Fleur Delacour walked gracefully toward the crowd gathered at the entrance of the hotel.
"Last September, I came to Hogwarts representing Beauxbatons. I was warmly received by many of you," she said, her voice carrying that unmistakable Veela charm.
Her movements were elegant as she approached the doors. She brushed her silvery hair behind her shoulder, her expression gentle yet proud.
A dazzling smile, ethereal platinum hair that seemed to shimmer in the morning light, and her effortless charm together formed a captivating scene.
The Hogwarts girls felt instantly on edge.
From the moment Fleur had arrived at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, they'd regarded her as a rival. Even now, years later, that feeling hadn't faded.
Among girls of the same age, Fleur was a class apart—graceful, radiant, and brimming with natural allure.
She seemed to fulfill every dreamy, romantic fantasy boys might harbor.
Even the proud Lilith Piliwick admitted inwardly that Fleur was almost impossible to outshine. And as she matured, that advantage only grew.
But Lilith believed she had one absolute edge.
Fleur possessed a quarter-Veela lineage, and for a family as steeped in ancient wizarding purity as the Slytherins, bloodline mattered.
Lilith smiled politely at Fleur. "The three great European magical academies have always maintained ties. You're welcome at Hogwarts, of course. And if I visit Beauxbatons, I won't hold back either."
Fleur's eyes sparkled. "Then it's settled. When you come to France, I'll show you around."
Lilith gave a demure nod, though her mind whirred.
Show me around Beauxbatons?
More like, show us around.
Me—and Moriarty.
She knew Moriarty wouldn't resist the pull of global travel during school breaks. Last summer, he'd gone wandering through the Americas, and Lilith had quietly followed that pattern, always scheming to "coincidentally" meet him.
That kind of fate could turn into something more, after all.
Lilith envisioned Fleur's stunned face when she discovered Moriarty and Lilith arriving at Beauxbatons together.
With that satisfying thought, Lilith watched Fleur step into the hotel.
Only when the doors shut behind Fleur did Gemma nudge Lilith and mutter, "Why'd you let her in? She's obviously here for Moriarty."
Lilith shrugged. "She's free to do what she wants."
Gemma scoffed. "He's in that luxury suite alone! Aren't you worried something might happen?"
Lilith turned, amusement playing on her lips.
You still don't understand Moriarty, Gemma.
She remembered that time in Greece, when she and Moriarty shared a room for days—and he'd remained utterly indifferent, even as she flirted openly.
That was when she learned: Moriarty wasn't ruled by desire.
Only power impressed him.
Lilith let her gaze drift over the crowd of chattering, love-struck girls. While they pined over ways to catch his eye with beauty, she had already made up her mind to become stronger, to pursue magic without compromise.
"I'm going for a walk along the sea breeze," she said lightly, asking her classmates to take her luggage up to the room before strolling away.
As she passed, Mrs. Malfoy's sharp eyes flicked to Lilith.
She noticed it right away—Lilith had matured.
Gone was the fierce, showy girl who once defied foreign wizards at Malfoy Manor's gates. In her place was someone serene, composed, and above all, focused.
Even if Fleur had managed to get into Moriarty's suite—what of it?
Mrs. Malfoy smirked slightly, recalling her own experience. She had been unconscious, lying on Moriarty's bed, and he hadn't so much as loosened her boots.
Fleur? Please.
That girl may be stunning, but she had just finished developing. In terms of figure, it was like comparing a hillock to a mountain range.
Mrs. Malfoy scoffed internally. There was no way Moriarty would indulge in Fleur.
Still… men could be unpredictable.
Maybe Moriarty did prefer the young and delicate type?
A rare pang of insecurity flickered in her chest.
That age gap—it stung.
But she quickly laughed at herself. How childish. She was far past the age of feeling giddy over such matters.
Narcissa Malfoy, she told herself sternly, you are a grown woman. A mother. A widow. You still have your name, your family. You are not a lovestruck schoolgirl.
Hands tucked in her coat pockets, she turned and walked quietly away.
None of the girls noticed her departure. They were too busy fighting over who got the room closest to Moriarty.
Only Diana saw her go.
And Diana, with all her elven insight, sensed the emotional shift in Narcissa.
"How fascinating," she murmured. "Lucius Malfoy's widow… rattled by a student?"
Her lips curled into a pout.
As Moriarty's first woman, she had anticipated the attention he would draw, but she hadn't expected it this soon.
She understood his tastes well by now.
As Queen of the Elves and High Priestess, her emotional perception was razor-sharp.
Moriarty liked women who were powerful. Refined. Experienced.
Professors, priestesses, queens, noblewomen.
Perhaps even a widow now.
Mrs. Malfoy… she had the aura of someone Moriarty could not ignore.
Diana's lips twisted in a sly grin.
Teenage girls like Fleur and Lilith didn't worry her. Moriarty's mind was too mature for infatuation.
Even Tonks—who had stayed at Slytherin Castle during Christmas—hadn't made her feel threatened.
But Fleur? Going to Moriarty's room?
Ha.
It meant nothing.
Last night, Diana had traveled from Avalon to Hyprosae just to see Moriarty.
And they'd spent the entire night together—devotedly.
The luxury suite still bore the unmistakable signs of their union.
Could Fleur compete with that?
Of course not.
But Narcissa… she might be another story.
Diana narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, then turned away.
First, breakfast.
She had more important things to worry about than schoolgirls.
Meanwhile, outside the suite, Fleur knocked gently.
Moriarty opened the door, half-asleep, tousled in dark pajamas.
Seeing him, Fleur extended her pale hand.
"I want my notebook back."
Her tone was calm, her beautiful face expressionless, her silver-blue eyes devoid of sentiment.
Moriarty blinked at her, disoriented. After last night, he had intended to sleep in—but here Fleur was, disturbingly insistent.
"You gave it to me," he said, voice rough. "And now you want it back?"
"You didn't cherish it," Fleur replied. "And you don't need it."
"You're the youngest Seeker and most talented Chaser alive. That notebook barely helps you anymore. So—give it back."
Moriarty's eyes opened fully now, studying her carefully.
Fleur had never spoken like this before.
To others, she was a goddess—untouchable, aloof.
But with him, she had always been warm, submissive even, adoring him with silent reverence.
He recalled how she'd gone undercover to gather intel on other Quidditch players—how close she had gotten to Moriarty's rivals.
He had nearly cast her aside for it.
And now?
Now she stood with her head high, back straight.
"Back then, I let myself fall," she said quietly. "But do you think I'd do it again?"
She gestured to the notebook in his hand. "That's your answer. Return it, if you understand."
Moriarty's expression sharpened.
"Was this a test? Back at school?"
"You could call it that."
"In any case," she added, "I want it back."
She spoke as if the conversation were over already.
Moriarty looked her over, then turned around, walking back into the suite.
"Come in," he said without looking back.
His tone was low and commanding.
Fleur stood in place, blinking.
"…Huh?"
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