The next morning arrived.
Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bed, or perhaps it was the absence of Mother Polly—that green giant who'd yank at his ankles—but Tiger woke unusually early.
"Yawn..."
In the washroom.
Tiger dried his face with a towel, yawning lazily. A crusty bit of sleep lingered at the corner of his eye, which he casually wiped away with his thumb.
Glancing at the delicate skincare products arranged on the washstand, he looked rather disdainfully before shifting his gaze to the mirror.
He forced a stiff smile. No matter how he looked at it, the face staring back appeared fierce and nacing—hardly the face of a good person.
"I'm bloody handso."
After a mont, Tiger began shalessly praising himself, attempting to force others to agree.
"Right, Venom?"
"Absolutely!"
Venom didn't consider this coercion, however.
The symbiote's instinct was predation and evolution. Compared to humans, that savagery and ferocity burning in Tiger's eyes suited the symbiote's aesthetic perfectly.
"You're a devastatingly handso bastard."
"Though it'd be even better if you could grow a bit bigger."
At the end of the day, Tiger was still a child. Whether in height or build, he was only marginally stronger than his peers.
A juvenile symbiote.
Always teetering on the edge of being devoured...
"Ha! I'll grow up soon enough."
Tiger laughed heartily, stretching his arms wide and rolling his stiff neck. These pure-blood nobles certainly knew luxury—the bed was far too soft. He simply couldn't get used to it.
Just then, the voice of male prefect Atlantic Burstrode accompanied a knock.
"Boss, are you awake?"
Though reason told Atlantic Burstrode that Tiger wasn't actually his boss, the relief and euphoria he felt after using that title created an oddly addictive sensation—as if a crushing mountain had been lifted from his shoulders in an instant.
The dormitory door creaked open.
Tiger erged, tugging at his restrictive collar. A faint aura of dread imdiately settled over Atlantic Burstrode's heart, as if he'd encountered a natural predator.
He instinctively lowered his head and positioned himself at Tiger's side, like an elegantly postured butler.
"Boss, please gather in the common room. I'll be leading the first-years to classes today..."
During the first week of term, prefects traditionally guided new students around, familiarizing them with Hogwarts' labyrinthine corridors and classrooms.
This was a ti-honored Slytherin tradition.
"Don't grumble about the early hour. Trust , Hogwarts mornings won't disappoint."
"Really, Prefect Farley?"
"Of course, Miss Greengrass. Unless you encounter those dim-witted lions—they truly do spoil one's mood."
Childish laughter rippled through the air.
In the common room, female prefect Gemma Farley sat gracefully in a wicker chair, lifting her black coffee and taking a delicate sip.
Ethereal light from the dod ceiling illuminated her profile, softening her typically cold features with unexpected warmth.
People are visual creatures.
Setting aside Slytherin's fearso reputation, this dazzling beauty—combined with her seemingly aloof yet surprisingly warm and witty conversation—made it nearly impossible for the young wizards not to develop favorable impressions.
When entering any new environnt, anyone would feel lost—especially these students, who were still children at heart.
Even with their families' careful preparation, the desperate need to be understood and accepted would be magnified tenfold here.
Gemma Farley's presence would undoubtedly fill that void, becoming the most influential ntor in these young wizards' formative years.
At least until these pure-blood heirs ca of age...
Muggle psychology proved remarkably effective.
The curve of Gemma's lips deepened slightly, though her penetrating gaze remained glacially cold.
As if sensing sothing shift in the air, she gently set down her coffee. Her previously warm and approachable expression gradually lted back into its usual aristocratic frost.
"Very well, gentlen and ladies."
"It's ti."
"Form a proper line. Rember Slytherin's honor. Rember your families' honor. Don't do anything that would sha or Professor Snape."
The young wizards clustered around her quickly arranged themselves into formation, their chatter dying to respectful silence.
When Atlantic Burstrode and Tiger erged from the boys' dormitory staircase, Gemma Farley rose with fluid grace. Every movent seed choreographed to perfection, as if she'd spent years rehearsing the art of commanding attention.
"Burstrode, you're late."
"As Slytherins—"
"Shut it, bitch."
Tiger strolled into formation as if nothing had happened.
To him, this breathtakingly beautiful and refined girl might as well have been a steaming pile of dragon dung.
Gemma Farley's expression crystallized into marble stillness—though this wasn't dramatically different from her usual deanor.
Malfoy and the other first-years gaped in shock, their eyes blazing with surprise, fury, but predominantly disgust.
"Miss Farley."
"I'll handle the rest."
An aristocratic smile ghosted across Atlantic's features.
Though the woman's beauty was heart-stopping, male prefect Atlantic Burstrode feared death far more than he admired beauty.
"Much appreciated..."
Gemma Farley lowered her gaze, concealing whatever thoughts churned behind those calculating eyes. Noble breeding and family training forbade her from engaging with a savage beast in public.
"I have other pressing matters. I won't detain you further."
She turned and glided back toward the dormitories.
But the sharp staccato of her heels against stone seed to hamr directly against their hearts, inspiring an involuntary chill of apprehension.
The first-years glared at Tiger with barely contained outrage. No one wanted a filthy troll or soulless beast contaminating their sanctuary.
How dare he!
"First-years, follow ."
Male prefect Atlantic Burstrode led the group from the dungeons, though the atmosphere had grown suffocatingly tense—a stark contrast to monts before.
"Breakfast service ends at half-past eight."
"Slightly later on weekends."
"Though I'd still recomnd arriving early."
"We have ample ti, but Gryffindor's Quidditch morning training is disgustingly frequent. Unless you fancy having those reeking lions ruin your appetite."
Slytherin mockery invariably targeted Gryffindor, and the sentint was enthusiastically reciprocated.
Unlike Gemma Farley's deceptive warmth, male prefect Atlantic Burstrode embodied the perfect aristocratic heir. Beneath his proud and dignified bearing, his subtly humorous comntary gradually restored laughter to the group.
This compelling contrast earned considerable goodwill, particularly from several younger girls.
The Great Hall stretched vast and hushed, but as the new students claid their seats, breakfast materialized instantly across the tables.
Jam-slathered bread, assorted pastries.
Eggs, bacon, pumpkin juice, and more...
Tiger grimaced internally.
Honestly, he desperately missed proper Chinese breakfast. These sickeningly sweet offerings made his head throb.
After choking down so eggs and bacon, Atlantic Burstrode guided the first-years up the shifting staircases. Roughly halfway up the castle, they entered an outdoor corridor.
The damp stone walkway and weathered railings exhaled a distinctive fragrance of wet earth and growing things. Cool morning air flooded their lungs in an invigorating rush.
Tiger contentedly half-closed his eyes.
He adored this kind of weather, this kind of life—it filled him with profound peace and satisfaction.
"Pansy! Draco! Look at this!"
Daphne Greengrass's breathless exclamation rang out. The first-years followed her pointing finger with eager curiosity.
"rlin's beard..."
"I'm absolutely mad about this place..."
"My father's estate doesn't even—"
"Shut it, Draco!"
Gasps of wonder cascaded through the group.
Tiger crossed his arms along the stone railing, gazing into the distance with genuine awe.
Rose-gold mist drifted like silk around every tower and turret of Hogwarts, shrouding the ancient magical school in an ethereal, dreamlike veil.
As the sun climbed higher and the mist began to dissipate, the entire Forbidden Forest basked in warm amber light. From the Quidditch pitch far below ca the distant shouts and cheers of morning practice...
The magic was beginning.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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