Chapter Text
The Aston Martin purred to a stop, its sleek body gleaming in the fading light of dusk. Ahead, the manor rose like a sentinel from another time—a Georgian masterpiece of symmetry and stone, its ivy-clad façade bathed in the deepening hues of twilight. The house was as still as the air around it, its grandeur imposing, its presence undeniable.
Inside the car, the man sat motionless for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel. He exhaled slowly, the sound soft and measured, his shoulders easing back into the buttery leather seat. His gaze lingered on the house, tracing the familiar lines of its architecture, the way the ivy crept deliberately, almost artfully, along its stone walls. Closing his eyes, he allowed the weight of the day to settle—deals struck, alliances balanced, shadows navigated. Just one moment of stillness before he faced the world again.
When he opened his eyes, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light. No messages. No missed calls. Silence, as always, greeted him. He slipped the device back into his pocket with a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face, then reached for the door handle.
The cool evening air greeted him as he stepped out, adjusting his navy overcoat with a practiced motion. The faint crunch of gravel underfoot accompanied his movements as he stood, surveying the grounds. The sprawling hedgerows were immaculate, the garden paths winding gracefully into the shadows, the scent of distant woodsmoke mingling with the crispness of the night. He glanced over his shoulder as the Aston Martin hummed softly to life, its headlights blinking as it turned and glided down the drive, making its way around the manor to the hidden garage out back. The magic at work was seamless, silent—a quiet testament to wealth and precision.
Turning back toward the house, his gaze fell on a small bench set to the side of the grand front entrance. It was simple compared to the rest of the estate, its weathered wood polished to a soft sheen. A plaque gleamed faintly in the dying light, its inscription etched in elegant script:
You Taught Me Everything, Except How to Be Without You.
For a moment, his expression softened, his sharp features losing some of their edge. He stepped toward the bench, his footsteps slower now, the cool evening air pressing around him. Standing before it, he allowed his hand to brush the edge of the polished wood, his fingers lingering there briefly before he pulled back.
Before he even reached the door, a pair of sleek Dobermans appeared, silently materializing from the shadows of the grand front garden. Their black coats gleamed, their ears pricked as they padded toward Blaise with an air of authority that matched their owner’s.
“Atlas. Athena,” Blaise said, his voice smooth but firm as he acknowledged the dogs. They sat obediently at his feet, their sharp eyes scanning their surroundings before looking up at him, waiting for further instruction.
Blaise reached down, giving each a quick scratch behind the ears. “Guard duty as usual, I see. You’ve earned a steak tonight.”
The Dobermans’ tails wagged faintly, though they didn’t lose their composure. Loyal, disciplined, and utterly intimidating, they were as much a part of Blaise’s estate as the marble floors and antique chandeliers.
The heavy oak door swung open under his hand, the familiar scent of beeswax polish and expensive cologne greeting him. The grand foyer was immaculate, as always—marble floors gleaming, the antique brass chandelier catching the last of the evening light. Blaise paused, taking in the perfection of his sanctuary.
“Inside,” he said, glancing back at the dogs. They followed him in silently, their claws clicking lightly against the polished floors.
Blaise hung his coat on the brass rack, ensuring the hang was precise, and slipped off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door. Atlas and Athena sat by the entryway, watching him closely, their alert presence a constant reassurance.
Everything had its place. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Almost.
Atlas growled first, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the stillness of the foyer. Athena’s ears pricked, and a moment later, she let out a short, sharp bark, her muscles tensing as she stood, head swiveling.
Blaise’s body went still, his dark eyes narrowing as his sharp instincts kicked in. “What is it?” he murmured, his voice calm but edged with steel. The dogs were trained to recognize threats, and they didn’t react without cause.
Atlas padded forward a few steps, his growl deepening, while Athena stayed rooted, her gaze locked on the shadowed doorway ahead. Blaise followed their line of sight, his wand sliding into his hand as if it had been waiting for this moment.
“Stay,” he ordered the dogs, his voice low and firm. They didn’t move, but their growls didn’t stop either, their warning a constant hum in the background.
