At the staff table, Professor McGonagall held a rivet-studded cat collar, her face radiant with delight.
No one had ever given her such a gift before.
As a fellow cat enthusiast, Professor McGonagall couldn't resist holding it against her own neck for comparison...
Meanwhile, Professor Flitwick drew forth a Nepalese kukri, his eyes widening in astonishment.
Intricate Damascus patterns covered the blade's surface, each line gleaming with mesmerizing brilliance. The razor edge's cold gleam revealed pure wildness and lethal intent.
Don't be fooled by this Ravenclaw Head's perpetually gentle, humorous demeanor—his seemingly endless patience.
As a dueling champion, the concept of "violent aesthetics" was carved deep into his very soul.
As the embodiment of violent aesthetics, this blade could captivate any male of any species.
"Oh, Merlin's dueling chamber!"
Professor Flitwick shook his head lightly, unable to conceal his excitement, his tone brimming with heartfelt admiration.
"I've long wanted to write a paper on reviving sword-wand combat arts, but never found proper inspiration!"
It wasn't lack of inspiration—as the wizarding world evolved, sword-wand combat had fallen into obsolescence.
Only Professor Flitwick, this fanatical dueling enthusiast, still treasured in his heart's depths a profound attachment to sword-wand combat's former glory.
Most wizards no longer revisited this art abandoned by progress. They pursued more powerful equipment, more complex spells...
Dueling competitions had transformed beyond recognition.
Over time, Professor Flitwick's inner passion had gradually cooled, leaving only occasional reminiscence and regretful, helpless sighs.
This Nepalese curved blade's appearance represented more than an exquisite weapon—it was a key unlocking the floodgates of fresh sword-wand combat concepts within his heart.
He gazed at the Damascus patterns adorning the blade, his eyes surging with unprecedented inspiration and fervor.
"Albus, would you be interested in collaborating—"
Professor Flitwick turned toward Dumbledore with pleasant anticipation, attempting to invite joint authorship of this paper.
Immediately afterward, however, he fell into the same peculiar silence as Dumbledore.
[Dear Headmaster,
Merry Christmas.
Please safeguard my Philosopher's Stone properly, or this contraption will definitely materialize in the Headmaster's office.
By: Your loyal Tiger Shelby]
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful—everyone else receives Christmas gifts, while I get death threats?
Dumbledore expressionlessly set aside the greeting card. Observing the neatly arranged claymore mines within the gift box, for the first time in his life, he experienced the urge to thrash a child.
The kind where you chase them home to do it properly...
The night of his second magical eruption, Tiger hadn't claimed the Philosopher's Stone but had loaned it to Dumbledore.
That's correct—loaned.
The instant Tiger glimpsed the Philosopher's Stone, he'd already considered it his personal property.
But given Dumbledore's formidable power, unable to escape the Headmaster's office, Tiger could only temporarily lend his possession—without even inquiring about reasons...
"Sour turnip bitch!"
Tiger cursed vehemently while setting down his milk glass.
Christmas dinner at Shelby pub had erupted into complete revelry. Dr. Granger's family had also been invited by big brother Arthur.
Mrs. Granger and second brother Tommy danced tango at the dance floor's center, cheers rising and falling in waves.
However, Hermione sat beside Tiger clutching a thick tome, constantly searching for something specific.
Learning Hermione was researching Nicolas Flamel, Tiger couldn't suppress his frown.
After all, this figure existed over six centuries ago. Beyond magical history and alchemy, few would pay attention—anything connected to him wouldn't be trivial...
Facing Tiger's inquiry, Hermione naturally wouldn't conceal anything, immediately relating their recent discoveries.
"Damned old bastard."
"I should've rigged those mines with tripwires!"
Tiger ground his teeth savagely.
Though merely fragments with scattered clues, he'd roughly deduced the situation.
The Philosopher's Stone had been placed on the fourth floor by Dumbledore!
Someone was targeting it—most likely their own Head of House, Professor Snape.
Tiger didn't trust him.
Or rather, regarding the Philosopher's Stone, Tiger trusted absolutely no one—including Dumbledore.
Transmuting stone to gold, eternal life—these two capabilities alone could plunge the entire wizarding world into unprecedented chaos.
Once Philosopher's Stone news leaked, if Dumbledore suddenly perished in his office, Tiger wouldn't find it surprising.
Yet unexpectedly, this old bastard had chosen hiding the goods elsewhere, waiting to orchestrate black-market betrayal.
Motherfucker!
How dare this son of a bitch—this was his possession! What if the goods vanished!
Now Tiger absolutely couldn't remain seated.
Visible agitation blazed in his eyes, intensifying daily—even dogs passing the pub received his kicks.
Christmas holidays barely half-finished, he boarded the return train with Ramos Tiamat. Learning this news, Hermione also hurried over.
Though Harry and Ron—those two little wastes—constantly created obstacles, certain matters required their immediate knowledge.
Simply speaking Nicolas Flamel's name felt incredible...
As for Theodore Nott, Mother Polly had "forcibly" detained him.
The youth's typically cold, rigid features rarely displayed such panic.
Witnessing this scene, Tiger departed more decisively than that night in Dumbledore's office.
Not merely because of Mother Polly—Tommy seemed orchestrating something too.
Recently, he'd frequently circulated around Theodore Nott, engaging in whispered conversations.
Though content remained unknown, those hollow, desolate eyes gradually acquired thick black mist.
Hatred like abyssal undercurrents—viscous and turbulent, nearly bursting from his eyes to pour forth.
Honestly, Venom was starving with anticipation.
Tiger didn't dare sleep deeply, fearing this bastard couldn't resist temptation.
Several days' separation would prove beneficial...
The prolonged, piercing whistle echoed across wilderness.
Observing vast white fields beyond train windows, Tiger's anxious mood considerably calmed.
Ramos Tiamat wore Shelby family three-piece suits, wrapped in wool coats, sleeping deeply—Egyptians most despised cold.
Hermione clumsily manipulated a butterfly knife nearby—Tiger's Christmas gift to her.
Pink-colored.
The promise was definitively fulfilled.
Accompanied by metallic clattering sounds and occasional pained cries—without Venom, this little girl's fingers would require complete replacement. But Miss Know-It-All possessed an eternally unyielding personality.
Unable to observe further, Tiger retrieved the fallen butterfly knife, deciding to personally demonstrate for Hermione.
Metal collision rhythms created crisp, pleasant melodies. Blade light alternately soared high, spiraled, shuttled—each transformation proving dazzling.
Hermione clapped her small hands worshipfully, emotional satisfaction maximized. Tiger, who'd planned concluding, demonstrated once more.
"Wow, absolutely amazing!"
"Tiger, please—I desperately want to learn." Hermione's eyes sparkled brilliantly.
Tiger: "Final demonstration. Watch carefully."
Hermione: "Wow, could you do this since childhood?"
Tiger: "Naturally. Don't get distracted!"
Hermione: "Truly worthy of a Shelby. I—"
Tiger: "Fine. One more time..."
Night descended.
Observing Miss Know-It-All dozing while embracing Gunpowder, Tiger held the pink butterfly knife, falling into profound bewilderment.
Where had she learned that particular technique?
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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