The All-European Wizarding Duel Competition was a prestigious event held once every four years. This year, the venue was none other than Paris, France. Talented witches and wizards who had proven themselves in their respective national duel competitions converged upon the French Ministry of Magic over the past few days to formally register.
During this bustling period, Professor Flitwick and Charlie encountered Madame Olympe Maxime. The towering headmistress of Beauxbatons warmly greeted them and showed a surprising familiarity with the inner workings of the competition. She explained the format and rules in detail to Moriarty, who was standing beside them, exuding a calm and aloof presence.
The tournament was organized into two main categories: the adult wizard division and the underage wizard division. Both followed a harsh single-elimination format, where defeat meant immediate disqualification. Fleur Delacour and Charlie Weasley had both enlisted in the underage category, representing their respective schools.
"So you want me to sign up for the underage division and represent Hogwarts?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow, a trace of mockery curving his lips.
Having mastered the Killing Curse and refined it beyond the standard curriculum, competing against underage wizards felt ludicrous—if not dangerous. Letting someone of his capabilities into a junior competition seemed closer to sanctioned slaughter.
Furthermore, he was still too young to be considered for the adult division. What, then, was the value of participating in this so-called All-European Duel?
"We think you need a change of scenery," Dumbledore said with characteristic gentleness, his twinkling blue eyes unusually serious. "Although I'm unsure what you've endured recently, it's apparent to everyone that the last fortnight has weighed heavily on you. Perhaps a little distraction will help. It is, after all, the beginning of summer."
Moriarty met Dumbledore's gaze. Behind the aged calm was something rarer—genuine concern. The young Slytherin paused, then gave a slow nod. A short reprieve didn't sound so terrible. Playing with children from Eastern Europe? It might even be entertaining.
Everyone visibly relaxed. Professor Flitwick immediately hurried off to the French Ministry to complete Moriarty's registration. Charlie beamed with relief. "Brilliant! With you here, Hogwarts is certain to win. I can finally breathe easy."
It was true. Charlie had been in a tough spot. With William traveling abroad, Leon interning at the Ministry, Bill having mysteriously vanished, and neither Moriarty nor Tonks initially interested, he'd been Hogwarts' only representative.
His stellar performance in the All-Britain Wizarding Duels had done little to alleviate his anxiety. It only meant expectations were even higher.
Fleur, attuned to such pressures, offered a sobering perspective. "These days, many prodigies hail from Eastern Europe—Bulgaria, Serbia, Ukraine... and let us not forget the old magical dynasties. The Northern Woolly Bears and the Steel Carriage descendants…"
Her accent made even ominous descriptions sound melodic. Though her gaze was cast ahead, everyone knew her words were meant for Moriarty.
One week later, the All-European Wizarding Duel commenced. Upon arriving at the underage venue, Moriarty was surprised to find only 46 participants—nearly half the roster was absent. Many young wizards had withdrawn for vague or fabricated reasons.
Madame Maxime, ever perceptive, gave a knowing chuckle. "To expect the Ministry of Magic to keep a secret is like expecting Merlin himself to return. Word of Mr. Moriarty's proficiency in the Killing Curse has undoubtedly reached every pure-blood household in France. Naturally, their pampered heirs declined to participate."
Her tone then darkened slightly as her gaze drifted to Charlie. It was inevitable now—Moriarty would claim first place. But second? That was uncertain.
Could Fleur now hope for third place?
Even that expectation was upset. Viktor Krum of Bulgaria claimed third. Charlie, after a hard-fought series, earned second with seven victories and one defeat.
Moriarty, of course, achieved an unblemished record—eight wins, zero losses.
He did not stay for the award ceremony. Nor did he indulge in public accolades. The French Ministry, perhaps wisely, refrained from pressing him. But their Minister of Magic, Fengwei Capet, approached Dumbledore with a curious question.
"Albus, tell me, what were you doing when you were twelve?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "I don't quite recall. But I assure you, it wasn't casting Killing Curses on vampires."
Fengwei pressed on. "Do you think Grindelwald or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could perform the Killing Curse at that age?"
"If you're brave enough to ask them directly," Dumbledore mused, "perhaps you'll find out."
"I'm forty-eight," the French Minister sighed, clearly flustered.
"Oh? My mistake. I thought you were older," Dumbledore quipped, departing cheerfully to join Madame Maxime.
