The next morning, Marcus made his way to the secret room to deliver a letter. When he handed it over, Nicolas Flamel opened the envelope with practiced care and scanned its contents. The moment his eyes fell upon the writing, it was as if the words had magnetic force—his gaze fixated, his mind completely absorbed.
He locked himself in the secret room, barring entry to anyone and skipping breakfast entirely. With quill in hand and parchments spread across his desk, he began an intense session of calculation and deduction.
It was Friday, a day that marked the first-ever joint Alchemy class between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. After breakfast, the eager little lions and curious little eagles made their way toward the secret room with high expectations, only to find its entrance firmly shut.
As more students gathered outside, murmurs began to rise. Conversations drifted toward guessing the reason behind the closure. Not one of them suspected that the legendary alchemist, Nicolas Flamel, was deep in arcane calculations.
Not until noon did Flamel finally emerge, his face weary, but his eyes gleaming with revelation. He handed an envelope to the nearest Gryffindor, a boy standing dutifully by the door.
"Could you give this to Moriarty of Slytherin?" he asked gently, his voice tinged with exhaustion.
The Gryffindor, overwhelmed by the honor, nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir! I'll deliver it right away!"
He dashed off toward the Slytherin table in the Great Hall and handed the letter to Moriarty with a deep breath.
Moriarty opened it, eyes narrowing slightly as he read through the meticulously arranged sequences. He gave a slight, satisfied nod. The layout matched perfectly with the configuration given by the alchemical matrix.
It was confirmation—Nicolas Flamel and Moriarty had successfully derived the same matrix independently. Together, they were now fully capable of crafting a revolutionary new broom.
Sensing a golden business opportunity, Moriarty paid a visit to Malfoy Manor at precisely three in the afternoon.
At the manor's grand entrance, Lucius Malfoy and his son, Draco, stood in ceremonial dress, waiting in anticipation.
"Dear Mr. Moriarty," Lucius greeted, his silver-tipped cane poised elegantly. "Have you been indulging in afternoon tea since your return from China?"
"This will be my first proper British afternoon tea," Moriarty replied, adjusting the crisp white collar of his black tuxedo. He wore a tall black hat and leaned slightly on a gleaming silver cane—his entire appearance exuded regal poise.
Lucius bowed slightly. "Then I'm honored. That you've chosen the Malfoy estate for your inaugural tea—it is a moment of shared pride for House Slytherin and the Malfoy family. I promise this afternoon will exceed your expectations."
Moriarty inclined his head slightly. Lucius, also dressed in formal British attire, looked every bit the shrewd aristocrat. Draco mirrored his father's ensemble, resembling a younger clone of Lucius.
Noticing Moriarty's glance, Lucius placed a firm hand on Draco's shoulder, prompting the boy forward.
Draco stepped forward and, as rehearsed, said, "Senior Moriarty, it's an honor to meet you. Welcome to Malfoy Manor."
Unlike their previous meeting, Draco's tone held reverence and polish.
Moriarty turned to Lucius and asked, "When will Draco be starting school?"
Lucius responded with a smile, "Two years from now."
Their conversation naturally flowed as they entered the lavish foyer, Draco following a few steps behind.
"Around the time Cornelius Fudge assumes the office, isn't it?" Moriarty inquired.
"Indeed," Lucius replied. "That gives Fudge enough time to solidify his position. With Fudge in the Ministry and you leading Slytherin House, I foresee a brilliant future for my son—a great wizard in the making."
Draco's eyes widened. Since birth, Lucius had been exacting and critical. He had never imagined his father harbored such hope for him.
"A great wizard... Father?" he murmured, clenching his fists and smiling in quiet delight.
"Draco? What's taking you so long? Come in!" Lucius snapped.
Startled, Draco looked up to see his father and Moriarty ascending the front steps, both gazing back impatiently.
"I'm coming." Draco jogged forward. At that moment, something within him shifted. He paused briefly to bow toward Moriarty. "Forgive my distraction, sir. I was merely imagining Quidditch—your leadership in winning the Cup is still widely spoken of in pure-blood circles."
Lucius's expression softened. "Well said," he added. "As a Slytherin alumnus, I must admit—watching your matches was a pleasure."
