Chapter 3 Werewolves of London. Was it envy?
He wasn't prone to feeling envy. It was a rare and unwelcome
emotion. He knew he had felt it before, a
long time ago, that he'd almost forgotten how it twisted in your
gut. He thought back to the first
time he'd experienced it. Maybe it was when not had got
that nimbus Draco loved. Not like a brother, no, not like
a brother, like an actual brother.
Pewsey and Zabini were useful, good to have around and loyal to
a fault, but not was different. He understood Draco in a way
others didn't. Their relationship was built on
mutual respect. Sure, they'd argued over and
trivial things. Quidditch teams, potions
assignments, or why Draco had felt the need to antagonize
everyone. But that was surface level boys
stuff. Durmstrang could harden them
into men. They didn't squabble anymore,
and squabbling was for girls. And maybe that's why Draco
hadn't confronted, Not about his secretive behaviour that
morning. It was her.
They'd never fought over girls. But now he felt the gnawing edge
of envy. He'd sent not to London because
there was no one else he trusted to handle the job.
Draco had stayed behind to manage the chaos left at home,
never considering that his choice might give not access to
something he hadn't thought to claim.
Premium fucking pussy. An oversight on Draco's part.
It made sense that he'd have some fun in London.
Draco would have done the same, had done the same in the
isolation of their rural hideout.
But still, the envy sizzled and Draco didn't like it.
He needed to find a way to release it without acting like a
petty fuck. So how did you meet her?
He quipped, breaking the silence halfway through the drive.
Who? Theo replied, sounding bored.
That witch. Oh, we're still on that.
We are still on it because I want to know how often you've
been out in Diagon. We're supposed to be keeping a
low profile. Draco snapped, deciding that
this would be the angle to unleash his rage.
Nobody cared who I was, trust me that Which did?
Draco shot back. I told you I met her last week.
Dripping wet, eager for someone to pull her hair and call her a
slut. I kindly obliged, nothing more.
But she knows your name, yeah? Draco pressed.
Well, yeah, I didn't make up some alias, I didn't think it
was necessary for a few shags. And that's because you don't
think not? Draco snarled.
Theo turned his head, those puppy dog eyes wide.
What's this really about, huh? That hag you fuck knows all our
names and it doesn't seem to be a problem.
Theo shot back, landing a cheap blow.
Her moron of a husband is half indebted to us just to keep that
fucking pub running. I've got leverage there so I
know I can keep them quiet, but some random in Diagon Alley?
She might just run her mouth. All it takes is an off duty
aura, laying it on thick, hearing the name Theodore Knott
and suddenly she's dragged into an interrogation ward.
He said, his words biting, though he knew he was
exaggerating. Still, Theo needed to be shaken,
if not only for Draco's own peace.
That's bloody delusional, don't you think?
A bit of a stretch. Theo scoffed.
How many others were there? Draco pushed.
Bloody hell, Malfoy, why are you grilling me about my sex life?
You suddenly interested? Theo teased, deflecting with
humour as he always did. Not my type, darling.
Draco replied, rolling his eyes. I'm just being cautious.
I don't like how easily Colin's whole crew got wiped out without
any real interference from the ministry.
He was on a watch list for Merlin's sake.
And they bought the story of an oil fire while Wizards with the
ability to operate were inside it Doesn't say right with me.
Sure, Zabini made it look like they drank themselves into a
stupor with all the fire whiskey bottles, but Kingsley isn't
stupid. I haven't seen a single aura
since I've been in London. I'm cautious about magic, about
who I talk to. Frustration bit at the surface
of Theo's tone. I know you are.
Doesn't mean the witches who know your name are.
Draco muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter, his foot
pressing harder on the gas. Is that why you wanted me back?
You don't trust me? Theo asked, narrowing his eyes.
You're the only one I do trust. That's why I need you back.
Theo collapsed in bed at their estate, exhausted.
