The Slytherin common room was in chaos.
Draco Malfoy stood on top of one of the leather sofas, his platinum blond hair somehow looking even more dramatic under the dim greenish light. He waved his wand like a conductor, eyes alight with manic glee. Before him, an unwilling choir of Slytherins stood huddled together, their expressions ranging from horrified to emotionally resigned.
“This,” Draco declared, voice quivering with feverish excitement, “is not just a song. This is psychological warfare. This is the auditory equivalent of slowly chipping away at a man’s soul until he begs for mercy. This is cruelty refined to an art form.”
Pansy Parkinson raised a tentative hand. “Draco, I think—”
“No thinking! Thinking is for losers, Pansy! We are here to create something that will haunt Weasley’s dreams for years to come.” He turned to Theodore Nott with an unsettling grin. “Nott, I need you to add a sort of menacing whisper to the verses. Something that makes the hair on your arms stand up. I want it to feel like Weasley is being hunted.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” Nott mumbled.
“Then learn,” Draco snapped. “Millicent, you’re in charge of stomping. When we sing ‘Weasley is our king,’ I want the very foundation of Hogwarts to tremble. Crabbe, Goyle—you’re in charge of synchronized sneering. I want a sense of doom in the air. Doom, do you hear me?”
Blaise Zabini pinched the bridge of his nose. “Draco, why—”
“Because this is brilliance, Zabini! This isn’t just about making fun of Weasley. This is about crushing Gryffindor spirit. This is about making McGonagall regret ever stepping foot in that lion-infested hellhole.” His voice lowered to an almost reverent whisper. “This… is about legacy.”
Daphne Greengrass slowly backed toward the exit. “I don’t think I signed up for psychological torture.”
Draco ignored her. “Alright, we’re adding choreography. Pansy, you lead the synchronized clapping. I want you to look like a swarm of dementors circling their prey. I need despair, people. Real despair.”
The door to the common room swung open suddenly, and Professor Snape stepped inside, his black robes billowing ominously. The Slytherins froze.
Draco gulped. “Professor, we were just—”
Snape held up a hand for silence. He closed his eyes, sighed heavily, and then muttered, “At least make sure it’s in tune.”
And with that, he turned and left.
Draco clapped his hands, face alight with twisted joy. “See? Even Snape sees the genius in this. Again, from the top! And this time, I want to feel the malevolence!”
The groans echoed through the dungeon, but no one dared disobey.
After all, Weasley was their king.