The metal lift came to a slow halt with a dull clattering rumble.
The iron grille gates slid open to both sides, revealing a private lounge adjacent to the Ministry of Magic's main atrium, reserved exclusively for high-ranking officials and pureblood patriarchs.
The air in the lounge was somewhat stale, heavy velvet curtains half-torn and half-hanging before the carved wooden windows, blocking out the piercing floating magical light motes outside.
A wide, oval-shaped darkwood table sat in the center of the room, flanked by four scattered high-backed leather chairs.
At this very moment, standing beside the darkwood table were three diminutive, senior Gringotts goblins with skin wrinkled like withered tree bark.
They wore tightly tailored, shiny black tailcoats, pinned with the heavy insignia of Gringotts Gold Vault commissioners at their chests.
The instant the lift doors clanged, all three goblins bent deeply at the waist almost simultaneously, their withered, twig-like fingers pressed flat against their trouser seams, heads bowed so low their sharp hooked noses nearly grazed the plush pile of the carpet.
"Honored Young Master Malfoy! And... the renowned Mr. Rosier!"
The lead elder goblin, Gornuk, shuffled forward a couple of mincing steps, his shriveled lips trembling violently, his pointed ears speckled with black and yellow liver spots twitching madly.
Hunched over, he held out a large leather ledger reinforced with thick brass corners with both hands, extending it forward with extreme caution, not daring to lift his head even half an inch.
Jerry stood at the threshold of the lift, the soles of his boots clicking sharply against the polished floor tiles.
He still held the black leather folder freshly retrieved from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, that half-smoked mint cigar dangling from his lips.
Smoke drifted slowly from his nostrils, swirling and dispersing into the air.
Tilting his head, Jerry swept his calm, impassive gaze over the three groveling goblins, then turned around to look rather amusedly at Draco, who stood proudly beside him with his chest puffed out.
"The business partners you mentioned..."
Jerry flicked the cigar ash with his index finger, his tone laced with undisguised absurdity and amusement.
"...the partners for the underground betting pool are these Gringotts goblins?"
Draco adjusted his coat collar, strode forward, and plopped himself brazenly into the head seat at the oval darkwood table.
He clattered his gilded cane onto the table with a crisp clang.
"Who else?"
Leaning back in the high-backed leather chair, Draco arrogantly propped both long legs across the corner of the darkwood table, his boot soles aimed right at the three shivering goblins.
"In all of Europe, who else can mobilize three million liquid Galleons in cash within an hour while keeping the books as spotless as pure white parchment in the middle of two-world wartime? Aside from these money-grubbing midgets, did you expect those old fossils in the Wizengamot who can't even work an abacus?"
"Mr. Rosier! Please, do not misunderstand!"
Hearing Jerry's voice, the elder goblin Gornuk began to tremble even more violently.
His knees buckled, and with a soft thud, he dropped straight to his knees on the carpet!
Digging his withered claws into the carpet pile, he crawled forward half a foot, the wrinkled folds of his aged face squeezing into an almost subservient, fawning smile.
"Gringotts harbors... not the slightest disrespect toward Mr. Rosier's formidable renown! Every single one of the thirty thousand refined gold ingots the Department of War Operations converted through us recently bore your personal military procurement seal! The methods you demonstrated in the underground combat hall and on the front lines are crystal clear to Gringotts senior management!"
Seeing this, the two younger goblins behind him also panicked and dropped to their knees, their slender claws pressed flat against the floor tiles, not daring to take a single loud breath.
Jerry walked over to the table, pulled out a leather chair opposite Draco, and sat down.
Tossing the black leather folder onto the table, he raised his thumb and index finger.
"Explain it to me, Malfoy."
"You told me last night that you secured the exclusive security agency rights for the Wartime All-Star Tournament and planned to run an underground betting pool to make a fortune. But as I recall, aren't these Gringotts misers known for doubling interest rates even if a pureblood family tries to borrow a thousand Galleons for broomsticks? How could they willingly cough up millions of Galleons in reserve capital just to gamble with a boy like you?"
Hearing this, the smirk on Draco's lips deepened.
"Gornuk, explain it to Mr. Rosier yourself."
