Roman and Exploding Head were trained to keep their composure, but they couldn't argue back—what Moriarty had said was the truth.
Just then, Red Nose returned, leading a house-elf behind him.
The elf trotted forward and presented a glass of grape milk to Moriarty. "Congratulations, sir, on your splendid victory. This is a blessing from all the house-elves at Hogwarts," it said with wide, earnest eyes.
"How obedient," Moriarty said leisurely, savoring a sip of the milk. "Perhaps I should find six house-elves to form a team with me."
Roman and Exploding Head both contorted their faces in disbelief.
"You're a Slytherin through and through," Red Nose commented dryly. "Have you ever clashed with Professor Snape? I'd pay to see the two of you—venomous snakes—lashing out with your tongues. Ha! Two venom-tongued kings in one room."
"On the contrary, we get along quite well."
"All right, gentlemen, let's talk about lighter matters," Dumbledore said serenely, as if awakening from a long nap. He smiled at everyone. "Following the match, our school governors, in consultation with me, have decided to hold a celebratory ball—marking the Dream Team's victory and the birth of a new generation of national champions!"
"At the ball, Mrs. Malfoy will present the awards to the Dream Team."
He paused thoughtfully. "The ball begins this evening. That gives you the afternoon to find a partner—or partners..." His eyes twinkled as he looked at Moriarty, winking. "Provided you can convince them all to get along…"
Moriarty lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow. The old man...
If Dumbledore kept that up, Moriarty might have to duel him.
"Who wasn't a beautiful boy once?" Moriarty muttered to himself, releasing the Chatterbox Charm, knowing full well Dumbledore would catch it.
Sure enough, Dumbledore turned his head to look out the window.
No one could tell what he was looking at; everyone was accustomed to his odd silences.
But Moriarty knew.
Was he thinking of Grindelwald?
In his youth, Dumbledore had been the epitome of British refinement—charming, intelligent, magnetic.
Grindelwald, on the other hand, had been bold and brilliant, bursting with innate power, exuding confidence and command.
If one asked who had been the most powerful and perfect pair in the magical world, the answer was undeniable.
GGAD.
Needless to say, no one else came close.
Moriarty couldn't help but wonder if Dumbledore and Grindelwald had once imagined growing old together.
Unlikely.
They had been too young, too ambitious—more interested in mastering magic, pursuing the Deathly Hallows, and defying death itself.
But in their old age, did they ever look back and reminisce about their youthful days?
Most likely.
Two aged titans, one in Hogwarts, one in Nurmengard, spending their twilight years in mutual silence and remembrance.
Moriarty sighed, murmuring, "When we're young, we always meet someone who outshines everyone else. And after that, every person we meet pales in comparison."
"Light can't be kept. And so, we spend the rest of our lives missing that person."
Dumbledore turned slowly to look at Moriarty, and in that brief moment, his eyes swirled with layers of emotion—surprise, joy, approval, empathy, and...
Moriarty looked away quickly, reminding himself that the Headmaster ought to consider appearances. I don't want Grindelwald to get the wrong idea.
There were others here. If this conversation reached Grindelwald through Hogwarts' many gossiping mouths, Moriarty wouldn't be able to explain himself.
Dumbledore's expression returned to its usual serenity as quickly as it had shifted. The old wizard had once again become the commanding figure of Hogwarts.
He rose and stepped toward the floating staircase, saying only, "Gentlemen, go and prepare. I hope you all attend the ball."
Senior students often claimed Hogwarts held no secrets, and Moriarty now believed it fully.
News of the celebration ball spread like wildfire. Moriarty had already experienced the frenzy of female admirers after the tournament, but this...
He hadn't expected this.
No sooner had the ball been announced than the girls of Hogwarts, like kneazles drawn to cream, had converged on Moriarty's path.
They had braided their hair, dressed in their finest robes, and positioned themselves all along the corridors he was known to walk.
