Winter, 1987. Eastern Tibet.
A broken wooden house stood alone on the southern edge of the plateau, creaking under the assault of freezing winds.
Inside, a ten-year-old boy curled tightly into the corner.
Moriarty Slytherin had layered on every piece of clothing he owned. Blankets, torn quilts—anything that could provide even a hint of warmth—were wrapped around his fragile body.
It wasn't enough.
His lips had turned a lifeless shade of blue. Frost clung to his eyelashes. His dull, grayish hair looked brittle, as if it might snap at any moment.
Yet even now, he refused to let go of the object in his arms.
A long, black box.
His fingers trembled as he clutched it tighter, as though it were the only thing anchoring him to this world.
His consciousness was fading. His limbs had long since lost feeling.
Still, he forced his eyes open for one last look.
"…Great Slytherin… forgive me…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I would rather die… than endure this pain any longer…"
Darkness swallowed him.
Three hours later.
His brows suddenly twitched.
A faint expression of struggle appeared on his frozen face.
Strictly speaking… he was no longer the original Moriarty.
The body remained the same—but the soul within had changed.
The one now occupying this body was an agent.
A professional. Skilled. Cold.
Fluent in multiple languages. Trained to adapt. A survivor who had faced life and death more times than he could count.
And unlike the original Moriarty—
He had no intention of dying like this.
Freezing to death right after transmigrating? What a joke.
Memories flooded his mind—everything the original Moriarty had known.
Including one undeniable truth.
This was the world of Harry Potter.
"…The last Slytherin, huh?"
His eyes snapped open.
Pain immediately followed—sharp and biting—as the frostbitten skin on his face protested the movement.
"So this is my situation…"
Cold air burned down his throat as he spoke hoarsely.
"Got careless. This body… might not even have magic."
A squib.
If that were true, then freezing to death here would be completely unavoidable.
His body was on the verge of shutting down. Moving even slightly felt impossible.
But then—
Something pressed against his chest.
Long. Solid.
"…The box."
The one thing the original Moriarty had protected even at the cost of his life.
Fragments of memory surfaced.
The Slytherin family both revered—and feared—it.
"It's said to be… a relic of Salazar Slytherin…"
"…Some kind of agreement with ancestors…"
Moriarty almost laughed.
"Agreement? Ancestors? I'm about to die."
"Who cares?"
If it was truly a relic of Salazar Slytherin—
Then maybe… just maybe… it could save his life.
Summoning what little strength he had left, Moriarty dragged his nearly frozen arm toward the box.
Every movement felt like his body was cracking apart.
Finally—
Click.
The box opened.
Inside, a silver staff lay neatly in place.
Beneath it was a rolled piece of parchment.
The staff was about eighty centimeters long, elegant yet ancient.
To Moriarty, it looked like salvation itself.
He reached for it.
His fingers barely responded. His sense of touch was fading.
But after an agonizing struggle—
He touched it.
And in that instant—
"Ding~"
A clear, mechanical sound rang out in his mind.
"Host has detected and touched a magical item."
"Activating: Behind-the-Scenes Boss System."
"Reward: One initial lottery draw."
Moriarty's eyes widened.
A system.
Of course.
Classic.
"Quick—draw it!" he rasped internally.
"Give me a healing spell—something for warmth—fire, anything! This is basically a beginner reward, right?!"
"The initial lottery pool contains items from the Harry Potter world."
"Includes: daily items, magical tools, potions, spells, and wands."
"Confirm draw?"
"DRAW!"
No hesitation.
"Drawing…"
A brief pause.
Then—
"Congratulations. You have obtained: one pair of wool socks."
A pair of thick, white socks appeared in his hands.
Silence.
"…Are you serious?"
His expression twisted.
"I'm freezing to death and you give me SOCKS?!"
"What kind of garbage system is this?!"
"Warning: Host vitality critically low."
"Estimated time until death: 30 minutes."
"…Fantastic."
Moriarty took a slow breath.
Then his eyes sharpened.
"What about this staff?"
"If it's valuable, it should trigger something, right?"
As if responding—
"Ding!"
"Host has discovered and possessed: Slytherin Patriarch's Staff."
"Reward: Three exploration lottery draws."
Now that sounded better.
"Draw. All of them."
Immediately.
"First draw: Polyjuice Potion."
A bottle appeared beside him.
"…Not helpful right now."
"Next."
"Second draw: 50m² storage space."
"…Still not helpful."
"LAST ONE. GIVE ME SOMETHING USEFUL!"
A brief pause.
Then—
"Third draw: Ten years of magical power."
Everything… changed.
Warmth.
Faint at first—but unmistakable.
Like a spark igniting in endless ice.
Moriarty's pupils contracted.
Magic.
He could feel it.
Flowing through his body.
Alive.
Without hesitation, he gripped the silver staff.
The moment his magic connected—
BOOM!
Golden sparks burst from the tip.
A beam of light shot upward, piercing through the broken roof and into the sky.
Moriarty laughed weakly.
"Now this…"
"…this is more like it."
Magic surged within him, unlocking knowledge buried deep in his inherited memories.
Spells.
Control.
Possibility.
For survival—he didn't need something grand.
He needed something simple.
Heat.
He steadied his breathing, guiding the magic carefully.
A subtle spell.
One that warmed the surrounding air.
Slowly—
The biting cold began to fade.
The wind still howled.
But it no longer felt like death.
Moriarty exhaled.
"…Magic really is convenient."
For the first time since waking up—
He knew he would survive.