Draco Starved Half to Death

There were many styles of fighting. Some were simple, while others were complicated.

A certain family that had once terrorized the town of Birmingham, sewing razor blades into their cap brims, used a street-fighting style.

They did not care about routines and habitually carried weapons on them.

Even if they were only holding a wooden stick, one should never underestimate people like them.

The ferocity, precision, and ruthlessness in their hearts surpassed even some Muay Thai practitioners.

"How did you know so much about gangs?"

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

Hermione nodded as if enlightened. "No wonder you always have so many strange ideas."

Vincent's lips twitched slightly. "He wasn't a bad person. My grandfather said he was forced into it by life."

Britain, whose total industrial output had still ranked first in the world last century, had been declining ever since the end of the century.

During his great-grandfather's era, there had even been a wave of strikes involving nearly two million people.

Joining a gang had become the only way out for British gentlemen at the time.

"Uh..." Hermione felt a little guilty under his gaze.

She could not be sure whether anyone in her family had ever been involved with gangs. After all, that had been eighty years ago.

"So what style do you use?"

"Me? I don't have a style."

"Huh???"

Vincent was quite pleased by her startled little expression. "My dad learned some simple, practical combat techniques in the military. See? What I use isn't all that flashy."

"Like taekwondo?"

"Yeah."

In the East Asian monster house lived a cosmic superpower, where everyone's confidence was through the roof and they loved showing off their own "traditions."

They picked up leftover ham and cheese from American soldiers, added some of their own "traditional cuisine," and called it army stew.

With a few minor alterations to clothing from the Ming Dynasty of the East's only great power, they had directly claimed the name of that entire clothing category.

What was rather ridiculous was that the spirit of taekwondo was courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.

After hearing that, Hermione did not think much of that country either.

They were the typical kind who were terrible yet hopelessly addicted to showing off. They could probably go toe-to-toe with Blondie.

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

Winter had arrived. Could this dungeon really drop below freezing?

He reached out and lightly tapped the huge glass window that offered a view of the bottom of the Black Lake.

An ugly merperson swam over outside.

"Muggle lakes are trash!"

Look at the Black Lake outside. It had not frozen even in temperatures this low.

"Draco, they're throwing a party in the Great Hall." Crabbe wore a short-sleeved shirt as he dried his dripping wet hair with a towel.

"Not interested." Draco paid no attention to what his two lackeys were wearing.

With builds like theirs, it was no surprise that they were so hardy.

"Our lunch..."

"Will you die if you miss one meal?"

"I heard they got Dumbledore's approval and can keep it going until tonight."

"Glutton!" Draco's expression quickly returned to normal. "Go if you want. I'm not interested in a party Wayne is hosting."

"Oh." Crabbe picked up a set of clothes and returned to the shower room to find Goyle, who had forgotten to bring any clothes.

It was only two meals. It would not starve him to death.

There were actually quite a few Slytherin students in the Great Hall already.

There were pure-bloods and half-bloods among them, but none from the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Crabbe and Goyle's brains crashed.

Why sit down to play cards after eating? They could just leave.

Playing cards was not the issue. The issue was that they were playing Gwent.

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

"Exactly!" Crabbe swallowed the game pie in his mouth. "No, if Wayne and the others can make it, why can't we?"

"Yeah, who says Gwent belongs to them?"

The two brilliant minds, full and satisfied, returned to the dormitory and immediately shared this idea, which could deal a devastating blow to the Owl Court.

"Idiots. Do you think it could be published without Dumbledore's permission?"

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

"That's only in the British Isles!"

Crabbe slapped his forehead belatedly. "Right, Wayne's Gwent obviously involves more than just Hogwarts and Fantastic Beasts."

Draco looked at them as if they were idiots.

"Other than magical strength and international reputation, Dumbledore has practically nothing that surpasses the Malfoy family."

"Right!" Goyle suddenly raised his head. "The food was made by Hufflepuff students. Gryffindor only handled serving it."

Draco had thought he might have some brilliant insight. The moment he heard that, his face darkened.

"I'm not going!"

"Oh."

The boys who were equally unwilling to go included the two fellow sufferers, Marcus and Blaise Zabini.

The former had just made a complete fool of himself, while the latter's golden glow had faded less than half a day ago.

Oh, and there was Theodore Nott, the tall, thin one.

He was Slytherin's lone wolf and never formed cliques or joined in the fun.

Like Draco, his father was also a Death Eater.

And one of the earliest veterans at that.

Cantankerus Nott, who had written the Pure-Blood Directory decades ago, was even his grandfather's biological younger brother.

Yet this young master of such distinguished status could only stay in the dormitory and gnaw on bread.

At least he had something to eat, unlike Draco, who remained hungry until sunset.

"Grrr—"

Crabbe and Goyle stood up as though they had received a summons.

"We'll bring something back."

"No need."

Such a stubborn and willful young master. No wonder he felt the dungeon temperature had dropped below zero.

"Get out of my sight already—" Draco said weakly.

"Oh."

Crabbe and Goyle left without looking back.

If they did not eat more, how could they build strong bodies to protect this frail young master?

Perfectly reasonable and entirely convincing.

When they returned to the Great Hall, they unexpectedly spotted two young girls sitting at the long table, wrapped in long cloaks.

"Why do those two look so familiar?"

"They're Parkinson and Greengrass!"

It was bad enough that, as pure-bloods, they were not setting an example. They had even covered their faces tightly.

"This is betrayal!" Crabbe angrily shoved an entire pork chop into his mouth.

Goyle cut open a huge meat pie with a look of grief and indignation.

"No wonder both their families have fallen so far. They have nowhere near Draco's self-control!"

After the two finished eating in shared outrage, they did not even plan to bring dessert back.

Draco was already so hungry that he had no strength left. Hearing their rosy-cheeked accusations, he slapped the bedside and sat up.

"Damn it!"

He shoved on his expensive wool slippers and ran out of the dormitory with a patter of footsteps.

Crabbe and Goyle, left behind, stared at each other wide-eyed.

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

"Very likely."

However, Draco did not head to the girls' dormitory, but to the Great Hall, where the party was still underway.

Thank goodness, there was still food left.

The way he wolfed it down had absolutely nothing to do with elegance.