The early August morning carried a faint chill, softened by a light breeze that stirred gently through Diagon Alley.
Moriarty strode along the cobbled path, moving against the morning sun as he adjusted his silver-white wizard robes. After spending the spring and summer in Hyprosay, his body had grown accustomed to the temperate Pacific climate. Now, back in the British Isles, he felt the difference keenly—every gust of wind brushed against his skin like an icy whisper.
At this hour, Diagon Alley hadn't yet come alive. Few wizards and witches were about, and most of the shopkeepers were only just beginning to open for business. Shopfronts on both sides of the street bore the proud blue and silver banners of the British National Quidditch team, and photographs of Chasers mid-flight and gleaming Golden Snitches had been plastered on the windows. The festive spirit of the World Cup finale hung tangibly in the air.
A staggering figure emerged from the opposite end of the alley. Cloaked in black and shambling like an inferius in need of direction, the man drew Moriarty's gaze. Recognition flickered in Moriarty's eyes, followed by a sly smile as he advanced.
As the distance narrowed, Moriarty examined the man's face more closely. His skin was pale to the point of translucence, and his eyes were rimmed in red, grotesquely swollen from lack of rest. The man rubbed at them persistently, as though trying to gouge something out. Every few steps, he let out a yawn so exaggerated it seemed performative.
"Would you like a glass of blood juice, sir?" Moriarty inquired coolly as he neared.
Instantly, the man straightened as though he'd heard the voice of salvation. His hands dropped from his face, and he looked up with ravenous eagerness. "Oh yes, please! Quick, give it—" He stopped abruptly when he recognized who had spoken.
"You? Ah—no, no, not you!" The man's joy turned to panic. "Moriarty Slytherin! Merlin's beard, I finally found you!"
He clutched his head and began muttering to himself. "No, no, no! It's you. You'd never give me blood juice. What am I thinking?"
Moriarty chuckled, his voice thick with amusement. "Isaac Jude, you are a most peculiar vampire. Let me hazard a guess—your beloved finally accepted you? But on one condition: abandon your vampiric habits, live like a human, and learn to appreciate wizard cuisine?"
Isaac blinked in stunned amazement. "How did you—yes! Spot on! She even made me swear off blood entirely. I'm going mad!"
"Heh." Moriarty circled him slowly, observing the pathetic state of the vampire viscount. "So tell me, have you obeyed her?"
Isaac nodded feverishly. "How could I not? She's my everything."
"I see. So what have you been doing? Roaming the alleys of London at dawn, sipping on butterbeer, chewing on steak and kidney pies, buying scarves in Diagon Alley. You're adapting, aren't you?" Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Why not return to your coffin like a proper vampire and spare yourself this humiliation?"
"I'm doing this for love!" Isaac declared passionately. "I'm willing to change—everything! If it were possible, I'd become human just to be with her."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow, a rare glint of sympathy passing through his cold gaze. "Noble indeed," he said, giving a slow clap. "I almost pity your grandfather."
Then, with a more serious tone, he gestured for Isaac to follow him into a quieter nook between shops. "Now, enough of your melodrama. What's your real reason for finding me? Don't tell me you broke into Slytherin Castle just for a chat."
"Broke in? Please," Isaac scoffed. "I asked a few friendly wizards for your address, but they looked at me like I'd grown a third fang."
Moriarty laughed softly, and the two shared a brief moment of camaraderie before Isaac grew solemn.
"I was sent by my grandfather," Isaac whispered, glancing around to ensure they were alone. "He asked me to warn you: the vampire high council has made plans—against you."
Moriarty's eyes turned hard. "They dare?"
"The Archduke Quinlan is dead," Isaac continued nervously. "The Ancestors can't be revived. Still, the elders haven't learned humility. Grandfather says something big is coming, and you're at the center of it."
Moriarty's expression darkened. A cold mist filled the alley as his magical aura surged. Frost crackled along the walls, and the temperature dropped precipitously. "If the vampires have truly learned nothing," he murmured, "then it may be time to bury their legacy. Perhaps forever."
Isaac flinched, but pressed on. "Not all vampires are the enemy. Look at me—I came to warn you! Grandfather suspects this new plot involves someone far more dangerous than an Archduke."
"Who?"
Isaac's voice trembled. "The Prince. The Vampire Prince himself."
Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "A Prince? Hmph. Makes no difference."
He turned and began walking again, his long strides carrying him toward the edge of the Alley.
Isaac didn't follow this time. He simply called after Moriarty, "Fine, go! But don't forget—I'll prove myself. One day, I'll be human, and you'll eat your words!"
Moriarty almost smiled. Almost. But the absurdity of Isaac's dream dampened any fondness he had for the vampire. "A vampire viscount," he muttered, "desperate to abandon his bloodline for love."
Love. Curious, dangerous thing.
He clicked his tongue in amused disdain and Apparated to Hogsmeade. The quaint village greeted him with familiarity. Passing by the Magic Revival Item Shop, he noticed the door ajar and briefly entertained a detour.
Mrs. Malfoy. Full-bodied, pearly-skinned, and never subtle.
He shook the thought. There were more pressing matters—namely, the second-year make-up exam at Hogwarts.
Pulling out the Marauder's Map, Moriarty traced a familiar secret path into the castle. Filch was snoozing somewhere nearby, and with Paro's discreet assistance, Moriarty slipped into the grand headmaster's office unnoticed.
Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk. His expression was mild, but the raised eyebrow suggested intrigue.
"Moriarty," he said, reaching for his half-moon glasses. "Do you share my fondness for brownie soft cookies? Otherwise, I can't imagine how you've found your way into my office."
Moriarty smirked. Paro had informed him that the new password was, indeed, "soft brownie cookies." Likely a reference to the headmaster's sweet tooth—or perhaps the mischievous stone gargoyle's twisted sense of humor.
"Bring out the refreshments," Moriarty said coolly as he conjured a plush red armchair and sat across from the old wizard. "Hyprosay's cuisine is quite good. Next year, I might teach the elves a few North American recipes."
"A delightful idea," Dumbledore said with a knowing smile. "What about desserts?"
"Tragically, few."
Despite the light tone, Moriarty couldn't bring himself to feel too bad. After all Dumbledore had endured, maybe desserts weren't such a bad indulgence.
From his robe, Moriarty withdrew a piece of parchment and slid it across the desk. A single symbol was drawn on it—familiar, ancient, and troubling.
"The Deathly Hallows," Dumbledore murmured, his voice sharp with recognition. "Where did you find this?"
"A Polish player's signed photo," Moriarty replied. "But the emblem... the aura behind it wasn't his. You know who stands behind this mark."
"Impossible," Dumbledore said, his voice firmer than ever. "He disbanded the Saints forty-five years ago."
"I never said he intended me harm," Moriarty said mildly. "But someone among the Saints has embedded themselves within the Polish team. Unusual, isn't it?"
Dumbledore sat back, silent for a moment. "Indeed... unusual."
Moriarty stood, his chair vanishing behind him. "I'll go find Professor McGonagall for the make-up exam. See you soon."
Dumbledore's voice followed him, a wry smile evident in its tone. "Not too soon. Mrs. Malfoy has invited all Hogwarts professors to the World Cup final. I suspect we'll see each other again before long."
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