She didn't even place her hand above the broom. Instead, she simply stared at the worn broomstick lying on the grass, her obsidian eyes steady and unblinking.
"…Up."
The broom shuddered violently, then shot upward with a sharp whoosh, landing neatly—and almost obediently—into Tamara's waiting hand.
The surrounding Slytherins were already used to Tamara's excellence. To avoid embarrassing themselves, those who had not yet succeeded began shouting at their own brooms with renewed desperation.
Goyle, in particular, looked utterly terrified.
He clearly had no desire to receive personal tutoring from Tamara again.
At that moment, Madam Hooch blew her whistle.
"Listen for my whistle—three—two—"
She never reached "one."
Neville Longbottom, the round-faced Gryffindor boy, was so nervous about being left behind that he kicked off before the whistle sounded.
"Come back, boy!" Madam Hooch shouted sharply.
But Neville was already airborne.
He shot upward like a cork popping from a champagne bottle—twelve feet, twenty feet, higher and higher. His face drained of color as panic overtook him. His hands clutched the broomstick desperately, knuckles white.
Then his body tilted.
A scream tore from his throat as he slipped sideways and plummeted.
He hit the grass with a sickening thud.
Along with the scream came a distinct, dreadful crack.
Tamara stood only a few meters away. Even at that distance, she heard the unmistakable sound of bone snapping.
Neville lay on the ground, clutching his wrist, his cries piercing the air.
"My hand! My hand is broken! Waaaah—!"
Madam Hooch rushed to him, her face pale as she knelt down to examine the injury.
"Oh dear… yes, a broken wrist," she murmured. "Don't move, boy. Don't move."
Neville cried even harder, tears and mucus smearing across his round face in an undignified mess.
The Slytherins snickered openly.
The Gryffindors gathered in anxious confusion.
The field dissolved into chaos.
Tamara pressed her fingers against her temple.
Too loud.
The wailing grated against her nerves like nails scraping glass.
Just as she was about to turn away—
[Ding! Injured patient detected.]
[Emergency Quest Triggered: Benevolent Healer.]
[Quest Description: Your classmate is in extreme pain. As one who has mastered the mysteries of life, why not demonstrate a miracle of mercy? This will further elevate your glorious and grand image.]
[Reward: Life +2.]
Tamara stopped mid-step.
Life +2.
Every increment mattered.
And more importantly, it would silence the noise.
"Move."
She shoved Goyle aside and walked directly toward Neville.
Madam Hooch was preparing to lift Neville when she noticed the approaching Slytherin girl.
"Miss Riddle? Please return to the line. I'm taking Mr. Longbottom to—"
"Stop shouting," Tamara said coldly.
She stepped into Neville's field of vision, her shadow falling over him.
Startled, Neville hiccupped, his sobbing momentarily interrupted.
Tamara knelt and drew her holly wand. The tip hovered above Neville's wrist, which was bent at an unnatural angle.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ron Weasley demanded sharply. "Don't touch him!"
Tamara did not spare him a glance.
Her gaze fixed on the fracture.
The spell pattern she had unlocked earlier surfaced in her mind with crystal clarity. Though she had not used it in this lifetime, once knowledge was acquired, it never truly disappeared.
"Episkey."
She spoke the incantation softly.
A cool white light flowed from her wand, enveloping Neville's wrist in a gentle glow.
"Snap."
The bone shifted audibly.
Neville's eyes widened in terror—but no pain followed.
Instead, he felt only a faint tingling sensation.
Before everyone's stunned eyes, the twisted wrist straightened. The swelling receded. The skin smoothed as if nothing had ever happened.
Neville hesitantly flexed his fingers.
It worked.
It was completely healed.
"…Eh?" he muttered blankly, tears still clinging to his lashes.
The entire field fell silent.
Madam Hooch's mouth hung open.
"A healing charm?!" she exclaimed. "This is advanced magic—material covered in sixth or even seventh year medical courses! You're a first-year!"
The students didn't fully grasp the difficulty of the spell, but they had witnessed the impossible.
A broken wrist—instantly mended.
Gasps rippled across the field.
"What's so difficult about it?" Tamara replied coolly, rising to her feet and sliding her wand back into her sleeve as though she had merely swatted a fly.
"As long as one understands basic human anatomy and mana guidance, it's quite straightforward."
She looked down at Neville, who was still sitting on the grass.
"Why are you still on the ground? Planning to take root?"
Neville scrambled up immediately.
"Th-thank you…"
[Ding! Quest Completed: Benevolent Healer.]
[Reward: Life +2.]
[Current Life: 14.]
Tamara brushed imaginary dust from her robes, satisfaction flickering in her eyes.
"Although the wrist appears fine," Madam Hooch said finally, regaining composure, "Mr. Longbottom should still visit the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey must confirm there are no lingering effects."
She paused, her gaze lingering on Tamara.
"As for Miss Riddle… twenty points to Slytherin. For exceptional skill and timely intervention."
A murmur erupted among the students.
Twenty points.
Madam Hooch helped Neville away but turned back once more.
"No one is to move until I return! Anyone who does will be expelled from Hogwarts!"
As soon as she disappeared, the rule lost all weight.
"Did you see his face?" Draco Malfoy sneered, picking up the glass ball Neville had dropped—the Remembrall.
"Give it back, Malfoy," Harry Potter said, stepping forward.
Draco mounted his broom, smirking. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find. Perhaps at the top of that tree?"
"No!" Harry shouted.
He grabbed his broom and launched himself into the air.
Tamara remained where she stood.
She had just gained two Life points.
She was in an excellent mood.
Watching chaos unfold was almost relaxing.
Her gaze followed the two figures spiraling upward—especially Harry Potter.
It was clearly his first time flying.
Yet he moved like someone born in the sky.
He leaned into turns with instinctive grace. He accelerated smoothly, adjusted effortlessly, corrected mid-air without hesitation.
Then came the dive.
Fifty feet.
Straight down.
For a single glass ball.
"Typical Gryffindor," Tamara thought coldly.
Reckless. Impulsive. Heroic.
Exactly the type Dumbledore adored.
Unlike Tom.
Tom had never been recognized.
At that moment, Professor McGonagall stormed onto the field and ordered Harry down.
He obeyed.
She marched him away.
Draco landed, triumphant.
"He's finished!" Draco declared gleefully. "Expelled! On the first Flying lesson!"
The Slytherins laughed.
Only Tamara remained expressionless.
"Don't celebrate too early, Draco."
He blinked. "What do you mean? Madam Hooch said—"
"Professor McGonagall's expression wasn't that of catching a rule-breaker."
Tamara's eyes remained fixed on the direction Harry had disappeared.
"She looked at him the way a goblin looks at a pile of Galleons."
Realization slowly dawned on a few nearby students.
"If I'm not mistaken," Tamara continued, lips curving slightly, "Gryffindor is about to welcome the youngest Seeker of the century."
"That's impossible!" Draco protested. "First-years aren't allowed their own brooms! It's a rule!"
"Rules?" Tamara let out a soft, disdainful laugh and tossed her broom back into the pile.
"Draco, you still don't understand."
"In this world, rules exist to restrain the mediocre."
Her eyes were calm. Certain.
"For the privileged—or for the so-called savior—rules are nothing more than decorations."
They are meant to be broken.
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