Draco puffed a cloud of vanilla smoke, his eyes brimming with the arrogance and playfulness unique to a top pureblood young master.
"Tell him: if it were only I, Draco Malfoy, standing here today, how much reserve capital would Gringotts be willing to offer?"
Cold sweat broke out instantly across the kneeling elder goblin Gornuk's forehead.
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing violently, his claws clutching the carpet as his high-pitched voice spoke with extreme subservience.
"If... if Young Master Malfoy came alone... Gringotts... Gringotts could at most approve a credit line of fifty thousand Galleons... and... and Lord Lucius would need to put up the manor's three white peacock sanctuaries and the underground wine cellars as collateral..."
Hearing this, Draco turned to look at Jerry, shrugging with open palms.
"Hear that?" Draco mocked. "Fifty thousand Galleons! And my father would have to mortgage the house to them! These midgets didn't even recognize my achievement of blowing up the ghost ship underwater last week, claiming it was just empty fame bought with Old European alchemical items!"
Jerry raised an eyebrow: "And now?"
The elder goblin Gornuk snapped his head up, a bizarre expression of mingled fanaticism and awe exploding across his wrinkled face.
His claws desperately presented the brass-bound leather ledger, pushing it forward before Jerry's boot tips like a sacred offering.
"Now it is entirely different! Mr. Rosier!"
Gornuk shrieked, his voice cracking with extreme excitement.
"The moment Young Master Malfoy listed your name on the very first page of the partnership! The moment Young Master Malfoy presented the agency authorization for the high-frequency disrupters and short-range shield plates mass-produced in your workshop! The five Grand Elders on the Gringotts Board of Directors passed this wartime underground betting agreement unanimously in under three minutes!"
Gornuk held up three crooked, withered fingers, gesturing madly in the air.
"Three million Galleons! In cash! All stored in the deepest black stone Level-One Vault beneath Gringotts! As long as you give the nod... as long as you acknowledge that you are one of the absolute bookmakers backing this pool... this three million Galleons in liquid capital can be deployed at any moment to take bets from millions of wizards across Europe!"
Jerry leaned back against the wide leather chair.
Pinching his cigar in his right hand, resting his chin on his left, his dark, profound eyes pinned the groveling elder goblin before him.
"The reason?"
Jerry's tone was exceptionally flat.
"Gringotts never does business at a loss."
Hearing Jerry's calm, emotionless inquiry, Gornuk shuddered violently, flattening himself against the carpet, his voice dropping to a fawning whisper.
"Mr. Rosier... you underestimate your own weight in the black market and the banking houses..."
Wiping the cold sweat from his brow, the elder goblin explained at breakneck speed.
"First! With the frontline war reaching this stage, every pureblood family and Ministry bureaucrat across Europe knows that one-third of the hemostatic potions and anti-magic shields on the front lines flow directly from your secret workshops! In wartime, those who control the delivery rights of weapons and herbs are a hundred times more potent than those who hold gold!"
Gornuk licked his chapped lips, his eyes fixed on Jerry's boot buckle.
"Second! The third task of the Triwizard Tournament! The way Young Master Malfoy pierced the Abyss Shadow Wolf in one strike and blasted the Savior's wand away in one blow... every underground casino across Europe is whispering that it was the technique of a lethal assassin hand-forged by you in the Hogwarts underground combat hall using Jiuyou Abyss demonic arts!"
"Third!"
Gornuk's voice carried a tremor of fanaticism.
"With you backing the pool... not a single Dark Wizard or deserter Auror across Europe would dare default on a payout! Nor would any black market syndicate dare hijack our cash-transport flying carpets! Because everyone knows... whoever dares touch Mr. Rosier's betting pool... the black particles and Demonic Sun in your hands... will incinerate their bones to dust!"
Draco let out an uninhibited, swaggering laugh from across the table.
Pulling his legs back from the table, he picked up a glass of dragon-blood liquor, chugging a massive mouthful.
Smack!
Draco slammed the glass onto the table, liquor splashing across the darkwood surface.
"Understand now, Jerry?"
Draco pointed at the kneeling goblin, winking at Jerry, the contrast of mockery and tension dialed to the max.
