"Tweet——!"
The whistle's shriek launched Gryffindor and Slytherin players skyward like rockets, brooms cutting through autumn air with vicious intent.
Thunderous cheers erupted from the stands—Gryffindor's scarlet and gold banners blazing like war standards against the gray sky.
Slytherin abandoned their customary icy composure entirely, fists pumping with unprecedented fervor.
"Crush them, Flint!"
"Destroy those lions!"
"Show Gryffindor what real wizards look like!"
"Shatter Potter's glasses into dust!"
Draco Malfoy gripped the railing until his knuckles went white, face flushed crimson as he screamed himself hoarse, desperately wishing he could join the aerial carnage.
Facing Gryffindor's taunting provocations, Slytherin students' veins bulged as middle fingers shot skyward like a forest of defiance.
"Fuck you sideways!"
"Die screaming, you bastards!"
"That Bludger's gonna cave Wood's skull in!"
"Come kiss daddy's arse!"
Sudden, profound silence descended like a curse.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stared at the Slytherin stands with expressions of pure horror.
Gryffindor gaped in stunned bewilderment, momentarily speechless at this unprecedented vulgarity.
"Bloody hell... what's gotten into those snakes?"
Ron blinked helplessly, his worldview cracking like thin ice.
In his experience, Slytherin's most vicious insults involved "blood traitor," "lapdog," or "Mudblood"—civilized cruelty wrapped in aristocratic disdain.
The self-proclaimed noble serpents would never resort to such savage, gutter-level behavior.
"You'll adapt eventually..."
Hermione massaged her temples with weary resignation.
Following multiple incidents of educationally beating Ron, she'd finally recognized her own disturbing transformation.
The Shelby family methodology created insidious psychological dependency—like addiction disguised as empowerment.
Especially for someone like herself: a person who'd normalized tolerance and retreat, who processed emotions through internal exhaustion and self-blame.
Violence as solution.
A bottle of seductive, slow-acting poison.
Venting rage without regard for rules or reason trapped people in cycles of stimulation and madness, impossible to escape once begun.
Slytherin represented an even more dangerous case study.
Pure-blood traditional repression, House regulatory constraints, shackles masquerading as honor, cages disguised as nobility—all composing seemingly unbreakable class hierarchies and social order.
Once Tiger completely pulverized these chains and fetters, decades of suppressed emotions and impulses would metastasize into fertile breeding grounds for violence and savagery.
Hermione couldn't bear imagining the consequences.
What horrifying spectacle would emerge when these future wizarding elites plunged into the abyss of perpetual retribution?
"Ahem..."
Professor McGonagall frowned severely, drawing her wand to amplify her voice for crowd control.
Dumbledore intercepted her intervention with gentle authority.
Facing his meticulous Gryffindor colleague, the headmaster smiled and shook his head with paternal indulgence.
"Minerva, don't fixate on negative aspects exclusively."
"Don't you find them more... spirited?"
Surveying the forest of raised middle fingers, Professor McGonagall maintained stony silence for several heartbeats before forcibly suppressing her assessment of Dumbledore's mental health.
The headmaster acted oblivious to her disapproval, raising his own hand toward the Slytherin stands in cheerful greeting.
As bewildered serpentine gazes converged upon him, his weathered palm slowly contracted.
Only his middle finger remained extended, swaying with indescribable playfulness and profound meaning.
"..."
Now the Slytherin stands fell into stunned silence.
"Albus Dumbledore!"
Professor McGonagall stared in absolute disbelief, her complexion turning iron-gray as outrage exploded from her throat.
"Forgive me, Minerva."
"At my advanced age, muscle spasms occur quite naturally."
Dumbledore chuckled warmly as he lowered his hand. He feared Slytherin stagnation far more than Slytherin evolution.
"Brilliant pass! Weasley feeds Alicia Spinnet—what gorgeous form—"
"Bloody hell!"
"Despicable Adrian Pucey just rammed Alicia into the barrier—typical Slytherin dirty tactics!"
"Those filthy, stinking—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's rebuke cracked like a whip.
