CHAPTER 2

Gilderoy Lockhart stood outside the wooden door, a suitcase in hand and his signature charming smile plastered across his face—the very smile he reserved for the media, no matter the time or place.

Before coming here, Lockhart had confirmed that the owner of this secluded cabin was a wizard. A powerful wizard.

Lockhart still remembered the brilliant magical surge he had witnessed—a force far beyond that of an ordinary wizard. That was why he had taken a friendly approach.

After all, no one could resist his dazzling smile.

At least, that's what he believed.

And if the owner happened to be a charming witch, well, Lockhart wouldn't mind a pleasant evening chat.

A frigid gust of wind tore through the mountains, making Lockhart shiver despite the warmth of his elaborate wizard's robes. He knocked again, plastering the most disarming grin he could manage onto his face.

"Hello? I'm—"

Silence.

No response from within.

Lockhart's smile twitched at the edges. He knocked again, this time a little louder. "Is there anyone at home?"

Still nothing.

Just as he was about to give up, the door creaked open.

Lockhart hastily straightened his posture, ready to charm whoever stood before him—only to freeze in surprise.

"A child?"

Before him stood a boy wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, leaning on an intricately carved staff. His silver-grey hair, piercing gaze, and the regal air about him made Lockhart hesitate.

But it was the staff that truly caught his attention.

It was unlike anything Lockhart had ever seen before—ornate, powerful, exuding an aura of ancient magic. His eyes remained fixed on it, betraying his awe.

Moriarty watched Lockhart's expression shift—from confusion to fascination—and found it utterly amusing.

He took a moment to size up the man standing before him. Lockhart's golden and crimson wizard's robes shimmered in the dim light, making him look like a flamboyant peacock.

Suppressing his amusement, Moriarty gestured grandly and said, "Everything is as you see, Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart. Welcome to my home."

"Your home? You?"

Lockhart blinked in disbelief. Did this boy truly unleash the magic he had witnessed earlier?

But he knew better than to voice his doubts. Instead, he asked, "You mean to say you live here alone?"

Moriarty simply smiled. "Didn't you notice? I'm as English as you are! I've been living here for years. I call this place Igloo."

Lockhart wasn't sure whether the name was meant to be ironic, but he decided to play along.

Moriarty stepped aside, opening the door further. "Come in and see for yourself, Mr. Lockhart. I bet you'll like it here."

Lockhart hesitated for only a second before stepping inside, keen to uncover the mystery of this strange boy.

The moment the door shut behind him, however, he felt an inexplicable unease.

For a fleeting moment, the absurd thought crossed his mind that he had just walked into a trap.

Shaking off his discomfort, Lockhart forced a smile and attempted small talk. "This is my first time in Eastern Tibet. Quite cold, isn't it? Have you truly lived here all this time?"

"Yes. Aside from the weather, it's quite peaceful—an ideal place to avoid disasters."

There was an odd weight to Moriarty's words.

Lockhart stiffened involuntarily. His mind immediately leapt to You-Know-Who, and a shudder ran through him.

He quickly covered it up with another laugh. "Ah, yes! Quite right! European wizards rarely venture to China, let alone Eastern Tibet."

"Then what brings you all the way here, Mr. Lockhart?"

"Well, I suppose I should introduce myself properly," Lockhart said, setting down his suitcase and pulling out a stack of newspapers. "Perhaps you've heard of The Daily Prophet?"

With a flick of Moriarty's staff, one of the newspapers floated toward him.

"Brilliant charmwork!" Lockhart praised. He was growing increasingly curious about this boy's abilities.

Moriarty pretended to examine the newspaper, despite already knowing everything about Lockhart's self-glorifying stories. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what's written here," he said mildly.

Lockhart sighed dramatically and put away the papers. "No matter! Allow me to summarize. You see, I am not only a celebrated writer but also a great adventurer! Each year, I travel the world to document my encounters with dangerous magical creatures, which I then turn into thrilling books."

Moriarty feigned interest, nodding in all the right places. He already knew the truth.

Lockhart's so-called adventures? Stolen.

Every heroic tale he had penned was someone else's story, conveniently altered after he had Obliviated the true heroes.

From Wanderings with Werewolves to Break with a Banshee, every book was a deception.

And now, he was here. In Eastern Tibet.

Moriarty recalled Year with the Yeti, one of Lockhart's most famous works. It was clear that Lockhart had come to gather material for that book.

That was exactly what Moriarty needed.

An opportunity.

An opening into the British wizarding world.

He could already envision the plan forming in his mind.

"Mr. Lockhart," Moriarty said, leaning forward slightly, "your adventures are incredible. I can hardly believe I have the honor of meeting such a fearless explorer."

Lockhart beamed. "Ah, well, I do my best."

"You mentioned the Eastern Tibetan Yeti," Moriarty continued. "It just so happens that I know quite a bit about these fascinating creatures. Perhaps I could be of assistance?"

Lockhart raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting…?"

Moriarty's eyes shone with eager excitement. "That I accompany you on your adventure, of course! It would be an honor."

Lockhart hesitated.

On one hand, he didn't particularly want company. On the other hand, having a knowledgeable guide might make things easier—and if this boy truly knew about the yetis, he could be useful.

And useful people were always easier to Obliviate later.

"Well, well," Lockhart said, regaining his usual enthusiasm. "I suppose if you can help, I might just include you in my book! Oh, by the way, what did you say your name was?"

"Moriarty," the boy said simply. "Now, Mr. Lockhart, if you'd be so kind as to listen—I have a strategy in mind."

"Ah, yes, of course, but first—" Lockhart opened his suitcase and pulled out a set of ornate coffee cups. "A writer must always be well-caffeinated! This is a special blend, new in Diagon Alley. Would you care for some?"

Moriarty glanced at the suitcase—clearly enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. He had no idea what else Lockhart might have stashed in there, but he had no interest in the coffee.

With polite restraint, he shook his head. "No, thank you."

Instead, he raised his staff and conjured a detailed light-and-shadow model of an Eastern Tibetan Yeti.

Lockhart gasped. "Merlin's beard! That's remarkable!"

The illusion hovered before them, depicting the yeti's thick, white fur and massive frame.

"Snowmen share traits with trolls," Moriarty explained. "Thick hides resistant to magic, immense strength, incredible speed. But more importantly, they sometimes wield ice magic—and they are social creatures."

Lockhart paled slightly. "Er… social, you say?"

Moriarty smirked inwardly. He could see Lockhart's bravado cracking.

"Don't worry," he said smoothly. "They have one weakness."

"Oh?" Lockhart perked up. "And what might that be?"

Moriarty leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial.

"Music."

Lockhart's eyes widened. "Music?"

"Indeed," Moriarty said. "A well-played melody lulls them into a deep sleep."

Lockhart brightened. "Marvelous! As it happens, I brought a violin!"

Moriarty smiled. Everything was falling into place.

"Well then," Lockhart declared. "Let's go tame a yeti!"

And with that, they stepped out into the cold night, the hunt about to begin.