Blaise moved through the house with practiced precision: first the kitchen, where the industrial fridge revealed its well-stocked shelves, perfectly aligned as always. Then the drawing room. On the sideboard sat his cigar box—a hand-crafted, gold-embossed masterpiece he’d had custom-made in Paris. Blaise opened it, his brow furrowing as he counted.
One, two, three… one missing.
He stared at the empty space where a cigar should have been, the faintest muscle twitch in his jaw betraying his annoyance.
“Those were the only thing my father left me.”
A soft laugh sounded from behind him, shattering the silence like a pebble tossed into still water. “Most people just get milk,” the voice quipped, light and teasing.
Blaise turned, wand in hand before he’d fully pivoted. Theodore Nott was sprawled lazily in the armchair by the fireplace, a lit cigar dangling from his fingers. Blaise’s cigar. The smoke curled around Theo’s smirking face, his tweed jacket looking completely out of place against the opulent surroundings.
“Evening, mate,” he drawled. “You don’t half make a bloke feel like an intruder in his own home. Oh, wait—this isn’t my house, is it?”
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,”
Theo tilted his head, the cigar bouncing as he smirked. “Oh, come now, Zabini. I was only borrowing. You can afford to share one or two of these beauties, can’t you? Or has all this countryside opulence left you counting the pennies?”
Blaise didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he took a slow step forward, his wand leveled at Theo’s face. “How the fuck did you get in here?”
“Your wards are good. Not great, but good,” Theo said, blowing a perfect ring of smoke toward the chandelier. “Honestly, I expected better. Thought a bloke like you would’ve shelled out for something a bit more… sophisticated.”
Blaise didn’t respond. Instead, he raised two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle.
From the foyer, the sound of claws clicking against marble echoed ominously. Moments later, Atlas and Athena appeared in the doorway, their sleek, muscular forms cutting an intimidating silhouette against the warm light of the room. Their ears were pricked, their eyes locked on Theo as they padded toward Blaise with an almost predatory grace.
“Sit,” Blaise commanded, his tone low but firm. The dogs immediately obeyed, positioning themselves on either side of him like sentinels. Their sharp, intelligent eyes never left Theo, and a low growl rumbled from Atlas’s throat.
Theo raised an eyebrow, glancing between the Dobermans and Blaise, his smirk never faltering. “Well, aren’t they charming,” he said, gesturing faintly with the cigar. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not exactly hiding behind the sofa.”
Athena’s growl joined Atlas’s, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. Blaise tilted his head slightly, his wand still aimed at Theo’s chest. “That’s the difference between you and them, Theo. They know when they’ve overstayed their welcome.”
“Never took you for a dog person, Zabini. Seemed more the type to prefer something low maintenance. Like a goldfish. Or a house-elf.”
Blaise’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “They’re not just dogs, Nott.” He reached down to scratch behind Athena’s ears, the gesture calm but deliberate, as if to emphasize control. “They’re shapeshifters. Primarily dogs, yes. But you don’t even want to see what else they can turn into.”
Theo froze mid-drag on his cigar, his expression flickering briefly between intrigue and unease. “Shapeshifters? Like… Animagi?” He glanced at the Dobermans again, their sharp eyes and tense postures suddenly feeling far more threatening. “That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? Even for you?”
Blaise’s smile didn’t waver. “Excessive is when someone breaks into my home, smokes my cigars, and makes themselves comfortable in my armchair. This?” He gestured to the dogs, whose growls were now a low, vibrating hum. “This is just insurance.”
Atlas took a single step forward, baring his teeth, and Theo instinctively leaned back, the smirk slipping just enough for Blaise to notice.
“Last chance to explain before I test how well you bounce off these walls,” Blaise said, his tone deceptively calm.
Theo held up a finger, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second before returning. “Ah-ah-ah, Zabini. That’s no way to treat a guest. And let’s not forget your charming little welcoming committee here. Do they do tricks, or is growling and looking terrifying their full repertoire?”