Draco had been a complete mindfuck and their conversation
had chewed at him. He was still disgusted with
himself for the things he'd said about Hermione in the car, but
he knew he had to play it off with as much indifference as he
could fake. The Manor boasted 12 bedrooms.
Theo's was in the east wing, Draco's directly across the
hall, while Pucy and Zabini were tucked away in The West Wing.
His room overlooked the garden and had a terrace, its decor a
wiggle mustard colour. It wasn't garish, but rather
exuded an air of faded grandeur gold that had been left to
tarnish over time. There was a telephone in his
room, 1 of only three in the entire Manor.
One was in Draco's room, another in Theo's, and the last in the
sitting room. He'd often wondered if it was
because Malfoy didn't trust the others as much.
What if he genuinely thought them too slow to adopt muggle
habits? Regardless, he picked up the
plastic handle, fingers spinning the dial, cranking each number
before letting it roll back with a sharp Click to the next.
The phone rang and rang and rang.
No voicemail, just silence, followed by the line hanging up.
Odd, Theo realised he'd never actually called her number
before. Did she even have a voicemail?
It didn't matter, she was likely starting her shift at Saint
Mungo's. It was 7:00 PM after all.
With a sigh, you place the phone back on the receiver and rolled
onto his back, sinking into the bed's plush duvet.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked methodically, a
quiet reminder of the passing time.
He stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he was
even doing. Should he flew her instead, just
for the first night? Or would that set a dangerous
precedent, a slippery slope into doing it every night?
His thoughts were interrupted by a wrap at the door.
Not. We're playing cards in the
drawing room. You want to sulk or join us?
Malfoy was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes
fixed on him with that typical infuriatingly smug expression.
Draco always seemed to be so composed, effortlessly put
together. He could be drenched in blood
and still, with one quick sweep of his hand through his hair,
managed to look Immaculate. Every wrinkle smoothed out, jaw
lined, sharp as ever, cut from stone.
It truly wasn't fair. Dermstrang, winter 1997.
It was somewhere between the 5th and 6th year that Draco Malfoy
became unrecognizable as Lucius and Narcisse's son.
Who's betting on who? I've got 50 galleons on Fedorov.
Theo shouted, his voice resounding through the icy
Durmstrang dungeons. The underground chamber, once
frigid, was now thick with steam and sweat as bodies packed
tightly together. You're betting against pusi?
Zabini chuckled as shouts filled the caverns and the fighting pit
began to form. Malfoy had started this
tradition the year before, and though Kakarov knew they held
these muggle style brawls in the depths of the castle, he turned
a blind eye. Kakarov always had an affinity
for anything that made men men. Fedorov nearly took Crum down
last year. You think Pusey has a chance?
50 galleons turns into 100 real quick.
Theo smirked as he collected the bets from the gathering
students, who formed a rough circle around the makeshift
ring. Draco stood in the centre with a
wand pressed to his throat, his voice amplified.
Rules are the same, gentleman. No interfering, no magic, Just
fists. First to stay down for 10
seconds. Loses.
Got it? Good.
He flashed his signature grin to the crowd, walking past the
charmed barrier he'd drawn to ensure no one but the fighters
could cross. Ruffling Theo's hair in passing,
Draco took a swig of fire whiskey and settled into a chair
stationed higher than the rest. The self-proclaimed King of the
night. Malfoy.
Who did you place your galleons on?
Zabini? Questioned.
Pusey. Draco replied casually.
Pusey. Theo looked at him, incredulous.
You do realize he's about to get pummeled, right?
Yes, I'm aware. Draco said, unbothered.
But we don't bet against each other, do we?
There was something about the way Draco could stare right
through someone, a disarming intensity that Theo had never
quite understood. It didn't seem to fit with a man
who appeared to have no morals, yet Draco operated by his own
particular code. Whatever I lose on Pusey, I'll
win back when I fight Federov. You're fighting Federov?
