"Yes, sir." Jericho straightened, picked up the file, and read aloud: "The Magician is thirty-three years old this year, a bit older than most professional players, yet his physical condition and skillset have never lagged behind.
Data compiled from interviews with respected media outlets—such as The Daily Prophet and The Paris Wizarding Times—highlight a consistent question posed to him: how does he stay ahead of the game?
His answer was simple: he is a magician. Though Quidditch prohibits magic use during official matches, he openly claimed he uses magic—on himself.
He's never signed with any professional Quidditch team, but he was summoned for two Quidditch World Cups as a Chaser.
His record? 236 goals in just sixteen matches. Not as explosive in raw numbers as some star strikers, but far more efficient.
Jericho scanned the room, his tone deepening.
"Also, no fouls—none committed, none received. Every opponent claimed they couldn't even keep up with him."
He set the file down and sat, folding his arms.
"Our opponent is cloaked in mystery, raw power, and looks like a mountain hermit stepping from the mists." Jericho spread his hands. "So—what do you think? Is he a magician moonlighting as a player, or a professional player who just happens to be a magician?"
"I think you're making a fuss over nothing," Leon scoffed, grabbing the file. "In my opinion, there's only one word for someone like him."
"What?" Jericho raised an eyebrow.
"Let me guess," Charlie chimed in, lips curled. "Monster?"
"No!" Leon declared dramatically. "Clown!"
He held the file high. "Magician? Ha! He's a clown!"
Jericho chuckled and tossed Leon a stack of A4 parchment. "More 'official' than you? These have seals from nearly every major magical authority confirming the authenticity of his status."
Leon's grin faltered. He flipped through the pages, then threw them on the table. "What? Verification from Muggle governments? That's laughable. What use is a Muggle certificate in our world?"
Suddenly—
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Dozens of parchments soared onto the table, arranging themselves neatly. Moriarty had used a minor spell.
"Let's not argue," Moriarty said smoothly, his eyes gleaming. "I see it differently. This 'Magician' operates in the Muggle world and calls what he does 'magic,' but it's clear he's using real magic—our kind."
"As his fame grew, the Muggle government noticed. And remember, the Muggle Prime Minister knows of our world. The Magician must've spun a convincing tale to convince them he was just an illusionist."
Moriarty held up a document embossed with the royal seal of the United Kingdom and smirked.
"Backed by the Muggle government, the Magician fashioned himself as a master showman. He uses real magic, disguised as sleight of hand—carefully, of course. No wands. No incantations. Just clean, silent casting. That alone makes him dangerous. And cunning."
He thought briefly of Gilderoy Lockhart. The Magician reminded him of the man—only far more effective. If those two ever met, the sparks would fly.
Meanwhile, across the ocean at Heathrow Airport, a man with long black hair, a thick white fur coat, and crocodile-skin boots walked out of Arrivals, yawning.
Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di!
A shrill ringing echoed from his coat pocket.
The Magician's eyes narrowed. He reached inside and pulled out a sleek black rectangular device—one that buzzed with hidden enchantments.
A deep voice came from it. "Landed?"
"Ah, boss. Just disembarked." The Magician squinted against the sun and muttered, "The English morning sun has a soul-piercing quality. It's practically poetic."
A choking sound came through the device. "It's noon, you daft poet! If you don't straighten up, I'll sink you in the Med for shark food."
Unfazed, the Magician chuckled. "Alright, alright. First stop: the Ministry. Meet my team. Then I'll crash and fix my internal clock."
Click.
He stared at the now-silent device, then slipped it back into his coat.
"Alchemy phone," he muttered. "Always unreliable. Fancy tech from the organization that can't even hold a signal."
Crossing a busy street, he handed out £100 vouchers with a smile. "Live performance at the Magic House, London. Eight PM. November 21st!"
Most pedestrians ignored him, tossing the papers aside.
Shuff-shuff-shuff…
The discarded coupons transformed into a cloud of fluttering playing cards. When they cleared, the Magician was gone.
Snap!
He'd Apparated directly to the Ministry of Magic. He passed through the visitor's phone booth, descended to Level Three, and made his way to the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters.
He pushed the door open. Inside, a large round table. Familiar faces ringed around it—his teammates.
"Uncle's finally here!" A bulky wizard with a bright red nose greeted him.
The Magician pointed toward the man's face. "Red nose, blue nose, green nose, black nose. What's the colour of the day?"
"Red forever," the man beamed. "Permanent Charm. I like the statement."
"Carry on then," the Magician waved. He approached another teammate—Exploding Head—and the two greeted each other with a complicated hand slap.
"Yo, you made it."
"How's it hangin', brother?"
"Hey, this here's 100% grass-fed Kobe beef. Want some?"
The plate he held gleamed with silver trim and juicy cuts.
"Where'd you steal that?" The Magician teased. "I know you pour your Quidditch earnings into underground rap shows."
"Director Ludo's treat," said Exploding Head with a grin.
"Tsk. High-ranking Ministry officials, huh?" The Magician mused. "Maybe I should stage a magic show in the Atrium."
"Enough chatter," said Roman, the team captain. "Sit down."
"Our opponents this time are tricky. The Ministry's calling it a friendly, a coaching match—but don't let your guard down."
He motioned to his assistant. "Pete, hand out the profiles."
As manila folders slid down the table, the atmosphere grew heavy.
Exploding Head and Red Nose exchanged a look. The last time Roman was this grim was before they faced the US team in the Cup Finals.
Could it be… that Roman considered this Dream Team as dangerous as the Americans?
"Let's start with their captain," Roman announced. "Moriarty Slytherin."
"The current Head of the Slytherin House," he said slowly. "I trust you've heard of him."
"Oh, absolutely," the Magician replied with a strange smile. "I admire him greatly."
His gaze narrowed with intrigue.
Back at Hogwarts, the Dream Team had finished reviewing their opposition. Moriarty had selected a towering Ravenclaw seventh-year to be the team's goalkeeper—cool-headed, confident, and sharp-eyed.
Preparation was complete. The match of magic and might was approaching.
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