"These old foxes are shrewd as hell! They don't give a damn about how fast I fly a broom, nor do they care if Potter is some Chosen One! They only recognize one thing—as long as you, Jerry Rosier, stand behind the pool, this betting operation is the hardest iron wall in all of Europe! Whoever dares cause trouble, you'll go rip their head off!"
Jerry looked down at the brass-bound leather ledger by his feet.
He raised his right boot, resting the sole lightly on the edge of the leather cover, grinding down with a subtle twist.
Creak.
The expensive cowhide groaned under the friction of his boot.
Sprawled on the carpet, the elder goblin Gornuk allowed Jerry to grind his boot into the ledger without daring to bat an eyelid, his claws still respectfully supporting the bottom.
"Three million Galleons..."
Jerry exhaled a rich cloud of mint smoke, an edge of ruthless clarity curving at the corners of his eyes.
"How do we split it?"
Hearing this, sheer ecstasy exploded across Gornuk's wrinkled face!
He knew that this ruthless young demon was tempted!
Scrambling forward half an inch, his shrill voice echoed in the quiet lounge.
"Gringotts takes thirty percent! We handle all bet settlements, counterfeit coin checks, and accounting across over seventy bookmaking outposts throughout Europe! The remaining seventy percent... belongs entirely to Mr. Rosier and Young Master Malfoy!"
"Wrong."
Jerry cut him off coldly.
Withdrawing his boot from the ledger, Jerry leaned forward, resting both elbows on the edge of the oval darkwood table. Holding his cigar, he looked down upon the goblin with overwhelming intimidation.
"Gringotts takes fifteen percent."
Jerry spoke, the number delivered with absolute finality, leaving no room for debate.
"You only provide the accounts and the counters. If someone defaults, places bets with counterfeit coins, or if frontline deserters try to raid the outposts... Malfoy and I will resolve it using our own methods. Taking a fifteen percent cut while sitting on your hands is already the lifeline I'm offering you."
Gornuk's aged face twitched, his lips quivering: "Fif... fifteen percent? Mr. Rosier... the... the Gringotts Elders might..."
Clack.
Draco slammed his gilded cane down hard on the table in flawless coordination!
His pale, haughty face darkened instantly, casting an icy glare at the goblin on the floor.
"Can't you understand plain English, Gornuk? Fifteen percent! If you disagree, I'll take the permits to the black market banks right now! I'm sure Willis's gang of Dark Wizards would love to cough up five million Galleons for this deal!"
Gornuk shrank into a ball.
Looking at these two Slytherin boys who worked in seamless, ruthless synergy, cold sweat poured down his forehead like rain.
Under the absolute deterrence of profit and violence, this senior Gringotts commissioner—who normally held his head high even before Wizengamot members—finally swallowed hard.
He planted his forehead heavily against the carpet with a sharp thud!
"Fifteen percent! Exactly as Mr. Rosier says, fifteen percent!"
Gornuk shrieked, his voice filled with submission and greedy compromise.
"Gringotts accepts this split! The contract can be stamped and enacted today!"
Jerry leaned back against his chair in satisfaction.
He stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the table, tapping his right thumb against the black leather folder before him.
"Very good."
Jerry looked at Draco, a smile blending wanton wickedness and cunning playing on his lips.
"Now that the pool is established, Malfoy... how do you plan to open the bets on the Quidditch pitch?"
Draco burst into boisterous laughter.
Grabbing the gold-foil invitation from the table and waving it in mid-air, an unprecedented zeal and confidence erupted from his arrogant face.
"I thought up the betting lines last night!"
Draco stood up, bracing both hands on the darkwood table, looking down at Jerry opposite him.
"Line One! Betting on whether the Savior, Harry Potter, can survive longer than twenty minutes in the opening brawl! Odds of five to one!"
"Line Two!"
A brutally cruel glint flashed in Draco's eyes.
"Betting on whether I, Draco Malfoy... can knock Potter clean off his broomstick in mid-air before millions across Europe! Odds of... ten to one!"
"This time, every Knut rolls straight into our pockets!"
"You celebrate too early, Malfoy."
Jerry spoke, his tone as flat as an unbroken sheet of ice, dumping a bucket of freezing water straight over Draco's steaming head.