Atlas let out a sharp bark, and Theo flinched slightly before forcing a laugh. “Right. Not the time for jokes, then.”
Blaise arched an eyebrow, his voice dropping to a chilling monotone. “Nine.”
“Bloody hell, Zabini, you’ve gone all corporate, haven’t you? You used to be fun. Whatever happened to the banter?”
“Eight,” Blaise said, his patience thinning, the faintest curl of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Keep stalling, Theo. They’ve been dying to test their instincts.”
Theo cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in the chair. “Alright, fine. I’ll talk. But can we at least pretend this is a civilized meeting? Maybe get the dogs to stop glaring at me like I’m dinner? They’re making it hard to concentrate.”
Blaise’s wand didn’t waver. “Seven.”
“Alright, alright.” Theo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and finally abandoning the smirk. He gestured dramatically with one hand, as if weaving a story. “Here’s the deal: I’ve got something you need. Something about our dear mutual friend Draco. And let me tell you, it’s not good news. But first—can we both agree this place could use a bit more warmth? Maybe a throw rug? Or a house-elf who knows how to make a decent cuppa.”
Atlas growled louder this time, taking another deliberate step forward, his teeth flashing. Theo leaned back, raising both hands. “Fine! No more commentary on your interior design. I’ll just get to it, shall I?”
Athena sat back slightly, though her piercing gaze didn’t leave Theo, and Blaise finally tilted his head, signaling he’d allow Theo to continue—barely.
Theo let out a theatrical sigh, his hands falling into his lap. “Let’s set the scene, then, shall we? Picture this: Anthony Goldstein—yes, that Anthony, our favorite Ravenclaw prefect—walking into a very sketchy office. Leather chair, big mahogany desk, the works. He’s not there to check in on his taxes, mind you. He’s got a bloody proposal.”
Atlas let out another warning rumble, and Theo glanced at him nervously before continuing. “What was it again? Oh, right—‘Dismantle Malfoy Enterprises, piece by piece.’ Very melodramatic.”
Theo’s eyes darted between Blaise and the dogs, his smirk creeping back. “And that’s where it gets interesting, mate. Because let me tell you—Goldstein isn’t playing this one by the rules. But I’ll spare you the details until you put Cujo and Cerberus here on standby. Deal?”
Blaise considered him for a moment, his dark eyes scanning Theo like he was weighing his every word. Then, with a sharp whistle, he turned his head toward the Dobermans. “Atlas. Athena. Out.”
The dogs hesitated for only a moment, their sharp gazes still locked on Theo, before they turned and padded out of the room. The soft click of their claws against the marble faded into silence as they disappeared through the doorway.
Theo exhaled, visibly relaxing in his chair. “Well, that’s a relief. Beautiful beasts, but Merlin’s beard, they’re intimidating.”
Blaise didn’t respond, his wand still aimed squarely at Theo’s chest. “Talk.”
“So bossy”
“Right where was I? Got me all flustered”
“Yes, Goldstein,” Theo repeated, eyes wide in faux shock. “I know, right? Who would’ve thought the boy with a permanent stick up his arse had it in him? But there he was, all suited and booted, sliding a folder across the desk. Inside? Plans to hit Draco where it hurts—hard and fast.”
“Why?” Blaise asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Maybe he just likes it hard and fast.”
Blaise arched a single brow, his wand still raised, but Theo plowed on, clearly enjoying himself.
“Can’t judge these days, can you?” Theo added, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “It’s a modern world, Zabini. Even uptight Ravenclaws deserve a bit of spice in their lives.”
Blaise exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression cold. “Why does he want Draco?”
Theo paused, tilting his head dramatically. “Oh, that’s what you were asking about. Not the ‘hard and fast’ part. My mistake.” He grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Well, now I feel silly. All this time, I thought you were interested in Goldstein’s… personal preferences. You could’ve clarified sooner, you know.”
Blaise’s eyes narrowed further, the faint glow of his wand intensifying. “Theo.”
