After sending Lilith away, Moriarty closed the classroom door with a decisive snap, flipped her wrist, and the snow fir wand sprang smoothly from its holder into her palm.
She conjured a sturdy mahogany square table with a wave, then pointed her wand at the parchment scattered on the floor. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The documents lifted gracefully into the air, aligning in a perfect floating square in front of the assembled group.
"These are the profiles of the eleven players on the national team," Moriarty announced. "Their lives, hobbies, career records, and most importantly, their dueling and Quidditch techniques. Everything you need to know is here."
Her voice rang with absolute authority. "We have five days to train and coordinate. That gives us two days to memorize these documents."
She paused briefly, eyes cold with contempt. "The national team might see this as just another exhibition match. British wizards see it as a warm-up..."
Inwardly, Moriarty scoffed. Ludo Bagman had manipulated the Ministry, deceiving those above and below him. He'd turned the match into a media spectacle, raking in profits.
He'll cough it all back up by next year's World Cup, Moriarty vowed, her eyes flashing with a chill resolve before softening again.
"Our goal is victory. Nothing less."
A fire ignited in Jericho and the others. Their eyes glinted with conviction and suppressed excitement, ready for battle.
Moriarty surveyed each of them, her gaze firm and motivating. "Let the world laugh and call us schoolchildren. Let them underestimate us."
"In truth, we are the heirs of Slytherin, purebloods of Hogwarts. We are the future of wizarding Britain."
"Yes, sir!" Jericho cheered. The others—Leon, Marcus, and even Charlie—grinned at each other, sharing a strange but determined camaraderie.
Charlie still didn't trust their fanaticism, but had to admit that Leon and Jericho were surprisingly dependable as teammates.
Tonks, entranced by Moriarty, turned her hair a solemn grey—unconsciously mirroring her captain, as if that connection would draw her closer.
Moriarty tapped the table rhythmically, instantly drawing the group's attention. The sound quieted the growing excitement.
She smiled faintly. "We will fight as one. And what better identity for us than the underdogs who topple the national team?"
Cheers erupted. Fists were pumped into the air.
"You read our hearts, sir!"
"We'll wreck them! I can already see Roman's smug face smashed in!"
Moriarty nodded slightly, exchanging confident looks with each of them. They immediately understood and took their seats, focused now, flipping through documents with renewed drive.
The classroom quieted. The only sounds were pages rustling and parchment whispering as it was turned. Lines of neat black script filled the sheets, some in foreign tongues—records of the national team's international games.
Jericho and Marcus grimaced. Their foreign language skills were laughable, but the moving magical photos helped.
The visual footage showed player styles and spells in action—snapshots of their gameplay preserved in animation.
Jerry's subjects flashed faster than ever as he scribbled notes vigorously, eyes darting between the pages.
Of them all, only Moriarty and Tonks read at top speed. Each finished a page in about a minute, allowing their shorthand quills to copy notes into pre-prepared notebooks with mechanical efficiency.
Two hours later, Moriarty stood and clapped sharply.
"Alright. Time to debrief."
She opened her notebook and flicked her wand. The notes and pictures shimmered upward, projected magically onto the ceiling for all to see.
"British National Seeker Roman, native Londoner. Twenty-four. Durmstrang alumnus."
"At seventeen, he went pro—signed with Caerphilly Flying Crossbows, helped them win three straight United Cups."
"By twenty, he was selected for the national team as Seeker. In the 1986 World Cup, he won five of nine matches and brought England to the semifinals."
Moriarty's mouth curled into a sardonic smirk. "The poster boy for young prodigies."
None of her teammates flinched. They knew Moriarty wasn't done.
"In every Cup and World match, Roman's average Snitch-catch time is under two hours."
"But when England met the U.S. in the semis, their Chasers were overwhelmed. The match stretched to six hours—and Roman never caught the Snitch."
Moriarty let the information hang before continuing. "He thrives in fair winds but collapses when the tide turns. A classic rhythm player."
Heads nodded. Roman, the opposing Seeker, was Moriarty's personal rival in this match. She already had a strategy brewing.
"There's more," she added, shaking her notebook and giving Jericho a look, "The one who shut Roman down was none other than Maxi Blanche III—captain of the U.S. team."
All heads turned to Jericho.
Jericho lifted his chin. "Maxi's my cousin. My uncle's kid. He'll lead the U.S. team again next year."
Leon snorted. "So the Blanche family controls all of U.S. magical sports now?"
"Jealous?" Jericho grinned. "If our captain doesn't make it in the British Ministry, he's welcome in America. I pay my staff 100 Galleons a month."
Leon sneered. "Right. Everyone knows Director James Blanche is the cleanest official in North America. If he can't spend 100 Galleons a year, how are you this rich?"
He narrowed his eyes. "First thing I'll do after joining the Ministry? Report your whole family to the International Wizarding Society for corruption."
Charlie laughed, but jumped as Tonks slammed her notebook on the table.
"Quit the nonsense!" she scolded, glaring at them. "Focus. This is my opponent."
She opened her notebook and displayed a photo. A tall man with a massive afro stared back.
Jericho chortled. "Brother Black! That hair—he should be on stage rapping, not on a broom."
Charlie leaned toward Moriarty. "Sir, seriously consider what I told you…"
Then he froze. Tonks narrowed her eyes and tapped her notebook ominously.
Moriarty chuckled and moved behind Tonks, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Relax. Let's hear Jericho out. I've seen his report—his opponent's… quite the case."
Tonks sat still, letting Moriarty's touch ease her irritation.
"Roman's teammate," Tonks continued, "Blowhead. From Yorkshire. Twenty-six. Another Durmstrang graduate—Roman's senior. They've played together for seven years and are perfectly in sync. He's a Chaser."
"Currently with Caerphilly Crossbows. Selected for the national team at twenty-one."
"In eight years, he's played 1,306 matches, scored 3,384 goals, and has zero fouls. None."
Everyone went still.
"But," she added, "he's been fouled 1,047 times. That's about once per match."
Moriarty nodded approvingly. Tonks had switched positions from Seeker to Chaser. A clean opponent was a tactical blessing.
Jericho stood, notebook in hand. "My turn. I won't say his name—just look."
He revealed a photo. "I call him the Magician."
Tonks raised a brow and reached for her notebook.
Jericho held up a hand, alarmed. "Wait, wait! I mean that as a compliment! He's literally a magician."
"Calm down," Tonks replied coolly, tucking hair behind her ear. "I'm just flipping the page."
Jericho cleared his throat, visibly relieved. Charlie leaned toward Moriarty again.
"Sir, really. Please be cautious in choosing a mate…"
Suddenly, he sensed a sharp tension and wisely shut up. Tonks was glaring again.
Moriarty smiled, still standing behind her. Whatever storm brewed in their ranks, she'd already seized control.