The professors laughed, and a rare smile flashed in Professor Snape's eyes, signaling Keith to leave quickly.
After Keith left, the kind-hearted Professor Flitwick said,
"Don't we need to take care of this? I'm worried that serious introversion will cause trouble. The pressure on the students is already immense…"
"It's alright, Filius." Dumbledore stood up slowly, his expression solemn.
"I believe Moriarty will guide everyone down the right path. For him, such things are simple. As for us, we should be thinking about the next trouble."
The professors looked at each other in confusion.
"Trouble?"
"Hogwarts was suspended for a week. School Director Malfoy was killed. The Hogwarts Thoroughbreds invaded France. Moriarty froze the Eiffel Tower. The Thoroughbreds wiped out the Quinlan vampires—"
Dumbledore said it all in one breath. Some professors had heard parts of this, while others hadn't. All of them now looked stunned, waiting breathlessly for Dumbledore's conclusion.
"—If these aren't troublesome enough, then perhaps the British Ministry of Magic should go ahead and unify the entire wizarding world.
Relying on a retiring Minister of Magic to resolve the power struggles within the pure-blood families? To handle the French Ministry's diplomatic outrage and the growing threat of the dark world?
Today isn't April Fool's Day—think about it."
Without another word, Dumbledore departed, walking toward his office slowly, deep in thought.
Though Hogwarts had been saved, and laughter once again echoed through its halls, the world outside remained riddled with turmoil.
But Dumbledore did not know that two nights ago, Gilderoy Lockhart had arrived in France.
And yesterday—while Moriarty basked in fleeting joy—Lockhart visited the Jewish Marquis on behalf of Moriarty.
The elderly Jewish nobleman candidly claimed that he could suppress the instincts of the vampires.
His implication was clear: as long as he was involved, the vampire high command would not seek vengeance for the extermination of the Quinlan line by Moriarty.
This claim immediately aroused Lockhart's suspicion.
In the magical world, no gesture is ever without motive. Every offer comes with an intention.
Why would the mysterious power behind this old Jewish noble side with Moriarty, even at the risk of angering another great force behind the Quinlan vampires?
This wasn't Lockhart's first time dealing with foreigners, but it was the first time he'd held negotiations with a dark world power like the vampires.
He keenly felt Moriarty's trust and expectations in sending him—and thus dared not make any careless or hasty decisions.
Seeing Lockhart's cautious demeanor, the old Jewish man smiled.
He reassured Lockhart that he merely wished to establish friendly ties with Moriarty.
Then, with a curious gleam in his eye, he subtly hinted at his deeper wish—that one day, Moriarty would decline the werewolves' impending offer.
This raised further alarms in Lockhart's heart.
But no matter how cleverly he pried, the old noble offered nothing more.
"I will convey your message to Master Moriarty," Lockhart finally said, his expression neutral.
He couldn't commit to anything—he could only serve as the messenger.
The old man nodded knowingly, staring at Lockhart with glowing eyes.
"Who would have thought? England's beloved literary figure is now the servant of Mr. Moriarty."
Lockhart's expression remained unchanged, though inwardly, he took note of every word.
The old noble smiled faintly.
"It appears Mr. Moriarty is playing a grand game. Don't worry—I won't speak of this to others.
When it comes to credibility, you can trust us Jews—vampire or human alike.
Our promises carry weight. Most people simply aren't privileged enough to receive them.
Whether or not Mr. Moriarty accepts our proposition, we will honor our word.
Rest assured, Mr. Lockhart. As long as the French Ministry of Magic is pacified, the vampires will not stir further trouble."
And just like that, Lockhart was ushered out of the Marquis's castle, his mind reeling.
One crisis—the vampires—had been temporarily neutralized.
But the French Ministry of Magic loomed ahead.
Lockhart rushed to Provence Airport in Marseille.
In the waiting hall, a television was airing a news segment.
A pudgy, dark-haired man with a receding hairline sat behind a majestic desk, delivering a public address with a practiced smile.
A tall man nearby sneered.
"Look—our president's putting on a show again."
Others chuckled, nodding silently.
So, this rotund man was the President of France.
Lockhart perked up. Surely the President would comment on the Eiffel Tower incident?
He did.
"Since the Eiffel Tower incident, we've gathered 1,832 scientists—meteorologists, physicists, geographers—at the Élysée Palace.
After a thorough investigation, they've drawn a strong conclusion!
Three days ago, an unprecedented cold front descended upon Paris. It clashed with warm Mediterranean winds, creating violent convective heating.
At the same time, a massive meteor shower from the Sagittarius constellation disrupted Venus's orbit.
This convergence caused an erratic polar jet stream. And the Eiffel Tower, being the tallest structure in Paris, bore the brunt of this extraordinary event.
Thus, it froze.
I urge the public not to believe in rumors—there is no such thing as magic or wizards.
This phenomenon is purely a natural joke—or perhaps Mother Earth's warning to us. Global warming, the melting of the poles… these are the culprits.
Rest assured, our researchers are working diligently. Soon, we shall return the Eiffel to its former glory."
The President signed off with a composed smile.
But the moment the camera feed ended, his expression darkened terrifyingly.
Three days ago, he'd been in bed with his wife when an Auror from the French Ministry of Magic burst in.
At first, he'd assumed it was a joke. But after seeing the frozen Eiffel Tower with his own eyes, he fainted.
Later, Fonwei Capet—the French Minister of Magic—told him the truth.
"It was a spell," Capet said grimly. "A powerful Freezing Charm, the likes of which only one known wizard could cast."
"Moriarty Slytherin," he added.
The President had snapped, "Then undo it! Cast a counter-spell!"
Capet had merely given him a pitying look.
"We don't know how."
Frustrated and helpless, the President had been forced to repeat the Ministry's fabricated scientific explanation 17 times over the past three days.
Now, he'd had enough.
He slammed his hands on the desk, sending documents flying.
He shouted at a portrait hanging on the wall—linked magically to the Minister of Magic's office.
"To Minister Capet—when will that blasted spell be lifted? I demand an answer immediately!"
Although "demand" was strong, it was the best he could do. This was magic. There were rules.
His rage simmered.
"Soon," he growled.
"Ding~"
The black telephone on the desk rang. He picked it up.
Three mocking words came through the receiver. He slammed it down.
"Damn it!"
The President gritted his teeth and stared out of the long window.
He could almost see his political rival's smug face.
The call had come from that very rival, mocking his inaction. As if he could do anything.
He was just a man. Not a wizard.
"The whole country is laughing at you," the rival had said.
Then came a soft cough behind him.
He knew that cough.
He turned and faced the empty fireplace.
"Come in, Minister Fonwei Capet."
Bright green flames erupted from the marble grate.
Fonwei Capet spun into view, stepping through the fireplace with a pointed black hat in hand and ash on his grey cloak.
"Mr. President, we meet again," he said coolly.
The President cut straight to the point.
"Do you have an answer for me? A deadline?"
Capet's eyes gleamed.
"Indeed. Early this morning, the French Ministry of Magic formally protested to the British Ministry of Magic.
We have filed charges with the International Confederation of Wizards and the European Association of Magical Governments."
The President's eyes lit up.
"You've identified the culprit? Who is it?"
"Moriarty Slytherin."