After confirming that the elemental magic used by the mysterious attacker was indeed of the dark element, Moriarty felt no desire to remain any longer in the Forbidden Forest.
The magician's use of dark element magic had twisted the Forbidden Forest into a swamp of decay, as if it had rained blood and bile. The ground was slick with black, mucous-like sludge that reeked of corruption and death.
Fortunately, it appeared the magician was hesitant to fully unleash the forbidden spell known as Doomsday Withering. Kankan had barely managed to defend against it.
Had it been Moriarty, he would have added a corrosive toxin to both the River of Blood and Skull Mountain, ensuring no one could wield dark elemental magic within them.
Otherwise, this would be the result—
Moriarty pointed his snow fir wand at the repugnant mucus coating the forest floor and muttered, "Wind's Take."
A gust of elemental wind magic swirled through the air and seeped into the slime, attempting to capture the residue of dark magic.
"Ding-dong~ Capture failed."
Moriarty had expected as much. He carefully scooped a sample of the sludge into a small, intricately etched golden vial and stored it in his system's spatial inventory. He would attempt to analyze or extract the dark magic from it once his magical level increased.
Raising his wand, Moriarty summoned a torrential downpour. Heavy raindrops pounded the canopy and the corrupted ground, washing away the foul aura of the dark element, cleansing the area with natural magic.
He flew directly back to the Quidditch pitch. By now, the audience had already dispersed, having returned to the castle's auditorium. Only Marcus Flint remained on the field, waiting to report.
As soon as Moriarty landed, Marcus stepped forward and lowered his voice. "The family's wizard failed to stop the magician. He's escaped—through Hogsmeade."
"Explain," Moriarty said briskly, already walking toward the castle.
Marcus followed, visibly ashamed. "He tricked our wizard with a conjured inflatable dummy. The real magician used a Disguise Charm, transformed into a woman, and slipped out disguised as a witch."
Moriarty nodded, unfazed. Marcus bowed his head, guilt shadowing his face. "My father says the Flint family has failed you, and he accepts whatever punishment you see fit, Young Master."
Moriarty came to a sudden stop. "Do you remember the silver-maned horses?"
"You mean the Gralings?" Marcus looked up.
"Acquire a new batch of Gralings. Put them on the horse farm at Slytherin Castle. Train them to be obedient—intelligent enough to understand human commands." Moriarty glanced at Marcus meaningfully and resumed walking.
Marcus straightened with visible enthusiasm. "Yes, sir. I'll consult with Hagrid—he's been tending to the Gralings."
Moriarty gave a slight nod. This burly young man had finally found a purpose he genuinely loved.
"Moriarty's back!"
A girl's excited shriek pierced the air, and suddenly, heads popped out from the castle's windows like gophers from their burrows.
Bright smiles blossomed across dozens of faces.
Quickening his pace, Moriarty slipped into the auditorium hall before he could be mobbed by his many admirers.
Inside the main foyer, Dumbledore, Ludo Bagman, and members of the national team were in the midst of conversation. Moriarty wasted no time and recounted the incident in the forest—the magician had used magic on him.
Ludo reacted first, visibly outraged. "He used magic on you? Attempting to confuse and manipulate you? That mind-controlling voice—what utter rubbish!"
"Heir! Ha! As if some third-rate charlatan could choose you for something so ridiculous!" Ludo scoffed. "He should be thrown into Azkaban and made to perform tricks for the inmates!"
"Director Ludo," Dumbledore interjected, calm but pointed, "don't let anger cloud your reasoning. That voice—whatever it was—spoke of choosing an heir."
Dumbledore turned his perceptive gaze on Moriarty, his half-moon glasses flashing.
"A true magician—one who acts independently—does not seek an heir. There is undoubtedly a darker force guiding him."
Moriarty locked eyes with the headmaster. Their shared expression revealed mutual understanding—they were thinking the same thing.