“Alright, alright, keep your knickers on,” Theo said, sitting up straight and waving a hand in mock surrender.
Theo grinned like the Cheshire cat. “ But if you want the juicy details, it’ll cost you. Information like this doesn’t come cheap, Zabini. And you know me—I’m a man of modest needs.”
“Modest?” Blaise let out a cold laugh. “You’re a parasite.”
Theo shrugged, entirely unbothered. “And you’re a control freak with a God complex. Look at us, just two old schoolmates living our best lives. Isn’t it poetic?”
“Tell me what you know, or I’ll make sure this is the last cigar you ever smoke.”
Theo’s grin widened, lazy and infuriatingly confident. “Blimey, Zabini, you’ve really upped the dramatics since school, haven’t you? All this wand-pointing and chest-poking. Very alpha male, very ‘look at me, I’m in charge.’” He tilted his head, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “Now, could I trouble you for a cuppa? My throat’s parched from all this storytelling.”
Blaise stared at him, his wand still poised like a loaded gun. “A cuppa?”
“Yes, a bloody cuppa. Tea, Zabini. You do know what tea is, don’t you? Or has all this nouveau riche gangster nonsense gone to your head? Maybe a biscuit, if you’re feeling generous.”
The corner of Blaise’s mouth twitched, but his glare stayed cold. “You want tea. After breaking into my house, nicking my cigars, and making a mess of my ashtray?”
Theo spread his hands, palms up, as if to say why not? “Exactly. It’s the least you could do, really. Think of it as reparations for your abysmal hospitality.”
Blaise’s nostrils flared. For a moment, he looked like he might actually hex Theo into next week, but instead, he exhaled slowly, lowering his wand. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you’re sitting down while I make it. And not on the furniture.”
“Scout’s honour,” Theo said with a smirk, trailing after Blaise as he strode into the kitchen.
Blaise flicked on the lights, the sleek, modern kitchen gleaming under the warm glow. Every surface was immaculate, every tool and appliance precisely where it belonged. Blaise reached for the kettle, filling it with water while Theo promptly ignored the instruction to sit on a proper chair and hopped up onto the marble countertop instead.
“Get off that,” Blaise said without turning around, his tone clipped.
Theo kicked his feet lazily, making no move to shift. “Oh, come on. It’s marble. Practically indestructible. Or did you buy cheap?”
Blaise spun around, fixing him with a look sharp enough to pierce steel. “I don’t like people touching my countertops.”
Theo opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by the soft padding of claws against the tiled floor. Atlas and Athena entered the kitchen, their sharp eyes immediately locking on Blaise, then shifting to Theo as if silently assessing whether he was still worth tolerating.
“Your fan club’s here,” Theo said, gesturing to the Dobermans. “They don’t look impressed, Zabini. Maybe they’re upset about my charming personality?”
Blaise ignored him, opening the massive steel fridge with a calm, deliberate motion. He pulled out what could only be described as a massive raw animal leg—something that looked like it had come straight off a magical beast, its sinew and bone still faintly glistening.
Theo blinked, his smirk faltering for the first time. “Bloody hell, Zabini. What are you feeding them? That looks like it came off a dragon.”
Blaise didn’t dignify the comment with a response. He crossed the kitchen, the enormous leg swinging in one hand, and gestured for the dogs to sit. Both Dobermans obeyed immediately, their eyes fixed on the prize in his hand.
“Atlas. Athena. Dinner,” Blaise said simply, tossing the leg onto the floor between them.
The moment it hit the ground, the dogs pounced, their powerful jaws tearing into the flesh with ruthless efficiency. The sound of ripping meat and crunching bone filled the air, their growls low and primal as they shredded their meal.
Theo stared, one eyebrow raised as he leaned back slightly. “Well, that’s comforting.”
Theo watched the Dobermans with a mix of fascination and unease as Atlas ripped a chunk of meat free, the sound loud enough to make him wince. “I suppose that’s meant to intimidate me?”