The wild laugh on Draco's face froze solid.
His waving hands stalled in mid-air, the grin stuck on his face, his eyes brimming with utter bewilderment. Glaring at Jerry across the table, he scraped his boot sole hard against the tiles.
"What did you say?" Draco tugged at his collar. "I even hauled in three million in liquid cash from Gringotts! The permits are in your hands! And you tell me I celebrate too early?!"
Jerry kept his hands in his coat pockets, leaning forward slightly, resting both elbows heavily on the edge of the darkwood table.
"Let me ask you." Jerry tapped his index finger twice against the tabletop with a dull thud. "How do you know Harry Potter will accept the challenge?"
Draco froze.
Gripping his gilded cane, he jabbed it hard against the floor.
"Why wouldn't he accept?!" Draco bellowed at the top of his lungs. "He's the Savior! He's Gryffindor's most famous Seeker! Millions across Europe will be watching the pitch! Every Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff in the castle is chanting his name! If I slap this invitation across his face and he cowers in the Gryffindor tower, what happens to that precious Savior face of his?!"
Jerry let out a cold sneer.
Without bending an inch, he pulled his right hand from his pocket, picked up the gold-embossed invitation from the table, and weighed it idly in his hand.
"Malfoy, did your brain get swallowed down your throat along with that dragon-blood liquor earlier?"
Jerry slapped the invitation heavily onto the center of the darkwood table with a crisp snap.
"Everything churning in that head of yours is drunken nonsense cooked up in the common room. Listen to me clearly—this is a Quidditch World Championship between sovereign nations. Even if War Mobilization and Old European investors threw together a so-called Wartime All-Star Exhibition Match to make a profit, an official tournament of this caliber isn't something just any stray dog can join as they please."
Jerry pointed a finger straight at the tip of Draco's nose.
"What is Harry Potter's current status? He's a Hogwarts student! He is neither an official Seeker for the English National Team nor a professional flyer for the frontline strike squads! Under official tournament selection bylaws, to place his name on the roster, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Department of War Operations, and Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore must jointly sign a Special Exemption Order!"
Draco braced both hands on the table, leaning forward, gritting his teeth obstinately.
"That old man Dumbledore is desperate to push him to the forefront as a spiritual pillar! As long as the Old European investors apply pressure, the old man will definitely agree to sign that exemption!"
"Dumbledore may be old, but he hasn't turned into an idiot."
Jerry cut him off coldly, the sarcasm in his tone thick enough to spill over.
"Didn't you see what happened in St. Mungo's and the hospital wing? The Savior had his wand blasted away by your sword on the platform, coughing blood in the mud. Dumbledore was crouching right beside his bed last night! He knows better than anyone where Potter's vulnerabilities lie in frontline combat and aerial duels!"
Jerry smoothed the minor wrinkles on his coat cuffs.
"Knowing full well that your Malfoy family is backed by Old European munitions workshops and commands a full set of high-frequency propulsion arrays and disrupters, why on earth would Dumbledore send his precious Savior onto the pitch just to let you beat the hell out of him again before millions across Europe? As long as Dumbledore withholds Hogwarts' release approval, citing 'considerations for student wartime safety', that second betting line of yours won't even qualify to open!"
Draco stood frozen in place against the edge of the darkwood table, his pale, proud face turning red and white by turns.
He bit his lip, his knuckles white from gripping the cane pommel too hard. He opened his mouth, trying to muster fierce rebuttals, only to find that every single word Jerry spoke struck dead-center into the core logical flaws of this scheme.
"Even if... even if Dumbledore signs."
Draco took a deep breath, roughly ripping the silver scarf from his neck and tossing it onto the table.
He strode forward, leaning on the table, his eyes fixed on Jerry.
"Even if Potter takes the field! I have the latest propulsion arrays and short-range shields stamped in your workshop! If I could stomp him into the mud on the platform, I can ram him clean off his broom hundreds of meters in the air! What difference does it make?!"
"It makes a massive difference."
Looking at his obstinate, arrogant posture, the smirk on Jerry's lips slowly faded, his gaze turning profoundly deep.
Jerry stood up.
