Under the incredulous stares of every witness, Atlante Bursted erged from the crowd with ceremonial dignity, each footfall against ancient stone reverberating like a funeral bell.
As a prefect.
As heir apparent to the Bursted family, his silhouette had once inspired countless little serpents with dreams of similar greatness.
But now that elegant, commanding figure bent with unprecedented humility before a savage monster, placing one hand over his heart in the highest gesture of pure-blood respect...
"Prefect Bursted!"
"Marcus! Why?!"
Soone's anguished cry shattered the silence.
They couldn't comprehend why the Sacred Twenty-Eight would bow to a Squib—why distinguished pure-blood nobility would genuflect before a crude, barbaric troll!
Even Head Girl Gemma Farley fixed the quartet with burning intensity, her arctic eyes blazing with confusion and fury.
This is nothing but self-degradation!
She understood the natural order perfectly. Pure-blood aristocrats conducted business at mahogany negotiation tables, maintaining pristine, respectable facades. The sordid chanics behind profit margins remained invisible—this was the unspoken covenant of their class.
Tiger's thodology stood in complete opposition, which explained his violent incompatibility with Slytherin tradition.
This beast wielded naked brutality and primal terror to shatter his constraints, cow the serpent masses, and secure future advantages for the Shelby dynasty.
Respectability ant nothing to apex predators.
But such considerations paled beside the larger truth.
To Gemma's calculating mind, the Shelby bloodline—barely above Squib status—possessed zero foundation within wizarding society. No matter how ferocious this tiger proved, he remained trapped within his territorial boundaries, unable to strike beyond school walls.
Slytherin need only maintain strategic distance to isolate him completely within Hogwarts' ancient stones.
Once this mongrel departed the castle, Dumbledore's protection would evaporate—leaving only iron cages and shackles awaiting the caged beast...
Just continue ignoring him. Just maintain the isolation. But why... WHY?!
Turbulent thoughts crashed through her consciousness like storm waves.
Head Girl Gemma Farley's expression remained marble-smooth, yet her fists clenched white-knuckled as her breathing grew increasingly ragged...
Observing the most enraged faces scattered throughout the assembly, Atlante Bursted's smile never touched his eyes.
"Why?" he repeated with silken nace.
"If you can deduce the answer, I'll welco your allegiance. If comprehension eludes you..." His voice dropped to arctic whisper. "Go ask your elders still rotting in Azkaban."
"But by then—" The pause stretched like a blade against throat. "I shall express profound regret for your stupidity..."
That languid, controlled tone concluded with crystalline laughter.
During his journey back to the common room, fragnted mories had reassembled themselves, reflecting his inner terror and revelation.
He had witnessed catastrophe incarnate.
Heard the symphony of agony.
Seen his own caved-in ribcage from that first night, observed the alien black substance writhing with impossible life, and recalled—most vividly—his father's lips pressed against Voldemort's boot leather years ago...
The equation that Marcus and the others had solved, Atlante naturally grasped as well—perhaps with even greater clarity.
What constitutes true power?
Power's essence was violence—the hidden cornerstone of every family's ascension and empire's foundation.
Magnificent ideals inspired devotees' pursuit. Vast fortunes attracted ambitious predators. Charismatic leadership gathered followers' hearts.
And absolute brutality?
The savagery that swept aside all opposition, the fear and reverence radiating from Marcus and his cohort—this crystalline understanding finally dissolved Atlante's last hesitation.
Tiger had overturned Slytherin's negotiation table with casual contempt, snapped their wands like kindling between his fingers.
Weaving webs of false sentint through elegant conversation, drawing poison-tipped daggers during aristocratic waltz steps—these were Slytherin's greatest strengths, yet before Tiger's raw power, they seed fragile as spun glass...
We're ignoring him?
No. He's ignoring us.
Overwhelming force could dismiss everything!
Venom's nightmarish visage grew more terrifying within Atlante's mory. Suddenly, he found himself craving that unbridled, tyrannical approach to problem-solving.
He didn't even notice this shift in his own psychology.
Lightning-quick thoughts concluded as Atlante assud position at Tiger's right hand.
His predatory smile held layers of aning as he faced Gemma Farley—the first ti he'd ever confronted this woman so directly.
How liberating.
This sensation of abandoning diplomatic pretense.
As heir to the Bursted legacy, he commanded nurous sworn followers. The bonds between pure-blood houses and their subsidiary families ran deeper than ancient roots, nearly impossible to sever...
Four senior Slytherins erged from the restless crowd.
Though they questioned Bursted's choice, they advanced toward Tiger with unwavering resolve.
After executing formal bows, the quartet positioned themselves silently behind Atlante Bursted, their stance declaring loyalty without words.
Three more students departed the main group.
Following their obeisance to Tiger, they stood expressionlessly behind Adrian and Lucian.
"Bloody hell, Marcus—you've lost your mind!"
Soone muttered the curse under their breath, yet still followed precedent, leading nearby allies toward Marcus's contingent. The Flint family boasted considerable followers as well.
Within re heartbeats, half of Slytherin's male population had aligned themselves behind Tiger, their complex, fearful gazes converging on his broad shoulders.
"Theodore, what are you doing?!"
Theodore Nott stepped forward with sudden determination.
Blaise Zabini instinctively reached to restrain him but was shaken off.
He could only watch helplessly as his closest friend bowed before Tiger, shock flooding his dark eyes.
Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and their circle exchanged bewildered glances—none had anticipated Theodore Nott joining Shelby without hesitation.
Nott Sr. had served as Voldemort's most devoted lieutenant.
Following the war's conclusion, the Nott family fortune was seized entirely by distant relatives, leaving Theodore with only pathetic scraps.
Though pure-blood society found such vulgar opportunism distasteful, they accepted the situation for stability's sake—winners wrote history, after all.
Under paternal instruction, Draco and others had extended protective consideration toward Theodore Nott.
But the boy remained perpetually solitary, ice-cold, offering no one pleasant expressions.
Eventually, their warmth had cooled to re watchful concern. Among first-years, only Blaise maintained genuine closeness with Theodore...
"Blaise, he..."
Draco attempted inquiry but was silenced by Blaise's sharp gesture.
"Don't ask —I haven't the faintest idea..."
Observing his friend's enigmatic half-smile directed his way, Blaise Zabini's complexion turned absolutely ghastly.
Standing at that tempest's epicenter ant placing oneself at the heart of mortal danger and political warfare.
The crowd's murmurs grew increasingly vicious.
Others possessed family backing—even defeat allowed graceful retreat. What did Theodore have?!
A first-year nobody. A family castoff.
Theodore Nott, what do you possess?!
Beneath his olive complexion, suppressed fury surfaced like magma—subtle yet unmistakable.
"I must be completely insane!"
Blaise Zabini ground his teeth together. Under Draco Malfoy's stunned observation, he too strode forward with grim purpose.
Though he wasn't Sacred Twenty-Eight material, at least his mother commanded wealth through nurous stepfathers.
For gold's sake, he might salvage his friend's life.
"Theodore, you owe for this!" he hissed with flushed features upon reaching his friend's side.
"No, Blaise."
Theodore Nott's eternally hollow gaze flickered with unmistakable amusent.
Blaise Zabini froze as an ethereal whisper caressed his ear.
"You owe ..."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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