“No,” Blaise replied, pouring hot water into a teapot. “That’s just their dinner. You, however, are rapidly approaching dessert.”
Theo smirked, clearly enjoying himself, and, as if to make a point, he wiggled slightly, rubbing his backside against the pristine countertop before sliding off with an exaggerated sigh.
The kettle began to hiss as Blaise prepared two cups, his movements swift and precise. “Milk? Sugar?” he asked, his voice dry.
“Milk. Two sugars,” Theo said cheerfully, watching Blaise work. “And make sure it’s gold top milk, yeah? None of that watered-down rubbish. I have standards, you know.”
“mmm”
“See, this is nice. Domestic, almost. You’re like a house-elf with better cheekbones.”
Blaise’s eyes narrowed as he slid the cup across the counter toward Theo. “Drink your tea.”
Theo chuckled, taking a sip. “Mmm, perfect. You’d make someone a lovely wife, you know. — No. No way. Is this a Herend? As in, hand-painted, Hungarian, costs more than a broomstick, Herend?”
Blaise sat down opposite him, his dark eyes glinting with barely restrained menace. “Enough stalling, Nott. Start talking. And this time, you better have something worth my time.”
“You’re telling me I’m drinking tea out of a porcelain piece that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe?”
“Not probably,” Blaise corrected smoothly. “Definitely.”
Theo set his cup down with a satisfied sigh, his grin returning.
“Get on with it”
“Oh, don’t worry, mate. You’ll want to hear this one. Now, where was I? Oh, right—Goldstein. The golden boy turned backstabber.”
Picture this, mate.
“I’m not your mate.”
“ Fucking shut up, Zabini, you’re ruining the intro! Do you have any respect for storytelling? Honestly, it’s like trying to perform Shakespeare for a crowd of trolls“
Blaise arched a brow but said nothing, his silence doing nothing to conceal the irritation simmering in his gaze.
“Thank you.”
Now where was I ? Ah right, yes.
Picture this.
A smoky backroom in some posh London office. You know the type—wood-paneled walls, leather chairs that squeak just right, and a mahogany desk so shiny it’s practically begging for a sinister deal to go down. A proper villain’s lair, really. Fucking mint.
“Mint?”
“Don’t worry all the kids are saying it, trust me”
And who strolls in, all upright and sanctimonious? Anthony bloody Goldstein. Mr. Do-Good Ravenclaw himself. The man wouldn’t know a bit of grit if it smacked him in the face, but here he is, trying to play the game like he’s you or Draco.
He’s wearing this three-piece suit he clearly thinks screams power and sophistication. Except—well, it doesn’t. The stitching’s so obvious it might as well have come with a “Buy One, Get One Free” tag. Off-the-rack. Cheap. Tragic, really.
He’s carrying this sleek leather folder, tucked under his arm like it’s a prized possession. His shoes click ominously against the polished floor—click, click, click—as if he’s rehearsed this moment in the mirror a hundred times. Probably even enchanted the soles to sound louder. You know the type: overcompensating for something.
Goldstein thinks he’s clever, thinks he’s the hero of his own story. And sure, he’s got the polished grin and Ministry connections, but here’s the thing about blokes like him—they don’t know how to get their hands dirty. So what does he do? He finds someone who does.
“Who?”
“I’m getting there!”
“Hurry up”
“Don’t rush me, its my first time”
“Oh god”
“I’m a virgin Blaise”
“Shut up”
And that’s exactly what he did. Picture him, sitting there all smug, sliding that leather folder across the desk. And who’s sitting across from him? Someone who does get their hands dirty. Someone who’s been dying for a shot at Malfoy for years. Someone so unoriginal it almost hurts.
Cormac McLaggen.
“Tried to date Granger, Cormac McLaggen?”
Yeah, you heard me. McLaggen. Turns out our favorite Gryffindor prat didn’t just grow up to be an insufferable git. No, he’s also built himself a tidy little empire. Underground potion labs, unregistered Animagus hunters, and—my personal favorite—black-market broomstick enchantments. All very illegal. All very McLaggen.
