Mrs. Malfoy quickly retracted her gaze and stopped the foreign wizard who had paid the silver and was about to leave. "Sir, I'll give you a set of wand cleaning tools."
She stretched out her white-gloved hand and picked up a small box from the left shelf on the counter. The box was ornate, engraved with silver runes, and held a complete set of wand maintenance tools—a rare gift.
After Lucius was buried, Mrs. Malfoy took to wearing white gloves again, a symbol of purity and control in the eyes of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. She always folded her hands on her stomach on weekdays, her posture elegant and timeless like a portrait of a bygone age.
The foreign wizard, looking a bit startled, glanced at the wand cleaning tools and then back at Mrs. Malfoy. He waved his hands in polite refusal, his accent thick as he tried to form the words.
"Madam? Why, give... to me?"
Hearing his half-baked English, Mrs. Malfoy softened her expression and slowed her speech. "Because the Malfoy family is a trustworthy partner."
Moriarty had just walked into the store and caught those very words. He folded his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. His sharp gray eyes sparkled with mirth as he observed Mrs. Malfoy's performance—elegant, poised, and subtly cunning.
On the surface, her words were directed at the foreign wizard. But Moriarty could hear the subtext loud and clear.
The Malfoys are trusted companions. So why don't you trust me, Moriarty?
Her glance flicked briefly toward him, only to retreat instantly when she saw him smiling with a trace of amusement.
Facing the foreign wizard, she once again donned the role of noble lady and shrewd shopkeeper in a single breath—effortlessly and impeccably.
"Malfoy family, yes, trustworthy good partner!" the foreign wizard repeated with conviction. He picked up the cleaning set and wand box and exited the shop with a satisfied expression.
As the door jingled shut behind him, the shop quieted. Only she and Moriarty remained.
Mrs. Malfoy turned toward the shelf, showing Moriarty her delicately composed profile. Her tone was casual, as if his presence was of little consequence. "Sir, what do you need?"
Playing the coy game?
Moriarty arched an eyebrow, the smile on his lips deepening.
"Attracting the opposite sex by feigning indifference and aloofness?" he drawled, "That was last century's tactic."
Her shoulders trembled slightly. She was clearly holding back a laugh. Her white-gloved hands twitched as she took several small steps to hide behind the shelf, letting its edge obscure her face, which had already turned pink.
Amused, Moriarty began walking toward her. His slow footsteps made her flinch ever so subtly. She slipped behind the counter, sat gracefully on a high stool, and opened the Daily Prophet, pretending to be absorbed in the news.
Still, she spoke with composed hospitality. "Mr. Moriarty, welcome to the Magic Revival Item Shop."
He stepped behind the counter with her. The narrow space between them shrank. He could smell her faint perfume—something delicate, maybe roses with a note of mint. Mrs. Malfoy subtly shrank back, yet didn't retreat.
Instead, she reached over and shut the newspaper, her gloved hand brushing his lightly.
She had no choice now but to raise her head and meet his gaze. Her icy blue eyes collided with his steel gray ones, and after just a second, she looked away again.
Those gray eyes were like whirlpools—deep, endless, and impossible to read. They made her feel exposed, as though he could see through every layer of her carefully constructed composure.
And she was no stranger to such dangers. She had been raised among pureblood politics, had danced amid webs of lies, yet this boy—this young wizard—unsettled her.
Moriarty followed her gaze to the window display. There were broomstick signs for Comets and Silver Arrows, but no trace of Nimbus.
He smiled. "Mrs. Malfoy, I suppose I can interpret your recent eccentricities as an attempt to attract my attention?
Inviting Hogwarts professors and students to the finals, omitting Nimbus from the display, pretending not to recognize me when I walked in…"
With each item he listed, Mrs. Malfoy's eyes shifted in mounting panic. By the end, she was staring down at the counter, her composure cracking.
Moriarty let the silence draw out, then delivered the blow with a grin: "So you're jealous of Nimbus."
A blush blossomed on her cheeks and spread all the way to the base of her neck. But it lasted only a moment. Mrs. Malfoy was practiced. She quickly composed herself.
"Who would be jealous of a broomstick company?"
She scoffed and waved it off, "Mr. Moriarty, we're not children."
