The Blanches owned a private Quidditch pitch in the suburbs of New York, the designated site for the upcoming British-American warm-up matches. It was here that Moriarty finally met Maxi Blanche III.
This was Jericho's famed older brother, and he matched every bit of Jericho's description.
Charismatic and warm-hearted, Maxi was full of life, tall and imposing at 1.9 meters, with long golden hair that billowed like a regal banner as he soared through the air. A natural-born Seeker, his aerial grace was only rivaled by his hawk-like precision.
But Maxi had changed over the last four years. Roman Reigns, Exploding Head, and several other British players noticed that Maxi's physique had bulked up considerably. He looked more powerful, sturdier—his muscles coiled beneath his robes like a coiled dragon ready to strike.
Frankly, many of them began to sweat—not from exertion, but from anxiety for Moriarty.
However, the trio of warm-up matches that followed left everyone stunned—and more than a little ashamed.
In all three games, the British team faced off against the American team, and in each match, Moriarty managed to outpace Maxi to catch the Golden Snitch—three times in a row!
Despite that, the US team emerged victorious in all three matches. The teamwork and synergy between American Chasers, Beaters, and Keepers simply overwhelmed the coordination of the British squad. The final scores told the tale: 170–240, 150–280, and 200–310.
In the final game, had Moriarty not inspired the British side through his sheer presence and intensity, they might not have even scored five goals. His decision to lead by example sparked a faint ember of pride in the team.
But the biggest flaw exposed in the matches wasn't in gameplay or tactics—it was Roman's mindset. His defeatist attitude had become a cancer gnawing at the foundation of the team.
To his credit, Roman realized this. The weight of shame and self-recrimination pressed heavily on him.
There was still time before the knockout stage. Time to adjust.
As for Moriarty? He exceeded all expectations. James himself admitted he was shocked—genuinely frightened, even.
Before the matches, not even under the Imperius Curse would James have believed Moriarty—just twelve years old—could outmatch Maxi Blanche III, the Seeker universally hailed as the best from the previous Quidditch World Cup.
It seemed Merlin himself had rearranged the chessboard of fate. Maxi was 22—ten years Moriarty's senior—and yet the boy prodigy had outclassed him.
Amid reflections about the emergence of a new generation of Quidditch stars, James invited Moriarty to spend time at the Blanche estate.
Moriarty accepted and enjoyed three vibrant days with the Blanche family before departing for Canada alongside the British team.
Maxi accompanied them, having volunteered to explain the structure and details of the remaining fourteen national teams to Moriarty.
"This year's World Cup stadium is at Hyprosey, in Toronto—the capital of waves," Maxi explained as they boarded the Muggle plane. "Word is, the Canadian Ministry of Magic borrowed a hundred thousand Galleons from Gringotts to build the stadium."
Moriarty had suggested traveling by airplane. He wanted Roman and the others to immerse themselves in Muggle culture and unwind before the big event.
The decision paid off. The atmosphere aboard the plane was light. Roman even made a playful bet with Afro, claiming he could get a date with a red-haired flight attendant.
Maxi, reclining comfortably in his seat and clearly no stranger to flying, told Moriarty how the Blanches maintained extensive ties with Muggles and even had business agreements with the American government.
The two chatted pleasantly until the plane touched down at Pearson International Airport in Toronto.
Moriarty and Maxi led the two teams off the plane. Dressed in casual Muggle attire, the group of over twenty young, athletic, and strikingly handsome individuals drew admiring glances from nearly every direction.
Roman and Exploding Head whistled with enthusiasm. Maxi observed that the players' spirits had lifted, and laughed, "Mr. Moriarty, you're quite the strategist."
"Quidditch is a team sport," Moriarty said with quiet gravity. "The Seeker may have the final say, but he is still just one man."
Maxi nodded solemnly. "Even a star Seeker is rendered powerless if the rest of the team falls short."
Indeed, the US team's repeated stalling in the semifinals over the past few years likely wasn't due to talent, but a lack of cohesion. It was something Maxi resolved to fix—after the World Cup.
"Sir, the Canadian Ministry of Magic arranged a Portkey in a small grove behind the airport to transport players to Hyprosey," Maxi explained. "Follow me."
That sparked another round of lively chatter among the players.
"Portkeys come in all kinds of forms," someone said.
"Yeah, they always look like garbage so Muggles won't touch them."
"Canada's Portkey is a bag of chips! What if it blows away in the wind? Are they nuts?"
"And Morocco's was a naked statue! Who makes these decisions?"
"Poland's had a Deathly Hallows symbol on it. Nearly gave me a heart attack."
Their banter continued as they entered the wooded area. There, a new group of wizards came into view.
Clad in hooded, crimson-and-black robes, they would've been mistaken for rogue warlocks were it not for the national flags of Dongying emblazoned on their backs.
Maxi frowned. "That's the Dongying team. Notorious reputation."
"Hmph. Obviously," Moriarty muttered, barely moving his lips. The tone, biting and sardonic, startled Maxi—he instantly recalled Professor Snape's signature scorn.
Moriarty had learned well.
But then something shifted.
Among the Dongying players, Moriarty saw a familiar back. A chill ran through him—it was the exact same silhouette he'd seen escaping into the Forbidden Forest weeks ago.
He blinked. The figure was gone. Some of the Dongying team had already vanished through the Portkey.
Moriarty watched the rest vanish before taking the bag of chips. The familiar lurch gripped his navel as the magic pulled him forward—
And suddenly, he was airborne.
Torn from the ground like a leaf caught in a hurricane, Moriarty sped forward into a swirling blur, the chip bag clutched tight.
Moments later, his feet slammed into solid earth. He stood, scanning the area for the figure from before—but nothing. No trace.
"12:03, from Toronto Pearson International Airport," came a voice in crisp American English.
One by one, his teammates arrived beside him. Maxi and Roman led the rest of the squad through.
Two wizards stood at the arrival point. One clutched a giant gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment. They were dressed in awkward Muggle-inspired outfits: the first in a pink-grey suit with thigh-high galoshes, the other in a No-Maj-style vest and slacks—ruined by a ridiculous brown cape.
Moriarty had no time for pleasantries. He moved past them quickly. The magician. That back—he was certain now.
He asked for directions and was told to climb the hill ahead to reach Hyprosey.
"Climb?" Moriarty smirked. "You're asking professional Quidditch players to hike?"
From his magically expanded trouser pocket, he drew a small pouch and retrieved over twenty shrunken broomsticks.
All of them were Nimbus 1700s.
"Engorgio."
The brooms expanded instantly.
"Mount up, gentlemen," Moriarty declared, his voice crisp with anticipation. "Let's give Hyprosey an entrance to remember. Our legend begins now."