Theo's head whipped around. Theo wasn't much of A fighter.
Jeweler, sure, because that's how he was raised, but fists?
That was different. Djoko had been working to change
that, pushing all of them into the ring, though he always gave
Theo opponents he could beat. Fedorov nearly knocked out Crum.
Sabini said, sceptical. Crum's head is full of rocks.
I'm not worried. And Draco didn't seem worried at
all, even as blow after blow ricocheted off Pussy's face.
Blood spattered across the crowd, the sound of fists
meeting flesh as Adrian kept rising despite the black and
blue bruises swelling across his bare skin, eyes swollen nearly
shut. Pucy, just stay down.
Theo yelled as another crack went to his skull.
The last knuckle to Adrian's nose sent him crashing to the
ground as the crowd roared, chanting 12345678910.
Draco lowered the barrier with a flick of his wand, and Zabini
immediately vaulted to the ring. He worked quickly, casting
healing spells on Pusey's battered body and forcing a
blood replenishing potion down his throat.
Draco, completely unfazed by the chaos, casually stretched his
legs, his fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt. 1 by 1.
He unfastened them, peeling the shirt off with a manic grin as
he made his way toward the ring. Zabini, make sure Fedorov gets a
blood replenisher. Heal his wounds and give him a
Pepper up potion. I'm not fighting someone who's
already half dead. I'm winning this clean.
Draco moved the barrier with cool confidence, giving Blaise a
sharp nod. Sabini understood immediately,
heading over to the hulking figure of Fedorov, whose sweat
was now mixed with Pewsey's blood.
The crowd, which had been buzzing moments ago, grew eerily
silent. All eyes shifted to the two
fighters, stagnant unease building as everyone considered
who to bet on. Fedorov was 63, built like a
beast, with broad arms and a thick heavy torso that lacked a
definition as his stomach was rounded with one too many port
pies. It was rumoured that he had
werewolf blood running through his veins.
Malfoy, however, stood an inch taller AT64, leaner but built
with precision defined muscle from head to toe.
His physique was all sinew and strength, with a pronounced V
leading into his trousers. Theo knew just how much work
Draco had put in to moulding his body.
By nature, Draco's fame was meant to be lean, but he had
pushed himself to bulk up his traps and thighs and to broaden
his ABS. Theo often felt spiked,
especially remembering how Draco had purposefully ripped off his
shirt and jumped in the icy lake last year just to show off to a
group of Beaubaton witches. Theo, meanwhile, was built
closer to what Draco's fame should have been.
Lean and live, all right, all right, place your bets, lads.
I've got 300 galleons on Malfoy. Theo roared, jolting the crowd
back to life. Kazanovich, 10 galleons on
Fedorov. Theo shouted loud enough for
Draco to hear, catching his friend's amused grin.
Borovsky, 50 on Malfoy. More bets shouted around the
stone walls, the crowd tossing Galleons into Theo's hands as a
Quick Quill jotted down odds and payouts.
Not. Drako called over with his
calloused arrogance. Anyone betting on Fedorov,
double it down and place it on me.
Laughter rippled through the crowd at Drako's boldness, but
the tension remained staunch. Fedorov grunted, a low snort of
amusement. All warning.
It was hard to tell. Drako didn't flinch, his sea
smoke eyes locked onto Fedorov's, unyielding.
It wasn't Draco's build that would win this fight, it was his
complete lack of fear. Pain never deterred him, it
fuelled him. And that, Theo knew, was what
made Draco Malfoy truly ruthless.
No magic, no interfering, all fists.
The first one to stay down for 10 seconds loses, all right.
Theo took the place of the commentator as murmured
anticipation buzzed. Federov made the first move, a
clumsy wide swing aimed at Draco's head.
Draco ducked quickly, sidestepping with fluidity,
encountered with a fast right jab straight into the soft flesh
of Federov's kidney. The impact made Federov grunt in
pain, his massive frame doubling over for a moment.