And here’s the kicker: Goldstein isn’t just hiring McLaggen for a bit of muscle. Oh no. He’s handing over a bloody playbook. Every weakness in Malfoy Enterprises, every Ministry mole that can be turned, every secret safehouse Draco’s ever used. He’s selling Draco’s empire like it’s a bloody trunk sale at Madam Malkin’s.
This isn’t just business, Zabini. This is personal. Goldstein wants Draco out of the picture, permanently. And McLaggen? He’s more than happy to oblige. After all, nothing says ‘revenge’ like tearing down the bloke who outclassed you your entire life.
Blaise, however, doesn’t look amused. He sets his tea down with a deliberate clink, his dark eyes narrowing. “And you know all this… how?”
Theo smirks. “Let’s just say I have my ways. I’m a people person, you see. And people like to talk when they think you’re harmless. Any Rich Teas?”
Blaise stared at him, unblinking, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. “I let you into my house, I make you tea, and now you want biscuits?”
“Well, they’d go nicely with the tea, wouldn’t they?” Theo replied, grinning. “And don’t tell me you don’t have any. I know you lot in the countryside love a good biscuit. Very Downton Abbey of you.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Blaise rose from his chair, his movements deliberate, and crossed to the pantry. He retrieved a tin of biscuits, the kind embossed with a pretentious crest, and set it on the table with an air of finality. “Here. Eat. But start talking, Theo. Why does Goldstein want Draco?”
Theo opened the tin with an exaggerated flourish, plucking a biscuit out and taking a bite. “Mmm, buttery. Very posh.” He chewed thoughtfully before finally answering. “Why does anyone want to take down Draco? Power. Money. A little bit of that good old-fashioned inferiority complex.”
Blaise arched an eyebrow. “Goldstein? He’s practically squeaky clean. He runs that potion empire of his like a bloody charity. No skeletons in his cupboard—none that we’ve ever found, anyway.”
Theo dunked the biscuit into his tea, letting it soak just long enough to test Blaise’s patience before pulling it out and taking a bite. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, mate. Goldstein might look squeaky clean, but even golden boys have their breaking point. And in this case, it all started with a party.”
Without a word, Blaise reached for a matching saucer and slid it underneath Theos mug with meticulous precision, the soft clink of porcelain the only sound in the room.
Theo smirked as Blaise grabbed a linen napkin and folded it neatly before sliding it under Theo’s half-eaten biscuit. “What’s this, Zabini? Suddenly decided you’re too posh for a bit of mess?”
“A party? You’re telling me this whole elaborate vendetta is because of a party?”
Let’s rewind, shall we?
“Oh fucking hell not another one”
Back to the Ministry’s Annual Gala—an event so posh even the chandeliers were judging you. Picture it:
“I’d rather not”
Goldstein, dressed to the nines in a suit so sharp it probably cost more than my yearly booze budget. Or so he wants everyone to think. Truth is, that suit? It’s the last thing left of his parents’ will. They died during the war—tragic, really. Left him a tidy little inheritance, too. And what does our dear Anthony do with it?”
Does he invest it wisely? Buy a nice house? Maybe put some of it aside for his future? Of course not. He spends it all on flashy suits, private tutors, and Merlin knows what else to climb his way into the Ministry’s good graces. And now? Well, the money’s long gone, but the suit remains. A monument to poor decision-making and an ego that could fill the Great Hall.
“You’re telling me Goldstein squandered his family’s fortune on a wardrobe and social climbing?””
Theo smirked, popping another biscuit into his mouth. “Precisely. The man’s walking around in what’s essentially the ghost of his parents’ hard work. But it looks good, doesn’t it? Just enough to make people think he’s got the weight of old money behind him. It’s all part of the act.”
“Continue”
Goldstein’s on top of the world. He’s worked the room, charmed half the Ministry, and made sure everyone knows he’s the next big thing. But then—ah, here’s the twist—he walks in.