Standing just over five-foot-seven beside the wide darkwood table, though half a head shorter than Draco, the heavy aura of death and cold dominance radiating from his body instantly thickened the air in the lounge.
Stepping across the dark woolen carpet, Jerry unhurriedly circled to Draco's side.
He slammed a heavy hand onto Draco's shoulder!
That seemingly slender hand landed like a chunk of raw iron upon Draco's shoulder blade, jarring his body so hard he nearly lost his balance.
"Malfoy, don't assume that because you beat Harry Potter once, you will emerge victorious every single time."
Jerry leaned close to Draco's ear, his tone unnervingly low.
"What was the core reason you claimed victory in the third task's combat ruins? Was it because you became invincible? Was it because your mere fifteen days of hellish training could overwhelm every veteran on the front lines?"
Jerry raised his right hand, lightly patting Draco's stiff cheek with crisp slaps.
"It was because you were underestimated."
Jerry's voice was sharp and decisive.
"Before the match began, whether it was Dumbledore, Karkaroff, or those Gryffindor fools, every single one of them treated you like a pampered young master who only knew how to swagger around school on Lucius's Galleons! No one knew you hid propulsion arrays in your boots, no one knew you carried an underwater locator, and no one knew you had learned sword thrusts and ground-skating pivots in the underground combat hall!"
Releasing his shoulder, Jerry slipped both hands back into his coat pockets, strolling along the perimeter of the table.
"The contingencies they prepared—those sinister Dark Magics meant specifically to counter defensive gear or ambush opponents—they didn't even have time to deploy against you in the first and second tasks! You had already snatched the cup from the platform relying on speed and an information deficit!"
Jerry paused, turning sideways to look at Draco.
"But what about this time?"
Jerry pointed toward the marble archway.
"The Daily Prophet's front-page headline has been flying through the streets for two full days! The Pureblood Blade Tempered in Battle: Draco Malfoy's Fatal Seventeen Minutes! Right now, every pureblood family, Auror brigade, and professional flyer across Europe is holding that paper! With the roster exposed for so long, no one will ever underestimate you again!"
Draco's Adam's apple bobbed violently. Hands on his hips, he paced restlessly across the carpet.
"So what? I have heavy gear in hand! So what if they know?!"
"Knowing means they will cheat."
Jerry stated those words with absolute bluntness.
Leaning against the edge of the archival cabinet with crossed legs, his tone was as calm as discussing a lunch menu.
"How do you know they won't cheat again? They cheat constantly. In the face of profit, prestige, and frontline military glory, you can't possibly expect to talk about honor with a bunch of wizards, can you?"
These words were brutally explicit, completely tearing away the veneer of hypocritical elegance covering the wizarding world.
Draco froze where he stood.
Turning to look at Jerry leaning against the cabinet, his lips twitched as if wanting to argue, but memories of Karkaroff deploying asphyxiation toxin underwater in the Black Lake and the ruthless underhanded schemes on the Old European black market flooded his mind in an instant.
Jerry didn't look at Draco's darkening face.
Shifting his stance slightly, his dark eyes swept toward the three Gringotts goblins who had remained kneeling on the carpet.
"Hey."
Jerry called out casually.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the wooden cabinet with crisp knocks.
"You three, raise your heads."
The kneeling elder goblin Gornuk and the two younger goblins shuddered violently.
Like three startled gophers, they scrambled to raise their withered, wrinkled faces from the carpet, their slender claws still pressed flat, their pointed ears twitching frantically.
Jerry pointed a finger at Draco standing blankly by the table, and then at himself.
"Let me ask you."
Leaning against the cabinet, a cold, wicked smirk played upon Jerry's lips.
"You've managed vault ledgers in Gringotts for centuries, dealing daily with Wizengamot members, Ministry department heads, and pureblood patriarchs. Tell me... do wizards possess honor?"
The question was extraordinarily abrupt, yet cut right to the bone!
Hearing this, Gornuk's wrinkled face twitched like crumpled scrap parchment!
His large yellow eyes spun madly beneath his heavy brow, glancing at the impassive Jerry, and then at Young Master Malfoy whose face had turned entirely green.
In the very next second!
Without a shred of hesitation!