Then, brushing invisible dust off her gloves, she added with a note of restrained accusation, "Your behavior makes it impossible for me to treat you like one, doesn't it?"
She took a steadying breath, regal and poised. "So? Shouldn't we be talking like adults?"
Moriarty tilted his head slightly, watching her with a knowing smirk. "Oh? So what you mean is—you want to talk to me like an adult."
She was dressed impeccably today—deep purple wizarding robes, a black tulle underdress, tastefully arranged jewelry, and polished ankle boots. A vision of adult charm.
Mrs. Malfoy noticed his appraising eyes and scolded softly, "Don't overthink it. Honestly~"
The way she drew out the final syllable—playful and smooth—made Moriarty's eyebrows twitch upward. Her tone might have been accidental, but the implication wasn't lost on him.
Realizing what she'd said, Mrs. Malfoy quickly turned away. She marched toward the shop entrance, locked the door, and flipped the sign to Closed Today.
Moriarty leaned back on the stool, utterly at ease. "Locking the door and sealing us in together—is this your way of preparing for a heart-to-heart in a confined space?"
Mrs. Malfoy let out a short laugh and covered her mouth. Her shoulders trembled again. But after a moment, the noble woman in her returned. She turned back, steeled and poised.
"Then I'll be direct, Mr. Moriarty."
She stood with the poise of a Duchess, the slight blush on her cheeks the only crack in her otherwise serious expression.
Moriarty's grin deepened.
Everyone in British pure-blood society knew of Narcissa Malfoy's porcelain skin. It had been one of Lucius's many prides.
Now, the blush blooming across her cheeks—sparked by Moriarty's teasing—made her beauty feel alive, vulnerable even. And in this moment, Moriarty alone was witness to it.
But neither of them would say that aloud.
She glared at him briefly, as if saying, It's your fault.
He shrugged playfully. "Dear Mrs. Malfoy, the floor is yours."
"I want the distribution rights to the alchemy items you developed with Nicolas Flamel," she said, voice strong but with a tinge of suppressed frustration.
"I've been hinting all along, but you've ignored me. And now, you've gone and handed over the Nimbus 1990S rights—to the actual Nimbus company!"
She sounded wounded and exasperated.
"Oh? So you've been implying something?" Moriarty tilted his head again. His gray eyes locked onto hers. "I must've missed that. Could you tell me now—clearly—what exactly were you implying?"
"Pfft!" Mrs. Malfoy broke into a laugh, then caught herself and stomped her foot gently. "Ugh! You're impossible! Can't we have a serious conversation?"
Moriarty simply smiled, unbothered.
Teasing Mrs. Malfoy wasn't like teasing Tonks or Lilith.
She was more layered. Between flustered and composed, she could shift like the breeze, always remaining elegant.
Finally, Moriarty let go of the joke. "Regarding the Nimbus 1990S, I don't believe I owe you or your family an apology."
His tone turned cool. If he let this spiral further, he might not make it back to Hyprosae before dark.
Mrs. Malfoy sighed and waved her hand, as though brushing away the past. "Fine. Let's forget Nimbus."
"But what about my actual request? Do you agree?"
"We'll discuss it on a case-by-case basis," Moriarty answered evenly.
He knew the truth. As time passed and his power grew, the alchemy items he developed would only increase in value.
Letting Mrs. Malfoy handle distribution of some of them was harmless. She'd earn modest profits, and he'd gain substantial returns.
But some items—those of particular power—were never going public. They were his secret weapons, not for anyone else.
Naturally, she couldn't know that.
So her expectations would inevitably lead to disappointment.
Mrs. Malfoy indeed looked let down, her eyes falling to the floor—until they suddenly lifted with a new light.
"I have something you might be interested in," she said, a glint in her eye. "I found a diary while sorting through some of our family's dark magic artifacts. Do you want it?"
"Diary?"
Moriarty repeated the word, voice suddenly sharper.
A diary from the Malfoy family's vault of dark artifacts? That could only mean one thing.
A Horcrux.
Tom Riddle's diary.
His expression darkened. How had Narcissa found it? How had she held it in her hands?
This was no ordinary magical relic.
This was Voldemort's soul.
Moriarty's body stiffened. His eyes focused with solemn intensity.
This careless woman... what had she brought into the light?
The stakes had just changed.