The room practically freezes, the hum of meaningless conversation faltering as every head turns toward the entrance. Draco Malfoy. The King. The King of Crime, the wizarding underworld’s favorite untouchable.
He doesn’t announce himself—he doesn’t need to. His presence does all the talking, the kind that says, yes, you’re beneath me, and no, I’m not sorry about it. Platinum hair catching the light like he’s under a personal spotlight. He isn’t. But it feels like he might as well be. Would anyone be surprised if he’d charmed the chandeliers to follow him?
He’s wearing black—always black—but not just any suit. No, this one is tailored so perfectly it’s almost offensive. Effortless, precise, the kind of look that whispers money and power without ever having to say a word.
Blaise held up a hand. “Theo,” he said, “do you fancy Draco or something? Because the way you’re describing him is starting to sound… you know. A bit much.”
“Shut it. ”
“He’s Draco Malfoy. King of Crime. And apparently,” he added with a grin, “King of Theo’s heart.”
“Dick”
“Alright, Theo, we get it. Draco’s radiant. You want me to fetch you a quill so you can start sketching his portrait?”
Theo shot him a glare. “Oh, shut up. I’m just saying he has presence. You can’t not notice him. It’s just a fact.”
“Sure, sure. Totally factual. But let me ask you this—when’s the wedding? Or are you waiting for him to propose?”
Theo huffed, crossing his arms. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“No, you’re insufferable,” Blaise shot back. “Draco this, Draco that. You sound like you’ve written fan mail. Admit it, Theo—you fancy him.”
Theo leaned forward, pointing a finger at Blaise. “I do not fancy him. But let me tell you something—if I did fancy Draco Malfoy? I could snag him if I wanted. Now where was I?”
Ah yes, The King. Because that’s Draco, isn’t it? The King doesn’t ask for respect—he demands it. Without a word, without a glance, he commands the room. Even the most self-important Ministry officials are shifting awkwardly, trying to figure out if they should approach him or just stay out of his way.
And why wouldn’t they? Draco’s dangerous, Zabini. The kind of man who doesn’t just win—he dominates. He doesn’t just outsmart his rivals; he destroys them, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. And that’s what makes him so bloody terrifying. It’s not just the money, the influence, the connections. It’s the fact that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to stay at the top—and no one doubts it for a second.
His steps? Confident. Calculated. Not a single wasted movement as he strides into the room like he owns the place. Which, let’s be honest, he probably does—if not literally, then certainly in spirit.
People stop mid-conversation just to watch him walk past. Goldstein, meanwhile, is lurking in the corner, rehearsing his big moment.
Goldstein, ever the picture of overconfidence, stands near the bar, drink in hand, trying to look like he belongs there. He straightens his tie—too tight, by the way, because he’s clearly been fiddling with it all night—and plasters on that professional smile of his. You know the one: polite, rehearsed, utterly insincere. The kind of smile that says, I’m important, and you should know it.
Now, this is where things get fun, Goldstein, poor sap, decides this is his moment. He polishes off his champagne, marches across the room, and plants himself right in front of Draco. Bold, I’ll give him that.
He steps forward, right into Draco’s path, like some self-proclaimed savior of the Ministry. Hand extended, smile plastered on his face—but not just any smile. No, this one’s a little too eager, a little too wide, like he’s rehearsed it in the mirror a dozen times. The kind of smile that screams, Notice me. Acknowledge me.
“Malfoy!’” Theo narrates, his voice adopting an exaggerated posh tone. “‘Anthony Goldstein. I’ve heard a lot about you.’”
But Draco barely glances at Goldstein’s outstretched hand before arching an eyebrow in mild disdain. Very classy. Very Draco.
Draco looks at him like he’s just been handed a counterfeit Galleon. Doesn’t shake the hand, doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk. And then, in that ice-cold Malfoy drawl, he says—”Oh. Yes. I suppose we’ve met.”
Brilliant. Absolutely savage. You could almost hear the dagger sliding between Goldstein’s ribs.
The crowd’s murmurs grow louder as Draco walks away.
