That evening, Lilith received a letter from her family. Justus Piliwick had also arranged an appointment for her with Devlin Whitehorn, the chairman of the Nimbus Broom Company.
He claimed that Barty Crouch Sr. had urgent matters to discuss with Nimbus and suggested they could visit together the following morning.
Lilith, no stranger to power politics since childhood, instantly read between the lines. The message was clear—Barty Crouch Sr. had been dispatched by the family to back her up.
Early the next morning, Lilith requested a half-day leave from Professor Dumbledore and, accompanied by Percy and Gemma, took the Floo Network through the fireplace in the teacher's office to Diagon Alley.
At the Leaky Cauldron, they met Barty Crouch.
Once the group assembled, Barty led them through the bustling streets of London to Nimbus headquarters—a sleek high-rise that, like the MACUSA's Woolworth Building, was shared with Muggles, yet cleverly concealed with enchantments.
"Little Piliwick, how much do you know about Nimbus?" Barty asked as they ascended in the magical lift toward the executive floor.
"I did a thorough investigation before coming," Lilith replied confidently, a subtle glint in her eyes. "The full name is Nimbus Broom Company. It was founded in 1967 by Devlin Whitehorn, and the Whitehorn family has remained on the board ever since.
Although technically governed by a board, it's effectively a family-run enterprise. Over two decades, it's grown to dominate the broomstick market."
Barty nodded approvingly. "To be honest, this isn't going to be simple. On one side, we have the industry giant. On the other—Slytherin and Nicolas Flamel. So, Little Piliwick, what's your plan?"
"Uncle Barty, I was up all night thinking about this," Lilith murmured, rubbing her tired eyes. "But Moriarty trusted me with this task. Gaining that trust wasn't easy. I can't afford to fail him. I'm going to resolve this contract dispute, and I'm going to do it with style."
Lilith clenched her fists with determination. A real queen needed no sympathy—only results.
"Sister Gemma. Percy." Lilith turned to them as they stood before the grand double doors to Whitehorn's office. "Let's go."
"What about me?" Barty asked, scratching his already sparse scalp. "You know I'm not just here for directions, right?"
Lilith refused Barty's offer of help firmly. She straightened her posture and pushed open the black leather-paneled doors, leading the charge into the office. Gemma and Percy followed. Barty, watching them go, noticed Percy's legs shaking—whether from nerves or excitement, he couldn't tell.
"Best of luck," Barty muttered, watching the trio with a flicker of envy. Thoughts of his own son crept into his mind... and with them, regret.
Inside the office sat a middle-aged wizard with short gray-brown hair behind a grand desk, his sharp blue eyes focused on them intently.
"Ah, you must be Miss Lilith Piliwick, the only daughter of the family," the man said, rising with a polite smile. "I'm Devlin Whitehorn, Chairman of Nimbus. Just call me Whitehorn."
"Hello, Mr. Whitehorn."
Lilith and her companions greeted him courteously before sitting in the chairs opposite him.
Whitehorn's graying hair and tanned robes suggested humility, but his long, hawkish nose and piercing blue eyes betrayed a shrewdness that made Lilith instantly cautious.
As Whitehorn sat down, Lilith sized him up, analyzing every feature—probing for weakness or pride she could exploit during negotiations.
"Let's skip the pleasantries," she said briskly. "You know why we're here. We represent Moriarty Slytherin and Nicolas Flamel. We're here to terminate the current contract."
Whitehorn's smile vanished. His demeanor shifted to cold professionalism.
"Impossible," he said flatly.
The air grew tense. Lilith reclined slightly, her gaze unwavering. Percy glanced nervously at her, unsure whether to speak. Gemma leaned forward.
"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider? Perhaps convene your board? This seems... rushed."
"I'm not some Hogwarts first-year, girl," Whitehorn said with a sneer. "I graduated over twenty years ago."
"Gemma wasn't advising you," Lilith replied smoothly, voice tinged with pity. "She just didn't want to call your decision idiotic."
"Ridiculous."
Whitehorn scoffed but didn't counter.
"Here's what happened," he began. "Moriarty and Flamel sent us incomplete broom prototypes. I allowed them to invest in our technology on the condition that they'd become employees of Nimbus. Every sale would count toward their annual salary. That's fair, no?"
He spread his hands as though his logic were flawless.
"Tell me—if they hadn't chosen Nimbus, who else could they have picked? Comet? Cleansweep?
Merlin's beard, even together those companies can't hold a candle to us."
"Arrogant!" Percy blurted. "Comet 240 and Cleansweep Seven are brilliant!"
He was flushed with emotion. Though he didn't own a broom himself, he'd flown Charlie's Cleansweep Five throughout childhood.
"Ahh," Whitehorn smirked. "A Weasley, of course. You lot only use Cleansweep because you can't afford a Nimbus."
Leaning back smugly, Whitehorn's chair creaked under the weight of his ego.
Percy fumed, breathing hard, but Lilith remained cool. "Mr. Whitehorn, do you really think you've cornered Moriarty and Professor Flamel?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," he muttered.
"The contract," Lilith said icily. "It clearly states that after their technological input, all developments become the property of Nimbus. That's blackmail hidden under legalese."
Her tone sharpened like a blade. "I assumed you were a clever businessman. Turns out you're a fool. Dreaming that a paper contract gives you claim to Moriarty's intellect? Even Merlin would laugh."
Her expression—pitying and cold—made Whitehorn shift uncomfortably in his seat.
"What exactly are you implying?"
Lilith's tone turned firm and direct. "Moriarty is willing to share the new broom—and only the new broom. The rest of his research? Don't even think about it."
Whitehorn snorted. "Why not? He needs us. He can't mass-produce without Nimbus!"
The trio exchanged glances, then burst into knowing laughter.
"Do you even know why he chose you?" Lilith asked.
"Of course," Whitehorn said confidently. "To raise the stakes before negotiating. If he was serious, he'd have sent the finished product."
Lilith smiled. "You're tragically mistaken. The reason is simple: the Quidditch World Cup."
She had puzzled over this all night, finally realizing the logic behind Moriarty's actions. He didn't need Nimbus for money or prestige—he needed speed. The World Cup was imminent, and only Nimbus had the infrastructure to produce brooms at scale in such a short time.
Whitehorn blinked, realization dawning. But instead of backing down, he doubled down—demanding access to all of Moriarty's research in exchange for producing the brooms.
Percy and Gemma reached for their wands, but Lilith raised a hand.
Calm and unyielding, she said, "Sir, allow me to ask—if, and I stress if, the British team loses the World Cup due to a lack of new brooms, and if the public discovers that you were the reason, how do you think they'll react?"
Whitehorn paled.
"And if they learn you deliberately blocked production, what happens next?" Lilith added.
The blood drained from his face as he imagined angry fans storming Nimbus' offices.
Lilith smiled, triumphant. "I assume you don't want to find out."
"Right... right..." Whitehorn stammered. "Of course not..."
"Then here's a new contract," Lilith said smoothly, waving her wand.
A scroll materialized on the desk, freshly inscribed.
She read aloud: "No monopolistic clauses. Collaboration limited to the new broom only. Nimbus will manufacture twelve new brooms within one week. They may be marketed as the Nimbus 1990S.
Profits divided 60/40—Moriarty Slytherin and Nicolas Flamel receiving the 60 percent share."
She stood, her chin lifted in quiet victory. "It's a win-win. Sign it, Mr. Whitehorn."
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