Draco stepped out of the way, smirking.
Come on Federov, I thought you were supposed to be tough.
He taunted. Federov wasn't foolish enough to
exchange quips. You could see a flicker of
terror in his eyes, not from the beating he was taking, but from
Malfoy's unpredictable control. There was always that silent
understanding. One wrong word, 1 wrong move,
and Draco might take more than a pound of flesh, muffling screams
in the dead of night. The second blow came swift and
brutal, Draco's fist smashing into the side of Fedorov's
temple. The crack likely shattered the
socket of his eye. Blood spattered, and Fedorov
staggered back, blinking in shock.
Before he could recover, Malfoy landed another crushing punch,
this time to his mouth, sending teeth flying.
But instead of finishing him off, he stepped back, his chest
heaving with adrenaline, giving Ferrov a moment to catch his
breath. Not knew the game.
Malfoy didn't like it when things were too easy.
Ferrov lumbered forward again, landing a barbaric strike across
Draco's jaw. The impact sent Malfoy's head
snapping back, blood quickly gushing from his lips, staining
his teeth Crimson. He stepped back, wiping the
blood with the back of his hand, that unsettling smile widening
on his face. His hair, damp with sweat, clung
to his brow as Sabini muttered a curse under his breath, and
Federov grunted in small victory.
Drikko raised his bloody hand, still grinning wide.
He held up his index and middle finger, silently beckoning
Federov forward. His mouth hung open, giving the
crowd a clearview as he slid his tongue slowly over his lips and
teeth, savouring the metallic taste of his own blood.
Fedorov took the bait, charging forward blindly, fists flying
without aim. Draco pivoted and delivered a
series of devastating blows. 7 bone crunching thrashes slammed
into Fedorov's already shattered eye socket, each hit more
vicious than the last. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The sickening sound of bone meeting bone deafened the room
until Federoff collapsed, a lifeless heap on the stone
floor, blood pooling beneath him. 123-4567 Each number rang
louder as the crowd held its breath.
Malfoy, bloodied and victorious, took a lazy step back, staring
down at the broken body of Federoff with frigid
indifference. 8910, my four. He wins.
Sabini called, scrambling back into the ring to tend to Draco,
but he waved him off, nodding towards Fedorov's crumpled form
instead. What's my winnings?
Not. Draco asked, his head tilted,
still wearing that blood soaked grin. 2500 Galleons.
I'm not sulking. It was just a long drive, that's
all. Theo muttered, pushing himself
up from the springy bed. Draco clapped her hand on his
shoulder, giving him a warm pat. This was one of the things Theo
loved about his bond with Malfoy.
There was a unique closeness between them, a kindness that
only Theo was allowed to experience.
No one else in the world ever got to see this side of Draco,
and it made him feel oddly special.
I'll pour you a fire whisky. Yeah, something from the cellar.
Draco added, patting him once more as they started descending
the spiral staircase. The Husky scent of cigar smoke
greeted them before they even reached the bottom, blending
with the loath room of music and the throaty laughter of Blaze
and Adrian already deep in their evening revelry.
Ah, the werewolf of London returns.
Zabrini grinned as he shuffled a deck of cards and levitated a
glass of whisky into Theo's hand.
He raised it in 1/2 hearted cheers before taking a long
gulp. Feels good to be back, boys.
He lied, settling into his usual chair.
We all know that's bullshite. Pusey scoffed, swirling his
drink. If I had a shot to stay in
London, I wouldn't be coming back.
You'll never get sent to London because you're too much of an
idiot to be trusted anywhere on your own.
Malfoy shot back with a sneer. He lounged back in his chair,
kicking his feet out and spreading them wide.
Shovelers in, lads. Not gestured as Sabini began
dealing the cards. Are you going to tell us about
your extracurriculars you got up to?
Sabini poked, his smirk widening over the rim of his glass as
Theo glanced at Draco with a sigh.
