Naturally, Moriarty did not recklessly charge into the French Ministry of Magic. He meticulously cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and observed the entrance procedure of the French magical government headquarters.
After a brief wait of less than three minutes, a bald, middle-aged wizard arrived, his formal robes and official demeanor clearly marking him as a Ministry employee.
He first touched his wand to a registry stone, and almost immediately, the roots of the surrounding trees near the ornate fountain stirred and intertwined, forming a graceful, birdcage-like elevator. Enclosed within it, the official was gently lowered into the subterranean levels where the French Ministry of Magic resided.
Of course, Moriarty could not risk handing over his wand for official registration. Fortunately, he had long prepared a vial of Polyjuice Potion, precisely for a situation like this.
As he prepared to incapacitate a passing official, the wooden birdcage elevator opened again. A noisy group exited, and leading them was a stout wizard with flushed cheeks who spoke rapidly to the man beside him. "Monsieur Kuhl, believe me, I understand your concern—but surely you also see the limitations under which we operate..."
His companion, a stern man with slick black hair and a pointed goatee, roared in anguish, "This morning my daughter was abducted! My wife was assaulted in her own home! My child is traumatized—do you expect me to wait while you shuffle papers? I demand a proper, immediate search!"
"Calm yourself, Monsieur Delacour!" the rotund official tried to maintain composure, raising his palms in a placating gesture. "We've deployed all available Aurors in Paris. But you know the kind of groups that would dare kidnap a young girl—unsanctioned magical creatures, elements of the dark underworld—"
"Precisely why you must do more!" Delacour shouted, his voice cracking. His face was pale and his eyes burned with desperation. He bit back harrowing thoughts of what might befall his daughter in the hands of those vile creatures—it was a waking nightmare for any father.
"You misunderstand me!" The Ministry official's tone turned sharp, cold. "I meant—have you considered why the dark elements took your daughter? Could it be due to her bloodline? I've heard that in certain underground markets, prices for magical puppets have skyrocketed recently."
Delacour's face went from pale to red, trembling in fury. It took him a moment to grasp the implication. "What are you suggesting?"
But the official offered no answer. He turned brusquely and re-entered the birdcage elevator with his entourage.
Delacour was about to follow when he suddenly swayed on his feet—Moriarty had struck.
Using Legilimency, Moriarty slipped into Delacour's panicked mind and extracted critical details: the location of the underground magical exchange was beneath an abandoned metro station in southeast Paris.
Coming to his senses a moment later, Delacour's eyes flared with determination, and he rushed toward the hidden black market.
Half an hour later, Moriarty reached the location before him. The so-called underground exchange was a sordid, dimly lit place, reminiscent of a wizarding night market gone awry. Due to the scarcity of shops, impromptu street stalls lined the passageways. Few vendors or buyers dared to reveal their identities or linger in one place longer than a few days.
Moriarty narrowed his eyes. The dim lights cast shadows over the cages and boxes cluttering the ground—trip hazards and traps alike.
One misstep here wouldn't just mean embarrassment. It could mean unconsciousness, capture, and being turned into a decorative statue for sale—or worse. The caged magical creatures, driven half-mad, would happily devour the unwary.
Of course, should one be lucky, they might fall beside the giant tank holding a mermaid and at least glimpse beauty before meeting their end.
"A twelve-year-old veela half-blood! A virgin! Going for five thousand gold Galleons—who wants her?"
The hoarse call cut through the noise. At the heart of the exchange, a crimson-colored stall stood out. Three werewolves guarded its entrance, ropes in hand, from which hung a little girl—bound at the wrists and ankles, suspended upside-down like meat on display.
She wore a delicate white gown resembling a princess dress. Though still in her childhood, her features were undeniably striking—fine silver hair, smooth skin, and large tearful eyes. She twisted and trembled, drawing forth lecherous gazes from the crowd.
Dark figures in patchwork robes surged toward the stall. Moriarty was pushed forward with the crowd, ending up at the very front.