Dumbledore turned to gaze eastward through the nearest window. The Auror he had sent to investigate the avalanche in the Himalayas had yet to return.
The magician had fled east as well.
Could he be from China?
Roman approached, clearly still shaken from his defeat. His voice was uncertain. "Before the magician vanished—right before I ran—he said that the next time we meet… we might be enemies."
Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "He said that to you?"
Roman nodded, crestfallen. Ludo's eyes bulged with disbelief. "Enemies? Is he planning to declare war on the British Ministry of Magic? Absurd! Ludicrous!"
"Hold on!" blurted the red-haired beater with the explosive hairstyle. "I think the magician meant that they'd be enemies on the Quidditch pitch. Maybe he's planning to represent another country at the World Cup."
"That would make more sense," Moriarty agreed. "Once the tournament starts, we'll see which country he plays for."
"You really think there's an organization behind him?" Ludo's tone shifted to serious in a flash, shocking the beater. "And you think it's tied to his country's Ministry of Magic?"
"Obvious," Moriarty said coolly. He sat beside the dining table and turned to Red Nose. "Please ask the house-elves in the kitchen to make me a glass of grape milk."
"Uh," Red Nose scratched his crimson-tipped nose, "Aren't we technically not supposed to go to the kitchens… in front of the Headmaster?"
Dumbledore gave him a gentle smile but said nothing.
"I should remind you," Ludo said, standing behind Moriarty with great formality, "that Mr. Moriarty holds the highest authority within this castle."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Ludo sounded like Gilderoy Lockhart's long-lost brother.
"Oh, so now you're playing the 'team unity' card?" the explosive-haired beater said, flopping into a seat across from Moriarty. "But I'll say this—this isn't Hogwarts. This isn't Slytherin Castle. This is the national team—"
"Enough." Moriarty rapped his knuckles against the table, silencing him. "We had a deal: if the Dream Team won, I would join the national team."
"You saw my performance, didn't you?
Whether you like it or not, I'm better than you—and I will lead England to the World Cup."
"But, but… you're suspected of using magic!" the beater spluttered, tugging at Roman's robes for support.
"I did not use magic while playing," Moriarty said loudly, without hesitation. "The magician attempted to brainwash me—can you say with certainty that he didn't do the same to other players?"
The explosive-haired beater fell silent. No one could guarantee that.
A cold sweat formed on his brow.
Moriarty laced his fingers together, a sharp smirk crossing his face.
"Think, man. If word of this incident spreads, and other countries raise a complaint with the International Confederation of Wizards, England's victories—and its reputation—will be wiped clean."
Roman and the explosive-haired player looked horrified.
Before they could formulate a response, Ludo let out a dramatic cry.
"My good sir! You are a noble Slytherin!" Ludo sat on Moriarty's left with a forced smile. "England's glory is Slytherin's glory. We are family!"
As the director of magical sports, Ludo was terrified of a scandal that might lead to international disgrace—or worse, his dismissal.
Moriarty sneered. "Director Ludo, how many World Cups has England won? And you speak of glory?"
"Haha… ha… hehe…" Ludo chuckled awkwardly, feeling humiliated but unable to lash out. He turned and glared daggers at Roman.
"Enough." Moriarty raised a hand, silencing them both.
He turned to Roman. "You and your teammates have one week to fix your mindset. Then come to Hogwarts for team training. If I see that you're still fragile as glass—I'll replace you. Don't expect mercy."
Roman and the explosive-haired player opened their mouths in protest.
Moriarty's eyes turned icy. "Not convinced? Good. I'll share the results of my investigation: you are completely unqualified."
"Right now, none of you deserve to be my teammates. I can replace you. I could lead the Dream Team into the World Cup and probably achieve better results!"
Roman paled, while the beater's face darkened with helpless fury.
Their dream of World Cup glory now rested in the hands of a boy who had single-handedly changed the course of British wizarding sports—and perhaps something far greater.