Moriarty chuckled. Draco's reference to Quidditch provided the perfect segue into the subject of broomsticks—a subtle way to steer the conversation without appearing calculating.
"This year's Quidditch Cup will still belong to Slytherin," Moriarty said smoothly. "Perhaps I'll send you an invitation, Mr. Malfoy. Bring Draco along, if time permits."
Draco's eyes sparkled instantly. The offer thrilled him. He adored Quidditch, and yet, frustratingly, had never owned a broom of his own.
"Father, can we attend the match? I mean—I want to cheer for our senior," Draco added quickly, trying not to appear too eager.
Both men laughed at his enthusiasm. His intention was transparent, but also endearing.
Lucius, pleased with his son's improving manners, gave a brief nod. As a Hogwarts school governor, he had the discretion to bring Draco as a guest, provided he didn't meddle in official events. Dumbledore wouldn't object.
Encouraged, Draco pressed further. "Father, could you buy me a broom? I've always wanted one! Maybe I could test it at Hogwarts—it would be thrilling! Senior Moriarty, would you allow me to use the field?"
His eyes gleamed with hope as he looked from father to Moriarty. From Draco's point of view, his request wasn't unreasonable. The family had plenty of Galleons, and a top-tier Nimbus 1700 wouldn't cost much.
Lucius was a school governor—surely he could get him onto the school grounds. And now, with the favor of a prestigious Slytherin senior, why not?
But to Lucius, his son had just regressed. He glared at Draco with a look of withering disappointment.
"Go and inform your mother that our guest has arrived," Lucius said coldly.
Draco winced at the rebuke and turned away, shoulders drooping. But Moriarty wasn't ready to let Draco leave. Draco was the perfect catalyst for introducing the real topic: brooms.
"To be honest, Mr. Lucius, your son is more considerate than he lets on," Moriarty said calmly. "He suppresses his frustration out of obedience, which, if left unchecked, could be harmful."
His words were quiet but struck deep. Draco froze mid-step, eyes brimming slightly. Moriarty had said aloud what he couldn't express.
Lucius's expression faltered.
"Mr. Lucius," Moriarty continued gently, "why not explain your reservations to Draco? I'm certain he'll understand."
Lucius sighed. "Very well. Draco, your mother and I haven't bought you a broom because we think it's unsafe. You're still young."
"But I'm nine!" Draco argued. "I know you're afraid I'll fall, but I'm careful! I won't fall!"
"Arrogant child," Lucius growled. "A real broom is nothing like a toy one."
The air grew tense.
Still, bolstered by Moriarty's presence, Draco stood firm. His father wouldn't punish him in front of a guest.
Lucius's face darkened. He raised his cane and tapped Draco on the shoulder—not hard, but enough to sting. Draco flinched but didn't retreat.
Before the tension could escalate, Moriarty interjected: "So if there was a broom that guaranteed safety, you'd allow Draco to test it? Is that what you're saying, Mr. Lucius?"
Lucius narrowed his eyes but eventually nodded. "Yes—but no such broom exists."
"What if I told you I've created one?" Moriarty replied, smiling faintly.
"What?"
"Impossible!"
Lucius and Draco spoke simultaneously—Lucius in disbelief, Draco in wild hope.
"If it existed, I'd already have one!" Draco exclaimed confidently.
Moriarty, amused, turned away from Draco, whose role was now complete. He had set the stage perfectly.
He fixed his gaze on Lucius, whose calculating eyes had begun to betray curiosity.
Lucius, a shrewd man, understood Moriarty would never make such a claim lightly. If he said he had such a broom, it was likely true. Was this the real reason for his visit?
After a moment of silence, Lucius's expression returned to calm, his voice laced with sarcasm. "A broom that ensures safety? Another of your revolutionary inventions, Mr. Moriarty?"
"Let's discuss it inside," Moriarty suggested, brushing past the sarcasm. "Surely we wouldn't want the black tea your lady prepared to lose its warmth. Cold black tea, as I'm told, is barely fit for a kneazle."
He said this with a grin, knowing full well the disdain he held for British black tea. A few polite sips were tolerable for decorum, but lukewarm tea? Even Moriarty had limits.
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