What constituted true power?
Head Girl Gemma Farley and Head Boy Atlante Bursted held fundamentally opposing philosophies.
She believed power's essence lay in deprivation—the ability to strip away what others valued most. The more precious the things she could seize, the greater her authority, the more undeniable her strength.
Violence and intimidation were merely components of true power. Lasting dominion required more than brutality—fear alone bred rebellion, terror spawned resistance.
This was precisely why Gemma found the unfolding spectacle so utterly absurd.
Though she considered everyone rallying behind Tiger to be complete fools, she couldn't allow this madness to continue unchecked.
Power demanded subjects to rule.
Slytherin naturally gravitated toward strength. If she permitted this tiger's unconstrained growth, who would remain for her to govern?
Observing even first-years beginning to shift restlessly, Head Girl Gemma Farley's eyes flashed with calculation. She stepped forward decisively to confront Tiger directly.
Her tall, aristocratic features radiated disgust as she gazed down with practiced disdain, her voice carrying arctic indifference:
"This tedious masculine posturing has disrupted our entire House long enough. The charade ends now."
She paused, letting authority settle like winter frost.
"Speak plainly, Shelby. What do you want?"
Rather than engage in hostile confrontation, she would stand above the fray—bestowing consideration from a position of noble superiority.
The psychological effect proved immediately striking.
Slytherins aligned behind Tiger instinctively frowned at her condescending tone, while those supporting her displayed expressions of reverent admiration.
"What do I want?"
Tiger's predatory gaze grew momentarily unfocused.
Female reasoning operated with greater subtlety than masculine directness. Not even he—nor Atlante Bursted—could immediately parse the layered implications of her statement. Something felt fundamentally wrong, though the specifics remained elusive.
But Tiger possessed street-smart instincts honed through years of survival.
Sensing malicious intent beneath her diplomatic words, he suddenly pressed against the sofa and rose—like a massive brown bear rearing to full height, radiating almost suffocating menace.
Gemma Farley's pupils contracted sharply. Instinct screamed retreat, but she forced herself to remain steady, her frost-pale eyes growing even more glacial.
Tiger's eyebrow arched with dark amusement as he reached out, grasping Gemma's delicate chin between rough fingers. Meeting her shocked, furious glare, his smile turned absolutely vicious:
"I don't want a goddamn thing—just to snap your spines and watch you scurry around like beaten dogs."
"Release me, you filthy savage!" Gemma jerked her head violently, breaking free with undignified desperation.
Her usually composed, aristocratic mask cracked completely—all practiced poise evaporating like morning mist.
The burning pain along her jawline was overwhelmed by violent nausea churning through her chest.
She wanted nothing more than to unleash Fiendfyre and reduce this barbaric mongrel to smoldering ash!
"Much obliged for the compliment."
Tiger laughed without shame, treating her insult as praise before surveying the assembled crowd.
Slytherins positioned behind Gemma displayed expressions of impotent fury—anger they dared not voice. Even among his own supporters, many faces showed deep disapproval.
He couldn't care less.
"Not satisfied?" His laughter held zero warmth as it echoed off ancient stone walls.
"Then swallow your pride until you possess sufficient strength to destroy me."
Under every Slytherin's stunned observation, Tiger smiled with arrogant contempt and raised his thumb—pointing it directly at his own chest.
This represented the fundamental difference in worldview.
Pure-blood aristocrats occupying positions of privilege never tolerated challenges to their authority or threats to their interests. Slytherin's rigid internal hierarchy stemmed from this principle.
Half-bloods must submit to pure-bloods. Pure-bloods must defer to nobility. Nobility must bow before the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Always had been...
"Prick up your shit-stuffed ears and listen carefully—I'm only saying this once."
Tiger's tone shifted to arctic steel as he pointed at the assembled students:
"You're fucking wizards—Dark wizards, Light wizards, doesn't matter—not hairless apes wearing clothes, not livestock awaiting slaughter!"
"From this moment forward in Slytherin: fuck your wealth, fuck your nobility, fuck your servants!"
"The only qualification for my respect is raw fucking power! Want recognition? Earn it through fucking strength! Dream of achieving greatness?"
