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Dumbledore observed the friction between Moriarty and Diana like a man caught between two battling storms. The toffee in his mouth, usually a source of comfort, clung to his teeth in annoyance. Moriarty was his partner, Diana the volatile third party, and persuading both required far more effort than dealing with any dark wizard.
"Drink black tea, you two," he suggested, summoning calm into the room with a wave of his hand.
Three ornate pots of black tea appeared, one in front of each of them. Diana gazed skeptically at the silver pot before her, her expression unreadable as her eyes flicked to the small, matching silver teacup. Her brow furrowed. Did he expect her to drink an entire pot alone?
She was just about to voice her confusion when she caught sight of Dumbledore adding an alarming amount of sugar—an entire spoonful—into his own teacup. Her expression twitched involuntarily, and she quickly looked away, as if offended on behalf of every elf who ever favored delicacy over indulgence. Moriarty smirked knowingly; elf palates were notoriously refined—mild in spice, gentle in sweetness. Diana had just been exposed.
Seemingly oblivious, Dumbledore took a sip of his tea and gave a satisfied sigh, his aged features relaxing in delight. "I recommend a touch of brown sugar," he said, offering sage advice. "Not like toffee—doesn't stick to your teeth. Or perhaps you'd prefer milk? A splash of coffee? Butterbeer, perhaps? Though I had a friend once who mixed butterbeer into black tea—horrible on the stomach. Wouldn't recommend it."
Diana shook her head in silent exasperation. What did he mean by "as if I didn't notice"? Of course he noticed her distaste. He just chose to ignore it.
Meanwhile, Moriarty poured himself a cup from his pot, left it unaltered, and took a sip. His expression soured. English black tea—it was bitter, tannic, and utterly unappealing. Yet Dumbledore remained the embodiment of cheerfulness, which Moriarty found, if nothing else, impressive.
"I have a friend," Moriarty said slyly, "who enjoys mixing meat into broths and juices to create a drink he claims is a miracle. The people call it a gift from the gods. Another friend of mine always swallows it whole, without pause."
"Gretch—" Diana gagged, her hand flying to her mouth as she leaned forward with a retch. The mental image of someone drinking greasy minced meat broth was too much. She felt drenched in it, like her soul had been steeped in fatty liquid.
But, being an elven priestess, Diana quickly composed herself. Still, her eyes narrowed at Moriarty as if to accuse: You did that on purpose.
Moriarty's expression was calm, even smug. "Emotions must not cloud judgment. Whatever the vampire's intentions, we cannot meet them while unbalanced. The anomalies affecting the elves and students take priority."
"I agree," Dumbledore chimed in, his voice a warm balm of reason. "And I support Moriarty's actions. Furthermore, I will dispatch someone on behalf of both Hogwarts and the Slytherin family to meet the Jewish Marquis."
He turned to Diana with a grave look, Moriarty doing the same. Diana met both gazes with the sharp composure of someone weighing honor and obligation.
"Very well. I will trust you. But hear me clearly—if you fail, I will return home. I know of the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. Every professor to hold it meets misfortune, but I am not afraid. I will leave, gather the elves, the nymphs, goblins, werewolves, fire dragons—even your house-elves—and we will declare war on the vampires."
Her voice, clear and commanding, echoed with a divine fury. "When your wizarding world collapses into chaos, don't say I didn't warn you."
She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Moriarty of the second year, you've missed two classes. I'm concerned for your exam scores. If you're absent without proper reason, I'll be forced to penalize you."
Just as she stepped out, Moriarty uttered a deep, low growl—a dragon's call. Diana froze, her right foot hanging mid-air, and turned around sharply.
"You spoke dragon tongue," she whispered, eyes wide and star-filled with wonder. "You can speak dragon tongue?!"
Even Dumbledore was taken aback. "We never knew…"
"That's not the point," Moriarty said coldly, "The point is—you understood."
He leaned back slightly, voice low, eyes sharp with suspicion. It wasn't shocking that Dumbledore understood—it was he who discovered the twelve uses of dragon blood. But Diana?
Her reaction confirmed his hunch. The headless knight had once said elves and dragons were the most attuned to occult mysteries. Now Diana's understanding of the ancient tongue only deepened that connection.
She recovered quickly, offering no further words as she exited and returned to her office.
Moriarty watched her leave, a subtle smirk on his face. He stood and turned to go, but Dumbledore raised a hand.
"No, no, Moriarty, don't go just yet. We still haven't decided on the right person for the mission."
"You decide," Moriarty muttered, annoyed. "You're the so-called greatest wizard of the age. Can't you at least nominate someone without wasting my time?"
"I have an idea," Dumbledore said, sipping his tea with aggravating calm. "The person we choose must be strong."
Moriarty nodded without enthusiasm.
"They must also be erudite. Vampires live for centuries. We need someone who can hold a conversation with someone who's seen millennia."
Moriarty barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.
"And above all—they must have the courage and adaptability to deal with uncertainty. Vampires are unpredictable. We may not achieve peace in a single meeting. That person's intuition and will could be pivotal."
Moriarty tapped the table with a clenched fist. "That's a fine lecture, Professor. So who is it?"
Dumbledore beamed. "How about—Ruburt Hagrid?"
"…Who?" Moriarty blinked, genuinely confused.
"Ruburt. Hagrid."
The chair beneath Moriarty creaked as he fell back in disbelief. Dumbledore's gentle smile had never looked more grating.
"Hagrid?" Moriarty repeated. "You mean to tell me that Rubeus Hagrid—half-giant, expelled from school, fan of ferocious beasts—is your solution?"
Moriarty was incredulous. "Do you think Hagrid is strong? Knowledgeable? Adaptive? He has courage, sure—Gryffindor kind. But adaptable? Has Hagrid ever changed?"
Dumbledore just smiled into his black tea, the brown sugar dissolving into darkness.
"You're right," he conceded. "Perhaps Hagrid isn't ideal. Then what about Remus Lupin?"
Moriarty raised an eyebrow.
"He's strong, intelligent, empathetic. Experienced with magical creatures. He was a top student, after all."
"A werewolf," Moriarty stated flatly. "You want to send a werewolf to negotiate with vampires, their mortal enemies. What's next? Send a dementor to comfort orphans? Do you hate Lupin?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "All right, all right. Fair point. Honestly—I don't know who to send."
He stood and walked to Fawkes, brushing the phoenix's feathers. "I have the Order of the Phoenix. Surely you've heard. Since you know about Lupin's lycanthropy, I can assume you know a lot more."
He turned back with a shrug. "But the ones I can call on… McGonagall? Needed at the school. Snape? Doesn't play well with others. Flitwick? Part-elf—bad idea. Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt? Stuck at the Ministry. And I certainly can't send Mundungus Fletcher unless I want the Marquis's jewelry stolen."
Moriarty narrowed his eyes. All this talking—Dumbledore was stalling.
So this is it, Moriarty thought. He wants me to handle it. All this nonsense was just a setup.
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