"Where did this little girl come from?"
"You fancy this type?"
Mother Polly settled at the bar, lighting her cigar while raising an eyebrow at the two figures approaching Tiger.
"No, they're my subordinates."
"They're boys."
Tiger shot Tommy a wary glance. Tommy stared back with utterly ridiculous, bewildered eyes.
Bloody hell, how dare you even think that!
They're still children!
"Noble lady."
"Ramos Tiamat greets you."
Ramos Tiamat slowly pressed his hand to his chest in formal greeting, the mystery and elegance of Egyptian priests flowing forth naturally.
"Theodore Nott..."
Theodore Nott nodded slightly, his cold, distant features betraying no emotion whatsoever.
"Nott?"
Mother Polly's gaze faltered momentarily, as if recalling something, her expression gradually becoming peculiar.
If memory served correctly, that hunched figure perpetually shadowing Voldemort...
"Death Eater's son."
Seemingly reading Mother Polly's thoughts, Theodore Nott stated his heritage without the slightest hesitation.
"..."
Mother Polly fell silent briefly, suddenly rubbing her temples with mounting headache.
"Tiger, I nearly forgot."
"Which house claimed you?"
"Slytherin..."
Tiger shrugged with complete indifference.
"That decrepit hat initially wanted sorting me into Azkaban, or some place called Nurmengard."
"Later I discovered that location serves as the wizarding prison. Honestly, I was rather anticipating it."
"Good God, you absolutely needn't anticipate that..."
Mother Polly seemed incapable of accepting this reality, directly seizing the whiskey bottle and drinking straight from it.
Dead blood relatives, ruthless disposition, pureblood followers, Slytherin, Dumbledore's indulgence...
Perfect, perfect, perfect—every single element assembled.
The following morning, heavy snow shrouded the windows.
Tiger rarely indulged in sleeping late.
Only when Mother Polly's footsteps echoed outside his door did he reflexively tumble from bed.
Gunpowder, who'd been draped across him, slid down as well, dissatisfied meowing rising in waves.
"Merry Christmas, lads."
Removing Gunpowder, who stubbornly refused abandoning his head, Tiger buried his face deeply, inhaling a substantial whiff of cat—instantly feeling refreshed...
The pub maintained perfect silence. Big brother Arthur was leading his brothers through breakfast.
Last night's chaos had been thoroughly cleared. A towering Christmas tree had mysteriously appeared center-stage, gift boxes of every description piled nearly to the treetop.
Based on historical precedent, the hungover Shelby bastards would likely surface around midday.
"Merry Christmas, Father."
Observing Tiger descending the staircase, Theodore Nott set aside his cutlery, rising first in greeting.
"Theodore, sit down and eat."
Mother Polly glanced at him with casual indifference.
For inexplicable reasons, Theodore Nott's typically cold, hollow eyes suddenly flickered with barely perceptible panic.
Last evening Mother Polly had conversed with him extensively—about the wizarding world, about Slytherin, about Tiger, about himself...
Confronting this woman whose gaze radiated both kindness and unwavering determination, Theodore Nott felt like encountering a natural predator.
His mind went completely blank. He forgot maintaining silence, forgot everything he'd articulated.
As if subjected to the Imperius Curse.
The sole memory remaining: that warmth and tranquility seeping into his very soul—something he'd never possessed, yet once desperately craved...
"Lad, if I were you"
"I definitely wouldn't hesitate..." Third brother John directly pulled Theodore Nott back to his chair.
"He speaks truth, Theodore."
"Here, my only identity remains son. Same applies to you—don't consider refusing Mum..."
Tiger yawned while settling down. The bacon sandwich and milk before him retained perfect warmth.
Though his tone carried casual normalcy, Theodore Nott experienced unprecedented bewilderment and confusion.
He couldn't comprehend Tiger's meaning—or rather, he dared not confirm those words' implications.
"Where's Tiamat?" Tiger chewed his toast, surveying the surroundings.
"He's managing your gift situation."
"You possess an excellent assistant, Tiger."
"He understands you remarkably well."
Second brother Tommy retrieved whiskey from the cabinet, pouring glasses for himself and Arthur.
Christmas holidays meant even gangsters entered rest periods. Without troublesome interruptions, Tommy's tone emerged relaxed and languid, brimming with English gentleman charm.
"You'd better assist him."
"That falcon's nearly dead from exhaustion..."
Mother Polly ignored whether Tiger had finished eating. After tossing him a potion vial, she kicked him from behind the bar.
Though such force meant nothing to Tiger, he still staggered toward the Christmas tree.
Behind the towering gift mountain, Ramos Tiamat wielded his wand, constantly rearranging and rewrapping presents. A magnificent falcon dozed wearily beside him.
"Father, may You eternally protect Your devoted faithful."
Seeing Tiger approach, Ramos Tiamat abandoned his work, bowing his head with solemn reverence.
His rhythmic intonation resembled altar chanting, saturated with faith's power.
Egyptians don't celebrate Christmas—nor do they praise God.
Once he'd worshipped Ra the sun god, Osiris king of the underworld, Thoth god of magic...
Now he venerated only one.
"I'll safeguard your soul properly."
Tiger promised with gravity. He could distinctly sense Tiamat's inner fervor.
He respected anyone's faith, wouldn't mock this inexplicable devotion.
He believed solely in himself, yet permitted others believing in him. Hell would embrace everyone, regardless of virtue or vice.
The contract sealed, Ramos Tiamat suppressed his excitement, smiling as he sighed:
"Father, examine your gifts. I genuinely can't determine which to retain, which to dispatch?"
"Hmm?"
Tiger raised an eyebrow, accepting the gift box Tiamat offered. Silver-green wrapping possessed certain refinement—obviously Slytherin origin.
He casually unwrapped it. A substantial stack of underwear materialized before his eyes, topped by a greeting card.
"Madam Malkin's exclusive custom creation. Hope they suit your measurements, dear."
Cool, elegant script carried lazy undertones, the pen stroke seemingly wanting to cross out the endearment, ultimately abandoning the attempt.
Tiger grimaced slightly.
Honestly, despite exhaustive precautions recently, he'd still lost two pairs of underwear plus one shirt.
This underwear stack arrived perfectly timed—he absolutely couldn't face infiltrating the girls' dormitory again...
Tiger quietly secured the box, retrieved an unworn pajama set from his room, and placed it within a gift container.
Consider it reciprocal gifting...
He genuinely couldn't match that deranged woman's perversion. Previously worn garments—how could those possibly serve as presents?
Gifts accumulated like mountains beneath the Christmas tree, predominantly candy, accessories, and magical implements.
Tiger even discovered Ron's gift—handmade candy bag, exceptionally sweet yet gentle on the throat.
This proved genuinely unexpected, considering the lad constantly suffered Hermione's beatings because of him.
He removed the sapphire brooch from his chest, presenting it to Tiamat as return consideration.
Hermione had sent cat grooming implements. Gunpowder couldn't resist burrowing inside, immediately absorbing feline scents.
As the Potter family's affluent heir, Harry had gifted Tiger a wand maintenance kit.
Truthfully, Tiger's wand usage methods proved rather alarming—even observation made Harry's heart ache.
Neville had contributed two chocolate cakes.
The larger cake bore his hand-drawn Venom portrait; the smaller depicted Tiger embracing Gunpowder—quite charming. He understood Tiger wasn't particularly fond of sweets.
But Venom couldn't resist any longer, consuming both packaging and cake together.
The Weasley twins had sent handmade fireworks, their accompanying letter informing Tiger that the displays would bloom with animated Basilisk imagery—best avoided in the Muggle world...
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