Chapter 7: "No Magic. Didn't Say Anything About Guns."

Chapter 7: "No Magic. Didn't Say Anything About Guns."

Shelby Manor.

"Five million pounds?" Leon said, flipping through the documents in front of him. He was pleased. "Excellent. That's a bit more than I anticipated. It seems the buyers weren't in a position to haggle."

John leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face as he puffed on his pipe. "Us taking out the Chief Inspector put the fear of God into a lot of people. They didn't have the nerve to lowball us."

Leon offered his brother a few words of genuine praise before turning to Arthur to ask about his assignment.

"We're making headway," Arthur said, his expression becoming serious. "I've personally led the teams to dozens of orphanages this past month. Any child that seemed even slightly... unusual, we've adopted in the family name."

Leon nodded, considering this for a moment.

"Of the five million pounds on the books, I'll be taking four million with me. I want you to use the remaining million to establish a trust fund. It will be dedicated solely to raising and educating these children."

He paused. "I'll arrange for a proper teacher for them as soon as I can."

"Alright, my dear brothers," Leon said, rising to his feet. "It seems we'll have to part ways for a while."

A letter from Dumbledore had arrived, promising that someone would be waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. With all his preparations complete, it was finally time to pull back the curtain on the wizarding world.

Neither Arthur nor John was worried about their younger brother's impending journey. They knew that no matter where he went, Leon Shelby would never be the one to come out on the losing end.

And so, after a brief farewell, a convoy of black cars pulled away from the gates of the Shelby Estate.

Destination: Number One, Diagon Alley, Charing Cross Road, London.

At the manor gates, Arthur took a long drag from his pipe, watching the convoy disappear down the road. John clapped him on the shoulder, his own expression a little wistful.

"Heard that new place on the high street has some fine Gypsy girls."

"Leon's barely gone and that's all you're thinking about?"

"Fine then, I'll go by myself."

"I'm coming with you."

"Hypocrite."

In London, there was an unassuming pub, tucked between an old bookshop and a record store from which the faint sound of music drifted intermittently. The sign hanging over the door was faded and worn, but the words "The Leaky Cauldron" were still just about visible.

Flanked by his entourage of bodyguards in black suits, Leon pushed his way inside.

The smell hit him first—a thick, overpowering wave of stale ale, mingled with another, less pleasant odour. Near the door, a goblin with long ears, clearly deep in his cups, was telling a story, spraying spittle with every word. Some of it landed on a black-robed witch, who glared daggers at him, pulling out a crystal ball and muttering under her breath.

At a table in the corner, several wizards in grey robes were playing cards, their shifty eyes darting around the room. Leon pegged them as crooks immediately. Not far off, another group of unsavoury-looking wizards let out a burst of raucous laughter; he could just about make out the words "Unforgivable Curses."

Leon took a deep, greedy breath, a small smile playing on his lips.

Ever since he'd steered the family towards legitimate business, it had been a long time since he'd been able to breathe such a pure, unfiltered air of villainy.

Interesting. This place has character.

As Leon was observing the pub's patrons, they were observing him. The Peaky Blinders, in their sharp black suits, stuck out like sore thumbs. From the moment they walked in, every eye in the place was on them.

"Gentlemen, I'm Tom, the owner..." A middle-aged man with the air of a publican approached them, his gaze sweeping over Leon and the men behind him, his expression puzzled.

Despite his confusion, he maintained a professional demeanour. "What can I get for you? The Butterbeer's a fine choice."

"Perhaps later," Leon replied politely. "We were in a hurry and only brought Muggle currency with us."

To his surprise, the landlord gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Not to worry. Order what you like, you can pay me whenever it's convenient." It wasn't that the man was particularly generous; it was clear that Leon and his men were people of means, and Leon himself had an undeniable air of authority. Tom was simply making a smart business decision.

"Thank you. A Butterbeer for everyone, then."

With that, Leon found a table in the corner and sat down to wait for Dumbledore's contact. His men took up positions at the surrounding tables.

As he waited, Leon wondered who Dumbledore would send. The letter hadn't specified. He hoped it would be Snape. Apart from Dumbledore himself, Snape was likely the most accomplished practitioner of the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Furthermore, as a former Death Eater, he would have an intimate knowledge of the wizarding world's underbelly—knowledge that would be invaluable to Leon's plans.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sly, wheezing voice.

"Need to change some money, little man? Bit embarrassing to be drinking on credit, eh?"

Leon looked up. It was the group of grey-robed wizards from the corner. Their leader was grinning at him, a greasy, predatory look in his eyes.

"Beer's here!" At that moment, Tom the landlord arrived, carrying a large tray. "Don't you worry about paying right away, sir," he said with a smile as he set the drinks down. Then, he leaned in and added in a voice only Leon could hear, "Don't mind them. They're vagrants, a bad lot."

Leon met his eyes, saw the warning there, and his estimation of the landlord went up another notch.

He turned his gaze back to the grey-robed wizards, his young, clear voice cutting through the pub's low murmur. "The name is Shelby. What's your rate?"

"Ten pounds for one Galleon!" the wizard's eyes lit up. "How much you looking to change, kid?"

Leon's brow furrowed. His good mood vanished. These magical thugs were intolerably rude. Not only was the rate double the official five-to-one exchange Dumbledore had mentioned—the man was clearly trying to swindle a first-year—but he'd also had the audacity to call him 'kid' after he had given the name 'Shelby.'

"Break his legs," Leon ordered his men, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Without a moment's hesitation, dozens of shotguns were levelled at the group of wizards. The first volley from the Peaky Blinders was a deafening, coordinated blast.

After the thunderous roar subsided, the wizard who had called Leon 'kid' was on the floor, clutching his bloody, mangled leg and screaming in agony.

"You can't use magic in the Leaky Cauldron! How dare you!" one of his companions shrieked after a moment of stunned silence. They scrambled to cast shield charms. "Protego!"

Leon snorted in contempt. The rules said no magic. What did that have to do with him opening fire? What was all this gibberish? They could take it up with his shotguns.

"One leg each," Leon commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Keep firing."