FULL NAME: Richard Brook

NICKNAMES: Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal

AGE: Twenty-eight

HOMETOWN: London, England

JOB: Consulting Criminal

Bloodstatus: Pureblood

PLAYBY: Andrew Scott

Moriarty looked lazily at the computer in front of him. He sighed. People could be so stupid. A man had messaged him on his website. A website not made by him, of course, but a total stranger that he had killed afterwards. No one could track him down through his website. The man that had messaged him asked him to find a way to kill a previous colleague who had gotten him fired. He wondered how it was that people could be so simple minded. Not that he complained. Oh, no. No, Moriarty loved this. He loved helping people get out of their mess. But sometimes it was annoying. And at those times, he always sent them a reply, telling them what to do about it, while what he told them would get them caught. He loved to see people suffer, be it honest people or criminals. That didn't matter. But he wasn't annoyed this time. He started typing in a ravishing speed. He quickly finished and sent it. When he wasn't annoyed, he told them he'd take care of it, just give him name and address. A reply came quickly enough.

Moriarty rose from the chair in the cafeteria in Baker Street. He turned off his computer and walked back home. He never used the computer he had home on his website. Only this one. And he never used his internet from his home when he was on the website. He was a very careful person. He had no intentions of ever being caught. He was all about the chase, though. And things were starting to get a bit dull around London. He didn't know why, but the criminals were just too easy. He needed a challenge. And soon.

As he walked home, a woman threw him a sexy look. He didn't turn to look at her. He didn't have to. He knew she was looking back at him. And he didn't care. Psychopaths didn't care. He didn't love. Love was beneath him. It wasn't needed. He was God, and God was loved, but God didn't love. He didn't need such a childish emotion to be content. He was very content. Though bored. He reached his big house (more like mansion) and walked inside. He rarely locked his door, but no one dared to steal from his estate. This was because, a criminal to another, knows each other just by looking at them. And he oozed of crime to other criminals. Even the gangsters of the town respected him. And those who didn't... Well, car crashes weren't that hard to do. Or even get a gangster from another crew to kill him wasn't very difficult either if they got the right amount of money. And money was something Moriarty had. His family had died when he was only five, leaving a big pile of money. And as a consulting criminal, it was very easy to get money in this rotten world. Too many wanted each other dead, and Moriarty's fee was $10 000 for muggles and 8000 galleons for wizards only for a small accident that only killed one, which was rather easy. But if there was anything big, like, say, a plane accident, he would take at least $50 000 or 40 000 galleons. And if it was supposed to be torture, $100 000 or 80 000 galleons. So he had money enough.

He walked into his writing room, a massive, oval room with a beautiful chandelier. He had an obsession with chandeliers for some weird reason. They were most fascinating to him. He walked over to his big chair, an old-fashioned chair that was often used in old movies that villains had. After all, every fairytail needs a good, old-fashioned villain. Moriarty was just that. And nothing could stop him. He was overly intelligent, and the only thing that would ever be able to end him, was himself. He knew this. He knew how his life would end. "Die before you die," he used to say, "There's no chance after." He was a person who wanted to do everything on his own terms. Even in birth, he did as he wanted. Used his time, causing as much pain to the woman called his mother. She had done nothing for him, he did nothing for her. She was dead and gone. And he wasn't sorry. Oh no, he couldn't care less. She had left him a nice slant of money, but that was the only thing she had managed to do right. Die for him so he'd be rich. Yes. Only that.

Moriarty cocked his head to the side. He suddenly felt the need for some tea. Hm. He rose and walked to the door, opening it. "Mrs. Ranold, dear, fetch me a cup of Earl Gray, please," he said in a sweet, kind tone. A happy and positive reply was retorted and he walked back to the desk. Mrs. Ranold was his house-keeper. She was a sweet lady. So, obviously, she disgusted Moriarty. But he couldn't fire her. That would destroy his fabulous and uncanny reputation. He smirked and leaned back in his chair. In his silent mind, he thought that the only thing he lacked from the villainous room, was a white cat to pet. But he hated cats. So none of them. He'd probably kill it when he got bored, skin it, make a scarf for Mrs. Ranold to make her happier, and then cut in the cat's skin just for the fun of it. He loved the feeling of a knife in his hand, penetrating flesh. Hm, maybe he had to get a cat after all.

His mind drifted to his earlier thoughts of payment and fees. He had once been paid $50 000 for a plane crash. That was a long time ago, while he was at a trip to Russia. Or the Soviet Union at the time. He thought hard to remember the names of those he was to kill. Zakrevsky. Yes. He had been very successful as well. Apparently, one person of the family still lived, but she was a kid and didn't matter to the one who paid. What was funny though, was the fact that there was a kid at nineteen in London called 'Zakrevsky'. Moriarty knew it was no coincidence and found the thought to be most thrilling. His past coming to haunt him. Moriarty let out a low chuckle. Something like that haunting him? Hah, the past would have to try harder. Mrs. Ranold knocked and entered with the tea, giving it to him with a smile. "Just the way you like it, sir," she said kindly and left.

Moriarty took a sip and smiled. Yes, just the way he liked it.