Girls love heroes—this was true across all cultures. And Moriarty wasn't just a hero; he was brilliant, influential, and from a noble lineage.
Today's girls were fortunate—at the perfect age to fantasize, they had encountered a real-life prince and the dream of a magical ball.
Slipping into crystal shoes, dancing with a noble prince, riding a carriage under moonlight to his castle—these were the dreams of fairy tales, impossible perhaps, yet clung to nonetheless.
And so, the girls made up their minds—they would be brave.
Gryffindor girls, of course, had a distinct advantage in that department.
On his way to the Slytherin common room, Moriarty was intercepted by a first-year student, encouraged by her friends to step forward.
"Hello, Mr. Moriarty. I'm Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor."
Angelina's eyes sparkled nervously, yet she stood tall.
"A first-year? Teammate of the Weasley twins," Moriarty observed, nodding slightly. She was quite tall for her age, with a high ponytail that suited her athletic frame.
Angelina lit up. "You know who I am? That's amazing!"
In truth, Moriarty had merely paid attention to the new Gryffindors after Soldaya's sorting. His memory was sharp, and her name had stuck.
Still, he didn't have the heart to tell her that.
"I joined the Shining Stars Fan Club," she continued proudly. "From now on, I'll be cheering you on! Even though I'm in Gryffindor and technically should support Prefect Charlie… well, he seems better suited to be a Beater."
She giggled, and her friends behind her snickered.
"Charlie's not that timid," Moriarty replied with a mild smile.
Angelina didn't shrink away. "Next year, I'm trying out for the Gryffindor team. So are George and Fred. We'll be your opponents, sir."
She stood straighter, as if swearing a soldier's oath.
Moriarty gave her a thoughtful look. Angelina took it as her cue and nearly volunteered to be his dance partner.
But Moriarty deftly avoided it. In her, he saw a younger girl—someone else who had once said similar words to him.
"Sir?" Angelina asked hesitantly. "Did you hear me?"
Moriarty nodded, then shook his head softly, gently turning her down.
Though his reputation often preceded him, he wasn't so cruel as to crush an 11-year-old's hopes. A girl that young, taking the risk of being mocked, deserved kindness, not dismissal.
That's where pure-blood manners came into play. Moriarty held a polite, warm conversation with Angelina, making her beam with joy before she bid him farewell.
As she walked away, Moriarty felt the stares of dozens more watching him.
He sighed and continued walking.
The rest of the journey was short, but not easy. More girls appeared, each emboldened by Angelina's example.
Inviting Moriarty had apparently become a Hogwarts rite of passage.
Girls stopped traveling in groups—they now ambushed him alone.
Each encounter followed a careful script: a coincidental meeting, a comment about the ball, a segue into dance partners, and finally—
"Sir, do you have a dance partner?"
"Can I be your dance partner?"
The clever ones thought they had Moriarty's preferences figured out. They even came up with a list of unspoken rules:
1. When greeting Mr. Moriarty, remain calm. Act surprised, if you must—
but never overly excited.
2. When speaking about the dance, act refined and composed—
but don't make the dance your only topic, or he'll lose interest.
3. When asking about a dance partner, show a little bashfulness—
but don't be overly coy or theatrical.
The corridor near Slytherin's entrance became a stage for invitations.
Professor Snape passed through once, noted the parade of hopeful girls, and said nothing.
He simply turned and walked away.
But that night in his office, he decided to assign extra homework.
Perhaps I'll have them recite the preparation method for Felix Felicis...
Or better—brew an entire cauldron of it.
Let them use that passion on potions instead of boys.
Even if Merlin himself were present, Snape would've approved.
Moriarty, meanwhile, continued to hand out his polite refusals like calling cards.
Fortunately, Jericho arrived with Leon and a few other Slytherins. They encircled Moriarty protectively, shielding him from the tide of admirers, and finally led him back to the dungeon safely.
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