“Did you see that? Malfoy didn’t even shake his hand.”
“Poor Anthony. Imagine getting snubbed like that in front of everyone.”
“Did he really just say, ‘I suppose we’ve met’? That’s brutal.”
And my personal favorite—someone near the back, probably three glasses of champagne deep, muttered, “I’d just Disapparate and never come back.”
And there it was—the moment. One snub. One public humiliation. Goldstein’s face goes redder than a Gryffindor’s Quidditch robes, and you can see the rage bubbling under that polite little mask. That’s when it happened, Zabini. That’s when Goldstein decided, One day, I’m going to destroy that bastard.
Theo leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. Blaise watched him carefully, his teacup abandoned on the table. “Alright, Theo,” Blaise said, his tone sharp and deliberate. “You’ve got your little story about the gala. But if you’re such an expert, tell me this: how did Goldstein lose all that money in the first place? He’s a Ravenclaw—wasn’t he supposed to be the clever one? And more importantly, how does he have enough to pay McLaggen or fund this little grudge match?”
Theo smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Ah, you’re going to love this.” He picked up another biscuit, gesturing with it as he spoke. “See, our dear Anthony had himself a little financial… hiccup. Blew through his inheritance after the war—too much spending, not enough thinking. The suits, the private tutors, the fancy flat in London—it all added up. He hit bankruptcy faster than you can say ‘poor financial planning.’”
“And then,” Theo continued, taking a dramatic bite of his biscuit, “he clawed his way back. You have to give him credit for that, at least. Goldstein’s clever when he wants to be. He got in deep with the Ministry, started working his charm on the right people. Built himself a little reputation as the golden boy—honest, reliable, righteous. They loved him for it.”
“That doesn’t explain the money,” Blaise said coldly. “Connections don’t pay debts.”
Theo grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Ah, but you see, Zabini, Goldstein figured out how to play the system. He started pulling strings, using his Ministry contacts to broker deals between businesses. Neutral third party, all aboveboard. Only—well, let’s just say his finder’s fees weren’t exactly modest. And some of those deals?” He raised an eyebrow. “Not so aboveboard.”
“Interesting,” Blaise said, his voice low. “So the golden boy isn’t so golden after all.”
“Not even close,” Theo replied, finishing the biscuit and brushing the crumbs from his hands. “But here’s the kicker. He’s kept the whole thing quiet. Publicly, he’s still the hero—still the shining example of everything the Ministry loves to parade around. Privately, he’s as crooked as a Gringotts goblin. And he’s been using that money to fund his little war against Draco.”
“So he’s been taking dirty money to fight what he perceives as dirty business. Hypocrisy at its finest.”
Theo nodded, smirking. “Exactly. And you know what makes it even better? Draco snubbed him at the gala because of that self-righteous attitude. Goldstein had the nerve to call one of Draco’s oldest suppliers ‘unscrupulous.’ Made a scene about it. Word got back to Draco, and—well, you saw what happened. Draco wasn’t just being petty. He was making a statement: You don’t insult my business and walk away unscathed.”
Theo’s grin widened as he leaned back in his chair, brushing the last crumbs of biscuit off his lap with theatrical flair. “Now, Zabini, let’s not pretend you didn’t already know all this,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost conspiratorial. “You’re too sharp to be left in the dark about something as juicy as Goldstein nursing a grudge. But—” he raised a finger, pausing dramatically, “—I do thank you for allowing me my moment to shine. Truly, I’ve missed the spotlight.”
Blaise’s expression remained cold, unreadable, though his fingers drummed once, deliberately, on the table. “If you’ve dragged me through this nonsense just to perform for an audience of one, Nott—”
Theo waved a hand, cutting him off with a grin. “Oh, relax, mate. The performance was just the warm-up. Now comes the main event. You know what Draco did. You know what Goldstein wants. But here’s what you don’t know.” He leaned forward, his grin sharpening, his voice dropping to a low, almost gleeful whisper. “Goldsteins got himself a wife, and she’s after the Queen.”