A tranquil morning bathed in sunlight painted a new day upon the grounds of Hogwarts.
On the Quidditch pitch, students from Slytherin, clad in dark green, and Ravenclaw, in blue, stood facing each other. Between them stood Madam Hooch, her grey-white hair neatly cut short.
Conspicuously absent was Tom, who usually shadowed Cassandra's classes, offering his… unique brand of "assistance." The younger students whispered, wondering if Cassandra had finally fallen from grace, prompting Tom to abandon her for some older, more glamorous classmate.
Cassandra ignored their chatter, but Harry and Malfoy couldn't help but notice the sudden drop in the ambient temperature every time someone gossiped.
The truth was far simpler: Tom deemed broomstick flying beneath Cassandra and beneath him to teach. Once her magic reached B-rank, he would personally instruct her in true flight; for now, she could amuse herself with the children's toys.
But where was Tom, and what was he doing?
...
On the third floor, within the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, a disturbing scene unfolded.
"More! I want Master's secret-recipe hamburgers!" Quirinus Quirrell, eyes glazed and panting, was covered in yellow sauce, shoving the greasy concoctions into his mouth with reckless abandon.
Whether the hamburgers had side effects or not, Quirrell was clearly losing his grip.
Voldemort, of course, knew this but cared little for the man's well-being. As long as his own soul was being restored, Quirrell's life was utterly meaningless.
Tom, the architect of this whole scheme, cared even less.
Quirrell's turban was gone, the garlic cloth discarded, leaving Voldemort's face fully exposed. Tom sat nearby, idly sipping tea.
"So, my other self," Tom said smoothly, "when do you plan to rid me of Dumbledore?"
Voldemort grinned, sharp teeth glinting. "Thanks to you, my soul has recovered considerably. Soon, I shall be restored to my full power!"
"Not so fast. Let us acquire the Philosopher's Stone first." Tom calmly sipped his tea, "We mustn't alert him prematurely, or the old man will move the Stone from Hogwarts, which would be inconvenient."
"Hahaha…" Voldemort roared with laughter. "Just as I would expect - so cunning!"
This receptacle is far too pleased with himself. Unlike me, who is powerful and humble, Tom thought dryly.
"Precisely what I was planning." Voldemort continued, "That geezer has most likely hidden the Philosopher's Stone at the far end of the third floor. I sent Quirrell to investigate earlier, only to find a fully grown Cerberus guarding the passage."
"I was beginning to wonder how to proceed, but now that my soul is recovering…" A cruel glint flickered in Voldemort's red eyes.
"Enough noise." Tom glanced at Voldemort with disdain. Does he not realize how loudly he bellows 'Avada Kedavra' every time he casts it?
While Voldemort could certainly cast silently, Tom doubted that this pathetic power socket could contain himself upon sensing danger.
Voldemort froze again. "Then what do we do?" Then, as if struck by inspiration, his eyes widened. "Yes! I heard that brute Hagrid is the beast's owner! And what's more, the oaf has a fondness for dragons. As luck would have it, I happen to have acquired a dragon egg recently…"
"Give me the egg, and I will tell you how to deal with the mutt." Tom held out his hand without a shred of politeness. How could I possibly allow him to waste such a valuable item? It must be mine!
Though he held no particular interest in Hagrid, Tom certainly agreed with his taste in pets: they should indeed be large!
"Very well, the egg is in the cabinet behind you." Voldemort didn't refuse; he was in no position to argue.
Rising, Tom went to the designated cabinet and extracted an oval dragon egg from the bottom. It was black, about thirty centimeters long, covered in scale-like patterns, and radiated intense heat.
Clutching the egg, Tom turned toward the door.
Without looking back, he offered, "The dog falls asleep when it hears music."
…
Back on the Quidditch pitch.
"Welcome to your first flying lesson." Rolanda Hooch's expression shifted, growing sterner. "What are you waiting for? Everyone stand to the left of your broomstick! Right hand extended, hovering above the handle, and say 'Up!' Quickly, now! Hurry up!"
"Up!"
Some students succeeded instantly, like Harry and Malfoy, which Hermione Granger found rather perplexing.
Many others struggled, repeating the incantation multiple times before their brooms finally soared into their hands.
Madam Hooch offered the key: "You must have feeling."
As they waited for the stragglers, Malfoy began boasting to Harry.
"Let me tell you, I've flown many times at home! I nearly collided with a Muggle aircraft once!"
Harry, accustomed to Malfoy's exaggerations, merely smiled.
"We shall join the Slytherin Quidditch team together! We'll win the championship! And then, we can take the opportunity to recruit more for the Death Eaters!" Malfoy puffed out his chest, as if it were already a certainty.
"Yes, yes, but not now. Do you remember the plan?" Harry impatiently patted Malfoy.
"Of course, I remember!" Malfoy nodded earnestly.
Unwilling to risk being overheard, they decided to discuss the plan later with Cassandra and Hermione, when they could fly freely.
"Now, grip your brooms tightly! I want you to mount them!"
Seeing that everyone had retrieved their brooms, Madam Hooch continued, "Hold tight, don't slip off the back."
Perhaps because these brooms were not intended for sweeping, they weren't particularly dirty, and no one complained about mounting them.
"When I blow my whistle, you will all push off the ground, hard!" Madam Hooch paced back and forth, explaining her instructions. "Maintain your balance, try to stay in the air for a moment, then lean forward slightly and return to the ground."
Seeing the students ready, Madam Hooch produced her wooden whistle. "On my command, three, two… BEEP!"
The students pushed off with all their might, Harry and Malfoy soaring high into the air!
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