Draco Is Starving Mad

There are many schools of combat, some very simple, others extremely complex.

Take a certain family that once terrorized the small town of Birmingham, sewing razor blades into the brims of their hats—they followed the street school.

They didn't play by the rules and habitually carried weapons on them.

Even if they were just holding a wooden stick, you should never underestimate these people.

The "ferocity, precision, and ruthlessness" in their hearts was more formidable than some Muay Thai practitioners.

"How are you so familiar with these gang matters?"

"My great-grandfather was in a gang. He only quit after my grandfather was born."

Hermione nodded as if a lightbulb had gone off. "No wonder you always have so many strange ideas."

Vincent twitched the corner of his mouth. "He wasn't a bad person. My grandfather said he was forced by life."

Back in the last century, Britain was still the world's top industrial producer, but by the end of the century, it had been in decline ever since.

In his great-grandfather's era, there was even a strike wave of nearly two million people.

Joining a gang became the only way out for the gentlemen of Britain at that time.

"Uh—" Hermione felt a bit guilty under his gaze.

She couldn't be sure if anyone in her family had been in a gang—after all, that was eighty years ago.

"So what school are you?"

"Me? No school."

"Huh???"

Vincent was quite pleased with her surprised little expression. "My dad learned some simple, practical combat techniques in the military. See how I don't use anything flashy."

"Like Taekwondo?"

"Exactly."

In the East Asian monster room lives a cosmic superpower, where everyone is brimming with overconfidence and loves to flaunt their "traditions."

They pick up leftover ham and cheese from American soldiers, add some of their own "traditional cuisine," and call it "army stew."

They make minor tweaks to the Ming Dynasty clothing of the East's sole great power and directly monopolize the name of that garment type.

What's a bit laughable is that the spirit of Taekwondo is courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.

After hearing this, Hermione had no good impression of that country either.

Typical case of being weak yet obsessed—probably a match for Blondie at a fifty-fifty.

"Achoo—" Draco sneezed four or five times in a row in the dormitory.

Winter had arrived, and this dungeon could actually drop below freezing?

He reached out and lightly tapped the large glass window overlooking the bottom of the Black Lake.

The ugly mermaids outside swam over.

"Muggle lake water is useless!"

Look at the Black Lake outside—it hadn't frozen even at such low temperatures.

"Draco, they're throwing a party in the Great Hall." Crabbe was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, wiping his wet hair with a towel.

"Not interested." Draco didn't pay attention to his two lackeys' attire.

With that build, it was no surprise they had good constitutions.

"Our lunch..."

"Will you die from missing one meal?"

"I heard they got Dumbledore's approval to keep it going until evening."

"Gluttons!" Draco's face quickly returned to normal. "Go if you want. I'm not interested in Wayne's party."

"Oh." Crabbe grabbed a set of clothes and headed back to the shower room to find Goyle, who had forgotten to bring his.

Two meals—it wouldn't kill anyone.

In fact, quite a few Slytherin students were already in the Great Hall.

Some were purebloods, some half-bloods, but none from the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Crabbe and Goyle's brains short-circuited.

Just eat and leave—why sit down and play cards?

Playing cards wasn't the problem; the problem was Gwent.

"This is aiding the enemy!" Goyle tore off a large chunk of lamb leg with his teeth.

"Exactly!" Crabbe swallowed the game pie in his mouth. "Wait, if Wayne and his crew can do it, why can't we?"

"Right, who says Gwent belongs to them?"

These two well-fed geniuses had just returned to the dormitory when they blurted out this idea that could deal a fatal blow to the Owl Court.

"You idiot, do you think it could be published without Dumbledore's approval?"

"Uh—" Goyle scratched his big head. "Draco, doesn't your family have a lot of connections?"

"That's within the British Isles!"

Crabbe belatedly slapped his own forehead. "Right, Wayne's Gwent clearly has more factions than just Hogwarts and Fantastic Beasts."

Draco looked at them like they were idiots.

"Aside from Dumbledore's magical power and international reputation, the Malfoy family is stronger than him in almost every other way."

"Right!" Goyle suddenly looked up. "Those dishes were made by Hufflepuff students; Gryffindor just carried the trays."

Draco thought he was about to say something insightful, but upon hearing this, his face darkened immediately.

"I'm not going."

"Oh."

The boys who also didn't want to go included Marcus and Blaise Zabini, two fellows in the same boat.

The former had just been thoroughly humiliated, and the latter's golden glow had only faded half a day ago.

Oh, and the tall, thin Theodore Nott.

He was the lone wolf of Slytherin, never forming cliques or joining in the fun.

Like Draco, his father was also a Death Eater.

One of the earliest founding members.

Decades ago, Cantankerus Nott, who authored the "Pure-Blood Directory," was his grandfather's own younger brother.

A young master of such distinguished status, yet he could only hole up in the dormitory gnawing on bread.

But at least he had something to eat, unlike Draco, who was starving until the sun went down.

"Grrr—"

Crabbe and Goyle stood up as if answering a call.

"We'll bring something back."

"No need."

Such a stubborn and willful young master—no wonder he felt the dungeon's temperature had already dropped to freezing.

"Get out of my sight—quickly," Draco said weakly.

"Oh."

Crabbe and Goyle left without looking back.

If they didn't eat more, how could they build a strong body to protect this frail young master?

Perfectly logical, utterly convincing.

They arrived at the Great Hall again and spotted two small girls sitting by the long table, wrapped in long cloaks.

"Why do they look so familiar?"

"It's Parkinson and Greengrass!"

As pure-bloods, not setting an example was bad enough, but they even covered their faces tightly.

"This is betrayal!" Crabbe was so angry he shoved an entire pork chop into his mouth.

Goyle, with a face full of grief and indignation, cut into a large meat pie.

"No wonder their families have declined like this—they don't have even a fraction of Draco's resolve!"

After eating their fill in shared outrage, the two didn't even bother bringing back any dessert.

Draco was already so weak from hunger that when he heard their flushed-faced accusations, he slapped the bed and sat up.

"Damn it!"

He stomped into his high-end wool slippers and pattered out of the dormitory.

Crabbe and Goyle stared at each other.

"He's probably going to confront them, right?"

"Very likely."

But the place Draco went wasn't the girls' dormitory—it was the Great Hall, where the party was still going on.

Thank goodness, there was still food.

The way he wolfed it down was anything but elegant.