"North America? That's my home court," Jericho said with a pleasant laugh. He leaned back comfortably into the goose-down chair, folded his hands on the table, and looked at Moriarty with rare seriousness. "Sir, whatever you want, I'll do it. Just say the word."
"I don't need you to do anything yet," Moriarty replied casually. "Just stay put at Hogwarts. Your father and I have devised a star-making plan."
That remark hit Jericho like a bolt of lightning. He stood up abruptly, his smile faltering.
"I knew it… My father…" he muttered.
"Don't be discouraged. The star-making project is a long-term endeavor," Moriarty said, offering him a comforting look. Then his eyes shifted to the three young Slytherins seated on the right armchair. With a smile, he added something to ignite their ambition.
"Perhaps, four years from now, Jericho will be the captain of the U.S. Quidditch team at the World Cup.
Maybe by then, Marcus will be a renowned magizoologist, more accomplished than Newt Scamander himself.
And perhaps, Leon will restore the Minchum family's former glory and rise to become one of the most politically influential families in Britain."
The trio unconsciously sat up straighter, their backs erect and eyes gleaming with anticipation as they each envisioned their futures.
Lockhart, ever the opportunist mentor, leaned forward and shared his experience with them. "Boys, since the Young Master is giving you a platform to shine, you'd better prepare yourselves mentally. Under the spotlight, the smallest flaw will be magnified. And those flaws could be used against him."
The three boys exchanged a look, nodded solemnly in agreement.
"Starting tomorrow, we'll work hard in our studies, improve our physical fitness, and ensure we live up to the Young Master's high expectations!" Leon vowed with clenched fists.
"Don't overdo it," Moriarty said gently, his voice taking on the tone of a wise mentor. "Don't be too obvious, and don't put too much pressure on yourselves."
With that, he changed the topic. "Lockhart, on January 3rd, the national team and I will be traveling to the U.S. I've been in contact with Jericho's father, James. He arranged for a warm-up match between us and the American team."
He then turned to Lockhart, fixing him with a commanding gaze. "As for you, Lockhart, you'll leave tonight for Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Host events, connect with their students—whatever you choose to do is up to you. I just want to see that you've made an impact among the American wizarding youth."
Moriarty had high hopes for Lockhart. The man had been instrumental in advancing the "United Education" campaign, and so far, he hadn't disappointed.
"No problem, Young Master. As you wish," Lockhart replied with a smooth smile. Ever since the "French Incident," he had grown more mature and dependable.
"I already have a good relationship with Ilvermorny. They'll be glad to host me," Lockhart added confidently. "This time, I plan to organize a charity auction. All proceeds will go to the International Wizarding Society to support the Quidditch World Cup. It'll be great for your international reputation."
Moriarty nodded approvingly. "Go ahead with it. As for expenses—Old Flint, Old Foley, you two will cover them."
Old Flint immediately agreed, and even Old Foley, who had just recently joined their ranks, nodded in agreement. He went a step further, stating that the "four-six profit split" arrangement he previously had with Lockhart would be voided. From now on, all profits would support Moriarty.
"Excellent," Moriarty said, clearly pleased. "You three should continue developing along these lines. Give me a surprise in four years—maybe even become the official sponsors of the 1994 Quidditch World Cup."
Lockhart and Old Flint stood up and bowed in unison. "We will not fail you, Young Master."
Old Foley wasn't as synchronized with them yet but smiled slyly. "Master, I have an idea that could make you a lot of money."
"You're referring to opening the betting tables," Moriarty said knowingly, a glint in his eye.
Old Foley chuckled, impressed. "Exactly. Every World Cup, there are countless betting pools. Some are profitable, others lose money. Some serve legitimate purposes, others launder money. But what's always missing are credible odds backed by strong financial players."
Old Flint shot a meaningful glance at Foley. "Sounds like you speak from experience."
"We're all pure-bloods here," Foley replied with a smirk. "Every pure-blood family has dabbled in World Cup betting at some point. The only difference is the size of the bets."
Moriarty nodded in thought. That much was true.
Even a so-called "poor" pure-blood family like the Weasleys—Fred and George, in particular—placed bets during the World Cup.
The betting market was expansive and ripe with opportunity.
"I recall the 1964 World Cup," Old Flint mused, leaning on his cane. "It was hosted in England. Abraxas Malfoy made a killing through the betting tables. He amassed a fortune in Galleons."
"The Ministry of Magic launched an investigation because the earnings were abnormally high," Old Foley added. "Minister Nobby Leach—who was Muggle-born—tried to prosecute Malfoy."
"Ah yes, and by 1968, Leach mysteriously fell ill and had to resign," Foley continued. "The cause was never found, but we all knew Abraxas was behind it."
Tonks and Jericho sat wide-eyed, having never been privy to such political secrets before. The conversation left them stunned.
Moriarty, meanwhile, absorbed the information with relish. He made a mental note to confirm these details with Mrs. Malfoy. Perhaps he could uncover even more buried scandals.
"Well, enough nostalgia, gentlemen," Moriarty interrupted gently. "I understand older folks love reminiscing, but here, you need to look to the future."
Flint and Foley chuckled, slightly embarrassed.
"I'll leave the betting table arrangement to you two," Moriarty continued.
"Rest assured, Young Master," said Old Flint. "The Flint and Foley families' joint betting operation will be a goldmine—one that never runs dry."
"You can count on us," Foley added.
"Two greedy old men," Lockhart laughed good-naturedly.
Moriarty motioned for them to sit back down, and then took out a dragonhide notebook from his robe, tossing it lightly on the table.
"The new broom I've been developing with Nicolas Flamel is nearly complete. Just a few finishing steps and final tests remain. We expect to launch it in February.
You two will each open a broom shop—one in Diagon Alley and one in Hogsmeade. Follow the promotional strategies outlined in this notebook. Begin pre-launch marketing one week in advance."
"The new broom?" Old Foley exclaimed, eyes wide. "It's already done? I mean—Young Master, are you really entrusting the sales to us?"
He looked visibly nervous, as if Moriarty might suddenly say he was joking.
He remembered how the wand set business had gone to Mrs. Malfoy. With a legendary figure like Flamel involved in the broom design, why would Moriarty entrust it to them?
Moriarty noticed his hesitation and walked behind Foley. He placed a reassuring hand on the old man's shoulder.
"Old Foley, don't doubt my intentions. I'm not handing your family a handout. I'm offering you a path to growth. Everyone here gets the same treatment."
He gestured toward Old Flint, who was already flipping through the notebook with excitement, occasionally letting out surprised exclamations.
"Master, your strategy is brilliant!" Old Flint beamed. "Once these brooms hit the market, Nimbus and Comet won't stand a chance!"
"The Nimbus Company…" Moriarty murmured, a shadow crossing his face. That company had once bound him with an oppressive contract. He had intended to retaliate, but now that Lilith had taken over that matter, he was content to watch her methods unfold.
With that, Moriarty returned to his seat, glanced at the now-empty table, and called out, "Luke! Let's start our Christmas dinner!"
"Right away, Young Master!" Luke responded cheerfully as he led the house-elves in carrying trays piled high with festive food into the grand hall.
Moriarty raised his goblet, filled with a deep red wine, his face warm with celebration.
"To everyone here—let's toast to bid farewell to 1989 and welcome 1990!"
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