Harry sat slumped in his chair, offering nothing but distracted mumbles in response to his friends' conversation.
"Harry? Harry!"
Something was clearly wrong. Hermione's frown deepened as she rapped her knuckles against the wooden table, the sharp sound finally jolting Harry back to the present.
"What's happened?"
Faced with his friends' worried expressions, Harry released a long, defeated sigh.
"Wood told me about the next match." His voice carried the weight of impending doom. "Snape is going to referee."
Ron and Hermione exchanged horrified looks.
"Oh... Merlin's moldy socks..."
Ron forgot all about complaining about Malfoy, his freckled face creasing with sympathy. This went far beyond the greasy git's usual classroom persecution.
"Maybe you shouldn't play," Ron suggested weakly. "Tell Wood you're ill or something..."
The thought of Harry facing Slytherin's brutal playing style with Snape turning a blind eye made Ron's stomach churn. He could already picture Harry's neck snapping like a twig under a Bludger's impact.
"No, Ron." Harry shook his head miserably. "That's a terrible idea. I can't do that to Wood—he'd be devastated."
The defeat felt inevitable. Everyone knew Snape favored Slytherin with the shameless devotion of a house-elf.
"What about faking a broken leg?" Hermione mused, her analytical mind already working. But her thoughts ran deeper than her friends realized. The threats on the Quidditch pitch might extend far beyond overzealous players.
They'd discussed Nicolas Flamel extensively. If Harry was right about Snape trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, then the Potions Master had likely noticed their investigation. An "accidental" death during a match would be perfectly convenient—no questions asked, no legal consequences.
Classic criminal methodology: eliminate the pest while maintaining plausible deniability.
"Actually, Harry—" Hermione's expression shifted to deadly seriousness. "You need to really break your leg."
She turned to Ron with frightening intensity. "Don't just sit there! Harry's in genuine danger. Go fetch your cricket bat—we'll have to break his leg ourselves, or else—"
"NO! NO! NO!"
Harry shot to his feet as if Voldemort himself had appeared, panic replacing every trace of dejection.
"Listen, it's just a game! I can handle whatever Flint throws at me!" His voice cracked slightly. "They won't actually kill me!"
But you two might!
The mental image of Ron's spike-covered cricket bat made Harry's knees throb preemptively.
"There's absolutely no need for such drastic measures," Harry continued desperately. "If it comes to it, I'll handle things myself on match day. You can just... watch. From a safe distance. Without any leg-breaking implements."
Harry pressed his palm against his forehead, looking thoroughly defeated by his friends' murderous concern.
Time flowed like honey through Hogwarts' ancient corridors.
Winter's bitter grip gradually loosened, and the snow-laden grounds began their slow transformation. Icicles that had hung like crystal daggers from the castle's eaves melted into memory, their water seeping into earth that hadn't felt warmth in months.
The Forbidden Forest's edge showed tentative hints of green, and sunlight streaming through the classroom windows carried actual warmth instead of the harsh, brittle brightness of deep winter.
"In 1320, Ignatia Wildsmith, inventor of Floo Powder, met her untimely demise!" Professor Binns' voice droned with the enthusiasm of wet parchment. "However, the Wizarding Council never reached a definitive conclusion regarding the circumstances of her death."
"History demands precision..."
The ghostly professor's monotone delivery had achieved its usual effect—half the class fought drooping eyelids while the other half had already surrendered to sleep.
Only Hermione and Tiger remained conscious, though Tiger's attention lay elsewhere entirely. Wizarding History held little appeal when he could simply cram before exams.
Balanced atop his textbook sat a letter bearing Tommy's familiar scrawl, and Tiger was composing his reply with careful precision.
Nothing mattered more than family business.
The recent disappearance of three core Nott family members had Arthur's fingerprints all over it. Wizards might possess impressive magical arsenals, but strip away their wands and they became as vulnerable as any Muggle.
The Nott family's remaining parasites exemplified this weakness perfectly—they held laughably inflated opinions of their own capabilities while treating Muggles as subhuman servants.
Tommy found their arrogance both surprising and useful. They'd clearly overestimated the average wizard's competence...
Still, he maintained careful vigilance. John had acquired an impressive collection of hallucinogens from British Intelligence Service black market channels.
Wizards didn't hold a monopoly on mind control.
Through their three captives, Tommy had learned that successive upheavals had reduced the once-proud Nott family to bottom-tier status among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their Gringotts vaults stood virtually empty, their treasures long since liquidated.
Former glory had shrunk to a dozen magical creature farms and a single mine extracting rare magical metals—barely enough to fund their descendants' pathetic extravagances.
The Knockturn Alley shops that appeared to bear the Nott name had fallen under the control of Dark wizards and werewolves. The family's remaining members lacked both the courage to reclaim their property and the funds to hire proper muscle.
Tommy's plan was elegantly simple: use the missing members' identities to lure out the survivors, then introduce them to cement boots and the ocean floor.
Theodore would then emerge with their three captives to claim his inheritance.
The broader strategy remained unspoken, but Tiger could read between the lines. Tommy intended to create significant chaos during Theodore's ascension—enough noise to mask the family's true transformation.
The British wizarding world operated like a fishbowl. Every significant event attracted scrutiny from sharp-eyed observers who might piece together inconvenient patterns.
The Shelbys weren't ready for that spotlight. Not yet.
"A big disturbance..."
Tiger's lips curved in a predatory smile, greed flickering in his dark eyes.
What could possibly create more chaos than robbing the wizarding world's most secure bank?
"Tiger? Tiger?"
Hermione's voice cut through his plotting, and Tiger reluctantly lifted his gaze from the letter.
"Class is over. We should go."
She gathered her textbooks with characteristic efficiency, seamlessly transitioning into tutor mode—missing only a pair of stern spectacles.
"Don't forget the Transfiguration test day after tomorrow. Professor McGonagall has mentioned it repeatedly, and you still need practice."
"Bloody hell..." Tiger muttered as he packed his materials. "Can someone explain the practical application of turning matchboxes into mice? Are we training to spread the Black Death?"
"Why not test something useful—like turning people into Headless Horsemen?"
Transfiguration remained his weakest subject. Only Hermione's patient tutoring kept him from complete academic disaster.
"Tiger—"
Hermione drew out his name with exasperated affection, tilting her head to study him with barely contained frustration.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming." Tiger shouldered his bag and headed for the door.
Watching his confident stride, Hermione suddenly smacked her forehead repeatedly, her expression shifting to bewildered horror.
Merlin's beard.
She actually thought Tiger had made an excellent point.
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