Before meeting Moriarty, Fleur had already resolved to stand as his equal.
Asking for the notebook didn't mean she had given up on him—far from it. Just as she had said: she would no longer debase herself for anyone.
Fleur Delacour.
She was a star meant to shine in the skies, not to be trampled like dust on the ground.
She had thought through how Moriarty might respond to her demand for the notebook. Yet she hadn't expected him to welcome her into his luxurious suite.
Fleur paused only briefly to consider it, then walked in with calm poise.
Moriarty gestured for her to sit on the plush sofa and silently turned to retrieve something from a polished cabinet. Moments later, he emerged from the adjacent study and held out a deep violet notebook.
Fleur accepted it delicately, as if it were a rare artifact.
She flipped it open, fingertips grazing the familiar curves of Moriarty's script. Her heart fluttered as memories of late nights spent recording, researching, and scribbling notes in this very book returned.
She had poured herself into it—exhausted herself, tolerated people she loathed, worn dark circles like a badge—just to offer it as help.
Now?
She laughed bitterly.
Her help had been so small, so unnecessary for someone like Moriarty.
She had not handed him notes—she had handed him a knife. One she'd plunged into her own pride.
The bitter smile twisted her lips.
Ha... how ridiculous.
But as she turned another page, something unexpected caught her eye.
A full page, filled with handwritten notes—none of them Moriarty's.
Tribute to Miss Fleur Delacour.
—Roman, Chaser for the British team.
Thank you, Miss Fleur, for your guidance.
—Red Nose, Beater for the British team.
Your intel helped us greatly. We owe you a share of our win. Come to Britain—dinner's on us.
—Exploder, Seeker for the British team.
More than a dozen messages, each in a different hand, each sincere and heartfelt. The ink had long since dried—evidence they were not recent additions.
Fleur's breath caught.
They'd seen it. They had noticed.
Her efforts hadn't been invisible after all.
Tears brimmed in her eyes.
At the bottom of the page, in Moriarty's refined script, was one final note:
For your unwavering support behind the scenes, you have earned the right to sign your name on the Quidditch World Cup trophy, once I bring it home.
—M.S.
Fleur's hands trembled. She knew exactly what "M.S." stood for.
Moriarty Slytherin.
She clutched the notebook to her chest, overcome with emotion, silent tears trailing down her cheeks.
"When did you write this?" she asked, voice quivering. "Were you hiding it from me on purpose? Just to surprise me?"
Her tone was halfway between accusation and bashful affection.
The soft pout on her lips sparked an urge in Moriarty—he suddenly wanted to pull her into his lap and keep her there.
His brow arched. Fleur's allure had only intensified. In a few more years, he'd probably need to cast Occlumency on himself just to talk to her.
Veela—magical beings devoted to passion and love—rarely fell in love. But once they did, they were utterly loyal.
And Fleur's devotion, though still blooming, had awakened early—years ahead of schedule.
Fortunately, Moriarty had been… thoroughly sated by Diana the night before, or he might've made an irreversible decision.
"I was going to show you after the championship," he said with a shrug. "But since you insisted on reclaiming your notebook, I suppose you can take it."
Fleur's expression blossomed into a radiant blush.
"Actually... no~" she shook her head, teasingly, cheeks flushed pink. "I take it back. I don't want the notebook anymore. And I don't want an answer either."
Moriarty narrowed his eyes, closing the distance between them. His voice lowered into a husky whisper.
"Oh? Taking back your words? Did I say you could?"
The way his breath tickled her ear sent shivers through her. Her grip on the notebook tightened instinctively.
No longer a symbol of rejection, it had become a token of joy, sweetness—a keepsake of dreams fulfilled.
"I liked the way you acted earlier," Moriarty said with a smirk. "That whole cold and commanding act. Charming."
Now he understood. Fleur's icy demeanor had always been deliberate—a mask.
But now, she had mastered flirtation as well.
If he didn't start exercising caution, the world would be filled with heartbroken exes and shattered marriages.
"Fine," Fleur replied with a grin, tilting her head playfully. Her squinted eyes sparkled like twin moons.
Then, in a flash, her face shifted back to a cool mask. She lifted her chin like royalty inspecting a commoner, and with a soft snort, tossed the notebook back onto the table.
"Captain Moriarty, do you even know your final opponent—Team Japan? If you want Fleur Delacour's signature on that World Cup trophy, then you'd better win. Do I need to remind you?"
She crossed her legs with dignified grace and sat opposite him at the table.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly back. "Is this your idea of a pep talk?"
"Pfft—why are you looking at me like that?" Fleur broke character almost immediately and burst into laughter. "I've never used that tone with you before."
"I liked it," Moriarty said smoothly as he walked over. "In fact, you can start practicing your signature now—it's practically guaranteed."
Fleur rolled her eyes but sobered quickly.
"The Japanese team beat the Americans," she said, voice lowering. "They're the dark horse. But I've noticed two fatal flaws."
"Let's hear them," Moriarty said. As he spoke, Fleur opened the notebook once more, quill ready in hand.
But before he could continue, the door to the suite creaked open.
Diana stepped in.
She had just returned from breakfast. And what she saw made her freeze.
Fleur, silver hair cascading down her back, was seated at Moriarty's desk—writing in his notebook, laughing with him, glowing with joy.
Diana's sapphire eyes narrowed dangerously.
She had never imagined Fleur would actually sneak into Moriarty's room—let alone act as if she belonged there.
If Diana had seen the earlier flirting and tearful confessions, her appraisal of Fleur might have changed even sooner.
But now… she realized it.
Fleur Delacour was a rival.
Diana let out a soft, derisive breath.
"So," she said smoothly, "we've hired a new secretary for the team?"
She stepped forward with confident strides, heels clicking, and settled herself beside Moriarty.
Fleur's gaze sharpened.
She didn't wait for an invitation.
"I remember you," she said flatly. "Your name's Diana. I'm sorry—I can't call you 'Professor.' A real professor wouldn't speak down to a team secretary."
"I'm Fleur Delacour. Try not to forget."
Diana's eyes went cold.
"Florence Delacour, is it?"
She smiled icily. "You must not know. The elven world—the pixies, dark elves, goblins, and more—they all answer to me."
Her tone grew regal, ancient, the voice of a queen descending from myth.
"To them, my word is law—greater than gods, greater than devils."
But her words were accompanied by action.
Her right hand slipped under the table, reached Moriarty, and gave him a light squeeze. Her other hand slid affectionately across his arm.
"Honey," she murmured, "are you in the mood for excitement?"
Moriarty frowned.
Not now, he signaled with a shake of his head.
But Diana didn't stop. Her foot slid beneath the table, brushing against his.
The elf queen still had stamina. After a night of passion, she had awakened refreshed, dined, and returned ready for more.
Moriarty knew this was heading for trouble.
If he didn't stop them, there would be chaos.
Support Fleur? Diana? Neither?
He should toss them both across his lap and give them fifty swats each.
He gently but firmly pushed Diana's wandering hands away and opened his mouth to speak
Only to be cut off by Fleur.
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