"Thank you, Senior."
"Thank you, Brother."
The younger students chorused gratefully, their faces glowing with admiration. They held onto the blessings in their hearts and stepped forward one by one to accept their gifts with genuine enthusiasm.
Moriarty watched as Roman and the others mingled with the crowd, laughter echoing around the courtyard. He smiled faintly and said, "A man remains a boy until the day he dies."
Lilith tilted her head, her golden hair catching the light as her eyes sparkled with mirth. "Hard to disagree, but I'd say women do too, wouldn't you?"
"Pretending to be profound again?" Moriarty rolled his eyes at her. Despite his mental maturity nearing thirty, Lilith—still in her teens—constantly feigned the airs of adulthood.
Lilith gave a playful snort and turned away, leaving him to his thoughts.
At that moment, Ludo Bagman led Roman and the other national team players toward Headmaster Dumbledore.
"I welcome you home with great joy," Dumbledore greeted them with a kind smile. "I trust you'll find comfort and happiness here."
Ludo chimed in enthusiastically, "Oh, they will! No doubt about it."
Roman and Explosive exchanged a silent glance. As Durmstrang alumni, they carried different allegiances, but they remained silent.
Ludo then turned his attention toward the Dream Team. "Mr. Moriarty!" he called out, approaching with a grin. "We meet again. Last time, you spoke of a future partnership. I didn't expect it to come so quickly—it feels like I've stepped back into the days when I played professionally."
He extended both hands as if to embrace or shake, but Moriarty responded coolly, offering only his left hand for a brief shake. "Mr. Bagman, I think by now you've realized something: when you work with me, your coffers fill quickly."
"Ah, yes—of course," Ludo chuckled nervously. He'd been made aware that Moriarty had discovered his underground betting operation. "Please… let's not mention that in public."
Moriarty caught the flicker of panic in his eyes and decided to let him stew a bit longer. Brushing past him, he made his way toward Roman.
Roman noticed Moriarty's approach and came forward, with Explosive and the rest of the national team trailing behind.
Behind Moriarty, Jericho, Leon, and the Dream Team followed closely, falling into line like soldiers. All but the Ravenclaw Keeper were present.
Their synchronized movement wasn't forced—it came naturally—but it brought with it a tangible sense of pressure.
Roman's gaze narrowed. He'd never seen a school Quidditch team carry such intimidating energy.
Even among the elite teams at the World Cup, the Dream Team's sheer presence might place them among the top contenders.
And Moriarty…
Roman locked eyes with him, those steely grey irises bottomless, commanding, and dangerous.
He realized in that moment—the Dream Team was far more than a school team. They were aiming for the World Cup semi-finals.
The thought shocked him. Weren't they supposed to lose well before then?
He shook his head violently, trying to banish the idea.
But he wasn't alone. His teammates were similarly unnerved.
Red Nose recalled a rumor: it wasn't Gilderoy Lockhart who slew the Quinlan Vampire—it was Moriarty and a group of elite pure-bloods.
The Magician licked his lips in silent anticipation, as if Moriarty were a dish he couldn't wait to sample.
Moriarty finally stood face-to-face with Roman. Though still young, he stood with such poise that his height seemed irrelevant compared to Roman's 186 cm frame.
Behind him, the Dream Team radiated an unyielding, almost mythic energy—like a newly risen sun, its rays sharp and blinding.
Jericho's head was raised with quiet pride, the smirk on his lips declaring: "You're all beneath my brother."
Leon's eyes narrowed at Roman. A pure-blood Englishman choosing Durmstrang over Hogwarts?
Traitor, he thought.
Charlie stood like a fiery lion, his long, untamed red hair igniting in the sunlight, his intense expression matching the flame.
Beside him, the Ravenclaw Keeper stood upright, glasses glinting as he adjusted them with a finger. Calm but calculating.
Behind Moriarty, Marcus loomed like a steel tower—serious, stoic, armored in spirit.
Tonks had changed her hair to match Moriarty's storm-grey, her eyes wide with intensity. One twitch, and she looked ready to hex Roman and the rest into dancing the tarantella or growing buck teeth.
Roman and his team recognized at once—this girl was not to be taken lightly.
Even among them, her aura stood out.
These weren't just students. They were monsters in uniform.
The national team members looked at each other, exchanging silent nods. In an instant, their demeanor shifted.
Where the Dream Team burned bright, the national team flowed like the tide—vast, deep, and ever-shifting.
A contrast in power. Youthful fire versus seasoned waters.
Moriarty stepped forward.
"Captain Roman," he began, voice even, "I'm looking forward to our match. You might not know this, but after today, there's a high probability I'll be joining your ranks—working with you to take England to the World Cup next year."
He let the statement hang in the air like a spell.
"So don't disappoint me. This match isn't just a contest between two teams—it's an assessment. I'm inspecting you."
The world seemed to stop.
Students gasped. Professors exchanged glances.
Did Moriarty just say he was inspecting the national team?
Joining the national team?
Aiming for the World Cup?
And he was just a student?
Their minds raced.
Slytherin patriarch. Transfiguration genius. Spell prodigy. Alchemist. Billionaire. Founder of Hermes Society. Commander of the Hogwarts Pure-blood Legion.
Now… possibly the youngest professional Quidditch player in history?
Some even dared to think: Is he the reincarnation of Merlin?
Jericho and Marcus were the first of the Dream Team to react, beaming at Moriarty's declaration.
"It's true!" Ludo cut in joyfully. "We had a long conversation. I invited him myself—I'm thrilled he agreed."
He shot Moriarty a pleased look, pleased that the earlier coldness hadn't soured him.
"And your father knows too, young Blanche," Ludo added. "He was there at the meeting."
Jericho lit up. "Ah! The day the three of you met!"
Ludo laughed in confirmation. Roman, however, wasn't laughing.
He stepped forward, face darkening. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He was furious.
So this match was now a trial? A 12-year-old inspecting him?
He would've been fine if someone like Maxi of the American team had said it.
But Moriarty?
Twelve?
His fists clenched.
Even Ludo sensed Moriarty had gone too far in revealing everything without warning.
But as he thought of Moriarty's "star-making project" and the mountains of gold Galleons, he made his choice.
Roman or Moriarty?
Easy choice.
"Mmm, yes—I didn't tell you," Ludo admitted with a shrug. "But you must understand, dear Captain, this hasn't been made public yet. No one else knows."
Roman gritted his teeth. "It's still against the rules. If he's on the national team, he's already violated countless guidelines."
He glared at Ludo. Then turned to Moriarty.
"The ones who break the rules and those who make them are usually the same," Moriarty said calmly. "Power bends the law. It's always been that way. You'll understand that soon enough."
He switched his staff from left to right and extended his hand to Roman.
"Not everyone is worthy to be my teammate. Not everyone deserves the chance to play alongside me. Not everyone shares in the glory of victory."
He paused, eyes sharp.
"But through this match—I'm giving you that chance. Whether you seize it, is entirely up to you."