The elder goblin Gornuk whipped his withered neck, his large head with its hooked nose shaking madly from side to side in the air!
Shaking violently! Shaking in absolute synchrony!
Slap-slap-slap!
Not just Gornuk! The two younger goblins behind him shook their heads like rattle-drums at the exact same time! Their three pointed hooked noses drew afterimages in the air, the heavy Gringotts vault badges on their chests clattering against their collars!
The three goblins moved in absolute, unified motion! No communication, no hesitation! Using their entire body language to convey a single ironclad truth to the two boys in the room—
Wizards possessed no honor whatsoever!
"See?"
Jerry turned, hands in his coat pockets, looking at Draco whose eyelids were twitching madly.
"Even these midgets who spend every day squeezing Galleons from wizard pockets see things clearer than you.
And you actually expected battle-hardened Aurors and professional veterans from national teams to observe sportsmanship with you on a Quidditch pitch?"
Gornuk flattened himself against the carpet, crawling forward half an inch, his shrill voice chiming in with desperate urgency:
"Mr. Rosier is entirely correct! Young Master Malfoy!"
Gornuk shrieked, his twig-like fingers gesturing madly.
"On Gringotts' loan ledgers, two entire underground vaults are packed with defaulted debts from wizards! Wizengamot members sign non-disclosure agreements one week, and tear them to shreds the next for frontline spirit herb allocations! In the last Quidditch World Cup, three unvetted forms of invisible acceleration Dark Magic were discovered inside the tail of the Irish team's brooms!
Playing sports?
Wizards would cast Confundus Charms on the referees right on the pitch!"
Standing by the table, listening to the goblin's raw, screaming declaration, Draco's lips pressed into a tight line.
His grip on the gilded cane slowly loosened, and he sank heavily back into the high-backed leather chair as if dropping to the bottom of the sea.
Grabbing the bottle of dragon-blood liquor from the table, bypassing a glass entirely, he tilted his neck back and chugged half a bottle down! Scalding red liquor streamed down his chin, dripping onto his black woolen coat.
Bang!
Draco slammed the empty bottle onto the darkwood table.
Looking up, the superficial euphoria in his grey-blue eyes had faded completely, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve hammered awake by Jerry.
Resting both hands on the table, his eyes locked onto Jerry.
"Then what should I do?"
Draco spoke, all arrogance stripped away, returning to the absolute coolness of his underground training.
"If Potter refuses the challenge, or if those old bastards truly cheat on the pitch... won't this betting pool of mine become the laughingstock of all Europe?"
Seeing him regain his composure, Jerry gave a satisfied nod in the shadows.
Jerry strode over to the darkwood table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Pushing the black leather folder forward half a foot, he folded his hands over the edge of the table.
"First."
Jerry got straight to the point, his voice crisp and decisive.
"Potter doesn't need to accept voluntarily; we will force him into a corner where he has no choice but to accept."
Jerry traced a straight line across the tabletop with a finger.
"First thing tomorrow morning, have Rita Skeeter publish an article on page two of the Daily Prophet. The headline will be The Savior's Cowardice? Facing the Old European All-Star Lineup, Have Gryffindor's Brooms Become Mere Ornaments?. The article doesn't need to mention your name, Draco Malfoy; it only needs to praise the combat records of those veteran flyers to the skies, while questioning the actual combat capabilities of Hogwarts student flyers."
Draco's eyes lit up: "Forcing his hand through public opinion?"
"Exactly."
Jerry sneered.
"Those Gryffindor fools fall for this every single time. Potter is an insecure brat who cares about his image above all else; having just been pumped full of zealous rhetoric by Dumbledore last night, he's desperate to prove to the front lines and the school that he isn't useless. Once the media storm kicks up, you won't even need to send an invitation—he'll run to the Headmaster's office himself, slamming his hands on Dumbledore's desk demanding the signed exemption."
Draco gripped the edge of the table, a vicious curve hooking at his lips once more.
"And second? What about cheating on the pitch? If those veteran pros use Dark Magic or modified brooms..."
"Then we cheat better than they do."
Jerry cut him off smoothly, his words making all three goblins on the floor shudder simultaneously.
Jerry turned his head, patting the black leather folder.