I didn't tell them anything. Marfoy raised his hands in
defence. He didn't need to.
You were in London for several months and you expect us to
believe you didn't shag a single witch?
Blaze added, his eyes flicking between Draco and Theo Sabini,
unlike the others, was calm, patient, and generally more
considerate. Theo liked him.
He could take or leave Pusey, if he were being honest.
They had grown up together, but their relationship had always
felt shallow. The usual.
Theo deflected, running a hand through his hair.
Slytherin princesses all wanting their shot at a sacred 28 air.
I figured my father's imprisonment might have deterred
them, but it seems it only made me more desirable.
The vault to myself and all that.
If they only knew how empty our vaults were.
Draco snorted. Though they had made a
significant dent in rebuilding their fortunes, all of them were
now at least 5 million galleons richer, but in reality, it
wasn't anywhere near close to what their families had once
been worth. Tiberius not had been a bastard.
Tiberius and his father before him had a dangerous sense of
entitlement, draining almost all their wealth into funding pure
blood only initiatives, efforts the ministry had eventually
labeled terrorism a hateful, spiteful man.
His father Tiberius had been sentenced to a life in Azkaban
during Theo's 50 year. That was when he learned that
being the sole heir to the not estate came with a measly
500,000 galleons. That revelation prompted Sabini
and Malfoy to audit their own family's financial situations.
I shagged Parkinson once or twice.
Zabini said, leaning back. Our families used a vacation
together. Slytherin girl at Hogwarts do
love her pure blood name. Parkinson's married to Flint
now, but clearly he's not ticking her boxes.
Theo interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from
any asks about Hermione. Oh, the pure blood betrothal?
Draco chimed in, his cadence oozing with mockery.
When I was younger, my family was set to wed me to Astoria.
Green grass, Daphne's sister. I didn't know that, I've never
really seen the younger one. Theo remarked, genuinely
surprised. Apparently she's quiet and
studious. The idea was she'd a tame me.
Malfoy rounded with sarcasm. But now, seeing as I fund Lucius
and my mother's lifestyle, they don't have much say in what I do
anymore. Draco's relationship with his
family had always baffled Theo. Since the end of Dermstrang,
Draco maintained a strange dynamic with his parents.
He still showed his father respect, mostly out of
propriety, and dozed on his mother.
After discovering that Lucius had mismanaged their fortune in
a way that mirrored Theo's own family's downfall, Draco had
taken the role of provider. He relished reminding Lucius who
was restoring the Malfoy name to its former glory, though Lucius
would often snap back about the how of it.
Pusey hadn't come from much money, so it hadn't taken much
convincing to join their organization, or whatever
they're calling it now. Zabini, on the other hand, had
inherited his entire fortune from his mother, who had built
her wealth on her beauty and ability to drain men dry.
Blaise's education on making money was ingrained in him from
birth. I've been hanging around the
Cafe outside the secondary school.
Ripe picking of young muggle girls.
Pusey added, but the other three froze immediately.
What the fuck have you been doing?
Draco growled, Malfoy might operate in a morally grey arena,
but he had rules lines he never crossed the secondary school
young girls looking for an older man.
All it takes is an obliviate after you foot.
Pewsey began, but before he could finish Draco had a knife
through Adrian's outstretched hand in a move so fast it would
have been hard to even catch in slow motion.
Glasses and cards toppled as Pewsey screamed, Crimson welling
between bone, flesh and blade. Malfoy, what the fuck, set foot
near that school again and I'll cut off your cock and choke you
with it. Draco's voice was low, his face
inches from Adrian's, close enough for the heat of his
breath to blend with the sweat dripping from Pusey's brow.
Theo, leaning against the chair, shifted, ready to intervene.
Malfoy, what not? Draco snapped, not breaking his
glare. Theo sighed, exhaling a cloud of
smoke as he lit a cigarette. Puse, we don't fuck around like
that. He settled back into his chair,
already half tempted to call it a night, and flew back to her.
