"I'm too hot (hot damn), call the police and the fireman!"
"I'm too hot (hot damn), make a dragon wanna retire, man!"
"I'm too hot (hot damn), say my name, you know who I am..."
The banquet's electric atmosphere had completely unleashed Venom's hidden party animal instincts. Slytherin's dance studio was no longer the exclusive domain of giggling girls.
Venom led the Quidditch players in scorching, uninhibited choreography.
Powerful bodies moved with urgent percussion, every pivot and spin executed with devastating precision.
The much-maligned Slytherin "troll team" had abandoned their shirts entirely, revealing sculpted muscle definition that caught the underwater light like living marble.
Each movement radiated intoxicating strength—as though every cell pulsed with the rhythm itself.
"Girls hit your hallelujah! Girls hit your hallelujah..."
The symbiote was having the time of its existence.
Adorned with glow-stick collars and arm bands, Venom commanded the room's energy amid strobing illumination, its form compressed to a mere two meters of pure charismatic menace.
The unrestrained joy flowing through its performance somehow made those heart-stopping fangs appear less terrifying—adding dangerous allure instead of primal fear.
"Come on!"
Venom moonwalked backward with theatrical flair, beckoning to the mesmerized crowd with an invitation impossible to refuse.
Thunderous bass lines merged with triumphant horns, igniting the entire venue like a volcanic eruption beneath the Black Lake's depths.
"Hallelujah!"
Pansy and her companions stared with exaggerated shock, their excited shrieks creating a symphony of teenage hysteria.
"Merlin's sacred candles and whips—I think my aesthetic sensibilities are being permanently corrupted," Lisa whispered, unconsciously swallowing.
The unprecedented commotion drew every serpent back from the common room, clustering outside the dance studio in fascinated horror.
"Father..." Theodore's expression approached complete breakdown.
His trembling lips struggled for words—seeking perhaps some phrase more damning than "the collapse of civilization itself," or possibly a method for reversing time.
Though the twentieth century had embraced explosive rock and electronic music throughout Europe and America, such wild abandon remained scandalous to conservative wizards—particularly pureblood aristocracy.
"Don't take it to heart, Theodore."
"Slytherin has been suffocatingly quiet for too long. Besides, doesn't our world have The Weird Sisters?"
Tiger laughed while draping an arm around Theodore's shoulders. The boy swayed with complete numbness.
Recent days had seen the flames within Tiger growing increasingly volatile—no longer maintaining their previous stability.
Herbology had witnessed ignited tentacles carrying medicinal plants. Charms had nearly cost Hermione her eyebrows.
Venom naturally embodied the "strong against weak, cowardly against strong" principle—especially when confronting such a natural predator.
Unable to endure constant nagging, Tiger had simply allowed temporary separation from his body.
With magical sustenance from Marcus and others, Venom could maintain independence for several days—until the internal flames achieved complete stabilization.
"Father's absolutely right—those antiquated stuffed shirts who'd hang themselves with their own ties need serious loosening up."
"Like certain individuals~"
Blaise Zabini's pointed commentary accompanied a sharp slap to Theodore's posterior, his dissolute laughter joining the chaos.
"Blaise..." Theodore's complexion turned iron-gray.
The sound of grinding teeth emerged ominously.
"Oh, bloody hell..."
Roaring flames transformed the cauldron into molten slag, spilled potion extinguishing the burner entirely.
Tiger frantically shook his arms until the suffocating heat dissipated.
Witnessing this familiar catastrophe, classroom serpents merely shrugged with practiced indifference.
At Draco Malfoy's subtle signal, Crabbe efficiently offered his own cauldron.
"Thanks, Crabbe."
"My absolute pleasure, Father."
Crabbe beamed with seemingly dim-witted sincerity before returning to Draco's side.
"For failing to prevent this disruption, Miss Granger—one point from Gryffindor."
Professor Snape delivered his verdict with characteristic arctic disdain.
"My apologies, Professor..." Hermione exhaled slowly.
She forcibly suppressed homicidal impulses toward their instructor, then relit her burner and reorganized her ingredients.
"Tiger, are you managing?"
She glanced sideways while continuing her work—finely chopped bay leaves releasing delicate aromatics.
Hermione had witnessed every struggle these past weeks, her concern deepening daily.
"Don't worry—I'm perfectly fine."
Tiger pressed his wand against the cauldron's base, casting a practiced Scouring Charm that eliminated all residue.
He casually selected dried billywig stings, grinding them between thumb and forefinger until powder-fine particles scattered into a measuring bowl.
"I can sense it stabilizing—just a few more days..."
The past fortnight had seen progressively fewer flame eruptions. Perhaps influenced by the Magic-Dampening Draught, the burning had completely plateaued at half his body.
Though the half-human, half-skeleton appearance remained disturbing, Tiger's condition had never been better—spellcasting flowing with unprecedented smoothness.
Only the ruined potion represented genuine loss.
"Regarding your pain relief essays—I expect you to vigorously agitate the flobberworm mucus occupying your craniums until properly mixed."
"Next lesson, you'll personally test your concoctions."
The dismissal bell chimed from the lectern.
After delivering this ominous assignment, Snape departed with visible disgust.
"Quick, quick, Ron..."
"Absolutely!"
Harry and Ron packed their texts with infectious excitement, turning to urge Hermione with meaningful glances.
"What's gotten into them?" Tiger raised an eyebrow.
This marked the first occasion he'd witnessed genuine smiles in Potions class.
Every session typically left Gryffindor eviscerated by Snape's criticism—little lions departing in shell-shocked stupors.
Especially Harry and Ron, who bore the brunt of targeted harassment.
"Well..." Hermione pursed her lips with visible conflict.
She'd promised Harry secrecy, yet these two idiots practically glowed with anticipation.
She genuinely didn't know how to respond without deceiving Tiger...
Within moments, the classroom had emptied.
Noticing Hermione's distress and Tiger's undisguised curiosity, Harry's smile grew increasingly strained. Only Ron maintained oblivious excitement.
"A dragon about to hatch?"
Tiger's unexpected visit delighted rather than disturbed Hagrid—his beaming face made his beard tremble with enthusiasm.
He'd never stopped thinking about Venom.
Anyone capable of raising magnificent creatures couldn't possibly be evil.
"That's right—my precious baby."
Bubbles roiled in the fireplace cauldron. Hagrid carefully extracted the dragon egg, tenderly drying it with his apron before placing it reverently on the table.
"I've named him Norbert."
"Him?" Tiger's expression grew peculiar.
Obviously, Hagrid had already adopted the egg as his offspring—everyone instantly detected the linguistic assumption.
Suddenly, crisp cracking sounds emerged as prominent fissures spread across the shell.
Everyone held their breath.
Ron's eyes widened progressively while Hermione produced a notebook, documenting the hatching process meticulously.
Fracturing intensified. Shell fragments scattered across the tabletop as a wrinkled black creature tumbled forth, swaying unsteadily on newfound legs.
"What species..." Though diminutive, Tiger clearly sensed the surging life force within the hatchling.
"Norwegian Ridgeback..." Hagrid gazed with paternal infatuation at sparks emerging from tiny nostrils, murmuring softly: "Isn't he beautiful?"
Tiger nodded almost imperceptibly. He planned to return—having Venom record this dragon's genetic code.
Or perhaps consume it entirely.
Beyond requiring draconic magic resistance, the Ukrainian Ironbelly at Gringotts needed substantial modifications.
Though that species represented the largest dragonkind, it flew sluggishly with ponderous movements.
Goblin magical capabilities demanded respect—he refused to become a sitting target for his intended meal.
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