"The latest high-frequency magic disrupters stamped in the workshop were originally designed with an effective radius of ten paces. Tonight, I'll have Hermione rework the micro-array runes of the disrupters, reducing the explosive force while expanding the radius of effect to fifty paces."
Jerry extended two fingers, making a crushing motion in the air.
"Before the match begins, sew these modified micro-disrupter plates into the collar and boot soles of your tactical leather suit. The moment anyone in mid-air attempts to hit you with a silent Stunning Spell or accelerate their broom with Dark Magic—"
A dangerously wicked smile curled upon Jerry's lips.
"You only need to press the fastener. Within fifty paces, all magical guidance and broom enchantments will completely fry in a millisecond! When that happens, everyone will lose magical propulsion in mid-air, relying purely on physical strength and melee brawling to seize the Snitch!"
Jerry leaned forward, fixing Draco with an overwhelming gaze.
"Two hundred meters in the air, stripped of defenses, devoid of spell support... do you think those professional athletes who only know how to fly broomsticks can beat the sword thrusts you forged in the underground combat hall?"
Hearing this, Draco's entire spine trembled with wild excitement!
He slammed both hands onto the darkwood table!
Clang! Clang!
The golden goblet and cane bounced into the air!
"Fuck! That's brutal! You black-hearted devil!"
Draco laughed maniacally, his pale, proud face radiating a frenzied contrast.
"Burning out every single magical enchantment! Brawling with them in mid-air?! Hahahaha! The hardened shields and sword techniques in my hands will shatter their ribs to pieces!"
Ignoring his laughter, Jerry looked back down at the elder goblin Gornuk sprawled on the carpet.
"Did you understand that, Gringotts Commissioner?"
Jerry's tone was chillingly cool.
"The terms of the underground betting pool are to be revised. We won't bet on whether Potter can last twenty minutes, nor on whether Malfoy can knock him down."
Jerry tapped his fingers on the table.
"Line One! Betting on how many professional brooms will crash from mid-air within the first ten minutes of the All-Star brawl! Odds of three to one!"
"Line Two!"
A chilling glint flashed in the corners of Jerry's eyes.
"Betting on how many of the fifteen competitors... will still be able to walk off the pitch on their own feet when the match concludes! Odds of... fifteen to one!"
Hearing these two brand-new betting lines, Gornuk's wrinkled face shook like a sieve.
An unimaginable mix of greed and terror erupted in his yellow eyes!
Betting lines like these... built upon absolute violence, absolute hardware dominance, and ruthless tactical calculation... once made public, every bloodthirsty, gambling-crazed black market wizard and frontline deserter across Europe would pour their life savings into Gringotts' vaults!
"Mr. Rosier... you... you are an absolute genius..."
The elder goblin Gornuk shrieked, his withered palms frantically stamping the brass-bound leather ledger before him!
Red sealing wax stamps pounded into the expensive parchment with harsh thuds.
"Gringotts accepts all modifications!
The three million Galleons in reserve capital will be transferred to the Level-One Vault tonight! Gringotts' seventy-plus outposts will dispatch the betting lines to every corner of Old Europe exactly as you command!"
Jerry stood up.
He straightened his overcoat collar, picked up the black leather folder from the table, and tucked it under his arm.
Without sparing another glance at the three goblins still stamping madly on the floor, he strode straight toward the lift at the lounge exit.
Draco quickly grabbed his gilded cane and the gold-foil invitation, striding with steady boots behind Jerry. The two retainers followed close behind with the document trunks.
At the lift gates, Jerry paused.
He turned his head, looking at Draco beside him, who stood tall and confident, radiating the dual presence of a lethal assassin and a noble heir.
"Go to the workshop tonight to find Hermione; leave your tactical coat to have the array runes modified."
Jerry's tone was flat.
"When the Quidditch Championship opening day arrives... don't let me see you drop the ball on the pitch."
Draco grinned, baring two rows of neat white teeth, carving a powerful arc through the air with his cane.
"Don't worry, Major Shareholder."
Leaning against the metal iron grille of the lift, Draco's eyes gleamed with bloodthirsty triumph.
"I will nail the eyes of millions... firmly onto the banner of our Slytherin!"