His voice rose to thunderous intensity: "Only! Fucking! STRENGTH!"
Simply stated, Tiger remained fundamentally American beneath his British exterior—English class consciousness meant less than nothing to his sensibilities.
He believed in individual capability above inherited privilege.
When bullets start flying, all men bleed equally.
Pure-blood lineage might impress others, but it granted zero authority over him—aristocrats died just as easily as commoners when push came to shove.
Want to preserve your fortune? First develop the strength to defend it.
The Shelby family had learned through brutal experience that wealthy merchants and corrupt politicians abandoned their pride faster than dogs with broken legs when facing superior firepower.
This torrent of profanity swept through Slytherin consciousness like a category-five hurricane.
They despised such crude vulgarity—wouldn't dream of using such language themselves—yet hearing Tiger's primal roar triggered inexplicable cathartic satisfaction.
"You're welcome to write letters home, summon your families for revenge against Shelby—but you get exactly one opportunity..."
Those deep, predatory eyes seemed to pierce straight through to humanity's most primal terrors. Everyone caught in that merciless gaze involuntarily shuddered.
Slytherin students who'd previously glared with defiant hatred now panicked, dropping their gazes and refusing to meet those heart-stopping eyes.
The symphony of agony from earlier still echoed through the common room...
Nobody dared contemplate retaliation. They understood with crystalline clarity—one chance, one life.
More subtly, Tiger had inadvertently forged the previously fractured Slytherin factions behind him into a unified collective through sheer brutal intimidation.
This sudden solidarity, though born from terror and desperation, had invisibly become one of Tiger's most potent advantages.
Head Girl Gemma Farley observed with cold disdain, stepping aside like someone witnessing a powerful but revolting toad displaying dominance.
Irritation and disgust coalesced into a lingering stench she found unbearable.
Yet this didn't signal retreat.
Her calculating gaze swept past Tiger, focusing on Head Boy Atlante Bursted with lips curved in half-smile.
Part assessment, mostly mockery.
She maintained her fundamental conviction.
Slytherin unity built on foundations of fear and helplessness couldn't endure. Without their central figure's support, cohesion would crumble—eventually dissolving into chaos and disorder.
Tiger Shelby might be ferocious, but he remained ultimately human. Once he lost collective backing, the moment he departed Hogwarts' protective walls, Fiendfyre would reduce him to scattered ash!
Bursted, you're catastrophically wrong.
Wizards remain human beings.
Human power has limits. Only those who understand how to harness collective strength for personal ambition represent true power...
Seeing nobody dared maintain eye contact, Tiger couldn't be bothered continuing this tedious lecture.
Ultimately, he'd simply illuminated a clear path for these idiots—whether they followed it was irrelevant.
Nobles hoard grain, I hoard guns.
Nobles become my granary.
Tommy had taught him that Shelby decline came through plunder, Shelby prosperity came through plunder.
The family would never forget this lesson.
Regarding the Slytherins now positioned behind him—he'd never actually intended recruiting these walking treasure vaults.
But since they'd volunteered, he needed to outline Shelby's long-developing master plan.
Tiger gestured toward the ornate silver tapestries and antique paintings adorning the walls, his voice carrying absolute finality:
"Starting tomorrow, every piece of this fucking junk gets thrown out! Anyone who dares leave even one item, I'll use fire tongs to extract your front teeth!"
"And these moldy, green-furred shit walls—replace everything with Gryffindor's volcanic stone..."
Observing the bewildered, stunned expressions surrounding him, Tiger erupted with exasperated fury:
"Why are you staring at me?!"
"You complain daily about that old bastard Dumbledore discriminating against you—do you still fucking need discrimination?!"
"If I were Dumbledore, I'd string you worthless shits up and hang you from those chains to dry!"
"Are you supposed to be nobles? Have you seen quality craftsmanship? Visited other Houses' common rooms?"
"This prison sewer that even rats abandon—you find it comfortable?"
Contemplating other Houses' accommodations, then examining their own decrepit surroundings, numerous senior students grimaced like they were suffering severe toothaches.
A sewer?
They'd never considered it before, but with Shelby framing it that way...
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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