The Shelby pub fell into cathedral silence. Only twenty-three souls carried the Shelby bloodline in their veins.
Men and women alike wore three-piece suits like armor, silver pocket watches gleaming at their waists, standing in the pub's heart like soldiers awaiting orders. Their eyes never wavered from the four Shelby brothers commanding the front.
The air itself seemed to pulse with barely contained violence.
Tommy maintained his elegant, aristocratic bearing—a gentleman's mask over a predator's soul—yet his eyes danced with the kind of bloodthirsty anticipation that made wise men cross streets.
"The Ministry's corruption rivals London's most rotten officials—perhaps exceeds it entirely..."
"They can drive Dark wizards from Nott family establishments, but they won't maintain round-the-clock protection. They're civil servants, not private bodyguards—unless we offer considerably more... incentive."
"Which we absolutely will not."
"The Aurors depart today."
"And those Dark wizards who scattered like cockroaches when the lights came on? The moment they learn of this development, they'll come crawling back like the vermin they are."
"So what happens next..."
"Rests entirely in our capable hands."
With that declaration, Tommy raised his glass with the solemnity of a priest offering communion.
Arthur shouldered a massive sword that would have made medieval knights weep with envy, vaulting onto the bar with surprising grace for such a large man, his glass steady as a rock in his weathered hand.
His rugged features bore a smile that managed to be both exhilarated and absolutely terrifying, like a wolf that had just caught scent of wounded prey.
"Let those foolish enough to stand against the Shelby name—"
His voice erupted like thunder rolling across battlefields, every syllable dripping with promise and threat.
"Pray to whatever gods they favor!"
"Because we're coming for them all!!!"
Like a match dropped into gunpowder, the pub exploded.
The Shelbys' battle cry merged into something primal and savage, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of reality. The building's ancient timbers groaned under the assault of pure, concentrated fury.
They raised their whiskey glasses like weapons, draining them with the ritual precision of warriors taking communion before battle. Their grins carried the kind of feral anticipation that belonged in nightmares—like apex predators finally released from their cages.
"KILL THEM ALL!!!"
Amid this symphony of promised violence, Tiger reached for his glass with automatic precision. But as that familiar, bone-deep chill swept through him like arctic wind, he quietly released the alcohol and claimed his mug of hot milk instead.
His voice carried the resignation of someone who had learned to accept life's cruel ironies:
"Right... kill them all..."
The temperature around him dropped another few degrees, as if the universe itself was expressing disapproval.
"Draco, are you ready?"
"Almost finished, Father!"
Hearing his son's voice echoing from the bedroom, Lucius Malfoy returned to his mirror for the third time, adjusting his already perfect attire with the obsessive precision of a man trying to solve an impossible equation.
His reflection showed subtle shifts in expression—attempting to project both paternal authority and approachable warmth, a balance more delicate than brewing Veritaserum.
Since Draco's earliest memories, Lucius had consciously crafted the role of stern father, wearing it like a perfectly tailored mask.
Yet beneath that performance lay genuine terror—the fear of losing his son's love through excessive severity. This emotional tightrope proved infinitely more treacherous than serving the Dark Lord.
"Lucius, you look absolutely perfect."
Narcissa held his traveling cloak, watching her husband's mirror ritual with the fond exasperation of someone who had witnessed this performance countless times.
As Draco matured, her husband's acting had grown increasingly sophisticated. Unfortunately, this careful balance of stern exterior hiding paternal devotion was being systematically decoded by their increasingly perceptive son...
Moments later, Draco burst from his room like a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball, his face radiant with the kind of pure joy that made adults remember what happiness actually felt like.
"Let's go, Father!"
"Time to buy that racing broom!"
Lucius raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, accepting the cloak from his wife while his gray eyes adopted the calculated sternness of a headmaster addressing unruly students.
"Draco, compose yourself properly. Since I gave my word, I won't renege."
"However, before we attend to your... recreational needs..."
"I have business requiring attention. You represent the Malfoy legacy—don't allow those gutter-dwelling parasites to mistake you for easy prey."
"Oh, absolutely, Father!"
Though thoroughly accustomed to his father's theatrical severity, Draco still felt his stomach tighten with familiar anxiety. He immediately began fussing with his slightly rumpled jacket, smoothing every wrinkle with desperate precision.
Recognizing the barely perceptible warmth and indulgence threading through her husband's deliberately cold tone, Narcissa shook her head with affectionate despair before speaking with the gentle concern of someone sending loved ones into battle:
"Draco, stay close to your father."
"No matter what circumstances arise..."
"Don't worry, Mother. I'm practically grown up now."
With endearing awkwardness that betrayed his claim to maturity, Draco approached Narcissa for their customary farewell embrace, his cheeks flushing slightly at the continued maternal fussing.
"Narcissa, we'll return before evening."