"Sorry, Professor! Right—the Weasley twins just served revenge! Beautiful retaliation!"
"Look at that git's nose..."
Lee Jordan's commentary created an insufferable din. Tiger slowly withdrew his predatory focus from Professor Snape.
The Potions Master's pallid complexion and concentrated medicinal odors might deceive ordinary observers, but Venom remained immune to such deceptions.
Suppressed, brooding malevolence and magical energy represented Venom's ideal appetizer.
The metallic blood-scent and putrid decay emanating from Snape's leg proved even more tantalizing—gourmet aromas wafting from a perfectly prepared meal.
Obviously, their Head of House had sustained significant injury.
The question remained: who had inflicted such damage?
Tiger found this mystery deeply intriguing.
Unfortunately, Lee Jordan's incessant babbling short-circuited his already limited patience for analysis.
His predatory features darkened as aerial figures blazed across his peripheral vision.
Indeed, as Gemma Farley had observed, their performance was aesthetically revolting. Marcus and his teammates, lacking technical finesse, could only rely on brute physicality—operating at rule-book margins through petty infractions.
Desperate but hopelessly clumsy.
The Weasley twins toyed with them like cats with wounded mice. When direct confrontation became necessary, Gryffindor possessed equal measures of raw courage.
Madam Hooch radiated obvious displeasure, her hawk-like scrutiny tracking Marcus and company with whistle-ready vigilance.
Fortunately, the Slytherin team had studied regulations exhaustively, denying Hooch legitimate grounds for intervention.
"Spectacular counterattack!"
"Bletchley's face just got pulverized by that Quaffle—long live our warrior queen!"
"ANGELINA!"
Gryffindor cheers nearly demolished the stadium roof. Improvised banners crafted from dormitory bed sheets fluttered like victory standards.
Slytherin curses rose in furious crescendo, yet failed to drown Lee Jordan's amplified praise.
"Goddamn it..."
Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley wiped blood from his battered features, eyes blazing with homicidal hatred.
While Oliver Wood and teammates celebrated their scoring success, Marcus and the other Slytherins surrounded their wounded goalkeeper with whispered consolation.
At that precise moment, Venom released a microscopic fraction of his aura.
Slytherin profanity died in collective throats.
Students who'd previously suffered Venom's attention began trembling uncontrollably under that familiar pressure—including the airborne team members.
"Father..."
Male Prefect Atlantic Bode turned toward Tiger with bloodless features. Tiger ignored the acknowledgment, expressionlessly beckoning Marcus earthward.
Mid-air combat continued its savage ballet. Marcus descended with visible terror, approaching Tiger's position like a condemned man.
"You're fighting with admirable courage..."
These words ignited Marcus's expression—his eyes overflowing with fanatic devotion and desperate gratitude.
"Unfortunately, your aim requires significant improvement."
"Huh?"
Marcus blinked in confused bewilderment.
"That object in your grip is a stick. Remember this fundamental truth: since sticks were first invented, they have never been designed for hitting balls."
Tiger continued with glacial calm:
"Either the ball stays down, or the person stays down. I authorize deliberate fouls, but demand one-for-one exchanges."
"Don't allow this match to conclude prematurely."
"Eliminate Harry Potter first."
"Understood?"
As his words settled like death sentences, Tiger cast a venomous glance toward the opposing stands. Lee Jordan continued his enthusiastic gesticulation, megaphone static grating against Tiger's nerves like fingernails on stone.
"Slytherin lacks courage, certainly—but Gryffindor's courage must also vanish."
"As you command, Father..."
Marcus gripped his Beater's bat with white-knuckled intensity, breathing growing labored as bloodshot veins webbed his eyes.
Fierce wind carried him skyward at breakneck velocity, conveying Tiger's instructions to his teammates' eager ears.
Adrian and the others registered momentary shock—then their sullen, furious expressions twisted into predatory grins.
They possessed precious little natural courage, true—but with Father's blessing, they would face death itself without hesitation.
Gryffindor, do you dare?
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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