far, things had gone pretty smoothly. Madam Hooch was actually quite pleased. The students were picking things up quickly, and no one had caused any chaos.
That is—until the very next second, when everything went wrong.
Before she could even blow her whistle, Neville, too nervous and jittery, slammed his foot into the ground too hard and accidentally launched himself into the air on his broom.
"Come back down, dear!" Madam Hooch shouted after him.
But Neville either didn't hear or couldn't control the broom at all. He just kept rising, wobbling dangerously, until finally—he slipped off.
With a dull thud, he crashed into the bushes below, curling into a heap.
Madam Hooch dashed over, her face just as pale as Neville's. After making sure he was still conscious and able to move, she issued a stern command to the rest of the students: Nobody move. Then she helped the hobbling boy to the hospital wing.
Tom stood watching the whole thing, cold and detached.
He thought Madam Hooch was a fool.
Neville had been in the air for a good thirty seconds from takeoff to crash. And yet, all Hooch did was yell. Not once had she tried to draw her wand, cast a spell, or even use a simple Hover Charm to slow his fall.
What was the point of calling herself a witch if she didn't use magic when it actually mattered?
"Sheesh, that was terrifying," Daphne whispered, her face ghost-white as she clutched Tom's arm. "Do you think Longbottom's going to be okay?"
Tom gave a small shake of his head. "He'll be fine. A twenty-foot drop isn't enough to kill someone unless they land on their head. Probably just some cracked bones or a mild fracture. He walked to the hospital wing, didn't he?"
Twenty feet was about six meters—around two stories high. Dangerous, sure. But in the wizarding world? A fracture or two was hardly life-threatening.
Daphne finally looked a little less distressed. Without hesitation, she chucked her broom on the ground.
Given the state of her broom—it wasn't much better than Neville's—she wasn't taking any chances.
Suddenly, a commotion broke out nearby.
Draco had picked up the crystal ball Neville had dropped and was gleefully waving it around, mocking him. Harry quickly confronted him, and the two exchanged a few heated words before—whoosh—they shot into the air, chasing each other in a blaze of excitement and gasps from the crowd.
And at that moment, The Boy Who Lived revealed another of his natural talents—flying.
Despite never having ridden a broomstick before, Harry was soaring through the air like a Seeker born. His moves were sharp, effortless, instinctual. It was as if he had wings of his own.
Draco, despite all his bragging, had to dodge twice before panic hit him. In desperation, he hurled the crystal ball into the air.
Harry dove after it, cutting through the sky like a comet—and at just one foot off the ground, snatched the ball in midair before rolling into a neat landing.
"Harry Potter!"
Professor McGonagall stormed onto the field, her robes billowing, face flushed with rage. She didn't even give Harry a chance to speak. She grabbed him by the collar and marched him away.
...
And just like that, their first flying lesson ended in utter chaos.
When Madam Hooch returned and heard the flurry of conflicting student accounts, she nearly fainted on the spot.
Furious, she confiscated all the brooms, gave everyone a droning lecture about safety, and then dismissed them—killing the entire class's excitement.
Tom, however, was unbothered. The moment class ended, he headed straight to the Great Hall.
He was starving.
Hermione caught up to him on the way. "Tom, do you think Harry's going to get expelled?"
"Not a chance. This isn't some great offense." Tom was already imagining how many chicken wings he could eat in one sitting.
"How is that not a great offense?" Hermione looked at him, scandalized. "He broke school rules and took off without permission!"
"You didn't notice that Draco got off scot-free, did you?" Tom said, speeding up as the scent of roast meat filled his nose. "Don't think of Hogwarts as some place with strict discipline. As long as you're not murdering people, you could insult the Minister of Magic to his face every day and Dumbledore still wouldn't expel you."
"And you want to know what is a big deal?" he added. "Losing. That's what really matters."
With that, he dashed to the Slytherin table.
Lately, whether it was due to his overuse of brainpower or his rapid physical growth, Tom's appetite had increased alarmingly. He was hungrier than usual—and today, he'd already been getting peckish before flying class.
Daphne, sitting beside him, quietly cut his steak using her own knife and fork. She even poured meat sauce over it for him, gently pushing her plate toward him once he cleared his own.
Hermione, now back at the Gryffindor table, sat chewing her food slowly, pondering Tom's words.
And then Harry walked in.
He was grinning ear to ear, whispering excitedly to Ron. Neither of them noticed Hermione subtly eavesdropping.
"The professor didn't punish me," Harry whispered. "She actually made me Seeker for the Quidditch team. We start training next week."
"You're joking," Ron said, mid-bite, dropping his chicken leg. "A first-year? A Seeker?"
"Shhh, keep it down!" Harry grinned. "It's still a secret. I thought I was dreaming, too. But McGonagall said I'm the youngest Quidditch player in a century. She even brought me to meet Wood—I thought she was going to hit me with a plank at first!"
"That's… that's amazing," Ron said, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
He was happy for Harry, sure. But deep down, he couldn't help feeling a little left out.
That's when Malfoy approached.
"Enjoying your last dinner at Hogwarts, Potter?" he sneered. "Better eat up—you'll be back with the Muggles by morning."
He'd been hoping to provoke Harry, to see him angry, humiliated, deflated.
But Harry didn't even flinch.
He didn't even look at Malfoy.
Instead, his eyes landed on Goyle and Crabbe behind him. He smirked.
"You didn't have that kind of courage when we were in the sky. Feeling bold now that Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum are flanking you?"
Malfoy's face darkened. Goyle and Crabbe clenched their fists, but with the professors still seated at the head table, they dared not act.
Harry leaned in slightly.
"You want to settle this one-on-one? Fine. Let's do it tonight."