Lucius followed suit, his cool lips brushing his wife's cheek with practiced tenderness before departing Malfoy Manor under Narcissa's watchful, worried gaze, their eager son practically bouncing beside him...
Knockturn Alley's depths resembled the digestive tract of some massive, malevolent creature.
Sickly light struggled through grimy shop windows thick with decades of accumulated filth, casting shadows that seemed to writhe with independent malice.
Crumbling brick walls bore the scars of countless dark dealings, reeking of mold, decay, and things better left unidentified.
A bone-penetrating wind swept through the narrow passage, carrying whispers that might have been voices or might have been the alley itself breathing.
Though broad daylight reigned elsewhere, this place existed in perpetual twilight—a pocket of concentrated malevolence where sunlight feared to tread.
Dark corners harbored watching eyes that glinted with predatory calculation, brazenly cataloging every visitor's potential value as victim or customer.
But the moment those lurking gazes fell upon Lucius's unmistakable figure, they recoiled like vampires confronting holy water, melting back into their shadows with remarkable speed.
"Father, where exactly are we?"
Noticing the meaningful smiles flickering in peripheral darkness, Draco instinctively grasped his father's broad, reassuring hand with the desperate grip of someone drowning.
Every step here felt like walking across a minefield of concentrated evil and avarice.
Draco wanted nothing more than to flee this nightmare immediately.
"This cesspit is Knockturn Alley, Draco."
"Where all of wizarding society's filth accumulates and festers—werewolves, vampires, Dark wizards, blood dealers, curse-mongers, and creatures that defy classification..."
"Observe carefully. You'll face this world's shadows eventually."
Lucius maintained his characteristic expression of bored aristocratic disdain while tightening his protective grip on his son's trembling hand.
His pale eyes swept their surroundings with casual menace, undisguised killing intent seeming to glow with actual emerald light—a warning that sent even hardened criminals scurrying for cover.
"We've arrived at our destination..."
Following his father's indication, Draco looked up at a shop sign so weathered and filthy that only the word "Borgin" remained legible through layers of grime and neglect.
The doorbell's chime sounded like a death knell.
The shop's interior stretched away into gloom so thick it seemed solid. Draco's curious gaze cataloged the surrounding collection of cursed artifacts, dark magical implements, and objects that seemed to whisper promises of power and corruption.
"Don't touch anything carelessly, Draco."
"Remember everything I've taught you about this place." Lucius's voice cut through the oppressive atmosphere like a blade, startling Draco into quickly withdrawing his fascinated finger from a grinning skull whose empty sockets seemed to track movement.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
"What an unexpected honor to encounter you in our humble establishment."
A blonde youth emerged from behind the counter like a ghost materializing from shadow, his face wearing the kind of perfectly calibrated smile that belonged on diplomatic receptions.
Shop owner Borgin shuffled behind the young man with the servile posture of someone who understood exactly where he stood in the food chain.
"Raven Borgin?" Lucius's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise, a crack in his usually impeccable composure.
He genuinely hadn't anticipated encountering the Borgin family's heir apparent in this den of commercial iniquity.
Though the Borgin family's business empire thrived in wizarding society's shadows, their core members typically avoided direct involvement in street-level operations—maintaining plausible deniability through careful delegation.
They usually surfaced only in Ministry corridors, where their particular combination of ruthless ambition and moral flexibility proved invaluable for navigating political waters.
Their last meeting had occurred at a Shafiq family reception, where this young man had made quite the impression through sheer calculated charm.
"What brings you to these... aromatic surroundings?"
"Has old Borgin assigned you new responsibilities in the family enterprise?"
Lucius's momentary confusion vanished behind his trademark mask of elegant superiority, his smile carrying just enough warmth to avoid insult while maintaining proper distance.
"Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid. I'm merely providing temporary assistance with a small matter."
"Uncle Borgin retains full operational control, naturally."
"Draco, my dear friend—it's been far too long. How have you been managing lately?"
Raven Borgin stepped aside with practiced grace, smoothly redirecting the conversation while his smile toward Draco carried notes of genuine warmth that seemed almost out of place in their surroundings.
For those who frequently accompanied powerful fathers—even if they didn't yet display particular brilliance—he maintained careful respect. Investment in future relationships, after all.
Moreover, Draco possessed something Raven genuinely envied: uncomplicated parental love. Seeing this innocent young man always triggered involuntary affection, like glimpsing something pure in a world of calculated corruption.
"I've been wonderfully well, Senior Raven."
Recognizing a familiar face in this alien environment, Draco's tension evaporated like morning mist. His wariness transformed into the kind of delighted relief usually reserved for discovering oases in deserts.
He approached Raven Borgin with a grin that could have powered half of Diagon Alley, his earlier sophistication completely abandoned in favor of genuine boyish enthusiasm.
"I never imagined we'd meet in a place like this!"
"I really should have invited you to visit Malfoy Manor—we have the most amazing Quidditch pitch, and Mother always makes too much food anyway..."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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