The Great Hall. Feast winding down, harp music flowing from the teachers' table.
Above, snowflakes came alive—transforming into dancing sprites with the melody.
Seeing students head to the dance floor, Professor Kettleburn adjusted his prosthetic leg. Extended a gentlemanly invitation to Professor Sprout.
"Come, Pomona."
"Feel my new leg, haha."
"I'll support you, Silvanus." Professor Sprout smiled helplessly.
The elderly Care of Magical Creatures professor—nearing retirement but still reckless. Lost his left arm years ago. Two months ago, half a leg to a tree viper.
Yet these injuries couldn't diminish his love for magical creatures.
Staff and students admired and worried—fearing one day they'd hear of his death in a beast's jaws...
As professors entered the dance floor, the Hall ignited. Laughter surged like a tide.
Hermione grabbed her napkin. Wiped her lips. Under Harry's anxious gaze, stood and walked confidently toward Tiger.
Tiger had told her: before important decisions, eat first. That's how you find answers.
She knew now.
Her upright figure—a warrior entering battle for honor.
Drumbeat from the teachers' table grew intense.
[You don't understand what Shelby means, bitch!]
"Your appetite seems off."
"Spanish ham?"
"Your favorite..."
As Tiger chatted with Slytherins, acorn scent drifted over.
Under surprised gazes, Hermione threw an entire battle-axe-sized ham in front of Tiger. Table shook.
If it were real Tiger—without Theodore supervising—he'd laugh and devour it like a chicken leg.
Good mood? He'd crunch the bones. Unrestrained savagery displaying blood aggression.
But this wasn't Tiger.
Gemma Farley's face wore a faint smile—seemingly flawless calm. But disgust showed in her eyes.
This ham was magically roasted. Sizzling grease, charred aroma—brutal assault on refined tastes.
But she wouldn't show it. Too many Tiger followers here.
More importantly—she noticed mockery in Hermione's eyes.
She'd been seen through.
Gemma's expression turned cold. Didn't look back. Tone distant:
"Sorry, Miss Granger."
"I'm full..."
As if they'd fallen out.
Slytherins exchanged glances. They'd seen how Tiger kept Hermione close like a daughter.
"Oh?"
"Shelby's dictionary is filled with greed. Never seen 'full.'"
"Or should I..."
"Write Polly that her youngest finally became a good boy?"
Cool hand stroked the clean cuff. Rested on Gemma's hand.
Goosebumps rose beneath robes. Gemma gritted teeth, tried withdrawing—but Hermione's small hand pressed it down.
Even transformed, the prefect wouldn't have Tiger's strength.
Miss Know-It-All leaned down. Lips to Gemma's ear. Hot breath carried threat:
"Or you..."
As Gemma's fingers turned for a silent spell, Hermione suddenly shifted. Cunning flashed in her eyes:
"Need a dance."
"Before enjoying food?"
Voice not loud but spread perfectly around Tiger.
Neither ostentatious nor lacking playfulness.
She stretched her tone—barely perceptible trembling. Hinting at secrets.
[Do you dare?]
Noticing provocation in Hermione's eyes, Gemma laughed coldly.
So she wanted Father to dance!
Those around laughed in realization. Tense atmosphere dissipated. Confrontation became playful banter.
"You're right."
"I should move. Watch out, shorty. Don't step on my feet."
Ordinary teasing made Hermione's brow twitch. Arrow to the chest.
Gemma stood without hesitation. Used Tiger's body to block views.
Fierce face miraculously became noble, elegant.
Slightly lowered eyes—noble lady's disdain.
She bowed. Right arm extending smoothly—natural, undeniable presence:
"Oh, I forgot."
Deep voice playful, teasing.
"You haven't experienced noble dancing. My feet tonight are—"
"Stop talking!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Interrupted. Grabbed the arm, yanked hard—pulled Gemma from the table.
Chipmunk nearly yanking a bear. Slytherins laughed. Gemma's eyes widened.
Like Tiger, Hermione had abandoned pretense.
If not for revenge, that scorching ham would've smashed this bitch's head...
Violin music grew melodious.
Gemma stood upright. Led Hermione into the dance floor under candlelight.
Steady steps rotated with music—trying to lead the rhythm.
But Hermione wouldn't follow. Gripped her waist tightly. Constantly disrupted footwork—controlling their posture.
To surrounding eyes, chipmunk and bear's steps were chaotic. More fighting than dancing.
Gemma's face unpleasant. Gritted teeth:
"What are you doing!"
"If you can't dance, follow me."
Pure-blood nobility wouldn't allow ugly steps.
Hermione laughed lightly. Unconcerned.
Tilted head. Confident eyes carried amusement:
"You're the one who can't."
"Senior Farley, do you really understand Tiger?"
"Don't you know Shelbys only like one dance?"
"What?"
Sharp piano keys rang out.
Before Gemma reacted, Hermione leaned back and spun. Skirt fluttered like butterfly.
Exclamations rose.
Tiger's robust body wasn't easy to control. Pale face flushed red.
But when Hermione saw panic flash through Gemma's eyes—satisfaction.
Exaggerated movements, game-like swings disrupted the prefect's steps. Instantly, Hermione seized rhythm.
This was tango.
Unlike nobility's soft dancing—life-and-death entanglement. Evenly-matched confrontation. Every contact sparked collision.
Full of passion, desire's tension!
Shelby loved games.
Anytime, anywhere!
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