One of the werewolves placed a spotlight in front of the child's face, illuminating her tear-streaked expression. As the beam reflected off her silver hair, it brushed Moriarty's face. Their eyes met—recognition flared silently between them.
"A mere half-blood girl, and you dare demand five thousand Galleons? Have the werewolves gone mad?"
The crowd erupted. None of these black-market dwellers were willing to part with that much gold—at least, not without a fight.
"Three hundred Galleons! Not a sickle more!"
"Four hundred!"
"Five hundred! That's my final offer!"
The bidding rapidly devolved into insults and jeers. The werewolf snarled, enraged.
"Silence!" barked the pack leader. "She's a charm baby! A rare half-blooded veela—her blood alone is worth two thousand Galleons! Look at her—raise her for a few years and she'll be the kind of creature you'd kill to own!"
He sneered and added regretfully, "If I didn't need the money, I'd keep her for myself. But you all know vampires are hounding the elves these days. Meiwa—the veela kind—are prime targets. Five thousand Galleons is cheap by vampire standards!"
Moriarty's ears perked at the comment. Vampires hunting elves? That was new.
As if summoned by mention, a pale vampire in a crimson cloak stepped forward. "Five thousand Galleons! She's mine."
The werewolf nodded quickly, his tone ingratiating. "Of course."
The crowd bristled with outrage.
"Afraid of vampires, are you?"
"Spineless mutts! You used to fight them—now you serve them?"
The mob surged closer, incited by some unseen provocateurs.
Moriarty noticed many eyes shimmering with hunger—not for gold, but for blood. Some aimed to steal the girl. Others, the emeralds. Chaos was imminent.
More vampires appeared, revealing themselves as tension escalated. Dozens of sharp-eyed bloodsuckers readied for a fight.
Then Moriarty stepped forward and amplified his voice with magic.
"Ten thousand Galleons," he called calmly, "for the girl."
All movement stopped. Every creature turned toward him. He didn't flinch, merely stared at the girl, his expression shifting between hunger and calculation.
The white-haired vampire scowled. "You're no vampire. You dare challenge the undying?"
The air thickened with hostility. Vampires hissed, baring fangs. Yet Moriarty remained calm, and his next words froze even the bravest:
"I'm here to see the Countess Swann of Paris. I bear a letter from Madame Kewa of Greece. Her son, Randy, mentioned the Countess had recently developed a craving for Micah's virgin blood. I came here hoping to get lucky."
He waved his wand. Ten glittering emeralds floated upward, each the size of a gobstone, radiating seductive luster.
The werewolf's jaw slackened—those gems promised more than riches. They promised freedom.
Silence gripped the exchange.
The vampires stared, their red eyes flickering. Everyone in French vampire society knew Countess Swann's name. And Madame Kewa? Vaguely familiar. Randy? Likely one of Swann's many progeny.
The white-haired vampire squinted. "Prove your identity!"
Moriarty responded by levitating a small object toward him—Madame Kewa's coffin key.
The vampire sniffed it—and visibly recoiled.
The scent confirmed the truth.
But he sneered, unwilling to yield. "Even if you are her emissary, the emeralds stay. The girl stays. You leave."
"Avada Kedavra," Moriarty responded coldly, without hesitation.
A flash of green—boom!
The vampire collapsed. An aged vampire and a maid darted out, crying, "You killed the young master! The lord will avenge him!"
Panic exploded. The crowd lunged for the girl and the emeralds. Wizards tore open their robes, unleashing caged creatures—ye qi, fire serpents, even a baby Norwegian Ridgeback burst from a box, flames spewing from its jaws. Chains barely held it.
The floor teemed with venomous insects and cursed arachnids. And through it all, Moriarty carved a path—not to the girl, but to Gegri, the werewolf leader.
He needed answers.
"Serpens Sussurus!" Moriarty hissed, summoning snakes from every corner. Dozens of venomous vipers and constrictors shot forward, wrapping tightly around Gegri's legs and torso, holding him in place as Moriarty advanced.
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