CHAPTER 5

"Greece is the cradle of some of the oldest dark magic. Vampires, werewolves, goblins, mummies, dark elves… All manner of beings from the darker corners of the magical world tend to congregate here. I must admit, vampires are the most profitable clientele."

The uncle gave a grin, and his merchant's faux sincerity shone through clearly.

He glanced around, then leaned toward Moriarty and lowered his voice: "Werewolves are temperamental, mummies are impossible to converse with, and dark elves are conceited—but vampires, now, they're something else. Longevity often dulls their memory; they're forgetful, drowsy creatures. I can't count how often they forget the amount of gold owed, and they haven't a clue how to balance ledgers—ha!"

The waiter returned with three glasses. The deep red Bloody Mary was claimed by the uncle, while Moriarty slid the crystal-clear lemonade toward Lilith and took a measured sip of the amber-hued Long Island Iced Tea.

Lilith, eyes wide, stared at the waiter's pallid wrists and slightly pointed teeth. "Moriarty, are they—vampires?"

"You noticed thirty seconds faster than I expected. That means your judgment remains clear," Moriarty said softly, giving her a brief glance. "Indeed, this is a vampire bar."

"Cool~" The eldest daughter of House Spencer, who had spent her days immersed in legal texts, seemed thoroughly excited. She sipped the lemonade and stared about in wonder.

The uncle downed his drink and accompanying potion in one gulp, smacking his lips in satisfaction. "As expected—the waiters here are all half-blood vampires."

"Half-blood? Vampires have blood status too?" Lilith asked, visibly intrigued.

"Yes." The uncle nodded. "Mixed-blood vampires, or dhampirs, if you will. Think of them as the equivalent of half-blood wizards in Europe. Most vampires here in Shengbo Saran are of mixed lineage. The proprietor, though—he's a noble vampire, pure-blooded. My grandfather used to say he's a vampire grand duke, alive for over 700 years."

"Vampire Grand Duke?" Moriarty took the thread of conversation. "In the past millennium, few vampire dukes have arisen. Do you know which clan he hails from? Cain? Dracula? Kun Lan? Bluebeard? Or perhaps even Old Jew?"

"If you weren't so young, I'd think you were a vampire hunter," the uncle chuckled nervously, looking Moriarty over with renewed curiosity. "Greek vampires seldom affiliate with the ancient undead lineages of mainland Europe. I doubt this Grand Duke has ties to them. Our local vampires revere female figures—Countess Karnstein, better known as Carmilla, and her maid Ampsha are both highly venerated."

"I heard someone talking about female vampires!" A delicate, sultry voice broke in. "Darlings, would you like to meet one? Come with big sister~"

A stunning woman glided toward them. Every patron in the bar abruptly paused and stared, transfixed.

Moriarty watched the shift in atmosphere keenly. The woman had the unmistakable allure of Veela blood.

Her features were exquisitely delicate, with a sensual aura that made it difficult to look away. She wore only a black lace nightdress, revealing alabaster skin and an impossibly graceful figure.

She slipped smoothly between Moriarty and Lilith, flashing a tantalizing smile.

Lilith raised an eyebrow. "Vampire or fairy?"

"How rude~" The woman whispered playfully, reaching a finger to stroke Lilith's chin. Lilith recoiled, and the woman giggled. "No fun~"

"Restrain yourself, Mrs. Kewa," the uncle interjected, exasperated. "Don't get involved with these two. I've warned you."

Mrs. Kewa sauntered over to the uncle, her curves pressing deliberately against him. "Boss Uria, don't hoard the foreigners. You wouldn't let me near that red-haired Englishman last time, and now—these two? Don't be selfish~"

The uncle shrugged her off with visible irritation. The redhead had carried a souvenir from Dumbledore himself. For everyone's safety, she'd been denied access. But that was a secret he had to keep buried.

Mrs. Kewa simply giggled. Interpreting the uncle's silence as approval, she turned her attention back to Moriarty, resuming her flirtations.

"Move." A raspy, pointed voice cut in from behind her.

Mrs. Kewa's eyes narrowed in outrage. "Who dares? Nail me to a cross? Do you know who I am?"

"I didn't mean me—though I could. I've killed a vampire in Ireland's shadowy forests. I meant him—the one you're pestering."

The voice now spoke in English. Moriarty and Lilith's ears perked up.

The speaker had a quintessentially British look—rosy cheeks, deep-set black eyes that gleamed with wit. He extended a hand to Moriarty.

"I recognized you the moment you walked in. I read your work last year! I'm Quirinus Quirrell—graduate of Ravenclaw House, Hogwarts."

"You're that Quirrell?" Lilith jumped in before Moriarty could respond. "Seniors said the Muggle Studies professor took a sabbatical last year—traveling, wasn't it? Never expected..."

She gave him a quick once-over. His expression was bright, though his appearance wasn't flattering. A pungent scent of garlic emanated from his purple wizard robes.

Moriarty's thoughts flickered. Quirinus Quirrell—the professor who, two years from now, would be possessed by Voldemort. But this was 1989. That hadn't happened yet.

Ding-Dong~

Mission detected: Prevent Quirrell from being possessed by Voldemort!

Mission Time: 10 Days.

Reward: 500 Points.

Punishment: The host will be drained by Mrs. Kewa until not even a drop remains!

"Huh?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "No obliteration this time?"

System: "Last year marked your first in this world, so harsher punishments were necessary to push your progress. But now you've built a foundation worthy of a behind-the-scenes mastermind. Still, should your progress wane, or attitude sour, punishment will revert to full obliteration. Keep rising, Host."

Moriarty smirked. Ruthless, this system of his.

He accepted the mission. Then, smiling gently, he shook Quirrell's hand and gestured for him to sit on his right.

"Escort Mrs. Kewa out," Moriarty ordered.

Mrs. Kewa, glaring daggers at Quirrell, flared her nostrils in disdain and stalked off in a flurry of lace.

Quirrell gave a half-laugh. "Garlic works wonders on half-blood vampires."

"Sounds like you've got experience," Moriarty remarked.

"Not quite—more like a close call." Quirrell leaned in. "Last year in Ireland, I crossed paths with a vampire. We fought for ages before I finally reduced him to ash. Found a jar in his coffin, traced it here to Athens."

"Coffins signify vampire status. For dhampirs, having one is akin to a villa for a Muggle," the uncle added.

"Last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—he was a vampire," Lilith mentioned suddenly. "I think he was half-blood."

"Certainly," Moriarty confirmed. He recalled the large tank of animal blood in Professor Randy's office. Dumbledore wouldn't allow human blood on campus. A pure-blood vampire couldn't survive on animal blood alone.

Quirrell looked wistful. "I traveled to gain insight… I intend to apply for Defence Against the Dark Arts next term—1991-1992. Competition's fierce."

"As I understand it, Dumbledore already has a candidate for that year," Moriarty said diplomatically. "You might consider applying the following year, or exploring magical communities in Western Europe."

Moriarty began to reassess Quirrell. Smart, daring, respectful—an ideal candidate for mentorship.

Even without the system's prompt, Moriarty wouldn't let Quirrell walk into death in Albania.

But then Quirrell surprised him. "I've already made arrangements to head to Albania next month. Word is something unnatural stirs in its forests. I must investigate—and bring back a report for Professor Dumbledore. A priceless adventure."

Moriarty sighed inwardly. Only one way to prevent Quirrell's fate.

It was then that he noticed something odd—the uncle, Boss Uria, had fallen silent and was avoiding eye contact.

And as soon as "Dumbledore" had been mentioned, his demeanor changed.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. So the name Dumbledore is the key... something's off here.

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