The warmth of her body was a far cry better option than this
nonsense. Bloody Salazar.
All right, all right, It's just that, fuck.
Adrian's voice broke into a shout as Draco yanked the dagger
from his hand, blood dripping down his arm.
Pusey scrambled back from the table, clutching his wound as he
stumbled toward the stairs, no doubt heading to grab his wand
to heal it. I don't fucking kerp you see if
I hear of it suspected or bloody hell, see it.
You're getting castrated. Jaco growled.
All right, all right, all right. Adrian stammered, face pale as a
sheet before bolting from the room, his footsteps thumping
heavily as he fled. Malfoy cracked his neck, his
gaze sliding to Theo. Anyway, you're not going to
mention the witch from this morning?
Fuck, he knew Draco too well. He never let things go,
especially when it piqued his curiosity.
That's exactly why Theo had kept Granger a secret.
Malfoy had a habit of spiraling into obsession, a dangerous
concoction of envy and fixation. Theo had always been careful
about keeping things balanced, letting Draco feel as if he had
the upper hand. It was part of the silent rules
of their friendship. They thrived on games, banter,
intellect, and magic, playing on a level field.
But Draco hated the feeling of losing, of being left with the
raw end of the deal. And now being struck in this
madhouse of a Manor instead of taking the offer to go back to
London was one of those raw deals.
Sure, at the time it made sense to keep everyone in line here.
Draco wouldn't want to risk Sabini and Pusey getting too
loyal to Theo in his absence. But Theo knew deep down Draco
was itching for the freedom London provided.
In reality, Pusey should have been the one sent to London.
Each of them had their roles. Zebini acted as the go between
with the various underground crews they collaborated with,
many of whom were old school mates.
Barofsky was one of those connections, operated out of
Minsk. Others weren't as trustworthy
and Blaze kept a close eye on them, particularly with the
stops in Moscow. Adrian had a knack for sourcing
potion materials, while Theo and Malfoy excelled at brewing, but
sending Pusey to London was never an option, for obvious
reasons. The witch this morning?
Sabini chuckled, oblivious to the tension underlying Draco's
question. I'm a witch.
A pub that Malfoy seems to think is more important than she is.
I don't think I know. Draco quipped.
But go on, keep your secrets. Besides, Colin's rubbish has
been shipped off to Moscow under a replica of our product.
It took some convincing on Zabini's part with the Russian
military to make them believe the RIP offs weren't ours.
We'll need to meet Petrov in two months.
Once the shipment arrives and makes its way through our stops
cleared of all traces. We'll have to put our potions
next to Collins to prove our case.
I can't bloody stand doing it. But if we succeed, we should
secure a deal to ship out 10,000 cases of our stamina elixir.
Apparently they plan to give it to Mughal athletes right in time
for their Olympics, as it won't show in any muggle testing.
Draco smirked. Not you and I need to get
started brewing. Pusey has already sourced the
ingredients and Sabini has spoken with our informants and
processes to get us prepped, so I'll need your head on straight
and free of distractions. He finished.
So you knew exactly what Draco was hinting at.
The distraction. He meant the person behind it,
but he wasn't about to show his hand.
You seem to be the one caught up on it, not me.
Also, you owe me about 50 galleons.
My hand beat yours. Not replied with a grin,
gesturing to the cards left on the table, still splattered with
Pewsey's blood from the earlier altercation.
Cheeky fuck. Malfoy smiled, slapping him on
the back. In the dim of dawn, Theo stared
out at the grounds of his balcony window, cigarette in
hand, watching the moon and sun battle for dominance in the sky.
He knew he needed to be careful, to keep her a secret, to keep
her safe and out of reach. He had to limit contact.
He had warded down his own flu to avoid temptation, promising
himself that he'd never leave a call back number or a voicemail
on her phone. Still, as soon as he got
upstairs for the night, he had tried calling her again.
Once more, there was no answer.