Moriarty held the Golden Snitch with one hand. At first, it throbbed uneasily in his palm, but soon quieted down—as if acknowledging that he was the rightful owner of its glory. The Slytherin Seeker clenched the shining prize, and with it, the victory of the century.
The system echoed in his mind, confirming rewards: 200 points for completing the match task, and a bonus 300 for securing the Quidditch Cup. A total of 500 points, signifying dominance both magical and athletic.
With a triumphant grin, Moriarty raised his fist and swooped down from the sky, basking in the euphoric cheer that surged through the enchanted arena. A grand celebration erupted across three house stands—Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—forming a sweeping sea of green and silver. In stark contrast, the Gryffindor stand was engulfed in a heavy silence. But no one gave them a second thought.
Excited students from the three Houses flooded into the pitch, lifting the victorious Slytherin players shoulder-high. Tonks, ever prepared, led the celebration with flair. She raised her wand skyward, joined by Gemma, Lilith, Penelope Clearwater, and hundreds of enchanted admirers.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A flurry of magical fireworks shot into the sky, exploding into a constellation of stars and the figure of a massive silver snake twisting gracefully overhead.
"This is a gift to Mr. Moriarty from the Forever Shining Fan Club!" Tonks declared. "Final score: 150 to 0! Slytherin demolishes the lions with a total shutout! This is the Silver Snake's glory! Moriarty lifts the cup! Let's party!"
Time stood still as Moriarty hoisted the trophy aloft. In that moment, he became an icon etched into Hogwarts' legacy. Meanwhile, the Gryffindor team collapsed to their knees in utter despair.
Charlie Weasley's face burned as red as his hair. The match was over. The winter of Gryffindor had arrived. And judging by the momentum, it might not thaw for years—three, five, or perhaps even seven. Gryffindor was now a punchline in a Slytherin legend.
Charlie gazed up at Moriarty with a mix of dread and awe. As long as that man remained in Hogwarts, Gryffindor would never reclaim their honor. Moriarty would forever be the protagonist, and the Gryffindors—his stepping stones.
Bill Weasley threw Moriarty a grim look. Had the Golden Snitch not appeared so soon; had he saved a goal; had Charlie been just a little faster—maybe things would have been different. But there are no "ifs" in Quidditch. Bill shook his head and walked away. With graduation in June, he had a new life ahead. This loss? A wound, not a burden.
For younger lions, it was a different story. They still had years left at Hogwarts, and Oliver Wood had already imagined the humiliation to come from Marcus Flint and other Slytherins.
Ironically, after the game, the expected Slytherin taunts toward the Gryffindors did not materialize—in fact, they lessened.
The lion cubs were puzzled. Had they won, they would've mocked their rivals mercilessly. Yet here the Slytherins stood, reserved in victory.
The Hufflepuffs saw it as magnanimity. The Ravenclaws recognized it as something else—aloof superiority. Why would a true victor dwell on the loser's misery?
Gryffindors, with their straightforward nature, couldn't grasp such nuanced pride. But they recalled Moriarty's actions during the badge incident and credited him for the Slytherins' restraint.
Gratitude began to take root. Gryffindor students bowed to Moriarty in public. Percy Weasley, red-faced with envy, told Moriarty that several upper-year Gryffindor girls were secretly admiring his magical posters.
Like the dazzling magical fireworks, the posters were another fan-made invention, crafted by Tonks' mysterious club. Even Moriarty was confused—where did Tonks find time for such things?
One day, after practicing in the Room of Requirement, he asked.
Tonks beamed, brushing her wand behind her ear. She told him that her studies in runes had progressed under Professor Bathsheda Babbling's guidance. She had successfully condensed the rune representing "space" into a functioning glyph.
To inscribe this rune onto a magical circle, she'd begun exploring alchemy—something not officially taught at Hogwarts.
"Have you learned the Curing Curse?" Moriarty asked, curiously.
"No…" Tonks pouted, her hair turning a creamy white as her eyes widened in faux innocence.
"Well, Jericho hasn't mastered the Memory Charm either." Moriarty rubbed his temples.
Tonks giggled and moved beside him, gently massaging his temples.
Moriarty took the opportunity to ask the system, "Use 1,000 points to unlock the Blind Box Lottery."
"Detected: host has 1,700 points. Proceed with 1,000-point deduction for Blind Box Lottery? System note: rewards depend entirely on luck."
Moriarty smiled. "Definitely. My luck's always been good."
Just like the Quidditch game—some said Gryffindor had been cursed by Lady Luck herself when the Snitch appeared right at the start.
"Ding Dong~ 1,000 points deducted. Remaining balance: 700 points. Initiating blind box draw…"
"Pump!" Moriarty responded quickly.
"Congratulations, host! You have obtained: Grindelwald's Magic Notes (Part 1). May you soon become the hidden master of the Harry Potter world."
A white leather-bound notebook appeared in Moriarty's system space. He glanced around for privacy, then pulled it out and flipped through the early pages. His eyes gleamed—there was the Curing Curse!
Grindelwald's notes read: "The Curing Spell: originally crafted for repairing enchanted items, it evolved to include stabilization and reinforcement of magical effects. With continuous research alongside AD, we managed to stabilize gain-type effects in localized magic zones…"
Moriarty's grin widened. If any team could dominate the magical world, it was the GGAD duo—Grindelwald and Dumbledore.
Further along, he found Grindelwald's research on Memory Charms—comprehensive, complex, but exactly what Moriarty needed.
Confident in his newfound knowledge, Moriarty looked over at Tonks.
"Nymph, let's run a test," he said, pulling off his boots.
"Nymph?" She didn't reply.
Moriarty looked up—and saw her staring at his bare ankle. When she noticed his gaze, she grinned like a fox.
"Want me to take off my shoes too, little brother~?"
Moriarty lightly pushed her aside. "That's not what I meant. Ahem. I want you to bring out the rune inscriptions. We're going to engrave them into these enchanted boots."
Half an hour later, both were drenched in sweat but satisfied. Moriarty slipped the boots back on and activated the speed-enhancement glyph.
With a sharp "whoosh," Moriarty shot forward—and promptly crashed into a mat with a loud thump.
He sprang up, boots in hand, and examined the effects.
"Did it work?" Tonks asked.
"I saw your afterimage for a second. It looked like spatial displacement," she added.
"We need more testing," Moriarty replied, eyes gleaming with determination. "Each subject must differ—height, weight, magical output. That's exactly what we need."
Tonks took a deep breath. "But the basilisk… How many people must we test to match its weight?"
"Then we begin with snakes," Moriarty said, his voice filled with thrilling ambition.