Unlike the other houses, Slytherin's internal conflicts had never been mere playground squabbles.
Disputes between pure-blood noble families, Britain's wizarding economic markets, even matters of peace and stability—all would first manifest within this seemingly small house.
Yet despite this, Dumbledore had never harbored prejudice against Slytherin. As headmaster, he saw the deeper truth.
Every Slytherin student carried a young, passionate heart. Regardless of blood status, each deserved respect and proper guidance.
Unfortunately, the ancient prejudices of pure-blood nobility clung like parasitic vines, deeply entwined around these students' hearts—impossible to extract without causing terrible damage.
He grieved for these misguided young souls, watching them struggle in the suffocating mire of arrogance and inherited hatred.
But to prevent greater catastrophe, he was forced to remain a passive observer—part of his delicate agreement with the Board of Governors.
Those pure-blood nobles watched his every move like startled prey animals, ready to bolt at the first sign of interference...
Watching Tiger's confident stride toward the common room, Dumbledore released a weary, apologetic sigh.
He had no intention of intervening tonight.
In fact, he harbored far deeper hopes for this brewing conflict—for Slytherin's future, for Tiger's potential...
"Mr. Shelby," Professor Snape's silky voice cut through the corridor like a blade, "it appears you're prepared to claim Slytherin's throne?"
The Potions Master materialized before the serpentine relief guarding the common room entrance, his obsidian eyes glittering with cold mockery.
Snape had never truly embraced Dumbledore's philosophies—especially those "noble" ideals the old wizard held sacred.
To him, such concepts were nothing but ethereal fantasies, far less substantial than the honest mucus secreted by a common garden slug.
Burdening Harry Potter with a savior's destiny, or expecting Tiger Shelby to revolutionize Slytherin from within?
Absolute madness. Disgusting, naive delusion.
As this century's most celebrated white wizard, Dumbledore himself couldn't accomplish such miraculous transformations—yet he blithely entrusted these impossible dreams to mere children?
The old fool had clearly consumed too much sherbet. It had rotted his brain entirely.
"King?"
Tiger's expression flickered with genuine bewilderment before he burst into uncontrollable laughter, clutching his sides until Snape's face darkened like a thundercloud.
Crowned king by a pack of spoiled children? King of the bloody playground?
The irony was exquisite.
Wiping tears from his eyes as his laughter finally subsided, Tiger shook his head with dark amusement.
"Forgive me, Professor. I'm a gangster, not a nursery supervisor."
"If anything, I'd prefer they address me as 'Father'—not some ridiculous playground monarch."
The word carried multiple meanings: parent, ancestor, priest, heavenly father... and godfather. Tiger would gladly accept any interpretation.
"I have zero interest in playing house with these pampered brats."
His expression hardened as the last traces of humor vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous. Tiger stepped closer to Snape, pausing deliberately.
"I hear they're all terrified of some buffoon calling himself the 'Dark Lord.'" His voice dripped with contempt. "Pathetic name, really. Tell me, Professor—exactly how many people has this 'lord' actually killed?"
The question hung in the air like poison gas.
Dark Lord? In Tiger's world, you didn't earn such titles without hundreds of thousands of corpses in your wake. How many wizards existed in all of Britain? A few thousand at most?
Don't make him laugh.
[How dare he!]
Snape's pupils contracted to pinpricks, his knuckles whitening around the healing potion in his robes.
Tiger ignored the professor's murderous glare, approaching the serpentine relief with casual arrogance.
"Order," he spoke the password with obvious disdain.
He despised complications and possessed none of Dumbledore's diplomatic restraints. His assessment of Slytherin was brutally simple.
Tear down others to elevate yourself.
Class privilege and blood purity had intoxicated these fools with delusions of superiority, while the mixed-blood and ordinary students desperately sought acceptance through cruelty—bullying anyone weaker to prove their worth to their pure-blood betters.
Pathetic. Twisted. Utterly revolting.
It wasn't that he failed to fit in—this entire bloody house reeked of corruption from foundation to rafters. Every stone seemed to whisper of oppression and suffocating tradition.
Tiger was beyond disgusted.
These arrogant children thought they could use their precious rules and social pressure to break him? Force him to join their little supremacist club?
Fuck that.
Tonight, he'd demonstrate the true meaning of power. The real definition of fear.
————————
"We've tolerated his presence again and again! Ignored his provocations! Even allowed him to defile Slytherin's sacred honor!"
Corman Avery's voice echoed through the hidden training chamber like a war cry, his face flushed with fanatic fervor.
"When will you finally wake up and see the truth?!"
He had been the first to voice opposition to Tiger's presence, and under Head Girl Gemma Farley's repeated attempts at restraint, his rage had only intensified.
As a scion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he would never permit anyone to sully Slytherin's reputation or pure-blood dignity.
"Humans and tigers cannot coexist!" Avery's voice cracked with passion. "We must cage the beast! Chain him! Tear out his fangs!"
His inflammatory rhetoric drew roars of approval from the assembled students.
Curses and condemnations of Tiger's name rippled from the training ground back into the common room proper.
Several Slytherin girls lounging by the fireplace exchanged knowing smiles, their soft laughter tinkling like broken glass.
They hadn't taken this "duel"—this orchestrated bullying session—seriously from the beginning. The outcome seemed predetermined.
"Men," one whispered with elegant disdain. "So predictably simple."
The instigation had originated with these very girls. While they lacked skill in direct confrontation, they excelled at manipulating fools—especially self-important, testosterone-drunk fools.
"Indeed," Gemma Farley agreed, watching Riley Shafiq slip back from the boys' dormitories with practiced stealth. The Head Girl's cold eyes glittered with calculated malice.
"Remember—glory belongs only to the victorious. We must employ every available method."
Her voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than Avery's shouting.
"Even if it means... killing him."
————————
In the training chamber, Corman Avery clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked, his usually pristine hair disheveled, bloodshot eyes blazing with righteous fury.
"Exactly!" he screamed. "Submit or die!"
"Death to Shelby!"
"He's a disgrace to our house!"
The collective roar that erupted shook dust from the ancient stones. Every young serpent present howled their hatred, showing complete disregard for Tiger's dignity—or his life.
In their minds, the Shelby family were nothing but Squibs. No different from house-elves.
Head Boy Atlante Bursted watched the frenzy with conflicted emotions flickering behind his pale eyes—terror, uncertainty, and beneath it all, desperate resolve.
He was genuinely terrified of Tiger in ways he couldn't articulate. Even being looked at by those predatory eyes made breathing difficult.
But tonight represented his best chance to eliminate that paralyzing fear forever.
"SILENCE!"
Bursted pressed his wand tip to his throat, amplifying his voice until it boomed through the chamber like thunder.
The fanatic shouting ceased instantly. Every head turned toward their Head Boy with automatic deference.
"Slytherin may express anger," Bursted declared, his tone carrying the chill of winter mornings, "but we do not express ourselves angrily. Do not let passion cloud your judgment."
Like ice water poured over flames, his words restored clarity to the mob's bloodshot eyes. Students straightened and nodded acknowledgment.
Only Corman Avery maintained his defiant glare, the ruby brooch at his collar dimming almost imperceptibly.
Bursted's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Avery. Lestrange. Rosier. Selwyn. Yaxley. Ollivander..."
He continued calling names—over a dozen in total. Each represented the absolute elite of Slytherin's younger generation, students whose family connections and magical abilities commanded universal respect.
Those selected stepped forward with obvious pride, placing hands over their hearts in the traditional gesture.
"For Slytherin's glory!" they chorused.
The ancient words echoed through the chamber like an oath—or perhaps a funeral dirge.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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