Three days after the on-site registration, Roman and the explosive-headed lad pounded on the door of Moriarty's room.
"Bang bang bang!"
Roman clapped the wood hard, hollering, "Sir, sir! The schedule's out!"
Crash! The door was yanked open from the inside, revealing Moriarty in a pair of navy-blue pajamas. His silver-blond hair was unkempt, yet his face bore the same composed expression. He looked at his teammates calmly.
"Are you always this energetic?"
Roman gave a sheepish grin. "Excited. Mainly excited. We went out for morning drills."
Moriarty shook his head, stepping aside to let them in.
At Hogwarts, he had been the undisputed leader of Slytherin House. But this was Hyprossey—the world stage.
A place far removed from the peace and discipline of Hogwarts.
Hyprossey was a chaotic mesh of global wizardry—where every kind of witch and wizard gathered—sincere and wicked alike. Danger lurked in shadowed corners. It wasn't wise to wander aimlessly. Staying inside the hotel remained the safest course.
Still, Roman and the explosive-headed youth were both seasoned players. Moriarty knew they wouldn't let their guard down easily.
"Sit."
Moriarty gestured to the leather couch in the opulent suite. Roman and the afro-haired lad obeyed. Though they sat, their posture was tense—perched on the edge, red-rimmed eyes staring at Moriarty.
Clearly, excitement had stolen their sleep.
Amused, Moriarty arched a brow. "Now I'm curious. Who's our opponent in the first match that has you grinning like giddy fifth-years on their first Firewhisky?"
"You'll never guess!" said the explosive-head excitedly, flinging his arms. "The moment we saw the team name, I couldn't wait to tear the pitch up!"
"A week ago, we had a… mild altercation with them," Roman said with a knowing smirk. But the mischievous glint in his eyes gave away more than "mild."
"A week ago? Hmm…" Moriarty's eyes sharpened. "I think I know. Fate really does enjoy repeating itself, doesn't it?" He tapped his chin. "France."
The explosive-head nodded furiously. "Exactly! Peru's got nasty plans—I can feel it! He's probably out there brewing up shady tactics to take us down!"
"That rat's full of dirty tricks," Roman muttered, but Moriarty raised his hand to cut him off.
"Let's shelve that discussion. I've scheduled a pre-match meeting this afternoon—we'll strategize there."
His tone shifted, firm yet calm. "Now—bring me the schedule."
A good captain had to see the full board, not just the immediate threat.
France was just one square on the chessboard. A formidable opponent, yes—but not the final boss. The road to victory was long. The key lay in planning.
Roman quickly pulled a folded piece of white parchment from his pocket. It bore a neatly ruled table drawn with sharp lines and magical ink. He handed it to Moriarty.
"Excellent," Moriarty said, scanning the contents with a keen eye.
"Captain," Roman said carefully, "anything else we should do?"
Without looking up, Moriarty answered, "Don't you understand? Go to your rooms. Take a long bath. Wrap yourselves up in your quilts. Sleep like you've got a hundred Galleons riding on it."
"Oh—right!" They scrambled out of the suite.
Moriarty watched their retreating backs, shaking his head.
The more he learned about professional Quidditch, the more flaws he saw.
Though the competition had evolved, following the structure of Muggle sports—bracketed matches, precise scheduling, televised broadcasts—tactically, it remained crude.
Most glaring of all: the near-total absence of coaches in the wizarding Quidditch world.
Where Muggle teams had a full roster of coaches—offensive, defensive, tactical—wizarding teams rarely had even one. If they did, that person often doubled as team manager or referee. At Hogwarts, the house team captains had to be their own coaches.
There was no supply because there was no demand.
Why? Because most teams prioritized equipment and raw skill—particularly the Chasers and their brooms.
A team with top-tier brooms? Automatically deemed a top-tier team.
A team with explosive Chasers? Same thing.
It was a shallow perspective. And Roman's and the explosive-head's reactions proved it.
They focused all their energy on the next game. Win that, then worry about the one after.
It was the same mistake made by the British team in the last World Cup. They were wiped out by Maxi's team during the 8-to-4 stage. No prep. No counter-tactics. Just confidence and hope.
Not under Moriarty's watch.
He returned to the parchment.
The World Cup Schedule:
Round of 16 (16-to-8): Eight matches.
First match: First Wednesday in February.
Final match: Late March.
One-week break between matches.
Quarterfinals (8-to-4): Four matches.
Begins: First Tuesday in April.
Ends: Mid-May.
Two-week break between each match.
Semifinals (4-to-2):
Two matches throughout June and July.
Final:
August. Just before school term starts.
That allowed students and wizard families worldwide to attend.
First Round Match: England vs France.
Approximately two weeks away.
Moriarty narrowed his eyes. Just weeks ago, the British Ministry of Magic had butted heads with the French Ministry. The arguments had gone so far they'd dragged in the International Confederation of Wizards.
Surely the Canadian Ministry of Magic and the World Cup Committee knew this.
And they still scheduled England vs France?
Coincidence?
Moriarty's lips curled into a sly smile. Not likely.
It reeked of manipulation. But that was just the way he liked it.
He pulled up a quill and parchment.
If he was right, this World Cup would outshine all others in underhanded dealings.
Letter to Sr. Flint & Sr. Foley:
> "...The layers of deceit in this World Cup may outweigh all previous tournaments combined.
The Canadian Ministry and I—and the MACUSA—have come to a tacit agreement. This schedule is political theatre.
The World Cup officials and the Canadian Ministry likely rigged the brackets, possibly in collaboration with a gambling syndicate.
If our funds run low, contact Luke at Slytherin Castle. The underground vault is open for us—no limits.
Also, Ludo Bagman may prove useful. Use him if needed..."
Moriarty penned another letter—this one to Lilith, urging her to finalize Nimbus negotiations immediately.
Then he reexamined the full schedule.
Other Matches:
Canada vs Mexico
USA vs Australia
Scotland vs Poland
Germany vs Peru
Brazil vs Japan (referred to as "Dongying")
Transylvania vs Norway
Bulgaria vs Turkey
Moriarty closed his eyes, activating the Alchemy Matrix.
In his mind's eye, a simulation formed—an alchemical projection of each match and its potential outcomes.
"Canada and the USA will likely proceed—politics ensure their advancement.
Turkey lacks depth. Bulgaria's advancement is secure.
The rest? Toss-ups.
But... something about Japan. I have a hunch—they'll upset Brazil. Might even climb shockingly high."
As for France?
Moriarty's eyes flashed.
---
He remained locked inside his room the entire morning and afternoon, which worried Roman and the other players.
But precisely at three o'clock, Moriarty emerged, crisp and regal, robes immaculate.
He summoned the entire team to the official conference room.
Each national team had been granted luxury accommodation, alongside a private meeting space, training pitch, and broom repair chamber.
In the well-lit meeting hall, eleven players and several substitutes waited, murmuring. Moriarty entered, calm but commanding.
He rapped his knuckles on the table, silencing the room.
"From the Round of 16 onward," he announced, "I'm switching roles with Roman Reigns.
Roman will resume his position as Seeker.
And I…" His gaze swept across his teammates, "will take up the position of Chaser."