(P.S.: Recommend listening to "Viva La Vida" while reading this chapter. May all go well for you.)
"Fine..."
Tiger shook his head with helpless resignation, then pushed Gemma Farley away with obvious distaste.
He wasn't one for procrastination—realizing everyone awaited his performance, he abandoned further hesitation.
Tiger stripped off his suit jacket and casually draped it over that ethereally beautiful face that made his resolve weaken. Gemma huffily yanked the garment away.
But immediately after, rose-colored warmth bloomed across her cheeks. When nobody was watching, she clutched the jacket to her chest, greedily inhaling the lingering scent from its collar.
Tiger approached the stage while loosening his tie, discarding it carelessly. The buttons that had constrained his chest were unfastened—two, then three—allowing blessed relief.
Upon mounting the platform, he rolled his sleeves to the elbows, revealing sinewy forearms that spoke of contained power.
His dignified, aristocratic bearing evaporated completely, replaced by something rawer—casual defiance edged with dangerous magnetism.
He intended to show these serpents that ballroom entertainment extended far beyond noble lamentations.
The suffocating pretense deserved abandonment.
The common room's atmosphere ignited explosively—screams and applause weaving together in electric anticipation.
"Father, what composition do you require?"
Seeing Tiger approach their ensemble, Corban Yaxley bowed respectfully while Selwyn and the others watched with curious fascination.
Honestly, they struggled to imagine how someone as ferociously untamed as Tiger might interpret classical elegance.
"You won't know the piece I want. Venom will guide your performance—don't resist..."
Tiger arched one eyebrow. The moment he finished speaking, Venom emerged with predatory grin:
"Relax, little chocolate morsels."
"I won't cause pain..."
"Of... of course..."
Corban Yaxley and his companions' breathing hitched.
Though nearly a semester's exposure had familiarized them with Venom's presence, witnessing it still accelerated their heartbeats involuntarily.
Viscous, writhing tendrils dispersed silently, penetrating their skin amid nervous trembling.
Urgent percussion erupted. Selwyn's eyes widened in horror—his body no longer obeyed his commands.
Then violin harmonies began their haunting echo.
Snap!
Accompanied by that crisp finger crack, Tiger rolled his neck with audible pops, his rebellious smile gaining solemn gravity.
"Long live victory! Long live glory! Long live freedom! Long live Slytherin!"
"To our Quidditch champions!"
"LONG LIVE!"
"To these magnificent bastards! Ha!"
Below the stage, fanatical cheers thundered forth.
Bursed and his companions abandoned their refined personas entirely, whistling with unrestrained excitement.
Every gaze converged on Tiger—witnessing Shelby elegance in its truest form.
His voice emerged low and gravelly, melodious yet profound.
"I used to rule the world..."
"Seas would rise when I gave the word..."
"Now in the morning I sleep alone..."
"Oh... my... Merlin..."
Like most serpents, Lisa gaped in speechless wonder, her round eyes reflecting pure disbelief.
The saint-like intonation carried traces of melancholy—like a monarch upon his throne, speaking with detached authority to subjects about history itself, about former glory and vanished greatness.
"That's really Shelby?" Tracey Davis let her wine glass slip from nerveless fingers, her expression mixing shock with something approaching breakdown.
Gemma Farley pressed one hand to her chest, pale cheeks flushed rose-pink while her misty eyes swirled with intoxicated longing, as though her very soul had taken flight with the melody.
"Of course it's him."
"Nobody possesses greater elegance..."
The band members' initial numbness had transformed into awe. Heavenly bells seemed to ring from Selwyn's hands while war drums thundered and violins soared in perfect harmony.
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king..."
Tiger tilted his head slightly, sharply defined features catching the underwater light as if lost in distant memory.
"I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing..."
"Roman Cavalry choirs are singing..."
"Be my mirror, my sword and shield..."
"My missionaries in a foreign field..."
The deafening resonance left every Slytherin flushed and breathless.
Having studied history since childhood, they seemed to follow Tiger's song through desolate, tragic centuries—witnessing armies and subjects crying allegiance with mountain-shaking voices, seeing the precarious foundations beneath glory and absolute power.
"It's praise, regret, and warning combined," Blaise Zabini observed with deep admiration, unlike Draco and the others' simple excitement.
His mother was French.
He understood perfectly the story being told—Louis XVI's tale remained familiar to his ears.
That king who maintained noble bearing even facing the guillotine hadn't been an effective monarch, but he'd been fundamentally decent...
Wait. Decent?
Blaise's expression grew increasingly strange.
Dear Merlin, Father isn't comparing himself to Louis XVI, is he?
The song suddenly struck him as devastatingly ironic.
In his estimation, Tiger represented the figure who'd grab kings by the throat and casually toss them onto execution platforms...
Hold on. Nobles destined for guillotines?
Us?
The increasingly thoughtful boy suppressed an involuntary shiver.
Like Blaise, numerous clever serpents sensed the warning embedded within those lyrics—meaningful implications directed specifically at pureblood aristocracy.
Their fanatical enthusiasm gradually cooled, both mature and youthful faces adopting traces of genuine solemnity.
In reality, Tiger had simply performed a song—he couldn't be bothered with deeper philosophical considerations.
Following the Slytherin celebration's conclusion, serpents continued discussing Tiger's performance, their conversations mixing excitement with lingering disbelief.
"Tracey, I can't endure this anymore..."
A trembling whisper arose.
Watching Tiger's departing silhouette, Gemma Farley felt her ears burning while her heart threatened to burst from her chest—desire and passion interweaving in her gaze.
"What are you planning?!" Tracey Davis's eyes flashed with alarm as she quickly dragged her best friend toward the prefect's dormitory, speaking with urgent desperation:
"Farley, regain control!"
"Don't forget—this is merely love potion effects! Merlin's beard, you haven't actually fallen for him, have you?"
"Stop approaching that beast!"
"I know exactly what you're contemplating!"
"Absolutely, positively don't!" Tracey crossed her arms frantically. "Only beasts can share beds with beasts!"
"Don't commit acts you'll regret—when the potion wears off, you'll be horrified!"
Regret? Never!
Forget hypothetical future events—just recalling Farley's recent behavior, Tracey felt certain that once the love potion's influence faded, her best friend would probably contemplate suicide.
"Oh yes... naturally..."
Gemma frowned slightly.
As if remembering something crucial, her intoxicated, adoring smile gradually subsided. She seemed to completely recover her former rationality, cold calculation returning to her gaze.
"Thank you, Tracey. Fortunately you reminded me—otherwise I truly wouldn't know how to proceed."
"Merlin's sake, you nearly gave me heart failure."
Seeing her friend apparently restored to normalcy, Tracey rubbed her throbbing temples and exhaled with profound relief.
"It's growing late—we should rest."
"Seriously, you need distracting activities to redirect your attention."
"Good night, darling." She departed the prefect's quarters, carrying deep exhaustion.
"You're absolutely correct, Tracey..."
The dormitory door closed softly. Gemma Farley gazed with shadowed eyes toward the laurel tree beside the entrance.
"Only beasts..."
"Can sleep beside beasts."
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