While Fleur fell short in the junior division, a senior Beauxbatons student secured the championship in the adult category.
Later that evening, Dumbledore hosted a modest tea party to celebrate with Maxime and others. It was during this gathering that Dumbledore invited Moriarty to accompany him on a visit to the legendary alchemist, Nicolas Flamel.
"I'll meet Master Nicolas—but not just yet." Moriarty gestured toward Poseidon, who was seated at another table devouring food, evidently tired from travel. "Luke delivered a trove of letters. I need to return to England to deal with some affairs. Let's schedule the meeting for the first alchemy class of second year."
"You truly believe you can lure Beauxbatons' greatest treasure?" Madame Maxime huffed in protest.
Nicolas Flamel had studied at Beauxbatons, met his wife there, and even funded the school's castle grounds. The famed fountain bore the LeMays' name. The school still safeguarded countless manuscripts and alchemical texts penned by Flamel himself.
To the French, Flamel was a Beauxbatons legacy. Every student took pride in that lineage.
Now Hogwarts dared to recruit him?
Worse, the young man before her and Dumbledore both seemed entirely unshaken—if not smugly confident.
Suddenly, the sweetness of her desserts dulled.
Moriarty and Dumbledore exchanged a smile. For once, they were in silent agreement.
Flamel had lived for over six centuries. Very little could still captivate him—but knowledge? That was his one true currency.
Later, Moriarty departed for Charles de Gaulle Airport, catching a plane to London. As he boarded, the others came to bid him farewell. Charlie, fascinated by Muggle machinery, peppered Moriarty with questions about airplanes. Moriarty promised to gift him an illustrated aviation guide and a copy of Airplanes: A Muggle Marvel for Christmas.
Fleur's farewell was more… unexpected.
She hugged Moriarty softly, whispering in his ear, "Thank you for saving me that night. Maybe your face can change, but your eyes—your eyes stay the same. Don't ask how I know, call it a Veela's intuition. Goodbye—and don't return to France. The vampires still want revenge."
"Veela's intuition…" Moriarty murmured, watching her retreating figure. They'd shared the same space for a week, and only now did she leave him with a memory worth keeping.
On the flight back, Moriarty finally opened the stack of letters Luke had sent. Thirty in total.
The first came from Gilderoy Lockhart, reporting on the developments in Romania.
With heavy investment, the Flint family's dragon farm was up and running, expanding rapidly into tourism, breeding, and magical services. But this had stirred envy. Pureblood factions in both the UK and Romania sought a slice of the growing pie.
Lockhart's words were theatrical as ever:
"My illustrious young master, the local wizards are vultures—scavengers driven by gold! When I waved boxes of galleons, they practically tripped over themselves to lick my boots!
And the UK pure-bloods—the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight? Overrated!
Just last week, Lucius Malfoy—yes, that Malfoy—visited Romania to beg old Flint for mercy. The Malfoy dragon estate can't compete with ours. I wish you could've seen his face! This is the same man who tried to sabotage our mutual aid foundation. Now he's groveling!"
Moriarty opened the second letter, penned by old Flint himself. Between formalities and effusive praise, Flint confirmed Lockhart's claims. Lucius had indeed come to negotiate—and had been thoroughly humiliated.
Flint explained that Lucius had swallowed his pride because he was rallying pure-blood support for Cornelius Fudge's candidacy as Minister next year. The letter concluded with a small note:
"Lucius mentioned a mid-July Pureblood Gathering at Malfoy Manor. I believe he will invite you, young master."
Sure enough, the third letter was an ornate envelope from Wiltshire.
"Dear Mr. Moriarty, I remain your loyal friend, Lucius Malfoy.
The Malfoy line has always hailed from Slytherin. We were thrilled to hear of your return from China and refrained from disturbing your first year out of courtesy.
But now, the tides have shifted.
Lockhart, Flint, Foley, and even young Mitchum all speak of your brilliance. At eleven, you think like a Headmaster.
Therefore, I humbly invite you to our annual Pureblood Gathering.
Next year will be transformative—the Ministry's power will change hands, and with it, the market dynamics of pure-blood society.
As the last scion of the Slytherin lineage, your presence is not only requested—it is essential.
May Merlin guide your steps."
At the bottom, in silver ink, gleamed the Malfoy motto:
Born Noble.
It seemed the real game was only just beginning…
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