Moriarty squinted at the curly-haired boy in clear displeasure, but someone beat him to action.
A girl strode forward briskly, stopping a precise meter away from the curly-haired boy, and fixed him with an icy glare.
"Student Abel, I've told you before—you are not qualified to address me as Fleur. Kindly use my surname, Delacour. Thank you."
Although her words were courteous on the surface, there was a palpable chill beneath them. Her tone was laced with contempt, and her voice betrayed a deep, unhidden revulsion.
"Also, let me remind you once more: I am your classmate, nothing more. I am not your girlfriend. Stop following me!
And finally, cease making public remarks about England versus France. For the sake of our shared heritage as French, don't bring disgrace upon Beauxbatons."
Fleur crossed her arms with a click of finality, her every movement laced with cool disdain.
Abel, the curly-haired boy, seemed completely oblivious to Fleur's tone. He casually ran a hand through the curls at the back of his head and wore a grin he clearly believed to be charming. "Sister Fleur, you're so cold... but that's okay—"
Fleur didn't let him finish. She turned her head away sharply, dismissing him entirely—and in doing so, her gaze met Moriarty's steely gray eyes. She froze, momentarily stunned.
Abel, unaware of the sudden shift behind him, saw Fleur halt and assumed she was rethinking her position. He smiled smugly. "Sister Fleur, I knew you'd listen to me eventually. Let me take you to the French team's hotel. The Abel family is sponsoring the team this year."
He walked beside her, practically vibrating with anticipation, staring at her without blinking, waiting to be acknowledged.
He looked so ridiculous—like a boy desperate enough to pop out his own eyes and offer them to Fleur on a silver platter.
But he didn't get the answer he expected.
Fleur blinked rapidly, as if worried Moriarty might vanish, and then softly murmured, "Moriarty~"
Her voice was low, velvety, bewitching. Men who heard it paused mid-motion, dropped what they were doing, and looked over in a daze.
Silence rippled across the entire runway, as if night had suddenly fallen.
All eyes turned toward Fleur. Young wizards stared in adoration; older ones watched with awe and reverence.
It was clear Fleur was still a young girl—perhaps fourteen or fifteen at best. Only Moriarty and Abel knew she was, in fact, just twelve years old.
Yet this slip of a girl, with luminous white-silver hair and skin pale as snow, captivated them all—except Moriarty.
Having already known the likes of Diana and Tonks, Moriarty was largely immune to such charms.
Still, even he couldn't deny Fleur's allure. He found himself subconsciously comparing her with the women in his life.
Diana's complexion had a divine glow, radiating a sanctified aura—noble, unreachable.
Narcissa's fair skin was daffodil-pale, vibrant, and spring-like, imbued with a sense of life.
Fleur's skin was creamy and smooth—so flawless it tempted one to reach out and touch it.
No wonder Abel acted like a stray mutt in heat.
Men could easily drown in a single glance from a beauty like Fleur—especially when she spoke so sweetly, calling a man's name with such affection. Already, there were whistles and gasps from nearby spectators.
But Moriarty? He only nodded, expression unreadable, acknowledging Fleur with a cold politeness.
Fleur's lips puckered into a disappointed pout, which somehow enchanted even more onlookers.
Moriarty heard a couple arguing behind him. Fleur was used to his indifference, though. She composed herself with a breath and approached him confidently.
"Mr. Moriarty, I never expected to meet you in Canada after five months.
Are you here for the World Cup as well? So am I—my parents are at the hotel finalizing our accommodation.
What a coincidence! This encounter is an honor for both myself and the Delacour family."
Fleur smiled and extended her right hand gracefully, her etiquette perfectly refined—pure-blood nobility at its finest.
With that smile, more than one romantic relationship ended right there on the runway.
Since returning to her family from Hogwarts, Fleur had devoted herself to mastering traditional pure-blood etiquette. She knew Moriarty spurned the girls who worshipped him like a celebrity—but he respected the favor of an old magical house.
As she hoped, Moriarty responded.
"Give my regards to Mr. and Ms. Delacour."
He reached out and briefly took her hand in his, firm but courteous. Abel's eyes turned bloodshot with rage, locking on that handshake with disbelief.
"Junior Sister Fleur, how could you let an Englishman hold your hand?"
His voice was trembling with fury. He glared at Fleur's hand in Moriarty's grasp as though it had betrayed him.
Fleur recoiled at his gaze, her voice sharp with disgust. "You have no right to control me! Leave now!"
Then, anxious to prevent a misunderstanding, she turned to Moriarty and sighed. "He's a fourth-year student at Beauxbatons. His family's sponsoring the French team this year.
Somehow, he discovered my family would be here and came just to pester me. He's been an absolute nuisance."
"It's fine. I'm not you—you don't owe me explanations," Moriarty replied coolly.
"...I understand." Fleur smiled, hiding her disappointment. She had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that he might show a flicker of jealousy.
But no—he remained indifferent.
Would he be angry at her for involving him?
She peeked at him nervously, but Moriarty didn't flinch.
Abel, however, had reached his breaking point. The goddess he idolized was being so casually claimed before his eyes. His fury bubbled over.
He charged toward Moriarty in a single bound, face twisted in rage, nose flaring.
"You! Moriarty, right? Ha! What a proper English name. Let me get a good look at that smug—"
He never finished.
Maxie and Roman stepped between him and Moriarty with synchronized precision, wands out, aimed directly at his face, chest, and forehead.
"Boy, do you realize what you're doing? Insulting a national player during the World Cup? You want to start a war?"
Maxie sneered, his resemblance to Jericho eerily noticeable.
Fleur's eyes sparkled. "Moriarty? You joined the British national team?"
"Not just joined," Roman declared. "He's our captain."
"Captain? Captain of the British team? Merlin's beard! What haven't you told me yet?" Fleur's voice was full of admiration.
Abel stood dumbfounded, speechless, but the commotion had drawn attention. Members of the French team came running.
Their captain, a tall, broad-shouldered wizard with a thick beard, raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy there, mes amis. We worked together at last year's Cup. For old times' sake, please give this boy a pass—he's just a student."
"That's not for you to decide, Perret," Roman snapped. "This isn't just a fan issue.
This is a pureblood from France insulting Slytherin, the purest bloodline in Britain. Do you understand the diplomatic weight of that?"
Perret flinched, eyes narrowing. "Moriarty Slytherin...? The eyes… the hair…"
Abel gasped like he'd seen death incarnate and collapsed to his knees with a thud.
"By Merlin! I… I have seen Moriarty Slytherin with my own eyes—the noble, glorious Slytherin! Please, accept my humble respect!"
He pressed his forehead to the ground, trembling.
Perret gave him a pitying glance before shifting his gaze back to Moriarty. There was no denying it—the boy held the Killing Curse in his back pocket.
Roman and Maxie exchanged confused glances. Abel's sudden switch in behavior made no sense.
Still prostrate, Abel continued praising Slytherin as if his life depended on it. Moriarty snorted.
"Enough. Get lost. You're sharper than most idiots, so take the hint. And never bother Fleur again."
"Yes, yes! Of course!" Abel scrambled to his feet and bolted, smiling sheepishly. "I swear I'll keep my distance from Fleur—uh, I mean, from Madame Slytherin-to-be!"
Roman and the others turned amused looks toward Fleur, who couldn't help but laugh. "Pfft"